Hands Up; or, Thirty-Five Years of Detective Life in the Mountains and on the Plains / Reminiscences by General D. J. Cook, Chief of the Rocky Mountains Detective Association

by D. J.‏ ‎ Cook

While Cook was making his preparations for the capture of Witherill, Wight first began to figure before the public as an accomplice of Witherill’s in his crime. Knowing that he had so far not been suspected, as he had constantly pushed Witherill forward and himself remained in the background, he came to Denver the next day after Witherill had left, on Tuesday, a little more than three weeks after the murder, and had the temerity to go to the officers and advise them to arrest Witherill, saying that he believed him to be guilty of Wall’s murder. He thus partially gained the confidence of the detectives, and learned enough to convince him that the apprehension of Witherill was decided upon. Knowing that when Witherill was once taken he would reveal the part that Wight had taken in the tragedy, he returned to Dry creek that afternoon and warned Witherill of their danger, and they prepared for flight that night.

Detectives Smith and Benton had been selected by Chief Cook to go out and arrest Witherill. They left Denver on Wednesday morning, October 12, in search of their man. When they reached the point at which they supposed they would find Witherill, they found only a report that he was not to be found. The officers were not long in discovering that not only Witherill, but that Wight also had fled, and that they had carried off several valuable horses belonging to persons residing in the vicinity.

Finding both Witherill and Wight gone, the officers determined to devote a little time to ascertaining, if possible, the extent of the crime committed by the fugitives, and, acting under their chief’s instructions to search for confirmation of his suspicion of the murder of Wall, they began their investigations. Going up Dry creek towards the missing man’s cabin, they were not long in making the dread discovery which proved a complete confirmation of the worst theories. As they walked along the dry bed of the creek, their attention was attracted to a bunch of wolves standing around a pile of stones on the hillside, not far from the gulch. They seemed to be pawing at the stubborn rocks and sniffing the air as if in search of something to eat, evidently satisfied that the object of their search was not far away.

The men determined to investigate that spot. The animals were frightened away by a pistol shot fired into their midst, and the officers walked up to the place which they had just quitted.

Lying on the bare stones and protruding from an opening was the fleshless arm of a human being, showing traces of the teeth of the wolves, shreds of clothing being scattered about the place. The stones being speedily removed, the rapidly decaying body of the murdered man was brought to light. It was covered with bruises and blood, but was still recognizable. Here was the horrible suspicion confirmed. There was no longer any doubt that Wall had been murdered by Witherill, and the flight of Wight made his complicity more than probable.

The body being properly disposed of, the officers set themselves to work to find whatever clue they could to the course the murderers had taken in their flight. It was ascertained that Witherill had some friends at Colorado City, in El Paso county, the old state capital, and it was believed that the two men would go in that direction. The officers sent information to this effect to Chief Cook, and started in that direction in search of the men.

But Chief Cook had learned more of the movements of the fugitives, even while remaining at home, than his officers who were on the ground knew. He had ascertained, in that mysterious way which has ever made his name a terror to evil-doers, that the men had turned their faces towards the rising sun and were making their way across the plains towards “the states.” Even while his officers were still out, he had laid plans to entrap the murderers and to secure their arrest by sending dispatches to all points on the plains where there was any chance of their stopping. Among other places to which he sent these descriptions was Sidney, Neb., and he had the satisfaction a very few days afterwards of receiving from Deputy Sheriff H. H. Tigart, of that place, a telegram, saying, “We’ve got your man Witherill. What shall we do with him? Wight gone on to North Platte.” In reply, Cook instructed the officer to hold Witherill, and he and Smith, who had returned by this time, were off on the next morning’s train for Sidney. This was on the Friday succeeding the flight of the two. Saturday night carried them to Sidney, where they learned the facts of the capture.

If all the facts in the flight of these two hardened men from the pursuit of justice could be known they would make as thrilling a story as ever had its foundation on our barren prairies. Compelled to steal horses, guns and provisions, with three hundred miles of what was then a desert lying before them, no friendly shelter offering, with the probability of encountering savage tribes of Indians at any time; with the knowledge that when they should seek shelter in the habitable part of the world towards which they were making their way, they would do so at the risk of their lives—with these thoughts confronting them as to the hardships before them and the officers following their trail from behind, they were certainly between two fires. Let us hope, too, for the sake of humanity that there still lingered in their minds some degree of remorse for the foul deed they had committed—that occasionally, when left to themselves on the boundless plains, with naught between them and the heavens, there occasionally flitted through their minds some degree of bitterness of feeling, some questioning of conscience as to the bloody and unprovoked deed they had committed.

Their flight seems to have been an alternation of mad rides and of skulking hides. We find them, according to their own accounts, putting in the day lying quiet or seeking their way over the roadless plains where they were certain to encounter no one, and during the night riding madly forward towards the eastern horizon, where was the only ray of hope, small as it was, that shone for them.

The fifth day out they ran into a large herd of buffalo, while riding over the prairie. They decided to relieve the tedium that surrounded their almost blank existence by having a little sport with the bison and at the same time capture some fresh meat. They shot into the herd, taking aim at a particularly large old bull, and wounding him so badly that when the others of his herd ran off he was unable to keep pace with them and was left behind. Wight and Witherill put spurs to their horses, rushing across the open plain with the speed of the wind and firing at the wounded and faltering animal as they went, very much, indeed, as they had pursued poor Wall when they sought to take his life as they now sought to take that of the crippled bison who ran before them. He at first seemed destined to evade them, as their human victim had done, but, like Wall, had at last faltered and so slowed up as to permit himself to be overtaken.