“Ain’t your name William Johnson?”
“My name is William Franklin,” replied Mr. Smith.
The stranger continued: “I thought I knew you; once knew a man resembling you very much.”
“Guess you have struck the wrong man,” replied the officer.
The stranger walked off and left the train at Sedalia, Mo., at 10:15 a. m. Detective Smith had a curiosity to know more about him and stepped out upon the platform, where he observed the man walk up to three others, and handing them a paper, remarked: “They are not on this train.”
All hands feeling fatigued after two days’ excitement and an all-night drive, they took a sleeping car and retired, Foulk consenting to sleep between them. The officers, however, never closed their eyes. Next morning they reached St. Louis, and from that point to Harrisburg had no further trouble. Foulk denied his name until the party reached St. Louis, where he admitted that he was Foulk and not Curtis. He was met at the depot by a number of his former friends, who cordially shook him by the hand.
He was taken to Carlisle by Detective Smith, who collected his reward and returned home, the money found upon Foulk being turned over when it became known to whom it belonged. Next to Foulk himself, his Denver attorneys fared worse than any one else. They fell into great disfavor because of the part they took in the affair, and one of them soon left the city and has not been seen in it since. Of course the damage suit against Cook was soon dismissed.
The charges against Foulk were not proven, and after coming back to Denver and getting his money, he went to Hot Springs, Ark., where in partnership with another man he opened up a big gambling hall. Gen. Cook met him there in 1883, going by the name of Potts. A couple of years after that Foulk was shot by a negro policeman who was trying to halt him for fast driving. The policeman called to him to stop, and he told him to “go to h—l.” The policeman shot him through the back of the head, killing him instantly.