CHAPTER XXIV.
A FOUL MURDER ON DRY CREEK, IN DOUGLAS COUNTY—A QUIET SUNDAY DESECRATED BY A PAIR OF ASSASSINS—L. K. WALL KILLED BY E. E. WIGHT AND G. H. WITHERILL FOR HIS POSSESSIONS—HE IS SET UPON WHILE HERDING HIS SHEEP AND SHOT BY SUPPOSED FRIENDS—A DESPERATE RUN FOR LIFE ENDS IN DEATH AT THE HANDS OF SHAMELESS RUFFIANS—THE MURDER REMAINS A MYSTERY FOR WEEKS—THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN DETECTIVES AT WORK.
Dry creek is the name of a small and unimportant tributary of Cherry creek, which, like a great many other streams in this vicinity, contains but little water, except during the spring and summer months. It is, however, skirted in places by growths of underbrush and cottonwoods and willows. It heads in Douglas county, near the Divide, and runs for twenty miles in a northeasterly direction, until it joins Cherry creek some fifteen miles above Denver. The region is one for the possession of which ten years ago no one but a few sheep-herders disputed with the prairie dog and plains rattlesnake. Lonely and barren as was the country, it has had its tragedies, and Dry creek tells one of the most thrilling tales of cold-blooded murder which is recorded in this calendar.
Some few years previous to 1871, a quiet and reticent man came to the place and bought a small herd of sheep. He gave the name of S. K. Wall. Occasionally, when business called, he rode into Denver; but he never remained for any length of time. Unlike many men of his calling, and those of the kindred vocation of cattle-grazing, he never staid over to have “a good time with the boys.” He did not buy whiskey with his money, but after paying for his necessities, he would visit the book stores and lay in a supply of reading matter. This he would carry with him to his home up the creek. There he lived, in an unpretentious dugout tent, the life of a hermit, doing his own cooking and tending his own sheep. He had built his hut in a willow copse, near the bed of the creek; and, owing perhaps as much to his retiring manners as to his frugal mode of life, the supposition prevailed in the neighborhood that he had a great deal of money stored away in the place of his abode. His herd had also increased rapidly in numbers and now counted four hundred head of as well-kept sheep as were to be found in the neighborhood. The prize was one likely to excite the envy of those disposed to avariciousness.
Among Mr. Wall’s neighbors in those days were Mr. J. S. McCool, who now resides on the Platte a few miles below Denver, and Mr. LeFevre. Employed by Mr. LeFevre was a young man named George H. Witherill, while Mr. McCool gave work to one E. E. Wight, commonly then known in the neighborhood as Jack Wight. These two employés became the murderers of Wall, whose sheep and supposed hidden treasure of gold they longed to possess.
Witherill was the younger of the two men, being at that time twenty-three years of age, while Wight was about twenty-seven. Both were doubtless bad enough, but to Wight seems to belong the credit of planning the deviltry. He also appears to have found in Witherill not only a willing accomplice but a pliant tool. Wight had come into Colorado the year before from Iowa, and Witherill had recently arrived from the northwest. He was a native of New York, and had gradually drifted westward until he reached Utah and Dakota. For a while he was engaged as a stage driver from Corrinne, Utah, on the Fort Benton route. Afterwards he drifted back to Laramie City, Wyo., and from Laramie came to Denver. The education which he had received as a stage driver in the then almost savage region in which he operated was not calculated to make a refined creature of him.
Witherill and Wight soon became acquainted and were not long in deciding to appropriate Wall’s property which had aroused their cupidity. From the time they first discovered themselves to be of common mind upon this point, they talked over the project continually when they met. Both of them were herders, but for different men, and they frequently contrived to bring their herds together for the purpose of discussing this subject between themselves. They also managed to get days off, when they would stroll about and discuss the matter. They also met at night and debated the fine points, going so far at times as to walk over to Wall’s place and survey the premises. The horrible nature of the crime of murder seems to have never entered their minds. The only point which presented itself was the feasibility of their scheme. They were not anxious to kill, but they wanted Wall’s property, and after discussing various other plans for getting Wall out of the way, decided, as dead men tell no tales, to murder him in cold blood and take the sheep and whatever valuables might be found.
These plans had begun to take root as early as the middle of the summer, but they did not mature until September. The 17th day of that month in the year 1871 fell on Sunday—as bright and quiet a day as Colorado was ever blessed with. The two men had taken the day off for the purpose of putting their long-cherished project into execution, agreeing upon a place of meeting and a plan of proceeding. They came together about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, and about 3 came upon Wall lying quietly upon a peaceful hillside in the shade of a bluff, watching the lazy sheep as they gnawed their Sunday meals out of the tufted grass on the sloping plains below—certainly a picture of peace and quiet. There was nothing there to suggest murder, but on the contrary all was suggestive of brotherly love. The scene was one to call out the warmth and fellow feeling in human nature.
But the two scoundrels had gone to the place on murder bent, and they did not propose to be deterred from their purpose by a Sunday scene or a sparkle of bright sunshine. They went up to Wall, who did not suspect but that they meant to pay him a friendly call, with smiles on their faces, and began a friendly conversation. Even while they talked they were preparing for the murder which they had come to commit, and when the doomed man turned his head, one of the ruffians—which one will probably never be definitely known—pulled his gun, and, leveling at the poor man’s back, fired, the ball striking him in the neck.
Comprehending for the first time the real intention of the men, Wall instinctively took to his heels to save his life, and started towards his dugout tent: He flew down the hill as if carried on the air, the two men pursuing almost as fast. It was a race for life—a curious interruption of the mild Sunday scene which spread out before them under the bright light of the autumn skies. Even as Wall ran, the blood spurted in torrents from the ugly wound in his neck, marking the path he trod so plainly that he might have been tracked by means of it, had not the pursuers been so close as to need no guide to the course the man had taken. One of them had come on horseback to the place, and he left his animal standing while he should pursue his murderous task. They followed closely in the footsteps of Wall, whose path led over a rugged hillside, down a steep bluff, and into the bed of Dry creek below. He ran so rapidly at first that the shots which his bloody-handed pursuers sent after him were of no avail in bringing him to a halt. It is not believed that either one of the bloody bullets except the first hit the mark, and it began to look as if the poor man would make good his escape. He was evidently bent upon getting to his cabin, where once arrived he had fire arms stored with which he would be amply able to protect himself even against double odds. The murderers apprehended his intentions, and bent every energy to cut off the retreat. Finding that the leaden missiles failed to accomplish their purpose, they quit shooting and doubled their pace.
As they increased their speed, Wall evidently slackened his. The run was a long one, and he was losing a great deal of blood. He had, however, reached the bed of the gulch, and was nearing his home, when his foot struck a boulder, and he fell prone on the creek bottom, the murderers sweeping up behind him like bloodhounds in pursuit of a fugitive slave.
“Good!” exclaimed one of them, as they saw their prey fall so nearly within their grasp.
“I guess the d——d scoundrel’s done for,” replied the other, as they slackened their pace to draw a long breath and be prepared for a final struggle.
But a moment more served to change this last-expressed opinion. Wall was greatly weakened by the loss of blood and the fatigue of the race, but he managed to scramble to his feet once more, and to stagger onward in a zigzag run up the creek bottom. The assassins had come up to within twenty steps of him, and could easily be heard.
“Stop there, d——n you, or we will fill you full of lead,” one of them shouted to him. “No more of this foolishness; you may as well surrender on the spot.”
Realizing that further flight was hopeless; that his strength was gone and that he was unarmed, and feeling perhaps that he might save his life, Wall halted, and Witherill and Wight came up.
As they approached Wall he turned towards them and demanded an explanation of their strange conduct.
“What does it mean?” he demanded to know.
“Mean? It means that you are having too good a time of it—that you are making too much money for a d——d old snoozer who knows no better how to use it and enjoy it than you do. We want it. We want your sheep, your money, every thing you’ve got, d——n you!”
The poor fellow was rapidly sinking under the loss of blood. He replied faintly: “Take everything, but spare my life. I don’t want to die. I have done nothing to deserve death. I will give you everything freely. All I ask is that I be permitted to live.”
Witherill and Wight were now standing very close to him, and one of them had raised the breech of a heavy rifle over Wall’s head. “Spare your life! What sort of a game are you giving us? Spare nothing! A fine idea to let you live and as soon as your d——d old head is cured up to go blabbing it to Dave Cook and every other officer and detective in the state. What d’you take us for? A charitable society? Guess, old man, you’re a little off, ain’t you? It’s dead men that tell no tales to detectives, old fellow; we puts our trust in no others.”
In vain did the poor quivering man plead for his life. In vain were his promises of secrecy. Even while bending upon his knees and while he lifted his quivering hand to swear that he would deliver every article of his possession to his murderers if they would only permit him to live, even while thus imploring, the heavy rifle held above his head came crashing down, another shot being fired at the same time. A thundering, deafening noise, a lightning pain followed by the darkness of death, and all was over. Wall fell to the ground with his skull broken in and expired a moment afterwards.
The body was buried beneath a pile of rocks where it had fallen and the murderers prepared to take possession of the property which they had secured by their Sunday’s work.
They had hoped to procure money through the murder of Wall, as well as to get possession of his sheep. They shared the popular opinion that he had many dollars in gold and silver and greenbacks laid away in his hut. Hence they first searched the dead man’s person, taking his watch and pocket book, the latter containing some small change and a certificate of deposit in the bank then kept in Denver by Mr. Warren Hussey, and after securing these articles of value, though of treacherous and tell-tale character, they hid the still warm body of this victim away and proceeded to search Wall’s dugout. Here, contrary to expectations, they found nothing of value to them, and went out in some disgust to take possession of the sheep, which had been so suddenly left by their master, and which were still grazing on the quiet hillside almost in sight of the spot which had seen the culmination of the tragedy which had begun in their midst.
A day or two afterwards people living in the neighborhood discovered Witherill in charge of Wall’s sheep and also that Wall himself had disappeared. In reply to inquiries Witherill stated that he had bought the sheep from Wall, and exhibited a bill of sale for them, saying at the same time that Wall had left Colorado. There was some little suspicion aroused at first, because Witherill had never been known to have any sufficient amount of money to procure so large a herd as Wall’s. It soon, also, became known that Witherill was wearing a watch which Wall had owned and which he had told some one that he would not part with for three times its value.
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Killing of Wall by Wight and Witherill in Douglas County, in 1871.
After this Witherill was regarded with suspicion by his neighbors, and some of them came to Denver and laid the matter before Gen. Cook, who was at that time sheriff of Arapahoe county as well as chief of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association. As the crime, if one had been committed, was outside of his jurisdiction as sheriff, having been committed in another county, Gen. Cook referred the complaints to the sheriff of Douglas county. He, however, determined to keep his eyes open for developments and to lend whatever aid he could to the apprehension of the criminal or criminals, if indeed the foul play suspected had been committed.