The Western Echo / A Description of the Western State and Territories of the United States. As Gathered in a Tour by Wagon

by George W. Romspert

There is at this place a yard called the Boot Grave-yard, a place well known to all western men, and called thus from the fact that thirty-eight men have been buried here with their boots on. There was scarcely a day that there was not a riot in town among the cow-boys, or between the cow-boys and gamblers; and of course shooting and cutting was the consequence. Emigrants passing through with wagons, and not knowing the place, were decoyed into dark places and robbed. Passengers from the trains, on going in for refreshments and showing any amount of money, were trapped and robbed, and were killed upon resistance. You are a stranger in the country, and they are all cliqued together; and what are you to do? If you go to making much trouble, or get to shooting off your mouth, the consequences can be imagined. Even when there are officers, they are not able to command order; for the first day they try it a ball from some unknown villain will strike him. Hence the officers are usually cliqued with the desperadoes. The easier a person can get out of these places the better; for the officers themselves will put you into a dungeon for the gamblers to rob you.

Fully one half the gamblers and cow-boys of the West are persons who have committed dark crimes and fled thither to escape justice; and wickedness, when once launched, will find in this country easy sailing.

As has been said, almost every cow-boy has one pony and riding-rig of his own. In case he should come into a place and kill somebody, this pony is calculated to skip with to another part, thereby avoiding the necessity of riding off one of the company’s horses.

The regular initiation to the cow-boys’ society is three murders; and when they find that you are good stuff, and will shoot without ceremony, you are one of the boys; and you may depend upon it that you have friends who will stand by you in the hours of darkest danger. But if you prove to be a brag and a coward, your misfortunes are laughed at.

If a criminal is pursued, and he can reach the banks of the Arkansas River anywhere west of Dodge City, and then understands the plains, he is as safe as though he were in an uninhabited land. Or if he does not understand the prairie, and goes to a cow-camp and tells the boys what is up, if he has the right appearance one of them will mount a pony and give him one, and lope across to another range. Persons who do not know the country can not follow a person here; and if it is tried, and you do not perish from thirst, death will meet you in some way—you can rest assured of that. Telegraph-wires and officers of the law are of little avail here in running down a felon; and if a person keeps on his guard, and stays upon the range away from the towns, there is no danger of ever being taken.

Many of the boys are never caught off their guard, and the belt is upon them at the board and in the bed. They are ever prepared. Every stranger is watched with an eagle eye, and the least suspicion is nipped in the bud.

There was one boy who had been upon the plains for several years, and who had proved himself a hero. He had committed murder in Alabama and fled from justice, and a New York detective had been employed to hunt him down; but it was some years before a clue could be found. He one night came to the home of the widowed mother, and passing himself off as a peddler not long from Germany, in a long, cunning conversation he obtained a slight trace of the felon son; and at length he trailed him to the Colorado plains. He learned that he was cow-punching; and the only way to get him was to cow-punch too. So, rigging himself out in a cow-boy’s dress, he hired to a company and went to work. He was at the business several weeks, and at length came across his man. He had been very careful about every word and motion, and, assuming a careless appearance, he was not in the least suspicioned. He knew he was in a dangerous position; for if the cow-boys even mistrusted him he would be shot. But with great cunning and ingenuity he had avoided all suspicion; and after awhile he became quite intimate, and was taken into the cow-boy’s confidence. He watched his opportunity, and was alone with his man upon the Tepee, in Texas, one beautiful summer’s eve; and they both stooped to drink from the little stream. The detective was careful to arise first, and drawing his six-shooter he leveled it upon his man, and as he rose said, “Surrender, and be quiet; for you are my prisoner.” Quick as a flash the cow-boy saw his position, and resolved to make the most of it. Maintaining his presence of mind he coolly remarked, “Well, I suppose you want my arms.” The detective, not realizing his real danger, and not considering the cow-boy’s dexterity with a pistol, assented to the boy handing him the pistol, but kept his aim. The six-shooter was drawn from the scabbard, the fore-finger was slipped into the guard in front of the trigger, and, taking the pistol by the barrel, he reached it to the detective; and as he let down his own arm and reached for the extended weapon the cow-boy whirled the six-shooter, caught the handle, and in a twinkling a ball was sent whizzing through the body of the detective; and he lay pouring his life-blood upon the green bank of the Tepee, at the very feet of his intended victim.

It was only by long acquaintance and the most perfect confidence that I was intrusted with these secrets. I passed by the dead body before the color had quite left the cheeks. He was a fine-looking man, with an intellectual appearance; but, lest he should give himself away, he had cleaned out his pockets, and there was not even a paper by which his name could be ascertained. There may be a good woman and loving family somewhere in New York to-day waiting for the return of a long-absented loved one; but God forbid that it should be he whose bones lie bleaching on the banks of the Tepee. There are many such cases; and could the ghastly skulls but tell their tales, great volumes could be written of what will ever remain a deep secret.

Persons traveling over the plains will from time to time come upon human remains, some but partially decomposed and others disarticulated skeletons. A few miles north of the Arkansas River, in eastern Colorado, there is a long, deep hollow that from the great number of skeletons found therein is called Dead Man’s Arroyo. They appear to have been there for many years; but there is not a mark upon the valley rocks or spirit-whisper in the soft air to tell the sad tale. It is supposed that a hunting outfit was surprised at night and murdered by the Indians.

While hunting in the pan-handle country, we found the skeletons of four ponies lying in a circle, and a human skeleton (apparently a negro) lying among them. There were seventy-two Winchester cartridge-shells by his side; and it is thought that he was attacked by Indians, and for shelter shot down all his ponies, then fought off his enemies until his ammunition was exhausted, and died by a cruel hand. I have spent many interesting hours in the careful investigation of these mysteries, and surmising the causes and means by which these results were effected. From the fact that crime can be committed in the silence of the lonely plain, with so little danger of ever being discovered (the body often wasting to a skeleton before being discovered), there are many cold-blooded killings. When the least difficulty occurs among persons here, the arbitrator is almost invariably the six-shooter.