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Fatal Fight at Golden between Officers Cook and Goff on one side, and Duggan and Miles Hill on the other.

Hill seems to have been a thoroughly good fellow, and his kindness of disposition probably led him to the point of helping Duggan out of a bad scrape. What representation he had made to Hill was not revealed by him, and will now, of course, never be known. But that Hill was influenced to aid the disreputable man into whose company he had been so unfortunate as to fall can hardly be doubted. He died about twelve hours after the shooting, and was sincerely mourned by the citizens of Golden, who permitted their friendly feeling for and acquaintance with the social qualities of the man, for the time, to influence their judgment of the killing, and, what a few days afterwards was recognized as a necessary precaution by the officers in the protection of their own lives and in the discharge of their duty in attempting to arrest Duggan, was at first criticised as “haste and negligence.” Cook and Goff either had to kill or be killed. They preferred the former alternative, repulsive as it was to them.

But there was then little time to linger over the man whose life blood was oozing gradually out as a consequence of his attempt to defend a criminal from arrest. There was other work than indulging in vain regrets to be accomplished. Duggan had escaped, but Franklin was still in town, and his whereabouts were known. He must be captured at all hazards. To allow him to escape was not a part of the programme of the officers. They had been notified by Sheriff Keith that Franklin had taken a room at the Overland house, then standing where it now does, and thitherward they wended their way, fully armed, and equipped with a strong pair of handcuffs with which they proposed to secure Franklin, and thus render his return to Denver quite beyond question when once he should be in their power.

Mr. Cook’s associates in making this arrest were Frank Smith and Mr. Keith, they volunteering from the entire company to go with him. The hotel proprietor did not hesitate to inform the officers where Franklin was to be found, and they were soon in his room after starting in the search. They did not seek admission by knocking at the door, which was found unlocked. Although soaked with liquor when he retired, Franklin had left everything in perfect order for his defense in case he should be set upon suddenly, showing himself to be a criminal who was used to being hunted, and who never forgot his caution even when apparently “too far gone to know anything.” His empty pistol scabbard hung on the bed-post, while underneath his pillow lay a large revolver, loaded, cocked and ready for use at a moment’s warning. The officers stole in with quiet tread, Cook leading the van, with his fingers on his lips, and the others following as noiselessly as if treading upon velvet, although the floor was bare. Mr. Keith carried a candle, and as he came up to the bed with it, so that the light fell upon Franklin’s eyes, he turned over with a groan. He lay stretched at full length—a man of brawny muscle and splendidly developed physique. His breast being partially bared, revealed the gunshot wound which was the memento he carried of his late exploit in standing off seventeen of Uncle Sam’s soldiers near Fort Saunders, and which had yet scarcely thoroughly healed. As he turned in the bed his eyes opened. At that moment Mr. Cook laid a heavy hand upon the arm of the man, saying:

“Franklin, we want you.”

The fellow was awake in a moment.

“The hell you do!” he exclaimed, showing that he took in the situation at a glance.

“Yes, come on quietly.”