CHAPTER XXIX.
ARREST OF GRISWOLD—HE IS TAKEN JUST AS HE IS LEAVING THE COUNTRY—PREPARED TO FIGHT, BUT CAUGHT IN A TRAP—HIS NECK SAVED ON THE FIRST TRIAL, AND WHILE AWAITING A SECOND HE ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE FROM JAIL, BUT IS SHOT DEAD IN A GENERAL MELEE—HIS PLAN OF ESCAPE DISCOVERED—A CURIOUS LETTER—ESCAPE OF PATRICK—SUICIDE OF HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW SEVERAL YEARS AFTERWARDS.
There was now left nothing to do but to arrest the two men who had betrayed and murdered O’Neal, and for this denouement preparations were now made. While working up the O’Neal case, Griswold had taken a fancy to a woman living with her husband on Clear creek, a quiet and peaceable man, and the two becoming attached to each other, he had driven the husband away and remained with the wife, filling the role of husband himself. Griswold lived with this woman at her former husband’s home, and seemed to feel no delicacy whatever concerning the fine points of the situation.
Two days elapsed before Gen. Cook had succeeded in obtaining the clues set forth in the preceding chapter, and while it was feared that the murderers might make their escape, the fact was not lost sight of that the offense charged was a heinous one, and Cook felt that a great injustice might be done in arresting the men as long as there was any doubt as to their guilt. Hence the delay in taking the culprits into hand.
Detectives Frank Smith and Charley McCune were selected to make the arrest of the precious pair, and were ordered to Clear Creek valley for that purpose. They went first to the residence of Patrick, and found to their regret that they had come too late. That worthy had folded his tent and stolen away, leaving home and friends behind, evidently fearing apprehension.
The officers proceeded with caution to Griswold’s home, fearing detection from a distance, and in case of detection a decidedly warm welcome. But they at last succeeded in getting to his house, and upon making inquiry for him, found that he had just gone out—out where no one knew.
The officers began now to feel that they had happened in a day after the feast, and sadly turned their horses’ heads towards the city, disappointed and dejected that they had had such bad luck as they felt that they had had. But there was nothing left but a return to the city, with their report; so at least they felt, as they quitted the house where Griswold had so recently been. Yet there was still reason for hope of at least partial success, and they very soon came to realize that all was not lost.
Shortly after leaving Griswold’s late place of abode, the officers discovered a mounted man moving in advance of them, and across a field. They spurred up, and were not long in discovering that this man was no other than Griswold. The officers had come prepared to deceive him. They were dressed as cow-boys—wore large sombrero hats, tucked their breeches legs into their boot-tops, and carried whips in their hands, which they twirled about and cracked as cow-boys do. Taking a different road from that which Griswold was pursuing, the two men contrived to ride around and come up so as to cut him off without creating suspicion. They had no hope of finding him unarmed, and hence were desirous of avoiding a fight if possible. Their disguise was so excellent that it served to save them from this necessity. They rode very close to Griswold before he took any notice of them, and were less than thirty feet distant when Griswold recognized Smith’s face, with which he was familiar.
The murderer showed his colors in a moment. Appreciating that the two “cow-boys” were officers come to arrest him, he was prepared to defend himself. He sought his gun with great celerity, and was raising it to fire, when he found himself staring along the barrels of as pretty a pair of weapons as were ever presented.
“Put that gun down, Griswold,” commanded Frank Smith. “Put it down, or you die.”
The gun dropped.
“Now, hands up!”
Reluctantly the fellow’s hands went up.
He was then disarmed and was soon on his way to Denver. It was then discovered that the fellow was well provided with provisions and ammunition, and that he was just starting to make his escape from the state when come upon by the officers.
Griswold had a long trial. He took a change of venue from Denver to Evans, Weld county, and there, after the case was thoroughly tried, he was remanded to jail in Denver for a new trial. Eleven of the jurymen favored hanging, and the twelfth was for bringing in a verdict of manslaughter and sending him to the penitentiary for life. No one doubted the man’s guilt. The splendid chain of evidence which Gen. Cook had prepared left no room for doubt on that score. But the twelfth man was not a believer in hanging and held out to the last, causing the jury to go before the court with a disagreement report. The murder of O’Neal had been committed on the 10th of July, 1870, but, owing to delays, the month of February, 1872, had now come around, and the law was only preparing to take its course. Griswold, who had been the cause of so much summary punishment, looked forward to his own fate with the greatest dread, and began to make preparations to escape. His plans were well laid, and as he had plenty of outside assistance, it is a great wonder that he did not accomplish his purpose. He was certainly desperate enough, as will soon appear.
It was on Saturday, the 24th of February, that an attempt was made to escape from the county jail in Denver, and which attempt resulted in one of the most exciting scenes ever witnessed in a prison. Two prisoners, Michael Henesee and a negro, named Dan Diamond, were engaged scrubbing the premises and making a general clean-up. While in the companion way leading between the cells from the front office to a room adjoining the day cell in the rear, they had occasion to wash the cells of Griswold and E. E. Wight, the last named being the man who figures in the Wall murder story. The turnkey, Sanford W. Davis, allowed these men to emerge from their cells for the purpose of going to the water closet, a few feet away, and in the enclosure, there being no accommodations for them in the cells, and as both were heavily ironed no fears were entertained of any outbreak. Griswold passed to the front office and called out to L. F. or “Till” Davis, brother to the turnkey, for a chew of tobacco. Davis was in the bedroom adjoining and did not answer, whereupon Griswold turned back, and as he did so he suddenly drew a bludgeon, consisting of a boulder in the toe of a stocking prepared in the water closet, from some place of concealment and dealt the turnkey a blow on the back of the head. This had the effect to fell him to the floor, but he soon regained his feet, and after a scuffle with Wight, Griswold and Diamond, the negro, who had joined the mutineers, he ran towards the large room in the rear, closely followed by Griswold.
During this melee, Henesee, the other prisoner, acting promptly and looking to the welfare of the turnkey, dragged Wight away from Davis and to his cell, and called for help. While the matter stood thus—Griswold and Davis, the turnkey, in the back room, and Griswold in possession of the latter’s pistol, Henesee holding the door against Wight and endeavoring to readjust the tumbler lock—the brother of the turnkey grasped a revolver and courageously entered the companion-way and tried to lock Wight’s cell door, in the meantime holding his revolver in his right hand. This all transpired in a few seconds.
Griswold, finding that Wight’s exit was barred, returned to the rear doorway, stepped down into the companion-way and stood facing young Davis, who was endeavoring to lock the cell, only a few feet distant. The situation, of course, demanded desperate action on the part of one or the other, and as Griswold leveled his revolver at the young man, the latter in turn drew bead upon the prisoner, and both fired simultaneously. The ball from Griswold’s pistol probably passed through the front doorway and into the street; the ball from young Davis’ revolver entered Griswold’s body, inflicting a mortal wound. He, however, pressed towards Davis, who retreated and discharged a shot, when Wight emerged from his cell, seized Griswold’s pistol, passed to the rear and made a second attack upon the turnkey, who endeavored to make his escape. Wight, however, fired too shots at Davis, one of which grazed the back of his head. The desperado then passed out at the rear, and secreted himself in the jail barn under the hay.
Of course, all the foregoing had happened in less time than it takes to read the account of it. The sheriff’s office at that time was where it now is on Fifteenth street, on the alley between Larimer and Lawrence, and the jail was on Larimer between Fourteenth and Fifteenth, running back to the alley, so that they were not far apart. Gen. Cook was sitting in the sheriff’s office at the time of the shooting, and, hearing it, hurried over through the alley to the prison, and stationing a man at the back door, told him to let no one in or out. The crowd was already gathering, and Cook was afraid of a general row. Running in he found Till Davis, one of the guards, with a smoking pistol in his hand.
“What’s up?” he demanded.
“Oh, the devil’s to pay,” he replied. “We’ve had some serious work here.”
“Where’s Sanford?”—Sanford Davis was a brother of Till’s. “Where is Sanford?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s dead,” replied Till; “shot by Griswold.”
“Where’s Griswold?”
“He’s back there somewhere—I don’t know where.”
Cook went to work to investigate, and found a confused state of affairs, which has been described as well as can be in the foregoing. The officers of the jail had not yet had an opportunity to ascertain the true state of affairs. In fact, the smoke of the late affray had not yet cleared away. It was generally believed that Sanford Davis had been shot, and no one knew that Griswold had received the liberal dose of lead for which his malady called so loudly. Confusion reigned supreme, and everybody was excited. The jail was a pandemonium. Nothing was known. There was chaos everywhere. A half dozen men might have been killed.
Gen. Cook lost no time in beginning to straighten matters out. Finding that Wight had taken part in the melee, Cook hurried to his cell, but found Griswold in it instead of Wight. Cook demanded his pistol. He said he had given it to Wight.
“I am dying, don’t you see?” he muttered, “and couldn’t use it if I had it. So I opened the cell and came in and let Wight out and told him to make his escape if he wanted to get away, as I couldn’t.”
“Shot! Of course you are! Come out of here!” exclaimed Dave, who never dreamed that the old scoundrel had been hurt in the row which he had instigated, and did not dare hope that he had been mortally wounded. With this exclamation he dragged the fellow out by the coat collar, large as he was, and laid him out in the office, when he discovered that the man was really not feigning. He then found that Till Davis had planted a ball in the old fellow’s breast, and left him to make his peace with his Maker; and went to look for Wight.
Cook tracked Wight to the stable and began looking for him with a pitchfork in the straw. He had sent the steel prongs of the implement piercing through the hay but once or twice, when out he crawled, leaving the pistol cocked lying on the floor. When Cook took Wight back to jail, old Griswold was dead. He had been shot through and through.
Everybody considered that he deserved his fate, and there were few mourners to follow his body to the old cemetery on the hill the next day. There may have been one or two. It was afterwards discovered that the jail delivery had been planned with the assistance of two citizens of the town, who had horses in waiting for the murderers. One of them has since died.
The woman with whom Griswold had lived was another mourner. She seemed to be sincerely attached to the man, whom she now called her poor, dear husband. It was discovered after Griswold’s death that during his imprisonment this woman had done everything in her power to assist him in his escape, and had been his confidant and adviser throughout.
After Wight, one of the prisoners who attempted to escape from the jail, had been rearrested, it occurred to the officers to search his person in order to ascertain, if possible, the origin of the difficulty which had resulted in the death of one of the parties thereto. In one of his pockets was found a package of letters, which scrutiny disclosed to have been written by Griswold. These letters were perfectly unintelligible to the ordinary reader, being traced in cipher, probably invented by Griswold himself. To pick them out was, however, a comparatively easy matter to the detectives, as they had already discovered the key to the cipher. One of the letters, developing the plot for escape, ran as follows:
“Dear Jennie—The horses must not be more than two blocks away; we will come out of the front door, and you or Alex——ought to be on the opposite side of the street, so that when we went out you could walk by where the horses were, and then there could be no mistake. We only want the horses now to go to the mountains. I want Alex to come and get them. Then you or him see Henry and have other ones got. I do not know whether we will have Spencers or Winchesters; we will have one or the other, but we may not get cartridges. Have Alex get 5 hundred rounds of each, so we can take which ever we want; also twenty-five rounds of 36, and the same of 44. Those we don’t want he can take back. Have plenty of cakes (provisions). Take two sacks, a part full of eatables; they must be more than half full, so that we can lay them across the saddles, one sack on each horse. The principal things are bread; hard tack if you can get it; no more than seven or eight pounds of bacon; lots of salt and pepper, and lots of coffee, ground. Mind you, lots of that is all that has kept me alive. You had better have a quart of whiskey on each saddle, for we are nothing but skin and bones, and very weak. We can not ride far without stimulants. We will stay near Denver until we get strength; we are getting worse here every day, and I assure you I will not leave here until I square accounts with Smith.
“But we must have plenty of ammunition, for it makes no difference whether we fight in the streets or anywhere else. I will never be taken, and if I should have the good fortune to get killed, you will find the address of those you want, with full directions. It will be in the waist bands of my pants that I have on. If I am not killed I will write and have some money sent to you. The ‘old man’ can go for wood and bring provisions. I don’t expect you to buy anything, but tell Alex to get them. Better get some chewing tobacco. I want one bottle of morphine, for riding will hurt me. I wear napkins. I can almost span my arm above my elbow. I am the poorest I ever was but I must or die. I have some time thought you was afraid of me if I should get away. I have never showed myself a brute yet. I don’t think I will begin now. I will send for you as soon as I can. I will send you money very soon, if I go to h—ll for it. Remember that I think everything will be furnished, if I once get out. They are all scared about it. We will go some time between 12 and 3—I think about 2 o’clock. Let Alex be on the opposite side and walk near the horses, but not come near us; he must follow so to get the horses. If you are bothered or insulted, we know I will make their blood run a rain of terror or burn their city until they stop. I tell you, if they cross me I will have their hearts, but to you I will be as I always have been, your husband; will stake my life for you in any way it may be necessary. If I am killed, remember my waist band. Be careful of the key I gave you. I will risk my life for it. They can’t read. Good-by.
“L. P. G.”
This letter was not fully deciphered until the body had been buried. It was afterwards disinterred by W. F. Smith, the county jailer, in order to ascertain whether it had been buried with any valuable papers, as the above would indicate. He searched the clothing thoroughly, but found only two scraps of paper—one two leaves from Harper’s magazine containing the poem “Hannah Jane,” and the other a piece of paper with a few words in cipher. On the former was the following significant problem—significant in the light of recent events. Griswold was probably trying to study it out. It was as follows: “A problem: A prisoner anxious to escape, and a dead man awaiting burial; how were these two things to be exchanged so that the living man might pass out without going to the grave?”
So ended, with his own life, the bloody work which “Old Griswold” had begun. His wife, or “woman,” is still living in or near Denver. Wight, his accomplice, was the man who had assisted Witherill in the murder of Wall, the herder on Dry creek, an account of which crime is elsewhere in this volume related.
Dan Diamond, the negro, was one of the worst “coons” that ever came to Denver. He, as well as Wight, is probably also at Cañon. He never stays out more than a few months, as he is always stealing when out. But he escaped on the day of the fracas. The officers heard of him a few days afterwards at a ranch twenty-four miles down the Platte, and followed him down there. They were told that he was in the second story of a house there. Cook went with a posse after him and stationed men outside with guns pointing at every window, and went up to where he was himself, with drawn revolver. They expected him to jump out and be killed. But he didn’t. He was a downright disappointment. Cook found him lying flat on his face on a bed, crying: “Oh, Missah Offisah, I dun gib up; don kill me now; I’se yer man. I go right along wid you.” And he did go.
As for Hennessee, the gambler, who came to Davis’ rescue, he was pardoned out immediately and voted a resolution of thanks.
Till Davis was but slightly hurt, after all. He thought he had been shot, but wasn’t. The wound caused by the stone stunned him and the blood flowed freely for a while, but he soon recovered and is supposed to be still living.
Patrick, the man who went with Griswold to arrest O’Neal, and who was supposed to have been equally responsible for his death, has never, since the day after the murder, been seen in Colorado. It was believed that he went to Kansas, but no satisfactory clue being obtained, he was not searched for in that state.
With one other name and one other fatality this record closes. John Tusawn was a brother-in-law of Patrick. He lived near Brown’s bridge previous to and after O’Neal’s death. Common report made him a party to the murder of the victim; but, although circumstances pointed to his guilt, evidence sufficient to convict him was never found, and he was not molested. It is, however, known that ever after the ghastly tragedy he lived a moody, gloomy life. When the grasshoppers came along in 1875, he lost his crops, and that fall he ended a now thoroughly miserable existence by committing suicide. It was given out that the ravages of the locusts had produced his despondency, and had indirectly caused him to take his own life, but those who knew him best say that he took this step to avoid the further sight of the horrible spectacle of O’Neal’s dead body dangling constantly before his eyes.
Old Griswold was a curse to all who came in contact with him. He did not die any too soon, and the world would have probably been better had he never been born.
THE LEICHSENRING ROBBERY.