The long and hard chase seemed about to be finished, as it was almost certain that Cook, being a dead shot, would either kill or seriously wound both of his men. His bead is perfect. The finger goes to the trigger; there is a quick, nervous pull—down goes the hammer and—“clack” goes the gun. It is a misfire, and the two men ride triumphantly on into the plains.
The real chase is only begun, for over the plains fly the swift steeds, pursuers and pursued. There are few parallel cases on record. For a distance of thirteen miles across the open country the two detectives chased the two criminals. At times the escape of the culprits seemed inevitable; at times their death or capture seemed certain.
After the effort above described to shoot the criminals, Smith at once seized his revolver and poured six shots after them. One of these shots just grazed Johnson’s leg, cutting through the cuticle. As they rode through the town, Cook left word for Sheriff Ellis to follow with a posse of men.
Across the country the chase continued, and up a small hill. Both pursuers threw away overcoat, gloves, scarf and pistol scabbards. Cook carried the gun, while Smith, having the fleetest horse, would ride ahead, stop, get off the horse, and be ready to take the gun and fire while Cook held the reins, or to hold the reins while Cook should fire.
But time and again the gun refused to go off. Finally, Cook turned over his revolver to Smith and tried to fix the gun, while on the run. He endeavored to take it to pieces, but failed. He pulled one cartridge, and while putting in another it stuck fast. By main strength it was finally forced into the gun. Just before this Cook’s horse, while attempting to jump a high sage brush, landed with his hind feet in a prairie dog hole, and he was thrown forward on the pommel of his saddle and was painfully hurt. After the cartridge had been forced home the officers rode up within range and gave two shots, both missing the mark. They again went after the men, who now left the road and turned into the prairie, and slightly towards Cañon City, moving over the country, jumping over the tall sagebrush and plunging into embankments of snow, over which the sun, which had now risen, gleamed as on the crest of ocean waves, almost blinding men and beast, but yet failing to take the edge off the March air, which was bitter cold.
Thus the chase went on until both parties gave evident signs of weakening. The fugitives had ridden their horses hard, and they were visibly weakening. The poor animals could not be whipped out of a trot. The officers came up to within sixty yards, and Cook being so near, shouted to them:
“See here, boys, this thing has gone about far enough. Your horses are broken down. We are well heeled, and if you don’t stop we’ll kill you. You may count on it.”
But the precious pair paid no heed to this warning, and went on as rapidly as their weary nags could carry them. Two more shots were sent after them.
A few feet further on, the fugitives were seen to slacken their pace, and one of them to reel in his saddle and fall off his horse into the snow. This was Clodfelter, and he said to Johnson, as he stopped:
“We must surrender. It’s no use. I’m shot.”