“I have found,” said he, in a mournful tone, “what you are searching for. Rudolph Dorsett and John White have both been murdered, and their bodies are in the willows.”
“My God!” exclaimed James, “my brother murdered!” and, bursting into tears, he followed Heffner into the clump.
“I came in here,” said Heffner, “to pick up some wood for a camp-fire. This heap of coals and burned sticks attracted my attention. Thinks I, there’s been campers here before. I looked around and caught a glance at the saddle. It startled me, for it seemed a very good one, and I thought it strange that any one would leave it here. I examined it narrowly, and, lifting it up, I beheld the dead face of John White. You may well believe I was frightened. On turning to call my partner, I almost stumbled over the corpse of your brother, which was covered with an overcoat. We had just completed our survey of the camp, and stepped out of the bushes to look up another camping place, when we heard your horses.”
On a close examination of the spot, appearances indicated that White and Dorsett, with Kelley as a prisoner, had arrived there either at a late hour, or without any provisions, as there was no evidence of cooking. They had tied their prisoner with twisted strips of blanket, pieces of which were found near, and, as they doubtless supposed, secured him for the night. A few fagots had been heaped up for a morning fire; and the theory of the murder advanced by the searching party was that, while White was on his knees kindling the fire, Kelley freed himself from his bonds, picked up White’s revolver, and shot him twice in the back of the neck; then seizing his rifle, turned and shot Dorsett, who was gathering wood a little distance away, through the heart. An armful of wood lay scattered where he had fallen. His skull was beaten in pieces, a bowlder lying near, bespattered with blood and brains, bearing gloomy testimony to the manner in which it was done. After this his body had been dragged some twenty steps from the spot where he fell, and stripped of its clothing, which the murderer had taken away with him, and wore the day that Holmes met him at Deer Lodge. White’s body had also been removed, and the saddle placed over the face. The bodies were taken to Coppock’s ranche, and thence to Virginia City for burial.
This was one of the earliest and most brutal tragedies in the newly discovered gold region; and, happening when they were populated mostly by Eastern people, and before Plummer and his band of ruffians had been arrested in their grand scheme of wholesale slaughter, it produced a profound sensation throughout the country. The desire to capture and make a public example of the ruffian who had committed the shocking crime was universal. All eyes were turned to the pursuit of Kelley by Thompson and Coburn, and all ears open to catch the first tidings of its success. These men were beyond the reach of information of the discovery of the bodies at the time it was made, but they had found evidence by the way, which convinced them that their friends had been assassinated. At Deer Lodge a pistol which Kelley had sold was identified by Thompson as the property of Dorsett, and his initials, R. R. D., were graven on the handle. They pushed the pursuit to Hell Gate, procuring two relays in Deer Lodge Valley. Finding that the deep snows rendered the Cœur D’Alene Mountains impassable, they turned back to take the route into Oregon, by Jocko and Pend d’Oreille lakes. Between Frenchtown and Hell Gate they met an Indian with Dorsett’s saddle, which Thompson took from him. Forty miles below Jocko, they reclaimed the horse from a little band of Indians who had traded for it with Kelley. Proceeding on towards the Pacific, they met a company of miners, who had met Kelley fifteen days before, on his way to Lewiston.
The men pursued their journey, following the devious windings of Clark’s Fork to its junction with the Snake River, and thence on to Lewiston,—a tract of country at that time more disastrous for winter travel than perhaps any other equal portion of the continent. There were no roads, and the solitary Indian trail leading over the mountains, through cañons, and across large rivers, for much of the distance was obscured by snow, and in many places difficult and dangerous of passage. Had their object been anything less than to avenge the death of their friend, they would have turned back, and consoled themselves with the reflection that it was not worth the risk and exposure needful to win it; but, with that in view, they welcomed privation and danger while a single hope remained of its accomplishment.
At Lewiston, Coburn remained on the lookout, while Thompson continued the pursuit farther west. At the hotel in Walla Walla, Thompson found Kelley’s name upon the register. He learned, on inquiring of the clerk, that he had told him he came from the Beaverhead mines. The barber who shaved him remembered him, because he paid him an extra price for the service. Kelley had purchased a new suit of clothes, of which Thompson procured a sample. With these clews Thompson hastened to Portland, and ascertained that Kelley had spent nine days there, and left by steamer for San Francisco. In fact, on the day that Thompson arrived at Portland, Kelley entered the harbor of San Francisco. Thompson telegraphed the chief of police to arrest and detain him until he arrived. He had taken the precaution to obtain requisitions from the Governor of Idaho on the Governors of Oregon, California, and Washington, and a commission as special deputy United States marshal.
Chief Burke, on receipt of the telegram, called at the hotel where Kelley had taken quarters, and, not finding him, gave no further attention to the matter. Learning on his return that he had been inquired after, Kelley, suspicious of the object, left the city at once, taking with him an overcoat and pistol belonging to a fellow boarder. Thompson found, on his arrival at San Francisco, that the bird had flown, but in what direction he was unable to ascertain. After spending some time in fruitless inquiry, he returned home with nothing better than his labor for his pains. It was a sore disappointment, but none the less demonstrative as an illustration of personal devotion and attachment.
Kelley returned to Portland, and soon disappeared from public view. Thompson was constantly on the lookout for him, and in 1864 heard of him as a participant in a robbery committed in Port-Neuf Cañon. It was ascertained that after the robbery Kelley went to Denver, where he was known by the name of Childs. He remained there several months. Thompson heard of his being there, and sent a man to identify him. Kelley took the alarm, and left immediately by the Oregon route for Mexico. Thompson wrote to a friend in Prescott to arrest him en route, but the letter arrived too late, as the rascal had passed through the town several days before. If living, he is still at large; but there is no corner of the globe where Thompson would not follow him, were he certain that the journey would effect his arrest.