In an instant he determined to arrest the robber at all risks, single handed. He called out, “Hallo, Cap; hold on a minute.” Wagner wheeled his horse half round, and Neil fixing his eyes upon him, walked straight towards him, with empty hands. His trusty revolver hung at his belt; however, and those who have seen the machine-like regularity and instantaneous motion with which Howie draws and cocks a revolver, as well as the rapidity and accuracy of his shooting, well know that few men, if any, have odds against him in an encounter with fire-arms. Still not one man in a thousand would, at a range of thirty yards, walk up to a renowned desperado, sitting quietly with a loaded rifle in his hand, and well knowing the errand of his pursuer. Yet this gallant fellow never faltered. At twenty yards their eyes met, and the gleam of anger, hate and desperation that shot from those of Dutch John, spoke volumes. He also slewed round his rifle, with the barrel in his left hand, and his right on the small of the stock. Howie looked him straight down, and, as Wagner made the motion with his rifle, his hand mechanically sought his belt. No further demonstration being made, he continued his progress, which he had never checked, till he arrived within a few steps of the Dutchman, and there read perplexity, hesitation, anger and despair in his fiery glances. Those resolved and unwavering grey eyes seemed to fascinate Wagner. Five paces separated them, and the twitchery of Wagner’s muscles showed that it was touch and go, sink or swim. Four!—three!—two!—one! Fire flashes from John’s eyes. He is awake at last; but it is too late. Neil has passed the butt of his rifle, and in tones quiet but carrying authority with them, he broke the silence with the order. “Give me your gun and get off your mule.” A start and a shudder ran through Wagner’s frame, like an electric shock. He complied, however, and expressed his willingness to go with Neil, both then and several times afterwards, adding that he need fear nothing from him.
Let it not be imagined that this man was any ordinary felon, or one easy to capture. He stood upwards of six feet high; was well and most powerfully built, being immensely strong, active, and both coolly and ferociously brave. His swarthy visage, determined looking jaw and high cheek-bones were topped off with a pair of dark eyes, whose deadly glare few could face without shrinking. Added to this, he knew his fate if he were caught. He traveled with a rifle in his hand, a heart of stone, a will of iron, and the frame of a Hercules. It might also be said, with a rope round his neck. For cool daring and self-reliant courage, the single handed capture of Dutch John, by Neil Howie, has always appeared to our judgment as the most remarkable action of this campaign against crime. Had he met him and taken him alone, it would have been a most heroic venture of life for the public good; but to see scores of able-bodied and well armed men refusing even to assist in the deed, and then—single handed—to perform the service from which they shrank from bodily fear of the consequences, was an action at once noble and self-denying in the highest sense. Physical courage we share with the brutes; moral courage is the stature of manhood.
The prisoner being brought to the camp-fire, was told of the nature of the charge against him, and informed that if he were the man, a bullet wound would be found on his shoulder. On removing his shirt, the fatal mark was there. He attempted to account for it by saying, that when sleeping in camp his clothes caught fire, and his pistol went off accidentally; but neither did the direction of the wound justify such an assumption, nor was the cause alleged received as other than proof of attempted deceit, and, consequently, of guilt. The pistol could not have been discharged by the fire, without the wearer being fatally burned, long before the explosion took place, as was proved by actual experiment at the fire, by putting a cap on a stick, and holding it right in the blaze.
The ocular demonstration of the prisoner’s guilt afforded by the discovery of the bullet wound, was conclusive. Neil left him in charge, at the big train, and rode back to see who would help him to escort the prisoner to Bannack. Volunteering was out of fashion just then, and there was no draft. Neil started back and brought his prisoner to Dry Creek, where there were fifty or sixty men; but still no one seemed to care to have anything to do with it. The fear of the roughs was so strong that every one seemed to consider it an almost certain sacrifice of life to be caught with one of their number in charge.
One of Neil Howie’s friends came to him and told him that he knew just the very man he wanted, and that he was camped with a train near at hand. This was good news, for he had made up his mind to go with his prisoner alone. John Fetherstun at once volunteered to accompany him, Road Agents, horse thieves and roughs in general to the contrary notwithstanding. The two brave men here formed that strong personal attachment that has ever since united them in a community of sentiment, hardship, danger and mutual devotion.
The prisoner, who continually protested his innocence of any crime, and his resolution to give them no trouble, seemed quite resigned, and rode with them unfettered and unrestrained, to all appearance. He was frequently fifty yards ahead of them; but they were better mounted than he was, and carried both pistols and shot-guns, while he was unarmed. His amiable manners won upon them, and they could not but feel a sort of attachment to him—villain and murderer though they knew him to be. The following incidents, however, put a finale to this dangerous sympathy, and brought them back to stern reality.
The weather being intensely cold, the party halted every ten or fifteen miles, lit a fire, and thawed out. On one of these occasions, Fetherstun, who usually held the horses while Neil raised a blaze, in order to make things more comfortable, stepped back about ten paces and set down the guns. He had no sooner returned than Wagner “made a break” for them, and but for the rapid pursuit of Howie and Fetherstun—whose line of march cut him off from the coveted artillery—it is likely that this chapter would never have been written, and that the two friends would have met a bloody death at the hands of Dutch John.
One night, as they were sleeping in the open air, at Red Rock, fatigue so overcame the watcher that he snored, in token of having transferred the duties of his position to
Watchful stars that sentinel the skies.
This suited Wagner exactly. Thinking that the man off guard was surely wrapt in slumber, he raised up and took a survey of the position, his dark eyes flashing with a stern joy. As he made the first decisive movement towards the accomplishment of his object, Neil, who sleeps with an eye open at such times, but who, on this particular occasion, had both his visual organs on duty—suddenly looked up. The light faded from Wagner’s eyes, and uttering some trite remark about the cold, he lay down again. After a lapse of about an hour or two, he thought that, at last, all was right, and again, but even more demonstratively, he rose. Neil sat up, and said quietly, “John, if you do that again, I’ll kill you.” A glance of despair deepened the gloom on his swarthy brow, and, with profuse and incoherent apologies, he again lay down to rest.