“Quietly, be d—d! Where’s my gun? No d—d officer from Denver can arrest me. I’m not that sort of stuff. You can make up your mind to that.”
By this time he was fully aroused. He was standing on his knees, his eyes flashing fire, and striking sledge-hammer blows at any of the officers who attempted to lay hands upon him. He would listen to no entreaty, but answered all appeals with derision. At last Mr. Cook produced the handcuffs, and made a move towards Franklin with them.
“Oh, it’s irons you have, is it?” he exclaimed, as he lunged at the party. “If that’s what you’re up to, I have some myself.”
![[Larger Image]](#2680566393133688527_img15.jpg.id-5537705504114991652.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
Killing of Ed. Franklin at Golden by Officers Cook and Smith, while resisting arrest.
And with this speech he turned to his pillow in the act of pulling his revolver from its hiding-place.
At that moment one of Cook’s assistants, considering that Franklin was preparing to shoot, struck him on the head and knocked him to the other side of the bed. He was up in a minute and more furious than ever. He had well-nigh torn his underclothes from his body, and the blood was running from the fresh wound in his head. He was furious with rage, and snorted and roared and tore about like a wild animal brought to bay, exclaiming, “Come on, all of you!” as he rose to his feet. “I suppose you can kill me, but you can not arrest me. I will not go with you. If you want to shoot, put it there—there!” And he slapped his hand violently two or three times upon his heart. The scene was extremely tragic.