Contents

Chapter I:   The Earliest Days:

1.   The Largest Indian Council
4.   A Frontier Court
7.   When Slaves Were Hunted in Kansas

Chapter II:   Happenings in the Seventies:

11.   A Frontier Foot Race
16.   Recollections of a Frontier Sheriff
20.   The Looting of a County
24.   The Old-Time Deestrict (sic) School
29.   The Downfall of Pomeroy
37.   When Newton Was the Wickedest Town
39.   An International Episode
45.   The Looting of Harper County
49.   The Legislature of 1874
53.   The Fight at Adobe Walls
57.   The Kansas Runnymede
61.   The Comanche Steal
65.   The Legislature of 1875
73.   A Whiskey Murder
76.   Circumstantial Evidence
80.   The First Paper in Barber County
83.   The Wonderful Mirage
86.   The Last Indian Raid in Kansas
89.   The Hillman Case

Chapter III:   Picturesque Figures:

93.   A Frontier Surveyor
96.   Frontier Barbers
99.   "Windy Smith" and "Tiger Jack"
103.   Bad Men - Real and Imitations
106.   A Border Justice
109.   A Frontier Attorney
111.   Didn't Recollect the President
114.   Some Limbs of the Law
119.   "The Pilgrim Bard"
124.   Phrenology under Difficulties
129.   The Pioneer Preacher
133.   An Early Day Murder and Man Hunt
136.   A Partisan Tombstone
138.   The Gambler Who Tempted Fate
142.   Pete and Ben

Chapter IV:   Events in the Eighties:

145.   A Fake Election
149.   When an Indian Agency Came Near Being Wiped Out
153.   The Justice of the Border
159.   The Great Winter Kill
163.   The Organization of Wichita County
170.   A Tragedy of the Frontier
177.   Draw Poker on the Border
180.   Cimarron vs. Ingalls
186.   A Steer Was the Ante
189.   When Hell was in Session at Caldwell
193.   Campaigning on the Frontier
197.   The Tribulations of Early-Day Editors

Chapter V:   Striking Personalities:

200.   Jerry Simpson
205.   Dynamite Dave
210.   Two Frontier Doctors
214.   Carrie Nation
218.   The Discomfited Hypnotist
221.   The Story of a Bank Wrecker
227.   Dennis T. Flynn
231.   A Populist Judge
235.   The Stinger Stung
242.   Boston Corbett
246.   A Perfect Defense
249.   Captain Painter, Detective

Chapter VI:   Kansas Growing Up:

254.   The Coming Back of Denver Boggs
258.   When Bill Backslid
261.   The Rise and Fall of Grant Gillette
265.   Convicted Under His Own Law
270.   The Last Raid of the Daltons
276.   Chester I. Long
281.   Governor Allen's Maiden Speech

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The Largest Indian Council

Medicine Lodge, which has earned a place in Kansas history, is located at the confluence of the Medicine River and Elm Creek in the county of Barber.

Few, if any, towns in the state have more sightly locations, and in the early days its natural beauty was accentuated by the fact that in order to reach it one had to travel across many miles of treeless prairie. My first sight of it was after a three day's tiresome ride in a freight wagon, when coming to the crest of a rise some three miles to the northeast, I saw the frontier village, at that distance, apparently almost surrounded by thick groves of cottonwood and elm trees, while here and there through rifts in the wooded fringe could be seen the swift flowing waters of the converging streams gleaming in the sunlight like ribbons of sliver flecked with gold.

The Medicine River derived its name from its supposed healing qualities and the thick grove at the junction of the two streams furnished a favorite camping place for the Indians who met there on stated occasions, and under the guidence of their medicine men,

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performed their savage rites and cleansed their systems with copious draughts of the sacred waters.

Medicine Lodge, long before the advent of the white man, was the center of the favorite hunting ground of the red men. No other part of Kansas is so plentifully suppplied with swift running streams, with sweeter native grasses, or such perfect natural shelter as Barber County. The Medicine River, flowing from the northwest corner to the southeast, furnishes fully fifty miles of living water, just sufficiently saline to make it as desirable stock water as there is in the world. In addition, there are the swift flowing streams, most of them tributary to the Medicine, Turkey Creek, Elm Creek, Spring Creek and Antelope, Cottonwood, Big Mule and Little Mule, Bear Creek, Elk Creek, Hackberry and Bitter Creek, with several others whose names just now escape my memory.

The names of these streams indicate the variety of game that lured the Indian Hunter and furnished meat for his wikiup. It is no wonder that he was loth to give up the hunting round which had been the favorite of his ancestors, as well as his own.

When after a long period of savage warfare the Government induced the head men of the leading prairie tribes to meet in a peace council and arrange terms of permanent peace between the white men and the red, by sort of common consent the location where Medicine Lodge now stands was chosen for the place of meeting.

That was not only the greatest gathering of Indians and white men in the history of the United States in point of numbers, but the permanent results were the most important. Never since then, 1868, has there been a war between the great tribes represented at that peace council and the white men. The Indians who gave their word there kept the faith and buried the war tomahawk, never to dig it up again. It would be well

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indeed for the world if so-called Christian white men had as high a sense of honor as these untutored savages.

Of course no accurate count was taken of the number of tribesmen who attended that conference, but conservative judges who were present estimated the number at not less than 15,000.

In command of the United States forces, who guarded the commissioners, was General Sherman, and with him were some of the most experienced Indian fighters in the old army. Governor Crawford left his comfortable seat at the new state capital to attend the conference, and it was to his keen observation and knowledge of Indian character that the peace commisioners and the small body of United States troops were probably indebted for their lives. There were restless spirits among the Indians who had little faith in the word of the white men. This was not remarkable, for the history of the dealings of the white men with the Indians had been marred by bad faith and outrageous swindles perpetrated upon the red men. The restless spirits among the tribesmen persuaded their fellow savages that this was simply another scheme of the pale faces to take away from them their favorite hunting grounds, to forece them on to cramped reservations and there to let them die. They said that by a surprise attack they could overcome the white men and the pale-faced soldiers and massacre the entire outfit.

It was a rather dark afternoon, with a drizzling rain. Conditions were favorable for a surprise attack. Crawford saw certain signs among the Indians which aroused his suspicions, which he communicated to General Sherman, who at once drew up his troops in hollow square with a number of cannon pointed toward the savages, who were camped on the hills overlooking the river and grove.

He also sent word that the chiefs who were suspected

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of causing the trouble must come into the white camp to be held as hostages. That ended all plans for a massacre. The council lasted several days. A general agreement was reached and the treaty was duly signed by the United States commissioners and the leading chiefs of the great Indian tribes, the Arapahoes, Comanches and Kiowas. the beautiful hunting grounds, the clear, swift flowing streams, the sheltering groves, all passed from the possesion of the red men to the white, and within four years afterward the little town of Medicine Lodge had its beginning.

A Frontier Court

When the ninth judicial district of Kansas was formed it covered a territory larger than any one of more than half the states in the American Union. Extending from Chase County southward to the Indian Territory and westward to the Colorado line, it was quite possible to travel in a straight line for 300 miles, all the distance being within the boundaries of this judicial district.

The first judge of the district was the celebrated Col. Sam Wood, of Chase County, who was succeeded by William R. Brown, also of Chase County, Sam Wood looked the part of a frontier judge but Brown was a typical New Englander in appearance and speech. Shortsightedness compelled him to wear glasses, and added to the dignity and solemnity of his appearance. A full reddish beard reached only half way to his waist, and tossed about in the loyal winds which loved it well.

It fell to Judge Brown to hold the first term of court in the newly organized county of Barber. Court house there was none, although the thieves who organized the county had incurred sufficient debt, ostensibly

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for that purpose, to have built a fine temple of justice. The opening term was held, I think, in a schoolhouse which had just been completed. The sheriff was a unique character by the name of Reuben Lake. With great dignity and solemnity the new judge directed the sheriff to open court. Reuben had somewhere learned the usual formula for opening court, and varied it with some observations of his own. In stentorian voice he announced to the assembled crowd:

"Hear ye, hear ye; the honorable district court for Barber County is now in session. All you blank, blank sons of blank who have business in this court will lay off your guns and come to the front, and all you blank, blank sons of blank who have no business in this court will lay off your guns and keep __________ quiet."

Just what the solemn and dignified judge thought of the manner in which the court was opened is not stated. The dean of the early Barber County bar was Captain Byron P. Ayers. Captain Ayers was born in Ohio, educated for a teacher, but studied law and wandered westward until he reached the territory of Kansas. He took some interest in territorial council back in the fifties. When the war came he was made captain of one of the Kansas companies, fought with Lyon at Wilson's Creek, with Blunt at Prairie Grove, and in the other battles of the West. With a wide acquaintance among the leading men of the new state and a creditable record as a soldier, his prospects were bright, but John Barleycorn got a strangle hold on him and made his life a failure.

He seemed to me to be a man who had been more than ordinarily gifted by nature and with really great possibilities, but who had entirely given up the fight. When knocked down in the first round he lacked the energy, determination, and courage to get up and fight again. To the hour of his death, however,

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he retained a certain marked dignity of bearing and distinction of presence which would have caused him to attract attention in any assembly. His conversation was remarkably free from inaccuracies of expression, his literary taste was excellent, and even when fairly well "tanked up" he was never guilty of vulgarity or maudlin silliness. He was, in fact, rather more dignified and precise when full than when sober.

His regular habitation was in the little hamlet called Sun City, but having been elected county attorney, an office which paid, as I recall, $500 a year in "scrip", worth at that time from fifteen to twenty cents on the dollar, he was a frequent visitor at the Lodge, and when there slept in the layloft of the livery stable.

One morning, following an evening and night of unusual potations, Cap awoke with that feeling that comes "the morning after". His eyes were bloodshot, and millet straw and millet seed were plentifully mingled with his hair and long auburn beard. Altogether he was a picture of disconsolateness and disgust. He sat up and turning to a fellow lodger he said in a mournful, almost sepulchral voice: "Ten thousand years hence, when we both are dead and damned, our ghosts will sit on the dark Plutonian shore and read the records of our misspent lives by the red glare of hell."

Speaking of Captain Ayers brings to mind another remarkable character, who came to the Lodge later. He always signed his name Dr. G.W. Ayers. He was a horse doctor, possessed of a most remarkable vocabulary, and a facility for original and striking expressions such as I have never seen equaled. I think that Doc and truth had never met, or at least had never formed a speaking acquaintance. There were times

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when I considered him one of the most spontaneous and delightful old liars I ever met. Back in 1874, several years before I reached Barber County, there was a saloon row in the frontier drink emporium, in the course of which Captain Byron P. Ayers was slightly wounded.

Doc Ayers came to the Lodge during the early eighties, but one day, forgetting that I knew when he arrived, he entertained me with an account of the old saloon row.

"I was the only doctor in the town," he said. "They sent for me. I found when I got there that a bullet had plowed across Cap Ayers' midriff and let his bowels out. It occured to me, when I looked him over, that he had more bowels than he needed and so I cut off a couple of fee of intestines, put the rest back and sewed him up."

This most marvelous surgical operation performed by a horse doctor, he assured me, caused Captain Ayers little inconvenience.

For many years the body of Capt. Byron P. Ayers has lain in what I presume is an unmarked and uncared for grave. As I think of his wasted talent I am reminded of Whittier's

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'"

When Slaves Were Hunted in Kansas

The first volume of Kansas reports of the supreme court also contains the reports of the territorial court of the last year of Kansas territory. In this as in all the Kansas reports there are a good many human interest stories, among them one relating to the last

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days of slavery when Kansas was the battle ground and the nation was rapidly drifting into the maelstrom of war.

On January 2, 1859, a slave named Peter Fisher escaped from Kentucky and for some reason, instead of taking the short cut to Canada and freedom seems to have headed westward and landed in Kansas territory. Here he fell in with a friend, one Lewis L. Weld, of Leavenworth County, who took him into his employment.

The owners of Fisher were two minors, John O. Hutchison and Anna Belle Hutchison, whose alleged guardian, somehow getting track of Peter, followed him into the territory.

If he supposed, however, that it would be very easy to get the fugitive and carry him back to bondage from a United States territory, he was disillusioned. Judging from the indictment found by the territorial grand jury things were lively when he found his negro. The indictment reads as follows: "Lewis Weld with force of arms to wit: with a club, knife, pistol and other hurtful weapons did aid the said Peter to escape," etc.

It is entirely probable also that Peter himself took a hand with some of the "other hurtful weapons," quite probably with a hoe, fork, corn cutter, and such other farm implements as were "convenient and effective." Lewis Weld was promptly arrested under the Fugitive Slave Act and as promptly indicted by the grand jury, made up no doubt of Southern sympathizers from the bordering state of Missouri. Weld's attorneys filed a motion to quash the indictment and the motion came on to be heard before Chief Justice Pettit of the territorial court. Weld's attorneys urged eleven objections to the indictment, the first being that the

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party who made the arrest had no authority to do so under the provisions of the Fugitive Slave Law. Judge Pettit sustained this objection as well as five others, though one wonders, if the first objection was well taken, why the need of any others. The language of the opinion indicates the difficulties under which the courts of that early period labored. Judge Pettit says: This opinion has been hastily written in the midst of turmoil and confusion; in the absence of a library to consult and without time to correct or pay much attention to legal diction; but I am confident that in its main features it will stand the test of the most searching and rigid legal and judicial criticism."

So far as I know, the judge's confidence in the soundness of his opinion was never shaken by the adverse decision of a higher court and Weld does not seem to have been again arrested. What became of the fugitive, Fisher, I do not know, but it is safe to assume that he never again was reduced to slavery.

Pettit was a man of ability and considerable distinction. He was born at Sa'cket Harbor, June 24, 1807, was admitted to the bar in 1831 and engaged in the practice of the law at Lafayette, in the then new state of Indiana. He served three terms in Congress and a short time as senator from the state of Indiana and was appointed chief justice of the territory of Kansas in 1859, by President Buchanan, serving in that capacity until Kansas was admitted to the Union. While in the course of the opinion above referred to, he very frankly expresses his sympathy for the institution of slavery and especially his commendation of the Fugitive Slave Law, his pride in his opinion as a lawyer was stronger than his prejudice against the man who would aid an escaping slave. After the territorial court gave place to the state courts, Judge Pettit moved back to Indiana, still firm in the Demo-

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cratic faith and probably at heart a sympathizer with the South, as he was selected as a delegate to the Democratic convention of 1864, which made the famous platform declaration that the war was a failure, and demanding a compromise with the Confederacy, a declaration by the way which kept the Democratic party out of power nationally for more than a quarter of a century.

In 1870 Judge Pettit was elected to the supreme court in Indiana where he served until 1876. He died at Lafayette, June 17, 1877, within one week of his seventieth birthday.

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Chapter II:   Happenings in the Seventies:

A Frontier Foot Race

BARBER COUNTY was unique in that it was fairly well timbered, while east and north of it was a treeless prairie. For several years after the first settlement, a considerable part of the male inhabitants of the county made a living for themselves and families by hauling cedar posts to Wichita and Hutchinson. The posts were gathered out of the canyons of Barber and Comanche Counties. In addition to the cedar, there were found along the numerous streams very considerable groves of cottonwood, elm, hack- berry, and walnut. As most of the timber grew on government land, that is on land the government held in trust for the Osage Indians, no one had a legal right to cut and haul away any of it, but in these days by common consent certain laws were respected and others were not. While the settlers in Barber considered it entirely legitimate to cut and haul timber from the government land either to sell it or use it for fuel, they drew the line to a considerable extent on outsiders.

It was not uncommon for some Barberite, who had secured an appointment as deputy United States marshal, to arrest some impecunious woodhauler from Harper, Pratt, or Kingman County, make him give up his load and in some cases what money he might happen to have on his person, under threat that if he refused to come across he would be dragged before a United States court and jailed and fined. It is only

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fair to say that not many men would engage in this sort of a blackmailing scheme, but a few unprincipled scoundrels did make some revenue in that way. One day a party of Harper men drove over into Barber and loaded their wagons with firewood cut from government land. Among them was a boy of perhaps fifteen by the name of Kittleman. The woodhaulers made the mistake of driving through the town of Medicine Lodge with their loads. The sheriff and his deputy, who were not very busy that day, arrested the Harper men, compelled them to unload, and, with some admonitions about the seriousness of cutting and removing timber from public lands, permitted them to proceed homeward with empty wagons, sadder and also decidedly madder men than they were before. Their despoilers regarded it a good joke on the Harper men, and also an easy way of securing firewood, for they immediately appropriated the loads which had been gathered with much labor and perspiration by the men from Harper.

Young Kittleman treasured the memory of that transaction and determined that some time he would get even with Medicine Lodge. He was a wonderfully active boy and as he grew developed a passion for athletic sports, especially foot racing. When he was perhaps seventeen or eighteen his attention was called to a prize that was offered by the county fair association of Sumner County, for the man or boy who could run 100 yards in the shortest time, and young Kittleman determined to try for the prize. The purse was large enough to attract a professional foot racer who beat the Harper lad, but he made such a phenomenal showing for an untrained racer that he attracted the attention of a professional foot racer and trainer, who proposed to undertake his training with the idea of becoming his manager afterward. Under the careful

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instruction of this trainer, Kittleman within a couple of years developed into the swiftest short distance runner in the United States and probably in the world. As his fame spread, however, there still lingered in his mind the humiliation of having been wronged on that wood deal years before. While he was running races from the Atlantic to the Pacific, he was figuring betimes on a plan to get even.

In the railroadless frontier town there was not much to do and time often hung heavy on the hands of the resident sports. They necessarily had to depend on their own resources for amusement. Pony races were a favorite form of diversion, but local foot races were a close second. Young men and some who were not so young, who thought they could run, would go out on the prairie, take off boots and socks, and run barefoot. Small wagers of from $1 to $5 were made to increase the interest. One day a lean sinewy young man came in on the overland stage and announced that he was looking for a location for a sheep ranch. A local foot race was on and to pass away the time the prospective sheep rancher strolled out with the crowd. He seemed quite a good deal interested; said that he had always taken great interest in athletics and especially foot racing; in fact had at one time been a professional foot racer himself and still kept his racing shoes and tights as mementoes of his former triumphs.

The local racers immediately began to coax him to give an exhibition of his ability; most of them had never seen a professional foot racer in action. The young man, who said his name was Calder, at first was reluctant; said that he had given up all that sort of thing when he made up his mind to settle down on a ranch, but finally agreed, just to be a good fellow, that he would give an exhibition of his prowess. His running was a revelation to the Medicine Lodgers. He

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could run so much faster than the swiftest of them, that they almost seemed to be standing still. Then, too, when dressed in his scanty racing costume he seemed to them like a perfect specimen of a runner. One of his stunts was to beat a horse running 100 yards. He would run fifty yards, turn at a post set in the ground, and then back to the starting point. Where he had the advantage of the horse was in the quicker start and the ability to turn at the post before the horse could either stop or turn.

The admiration and confidence in Calder grew apace among the Medicine Lodgers. They were satisfied that he was a world beater; in fact he assured them that he was probably the swiftest man on foot in the world. True, he didn't seem to be making any particular effort to find a sheep ranch, but they did not think of that until afterward. Finally a local sport asked Calder if he knew M. K. Kittleman. He said that he had never heard of him. He was told that Kittleman claimed to be a great runner and had made the Harper people believe that he was about the fastest man who ever came down the pike. Calder smiled knowingly; said that he had seen local runners who got that fool idea in their heads until they ran up against some person like himself who could really run, and then they discovered that they couldn't deliver the goods. There was some old time rivalry between Medicine Lodge and Harper and here was chance to take the railroad town down a few notches. Word was sent to the Harper people that if they thought their man Kittleman was a runner, to bring him over to the Lodge where there was a man who would trim him. Kittleman was willing, suspiciously, joyously willing, as was recalled afterward. A purse was made up by Medicine Lodgers of $100 with the privilege of betting all they cared to on the side.

The race was to start with the shot of a revolver,

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the distance 100 yards. When Kittleman stripped for the contest there was a look of surprise on the faces of a good many Medicine Lodge sports. At that time Kittleman was the finest specimen of physical manhood I have ever seen. He stood nearly six feet and was magnificently proportioned. Without an ounce of surplus flesh and apparently no over development, his muscles rippled under his skin, which was white as marble and soft as satin. For the first time the backers of Calder discovered that in point of physical development their supposed champion was no match for the Harper lad. But they had seen him run and had confidence. Besides, had he not assured them that he was the fastest runner in the United States and that he would make that man Kittleman look like a tortoise? So they cheerfully bet their substance, which Kittleman and his backers eagerly covered and hungered for more. At the crack of the pistol Kittleman seemed to shoot through the air like an arrow from a bow. At the first bound he covered at least twenty-five feet and the Medicine Lodge sports knew that their money was gone. Calder was beaten about ten yards and at that Kittleman seemed to make little effort.

When the stake money was handed over to the victor Calder burst into tears; said that he had bet every dollar he had in the world on himself and that now he was dead broke among comparative strangers. His plea touched the hearts of the cowboys who immediately took up a collection for his benefit and, though they had been losers themselves, turned over to him $25 or $30, sufficient to pay his way back to his friends. The next day the Medicine Lodgers learned that Kittleman and Calder were having a very pleasant time together in Harper, as they divided their winnings, according to previous arrangement. " I think may be," remarked Kittleman afterward,

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that I am even with those fellows for that load of wood."

Recollections of a Frontier Sheriff

No one would suppose from looking at the rugged form and face of the present mayor of the city of Wellington, that he has lived long enough to have been a peace officer and terror to evil doers along the border almost half a century ago, but the fact is that away back in the seventies Joe Thralls had already established a reputation as a hunter of criminals that was known all along the border. Cool, tireless, fearless, and yet never reckless, he had a record of generally getting the men he went after, no matter how desperate they were, or how great the difficulties in the way of the man-hunter. In the storehouse of his memory there are many interesting stories and some of them he has been induced to tell. "

I guess," said the ex-sheriff, in a reminiscent way, "that the year 1874 was about the worst year that Sumner County ever experienced. First, there was the drouth that cooked almost everything, and then came the grasshoppers and cleaned up what little was left. On top of all this trouble, came the news that the Indians were about to go on the warpath. There were some killings, too. Pat Hennesy and some other white men were killed that summer down on the old Chisholm trail, where the town of Hennesy is located, and John D. Miles, the agent at Darlington, had warned the settlers that an outbreak was threatened and that the settlers along the Kansas border had better prepare for the worst. "

At two o'clock in the morning of July 6, a little sawed- off freighter by the name of Fletcher rode into Wellington yelling 'Indians' at every jump of his horse and appealing for men and arms to defend Caldwell against the antici-

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pated attack. In answer to this appeal, twenty-one citizens of Wellington armed themselves, saddled their horses, and set out for Caldwell. The Indian scare had driven most of the horse thieves operating down in the Territory into Caldwell. They were worse than the Indians and when we found a bunch of them eating breakfast at Caldwell it made us want to turn the Indian hunt into a horse-thief capturing expedition. So bold had these thieves become that one of them told one of Vail and Williamson's men who were waiting to start their stage line in the territory, that the stage company's mules, which had been stolen a few weeks before, were now on Polecat Creek, south of Caldwell, and asked him what the stage company was going to do about it. Soon after breakfast scouts came in from the south and reported that there were no Indians within several miles of the border. J. C. Hopkins and his brother were at that time running the Pond Creek ranch, twenty-five miles south of Caldwell, where they had a store and about 600 head of cattle. "

They had been in Caldwell several days on account of the Indian scare and after hearing this report from the scouts they decided to go back to the ranch. They started out alone and within an hour eight well known toughs and thieves were following them. We believed that it was the intention of these thieves to kill the Hopkins brothers, run off their stock, loot the store, and then charge the crime up to the Indians. A party of us decided to follow them. The party was made up of Bill Hackney, Jim Stipp, John Kirk, A. W. Shearman, C. S. Broadbent, Capt. L. K. Myers, W. E. and J. M. Thralls. "

After a brisk ride we caught up with the thieves, who were riding a short distance behind the two Hopkins brothers. When we rode up they stopped and were apparently holding a conference, but they followed on after our party. We had caught up with the Hopkins brothers, who were mighty glad to see us, for they had also guessed that the purpose of the thieves was to murder them. "

On arriving at Polecat ranch, we stopped to let our horses feed on the grass for an hour or two. We had nothing to eat ourselves. The thieves came up and stopped,

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also. One of our party carried a three-band Sharp's needle gun and a belt full of cartridges. A gun of that kind was a very valuable asset in those days, although dangerous at both ends when fired. The thieves coveted this gun so much that they were willing at one time to measure strength with our party to get it. They even demanded it, and finally said that if we didn't give it up, they would take it just the same. Everybody was ready on our side for them to open the ball, when Bill Hackney, who then was in his prime, opened up on the thieves in characteristic Hackney style. I have heard Bill cuss a good many times, but never heard him do as artistic a job as he did that day. The rest of us were no mollycoddles, but Bill's language almost made us shudder. In substance, Bill spoke as follows: 'If you sons of — — want that gun, come and get it, but I want to say that if one of you makes a move in that direction, there will be a lot of dead horse thieves left here on the ground for buzzard feed.' "

Bill's defiance had its effect. The thieves looked Bill and the rest of the party over and decided that the job was too dangerous. Had the fight commenced we might have lost some of our party, but that whole bunch of thieves would almost certainly have died, which would have saved a lynching party the trouble of hanging two of them a few days after that on Slate Creek. "

The first murder that was committed in Wellington," continued the mayor, "was in May, 1872. It resulted in a lynching and as a rather singular coincidence the man lynched was named Lynch; also it may be said in passing that Lynch was lynched for the murder of a man he did not kill. True, he probably deserved hanging on general principles, but he was not guilty of that particular crime. "

Two hunters, named Smith and Blanchard, known as ' Red Shirt,' on account of the fiery red shirt he wore, came to town and were painting it red, drinking and gambling. During the day they met Lynch, a gambler and all-round tough, who owned a race horse and went swaggering around with a pair of revolvers belted on as part of his dress. "

The four continued drinking, gambling, and quarreling

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all afternoon and evening, and about nine o'clock Smith and Lynch drew their guns, but were prevented from shooting at the time, and both left the saloon, each swearing he would get the other. Lynch, with his gun in his hand, went out at the north front door and turned east, stopping a few feet east of the door, where he was in the shadow and could watch the front door of the saloon. He had been there only a few minutes when Smith stepped to the front door. Lynch, without warning, fired at him from a distance of not more than ten feet. The ball struck the outside door casing, plowed through the soft pine for about eight inches and struck Smith in the breast, going through his outside clothing and lodging against his undershirt.

Lynch, no doubt, supposing that he had killed his man, ran across the public square in a northwesterly direction, firing two more shots as he ran. He was evidently carrying both his guns cocked and pointed downward, and must have unconsciously pulled the triggers in his excitement. As a result, he put a bullet through each of his feet. When Smith was hit he jumped back inside the saloon exclaiming, 'I am shot,' but finding that he was not hurt much, he jerked out his gun and ran out of the south rear door of the saloon, looking for Lynch. He saw a man standing just east and in line with the saloon and, supposing it was Lynch, fired, killing a man by the name of Maxwell, who lived on the Chickaskia River, not far from Drury. "

Maxwell had come to town on an errand of mercy and charity, to solicit aid for two of his unfortunate neighbors and their families who had had the misfortune to lose everything they had in the way of buildings, furniture, and feed in a terrible prairie fire. When Smith saw the mistake he had made, he determined to fasten the crime on Lynch, and with the aid of his pal 'Red Shirt,' he succeeded in making the people believe that Maxwell had been killed by Lynch. Maxwell was a good man, popular with his neighbors, and his murder aroused great indignation. Next day his neighbors began arriving in town. By midnight there were more than a hundred of them. Meantime Smith and Blanchard, 'Red Shirt,' having succeeded in throwing

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the blame for the killing on Lynch, decided that they would get out of town while the getting was good. The settlers, neighbors of the dead man, while perhaps not doubting that it was Lynch who fired the fatal shot, felt that in a way the other two were partly responsible for the murder and insisted that they should be arrested. A posse started after them, followed them for thirty or forty miles, and then lost their trail. Lynch had been arrested and kept in concealment by the officers, but early Sunday morning the pearchers discovered where he was hidden and he was taken in charge by the vigilance committee. Lynch realized that death was near and sent for a lawyer to make his will. D. N. Caldwell, then a young man out of law school, declined the job. He said that he was young and inexperienced and it would be better to get an old lawyer to do the job. So Judge Riggs was sent for, drew the last will and testament of the condemned man, who bequeathed all of his property to a sister living in another state. With the preliminaries disposed of at the command of the leader, the mob of one hundred men or more marched quietly to where Lynch was being held, placed him on his own horse and with a double row of guards on either side he was taken down to the timber on Slate Creek, where a rope was placed about his neck and fastened to a limb, and then his horse was led away. Although the real murderer was not hanged, the execution had a salutary effect on evil doers for years afterward. Still it can hardly be said that justice has been satisfied, for the man who did murder Maxwell still lives. "

The body of Lynch was buried in the Potters' Field at the old cemetery and for many years those passing along the road were shown a low lying mound marking the grave where rested the body of the first man hung for murder in Sumner County."

The Looting of a County

If ever there was a municipal organization conceived in sin and brought forth in iniquity it was the organization of Barber County. During the early seventies

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it occurred to a number of enterprising thieves that the organization of counties in central and western Kansas offered an inviting field for exploitation at comparatively little risk to the exploiters. There were practically no permanent residents in that part of the state at that time and consequently few who had a personal interest in preventing the robbery consummated under forms of law.

The statute governing the organization of new counties required at that time at least 600 bona fide inhabitants within the territory to be organized. In 1872 there were probably not more than 100 bona fide inhabitants in the territory included within the boundaries of the proposed county, but that fact presented no impediment to the predatory gang which had perfected its plan of loot. A census taker was appointed who was void of either conscience or fear of future punishment, and from convenient hotel registers he copied the requisite number of names, swore that they were bona fide residents within the territory of the proposed county, and the preliminaries were arranged with an ease and speed which would have excited the envy of a professional highwayman.

There were some honest men even then living in the territory which now composes the county of Barber, but as I have intimated, they had no vested interest in the country. They were the possessors of herds of cattle of varying size, grazing on the native grasses, but they did not expect to remain permanently in that country. Unfortunately most men are so constituted that they do not become deeply concerned about graft unless that graft touches them in some way. So the conditions were particularly favorable for the highbinders who figured out a scheme of organizing counties, loading them with bonds, selling the bonds to supposed innocent purchasers, pocketing the proceeds and,

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when the harvest of loot had been gathered, folding their tents like the Arab and silently stealing away.

The first meeting of the new board of county commissioners, so far as the records show, was held in Medicine Lodge on July 7, 1873. These commissioners were not the master spirits in the conspiracy, but they were willing servants and showed the industry of the busy bee, which flits from flower to flower gathering honey as it flits. About the first business of importance transacted was to issue $25,000 in county warrants to one C. C. Beemis, in consideration of which he was supposed to build a court house. It, of course, showed great confidence in the integrity of Mr. Beemis to issue to him the entire contract price before he had furnished a brick, a board, or a nail that was to go into the building, but the confidence seemed to have been misplaced, as Mr. Beemis did not even commence the erection of the court house. His failure, however, did not interfere with the friendly relations or confidence of the board of commissioners, who made no effort to compel him to fulfill his contract or return the warrants which had been issued. In fact the commissioners acted on the theory that if at first you don't succeed try, try again, and next time proposed to vote bonds to build a court house to the extent of $40,000. By that time some of the residents of the county, although temporary, objected to the issuance of more bonds or warrants to build a court house, in view of the fact that $25,000 had already been stolen, and they rallied enough votes to defeat the bonds.

This, however, did not dash or discourage the commissioners, who issued the warrants anyhow, and then through an act of the Legislature put through by the leader of the gang, the first legislative member from Barber, they issued funding bonds to cover the debt. Still no court house was built. Not a brick was laid

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or a single foundation stone. The busy board had also issued some forty or fifty thousand dollars in warrants to build bridges and, considering the number of streams there are in the county, I have no doubt they were astonished at their own moderation.

The bridges were not built, but then they might have stolen more. At the instance of members of the gang a railroad corporation called the Nebraska, Kansas & Southwestern was organized. Not only in the language of a former member of the Kansas Legislature did this road "not terminate at either end" but it had no existence except on paper. Yet the looters managed to put over an alleged bond election by which the new county voted $100,000 ten per cent bonds to this mythical corporation and then, in violation of the spirit if not the letter of the law under which the road was supposed to be built before the bonds were issued, the board of commissioners issued and sold the bonds without there being a single mile of road constructed. The bonds passed into the hands of an English capitalist, a member of the British Parliament. Afterward the taxpayers of Barber resisted payment of the bonds, and carried the litigation through the courts up to the supreme court, but they lost in the end and are to-day paying the principal and interest of that utterly fraudulent obligation.

Finally, the shameless stealings of the looters roused the fury of the settlers, who were coming to look on the county, with its clear streams, its beautiful valleys, its sweet hills and groves and canyons as their permanent abiding place. So they formed their vigilance committee, with the avowed and laudable purpose of hanging the thieves. They did round up a part of the gang, but made the fatal error of permitting them to talk. The spokesman for the gang offered to restore the loot already taken and to leave the county forever.

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They did leave the county, but took with them the county warrant books and county seal, and from the safe retreat of Hutchinson they proceeded to issue new evidence of indebtedness against the sorely plundered1 municipality. Of course, it is unnecessary to say that they never restored any of the plunder they had garnered under forms of law. A member of the vigilance committee was heard afterwards to remark, "If we hadn't been a passel of dam fools we would a-hung them blank-blank sons-of-blank first and then listened to what they had to say afterwards."

The Old-Time Deestrict School

"When I was a boy going to a country school," said an old timer, "we had what was known far and wide as about the toughest district school in the state. There were six big boys, ranging from sixteen to twenty or twenty-one years old. Most of them were great, husky fellows and one or two would weigh fully 175 pounds." These young fellows bullied the rest of the school, especially the little boys, and in school did just about as they pleased. They boasted that they would whip any teacher who undertook to make them mind his rules and it may be said they were ready and anxious to make good the threat. They usually intimidated the teacher and ran the school according to their own notion. Two teachers had undertaken to control them and were beaten up and run out of school as a consequence. The fame of our school extended until it was difficult to get any teacher.

One fall day there appeared in the neighborhood a rather small, although trimly built young man, who said that he was an applicant for the job of teaching school. The leading director looked him over and then said:

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"I guess, young man, that you never have heard much about this school or you wouldn't hanker after the job. There are at least six boys in our school bigger than you and any one of them, I think, could handle you in a fight, unless you are a much better man than you look to be. The boys are tarnal mean, and I would be glad to see a teacher who could trim them as they deserve, but you haven't the heft to handle the job and get away with it. Last winter the teacher lasted just two weeks. Then them pesky youngsters took him out and ducked him in the pond and told him to hit the road away from the school- house and keep goin', which he did. Winter before last we got a big fellow to teach the school, who had something of a reputation as a fighter. He did a great deal of talkin' about how he would bring the boys to time, but when it came to the test the boys combined and beat him up and whipped him till he had to go to bed for a week. He quit right then. He would weigh fifty pounds more than you and if he couldn't handle the job I don't see no chance for you."

The young man listened quietly and replied mildly that he didn't think he would have any serious trouble with these young men; that he always got along pretty well with young folks, especially with boys, and that he would like to have a chance to see what he could do.

"Well," said the old farmer-director, "I will call the board together and present your application. If the other two are willin' I will give you a trial, because it's gettin' to be nearly impossible to get a teacher, but I give you fair warnin' that I don't think you will last more than a week, unless you give in and let them fellers run the school."

Well, the directors finally concluded that they would give the slim young teacher a chance to try his hand, not that they had any faith in his ability to control

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the school, but the law required that there should be a school and there were no other applicants.

They slouched into school with Bill Stevens in the lead and sat down with their hats on. The young slender, mild-looking teacher called the school to order and then in a gentle voice said, "All the pupils will take off their hats, please."

On the first day of school all the big six were on hand. There was Bill Stevens, who was a leader of the gang, twenty years old, and would weigh fully 175 pounds and there was no surplus flesh. Jack Williams was his second, nearly as big as Bill and just as mean. Then there was Tom Walker, nineteen years old, weighed about 160 pounds; Elias Tompkins, about the same age and weight ; Lige Sangers, eighteen years old, weighed about 150 pounds, and Tobe Elder, the youngest and also one of the meanest in the gang. He was only seventeen years old but he was as big and husky as the average young man when twenty years old.

As the members of the gang did not remove their hats, the teacher turning to Bill Stevens said, still speaking in his easy mild tone of voice with no trace of excitement or irritation: "Perhaps you young gentlemen did not understand my request. I always make it a rule in my school to have all the pupils remove their hats."

"Yes," said Bill insolently, "we heard you all right, but we ain't acfcustomed to removin' our hats, we are somewhat afraid we will ketch cold in the haid."

"There is no danger, I think, of your catching cold in the head in this house, at any rate I guess we will have to risk it. I will have to ask you again to remove your hats."

All the answer he got was a sneering laugh from the six. Not one of them made any move toward removing his hat. Then a most surprising thing happened. The

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slender young teacher, with a swiftness that was astounding, kicked Bill's hat from his head and then with a lightning blow hit the big bully fair on the point of the chin, knocking him senseless to the floor.

The fight was on. Jack Williams came on with a bellow of rage and the others joined the rush toward the teacher. With surprising agility he avoided the onslaught and so maneuvered that Jack was separated from his fellows. Jack was trying to clinch, but while he had been in many a rough and tumble fight he knew little about guarding his face, and a smashing blow at the butt of the ear sent him to join his leader in dreamland.

The other four were already sensing the fact that this was an entirely different sort of a teacher from any they had ever had any experience with heretofore, but the fight was not out of them yet. "

Close in on him," yelled Tom Walker and all the four tried to get in together. As they came on the slender teacher deftly tripped the leader to the floor, piled two others on top of him and smashed the face of the fourth with a blow that brought the blood pouring from his nose. Then as fast as the young fellows tried to get up he smashed them, tripped them, and mauled them until bloody and discomfited they were ready to quit. By this time Bill Stevens was recovering consciousness. He slowly staggered to his feet when he was floored with a left to his face and a terrific jolt on his solar plexus with the right, which not only put him down and out, but left him writhing in agony. In a few minutes the fight was over. The slender teacher was -breathing a little more quickly than under ordinary conditions, but there was not a mark of the conflict on his person and his voice showed no indication of excitement.

"Take your seats, young gentlemen," he said quietly and they did. "Remove your hats." The hats went

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off. "There is the basin which I brought to school this morning and there is the water. William Stevens, if you feel able to walk, go and wash your face and hands and then return to your seat quietly." Bill staggered to the water pail and proceeded dizzily with his ablutions. He was followed in regular order by the other members of the gang. And then a most crestfallen and battered six waited for further orders.

"Young gentlemen," said the teacher, "this has been an interesting and I may say enjoyable occasion. During my six years as trainer in boxing, wrestling, and general athletics, I never have experienced a more exhilarating five minutes, but I must say that while you have the making of fairly good boxers, that is, some of you have, you are very deficient in knowledge of the manly art. During the winter I expect to give you some instruction in the art of self-defense, but only on one condition and that is that you learn to be good sports. The really good sport is always a gentleman. He will not strike a foul blow or take advantage of a weaker opponent. You young men have not been good sports. You have joined your forces and whipped teachers who were no more than a match for any one of you and have gloried in bullying the school. Now I wish to have an understanding. Have you had enough? If not we will settle this right now, but I promise you in advance that when I finish with you, you will not be able to attend school for several days. What do you say?"

Bill Stevens spoke for the gang. His words came from between badly puffed lips, as he gazed at the teacher from eyes that were fast closing. "You're a he man, all right, though you don't look it. Whatever you say goes with this gang."

That term of school worked a complete reformation on the bullies. They were diligent in attendance and

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most of them made good progress. Bill Stevens afterward went to college and became a leading business man in the city in which he located. In after life he often said: "That was the most painful and most profitable five minutes I ever spent in my life."

The Downfall of Pomeroy

In the legislative session of 1873 the senatorial election so overshadowed every other issue that little if anything is remembered of what was accomplished in the way of general legislation. The great question to be decided was the election or defeat of Samuel C. Pomeroy for the United States Senate.

Pomeroy had served twelve years as senator and had a powerful political following, but he had also powerful and adroit opposition. It was less than eight years after the close of the Civil War and the veterans of that great conflict, still young and virile men, controlled the political and also, for the most part, all other enterprises of the state. Pomeroy was, as men went then, considered rather an old man, although only fifty-seven years of age, and still a man of powerful physique. During the noted dry year of 1860 he had been very active in securing aid for the Kansas settlers, especially corn, on account of which he was dubbed "Seed Corn Pomeroy," a play on the initials of his name.

In that early day Kansas was divided politically into factions and they warred with each other with a bitterness unknown in these modern times. The opponents of Pomeroy accused him of corruption and immorality, while his friends and ardent supporters insisted that he was a paragon of virtue and an incorruptible patriot. The opposition was led by perhaps

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the most adroit politician in Kansas at that time, Major Ben F. Simpson, who numbered among his lieutenants such men as W. A. Johnson, senator from Anderson County; Colonel John P. St. John, afterwards governor, and three times candidate for president on the Prohibition ticket; Colonel Tom Moonlight, of Leavenworth, still the idol of the men who had followed him through his campaigns and battles; Colonel A. M. York, of Montgomery; Colonel Ely, of Linn, and Captain George R. Peck, then a brilliant and rising young lawyer. Among other men of prominence in that legislature were Colonel Marsh Murdock, General Blair, N. C. McFarland, afterwards commissioner of the general land office, and Rev. I. S. Kallock, whose sincerity and morality were sometimes questioned, but whose singular eloquence was always conceded. Pomeroy's campaign manager was Albert H. Horton, afterward himself a candidate for senator and for many years chief justice of the supreme court.

While the fight was bitter, the supporters of Pomeroy, counting perhaps on the divisions among the opposition, seemed reasonably confident of success, but were not taking any chances if they knew it. There were numerous stories floating about of attempts to bribe the supporters of other candidates and finally a trap was laid for the senator, planned by Ben Simpson, which resulted in the complete overthrow of Pome- roy, his retirement in disgrace from public life, and a narrow escape from a felon's cell. In pursuance of this plan, Colonel York called on Pomeroy at his room in the old Tefft House, located where the National now is, in the dead hour of the night and there bargained with him to sell his vote at the coming joint convention of the Senate and House, then only two days off, in consideration of the payment of $8,000, to be paid $2,000 down, $5,000 the next day and $1,000 after

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the vote was cast. In accordance with this agreement, the story goes, Pomeroy paid over the $7,000.

On January 29, 1873, the two houses met in joint convention. Old timers say that there was certain tenseness in the atmosphere, a foreboding of the coming storm. When the convention was called to order, Colonel York advanced to the front and laid on the table two packages of money which he claimed he had received from Pomeroy and with dramatic earnestness gave in detail to the convention his deal with the senator. That speech would have been lost to the world if it had not been for a young and brilliant reporter, afterwards one of the most successful lawyers in Kansas or the West—Colonel W. H. Rossington, who was reporting for the old Commonwealth. York had no written speech. Rossington recognized the news value of the same to his story of the sensational event, and sitting down at his desk wrote the following remarkable speech as that delivered by the senator from Montgomery : "Before I place in nomination the name of any man, I have a short explanation to make, and as it concerns all present and is of great importance to the state of Kansas, present and future, I desire the close attention of the members of the convention to what I have to say. Two weeks ago to-day I came to Topeka an avowed and earnest anti- Pomeroy man. I thought that in his defeat lay the regeneration of the state and party and I cheerfully and enthusiastically allied myself with the anti-Pomeroy element in the legislature. Grave charges had been made against Senator Pomeroy in connection with a certain letter to W. W. Ross. These charges had assumed a serious form in a meeting of the anti-Pomeroy caucus a few evenings ago when a man by the name of Clark exhibited $2,000 in twenty $100 bills, declaring that he had received the same from Pomeroy for signing a confession to the effect that he had forged the letter (to Ross) and the signature. I have no evidence as

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to the truth of these charges, but Mr. Pomeroy's name being associated with so many rumors of the same nature might give the report credence. "

When I came here I had been waited on by friends of Mr. Pomeroy who plied me with arguments in favor of his preeminent fitness for the position and protestations of his innocence of the charges brought against him. I was asked several times to have an interview with Mr. Pomeroy and finally consented, provided this interview could take place in the presence of a third party. Mr. Pomeroy assented to the presence of one or any number of my friends. Accordingly on Friday last I waited on Mr. Pomeroy and there, in the presence of Captain Peck and two others, we had a brief conversation. I put to him direct the question: ' Did you or did you not write the letter signed with your name and directed to W. W. Ross having reference to certain profits on Indian goods?' In reply he handed me the affidavits of J. B. Stewart and one signed by several citizens of Lawrence and asked me to read them and then say whether I thought he was the author of the letter. 'Mr. Pomeroy, you have not said whether you wrote that Ross letter.' I then said further to him: 'Mr. Pomeroy, you are either the most infamous scoundrel that ever trod the earth or the worst defamed man that ever stepped on Kansas soil.'

Here the interview ended and, as I supposed, ended all relations between myself and Mr. Pomeroy, but a day or two afterward I was importuned to accord Mr. Pomeroy a private interview. At the time it had become apparent that illicit and criminal means had been employed to secure Mr. Pomeroy's election and it became us as far as it lay in our power to circumvent them. I consulted with tried and trusted friends, Messrs. Simpson, Wilson, Johnson, and others as to the course I should pursue and upon their advice I acted. I visited Mr. Pomeroy's room in the dark and secret recess of the Tefft House on Monday night and at that interview my vote was bargained for for a consideration of $8,000: $2,000 of which was paid that evening, $5,000 the next afternoon and a promise of the additional $1,000 when my vote had been cast in his favor. "

I now, in the presence of this honorable body hand over

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the amount of $7,000 as I received it and ask that it be counted by the secretary. I ask that the money be used to defray the expenses of investigating and prosecuting S. C. Pomeroy for bribery and corruption. "

I know that there are many present who may feel disposed to impugn my motives in this matter and decry the manner of my unearthing the deep and damning rascality, which has eaten like a plague spot into the fair name of this glorious young state. I am conscious that, standing here as I do a self-convicted bribe taker, I take upon myself vicariously the odium that has made the name of Kansas and Kansas politics a hissing and a byword throughout the land. I do not undertake the defense of my act any further than it may convey with it its own justification. From every part of the state comes the demand thunder- toned and unanimous from the masses, whose will has so long been disregarded and oversloughed by the corrupt use of money by individuals and corporations, that we make a final and irrevocable end of corruptionists. In this matter I have had the unpleasant and unenviable sensation of handling pitch which defileth, but my feelings were secondary to the common weal. In fact they were not taken into account. In a solemn exigency and forlorn hope of this kind I consider it a man's highest duty, in however questionable guise his service comes, to man the breach and if such a course needs its atoning victim I would gladly offer myself a sacrifice. I promised in consideration of $8,000 in hand paid to vote for Samuel C. Pomeroy and I now redeem that pledge by voting for him to serve a term in the penitentiary not to exceed twenty years. "

Mr. President and gentlemen, this is no new thing in the history of Kansas politics, I am pained to say. In every senatorial election has the same thing been repeated to our discomfiture and discredit, the will of the people as expressed at the ballot box has been defeated with money at this busting. This dishonored and dishonorable official approaches me, gentlemen, with confidence in his ability to buy men's souls; to prostitute their sacred honor. I have a name I am proud to say, that up to this time, with those who know me, has been free from reproach. Though a

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young man I have striven to lead a reputable life and to be an exemplary member of society as far as my limited influence extends in deed as well as in thought. I have an aged mother who has been spared to bless me with her love. I have a wife and little ones to whom I hope to bequeath a name, no matter how obscure, they may have no reason to blush to hear pronounced; yet this corrupt old man comes to me and makes a bargain for my soul; makes me a proposition which if accepted in the faith and spirit in which it is offered, will make my children go through life with hung down heads and burning cheeks at every mention of the name of him who begot them. Earth has no infamy more damnable than corruption, no criminal more to be execrated than he who would corrupt the representatives of the people to further his private interests. I demand, gentlemen, that the actions of Samuel C. Pomeroy be thoroughly examined and that the corruption money which lies on the table be the instrument of retribution in prosecuting that investigation. I further demand that the members of this body give to-day such an expression of their sentiments in this matter that the regeneration of this glorious young commonwealth may be proclaimed throughout the land, so that Kansas may stand erect and free among the states of the union, pure among the purest and honored throughout the world. "

The statements I have made, gentlemen, are but partial and incomplete. The hour or two that I passed in that den of infamy in the Tefft House let in upon my mind such a flood of enlightenment as to the detestable practices of the Kansas politicians that I have no word to express the depth of degradation a once pure republican government has reached. The disclosures there made to me implicate some of the most prominent and respectable men in Kansas. I learned from Mr. Pomeroy that his spies and emissaries were working in our caucuses to sell us out. These disclosures I will not now make; they are sufficient to satisfy me that the most conscienceless, infamous betrayer of the trust reposed in him by the people of his state is Samuel C. Pomeroy. As to the truth of what I have stated, I stand in the presence of this august and honorable body of representatives of the sovereign people and before the Almighty

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ruler of the universe I solemnly declare that every word I have spoken is God's truth and nothing but the truth."

The immediate effect of this speech was like a solar plexus blow to the supporters of Pomeroy. Some of his supporters rallied feebly to his defense but they could not reorganize his disrupted forces and amid intense excitement John J. Ingalls was elected to the United States Senate.

Afterward a committee was appointed by the United States Senate to investigate the conduct of Pomexoy, with a view to expelling him from that body if the charges were found to be true. The special committee appointed to make the investigation was composed of Senators Frelinghuysen, Buckingham, Alcorn, Vickers and Allen G. Thurman. Pomeroy did not deny giving the money to Senator York, but claimed that he had given it to him to be turned over to a man by the name of Page who intended to start a national bank in Independence, and to whom Pomeroy had agreed to make a temporary loan. That a business transaction of this character should have been consummated at the hour of midnight or later, less than forty-eight hours before the vote on senator was to be taken, must have struck the members of the special committee as decidedly peculiar if true, but after taking a good deal of testimony the committee brought in a sort of Scotch verdict of guilty but not proven. Senator Thurman brought in a minority report in which he said that the testimony convinced him that the charges against Pomeroy were true. No doubt the fact that Pomeroy had been defeated for reelection and his term would end in a few weeks influenced the members of the committee. Pomeroy retired disgraced and broken. He lived, however, for eighteen years, during which time he saw the rise of his successor to a place of great prominence

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in the Senate, only finally to be swept out of office and out of power by the rise of a new political party in Kansas. About the time that Pomeroy, an old and feeble man, was on his deathbed, John J. Ingalls, the most brilliant representative ever sent to either house of Congress from Kansas, was watching his political sun set never to rise again.

Senator York, the instrument of Pomeroy's undoing, whether he meant it or not, correctly indicated the effect on him personally of his act. His political career ended with that session of the Legislature. Many of the great newspapers condemned him even while admitting the need to expose political corruption. His motives were impugned and his act characterized as one of treachery. There is, however, little doubt that his course was influenced by a real desire to serve his state and nation. For a good many years he lived quietly in the little city of Independence, the law partner of Lyman U. Humphrey, afterward governor of the state. Tragedy seemed to be connected with the York family. A brother of the senator was one of the victims of the noted family of murderers, the Benders, about whose final fate there has always clung an air of uncertainty and mystery.

If there was any need at this time for argument in favor of the election of United States senators by direct vote of the people it can be found by digging back into history of almost any of the old time elections of senators by the Legislature. Some of those elections were untainted by fraud or even the suspicion of corruption, but many of them were smirched by deals which placed an ineffaceable stain on the name of our state and at that, our senatorial elections were perhaps as clean as those of the average state in the Union.

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When Newton Was the Wickedest Town

It is difficult for one who knows only the Newton of to-day or the Newton of many years past, to believe that there ever was a time when it was called the " wickedest town in Kansas," which, I may say in passing, was going some, for Kansas in the past has had some towns that in a competitive examination for wickedness would have given hell a neck and neck race.

In the year 1871 the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe road was extended west as far as Newton and, for that brief summer, it became the terminus of the Texas cattle trail. During the season some 40,000 head of cattle were driven up from the great plains of Texas and shipped on to the Kansas City and Chicago markets from the then frontier town.

For that season the pace in Newton was fast and furious. The town was full of saloons and dance houses and possibly never had a more reckless and desperate element gathered in any town than filled these places of iniquity that hot and hectic season.

A vivid description of the Texas cattle herder is found in the Topeka Commonwealth of August 15, 1871. It is worth reproducing: "The Texas cattle herder is a character, the like of which can be found nowhere else on earth. Of course he is unlearned and illiterate, with but few wants and meager ambition. His diet is principally navy plug and whisky and the occupation dearest to his heart is gambling. His dress consists of a flannel shirt with a handkerchief encircling his neck, butternut pants and a pair of long boots, in which are always the legs of his pants. His head is covered by a sombrero, which is a Mexican hat with a low crown and a brim of enormous dimensions. He generally wears a revolver on each side of his person, which he will use with as little hesitation on a man as on a wild animal. Such a character

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is dangerous and desperate and each one has generally ' killed his man.' It was men of this class that composed the guerrilla bands like Quantrell's. There are good and honorable men among them, but the runaway boys and men who find it too hot for them even in Texas, join the cattle herders and constitute a large portion of them. They drink, swear, and fight, and life with them is a round of boisterous gayety and indulgence in sensual pleasures."

It was these wild, reckless men who thronged the dance halls of Newton in that summer of 1871 and furnished the material and setting for this story of tragedy and murder. Arthur Delaney, known as Mike McCluskie, was in the employ of the railroad company— a daring, fearless man, quiet, neither apparently seeking nor avoiding a fight, but handy with a gun and deadly in his aim. A few days before the fatal ninth of August, 1871, McCluskie had had an altercation with a desperate gambler and gunman from Texas by the name of Baylor. McCluskie was the quicker of the two on the draw and Baylor died with his boots on. His Texas pals vowed revenge. The news was carried to McCluskie that his life was in peril and that the Texans, led by Hugh Anderson, intended to murder him if he went to the Tuttle dance hall. With a reckless disregard of danger, McCluskie walked into the dance hall and engaged in conversation with one of the gang that had determined on his murder. Anderson, the leader, drew his gun and with an oath shot McCluskie through the neck. As he fell, mortally wounded, McCluskie drew his own gun and, half rising from the floor, pulled the trigger. The cartridge failed to explode, but the dying man, with two more bullets in his body, pulled the trigger again with all his dying strength, and this time wounded but did not kill the Texan. The other Texans opened fire on the dying man. Suddenly, a frail youth, in the last stages of

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consumption, a friend of McCluskie, with the fighting name of Riley, appeared on the scene, shut the door of the dance hall, as the story goes, to prevent egress, and then coolly went into action. His gun barked once, twice, thrice, and yet again and again, and at each crash and red spurt of flame a Texan went down, until six men had fallen dead or wounded. By some strange freak of fate, this man who, apparently thinking that death was very near in any event, and who seemed weary of life and ready to throw it away in revenging his dead friend, was unharmed. It was the greatest killing that Newton ever had and about the last. The better element of the new town, shocked by the tragedy, determined that the dance halls must go.

The next spring the railroad moved south to the town of Wichita. Newton settled down to an orderly and rather humdrum existence. The days of the cattle trail, the Texas herders, the dance halls, with their wild orgies, the bloody battles, the men weltering in their blood, all became a sort of ghastly memory.

Few, perhaps none, of the men and women who lived in Newton in those wild days, are still alive, but the temporary sojourner in the town, as he strolls about between trains, may have pointed out to him the place where the dance hall stood and where the midnight battle was waged when Newton was young and had the unenviable reputation of being the wickedest town in Kansas.

An International Episode

During the year 1871 or '72 a Scotchman named George Grant, born near Aberdeen, came to Kansas and made a deal with the Union Pacific, then known as the Kansas Pacific, railroad by which he acquired

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title to a large amount of railroad land in Ellis County, variously estimated at from 100,000 to 500,000 acres.

Just how much land he did get is uncertain but it was a large tract and bought on most favorable terms so far as Grant was concerned, who was evidently possessed of a good deal of Scotch thrift and canniness in driving a bargain. The railroad company had received a vast land grant from the Government and the managers were anxious to have the country settled as soon as possible so as to make business for the road. George Grant bought the land at the rate of fifty cents per acre and did not even have to pay cash down at that. His agreement was to bring out a large colony of high grade Englishmen with money, who would settle on the land and stock it with blooded cattle, horses, and sheep.

The bargain having been closed, the enterprising advertising agent of the railroad proclaimed to the world that a vast tract of land had been sold to a British nobleman, Sir George Grant, knighted by the queen, a man of almost boundless wealth, who had decided to establish on the fertile prairies of Kansas an estate like those of the landed gentry of "Merry England."

As a matter of fact, the Scotchman had never been dowered with a title in the old world. He was a silk merchant who had been reasonably prosperous in trade and who saw a speculation in the Kansas land. The title, however, was a good advertisement. Kansas had had no genuine titled noblemen among her citizenship, and while the early Kansas man paid little deference to titles, he rather liked to say that an English lord was so enamored that he left his ancestral halls to settle out in western Kansas. The title also helped about getting the English squires, who do dote on titles, interested, and so it came about that Sir George man-

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aged to create quite an interest among these British sires who were looking for locations for their sons. Also, it may be said that the Scotchman managed to do very well in the real estate business, selling the land, for which he had promised to pay the railroad company fifty cents per acre, to the Englishmen for as high as $15 per acre in some cases. He also built him an English villa, which was, in turn, press agented, and named the town he organized Victoria, in honor of the British queen.

In order to satisfy the religious proclivities of the colonists, he built a church which was duly dedicated by Bishop Vail of blessed memory. He also brought considerable blooded stock and several thousand sheep to graze upon the succulent grasses. For a time the plan worked with remarkable success. At one time there were two thousand Britishers in Sir George's colony, according to estimates of the truthful reporters.

Maybe there were not so many, but there was a respectable number. Most of them were a failure as pioneers, so far as developing the country was concerned, but they had a really delightful time, hunting wolves and jack rabbits, riding to the chase dressed in typical English fashion, with their high topped boots and ridiculous little caps, and at evening gathering in the saloon run by one Tommy Drum, where they " stayed themselves with flagons," imbibed large quantities of "Scotch and soda" and with large volume of sound if not with melody, sang English songs. One of the favorites of these was a poetical description of a shipwreck, each stanza ending with the sad refrain " The ship went down with the fair young bride a thousand miles from shore."

It was while in a lachrymose state of mind, the result of frequent irrigation, that one of the young English " remittance" men became so wrought up over the

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tragedy which happened to the "fair young bride" that he hurled a bottle through the large pier glass, which was Tommy Drum's delight and pride and which, when Fort Hays was an important military post, had often reflected the images of Generals Sherman, Sheridan, Custer and Phil Kearney, as they lined up in front of the bar and took their "regulars" of whisky straight, or perhaps with a dash of lemon to modify the roughness of the drink. The breaking of the glass caused Drum to run about in circles shouting "By the bolt!" " By the bolt!" which was his nearest approach to profanity. Nobody knew just what the expression meant, but it served to relieve Tommy's surcharged feelings when ordinary language did not fill the bill and for that matter it was more harmless and fully as sensible as any form of profanity.

It was at the thirst parlor of Tommy Drum, where occurred the international episode about which this story is written.

It was the evening of the Glorious Fourth of July and a number of the British scions and Americans had gathered and indulged in numerous potations, until they had reached the state where they were ready for argument, tears, or battle, when one of the Americans happened to remember that it was the natal day of our republic. Filled with highballs and patriotism, he proposed that they should sing "The Star-Spangled Banner."

The subjects of the queen objected. They didn't deem it fitting for Englishmen to sing the national air of this "blarsted republic." The only national song they would sing, they declared, was "God Save the Queen." For a time the Americans argued the matter in a bibulous sort of way, but the argument soon became heated. It was considered an international question and as the Britishers continued obdurate the

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Americans felt that it was up to them to uphold the honor of their country.

So the ruction commenced and waxed fast and furious. The Britishers put up a game fight and left their marks on the countenances of their foes, but they were outnumbered. Now and then a well-directed blow from an American fist or chair or heavy bottle wielded with vigor put a subject of the queen out of the fight and then the battle became more one sided than before. A good deal of the saloon furniture was broken up and nearly every countenance, both British and American, bore marks of the conflict before it was ended by the American forces throwing the last of the Englishmen into the cellar.

The victors were standing guard over the stairway leading down to the basement when the late Judge Jim Reeder appeared upon the scene and asked what all the row was about.

The leader of the Americans, who was carrying a beautiful black eye and a somewhat damaged nose as souvenirs of the conflict, stated the case. "Thesh here Britishers," he said thickly, " 'fuse to shing 'Star- Spangled Banner,' an' thish is the glorish Fourth July — insis' on shingin' that dam British song 'God Shave th' Queen'—wouldn't stan' for it. Been a hell of a fight, but can't no Britisher inshult Star-Spangled Banner.'"

Judge Reeder asked for a chance to talk with the imprisoned Englishmen, but found them standing firmly, though battered, by their national anthem. " Gentlemen," he said, "there should be peace between the mother country and ours. I have a proposition to make. Let the Americans sing the 'Star-Spangled Banner' and the Englishmen join in. After that we will permit the Englishmen to sing 'God Save the Queen.* Giving you loyal Americans the right to sing first is

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an acknowledgment on their part that our glorious republic takes the precedence and then as a matter of courtesy they can be permitted to sing their national air."

At first the Americans were not disposed to yield. They insisted that they had whipped the blamed British and, as the leader of the Americans expressed it, "To the vic'or b'longs th' spoils." On the other hand, the British though temporarily overpowered were still game and unwilling to yield anything to their foes. After much argument Judge Reeder induced both sides to agree to his suggestion. The badly battered Englishmen were permitted to come up out of the cellar. A drink was taken by all and the Americans were told to go on with their singing.

The leader started out bravely in a somewhat ragged voice: "O shay c'n you shee, by zhee dawn's er'y light." Here his recollection failed him and a comrade whose lip had been cut open during the festivities suggested disgustedly that "any fool ought to know better'n to shing 'Star-Spangled Banner' to the tune of 'John Brown's Body Lies a Mouldering in zhe Grave.' " " Maybe," said the leader with bibulous gravity and indignation, "if you know so much 'bout shingin* you c'n shing this yourself."

The other American tried it but fell down on the second line. A number of others tried it but all failed either because they didn't know the words or the tune and most of them knew neither one.

They finally all gave it up and Judge Reeder said: " Well, gentlemen, you have had a fair chance to uphold the honor of our country in song and failed. It is no more than fair that the Englishmen have their chance. Proceed, gentlemen, to sing your national air, 'God Save the Queen.'"

The leader of the defeated party smiled as well as

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his battered lips would permit and started in on the British anthem. He started, that was all. At the end of the first line his memory completely failed him and besides he was off the tune. Other loyal subjects of the Queen had no better success and finally gave it up. Satisfied at last, the late antagonists then lined up at the bar, imbibed a drink by way of reconciliation, chipped in to pay for the furniture destroyed, and parted with mutual assurances that they had spent a most enjoyable evening.

Sir George Grant died in 1878, at the premature age of fifty-six, and was buried close by the church he had built. Hot winds and crop failures discouraged the colonists and they faded away. Their places were taken by a colony of subjects of the late Czar of Russia who have lived and prospered and grown rich where the followers of Sir George failed. Near the little church by which lies the body of Sir George Grant, has been erected one of the largest and most magnificent churches west of the Missouri River, paid for out of the earnings of these erstwhile Russian peasants who came to this country, poor in purse, but endowed with the industry, patience, and endurance necessary to make successful pioneers.

The Looting of Harper County

In the spring of 1873 a trio of scoundrels met in Baxter Springs for the purpose of organizing a conspiracy to plunder, that would be free from the ordinary risks incurred by the common thief, highwayman, or burglar and at the same time yield a greater financial reward. The conspirators were a couple of shyster lawyers of small practice and shady reputation, named W. H. Homer and A. W. Rucker and a thug and des-

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perado by the name of William Boyd, who had been elected to the office of mayor by the lawless element that at that particular time was in control of the town. Boyd was a coarse, brutal murderer and gambler, who had killed the city marshal in cold blood a short time before, but had managed to get clear on the plea of self-defense. He was known as a crooked gambler and lived in open adultery with a negro mistress, but seems to have held the leadership and backing of the tough element, while the reputable citizens of the town were terrorized, held either by fear of personal violence if they opposed Boyd, or by the dread that they would be ruined in a business way if they did not cater to the lawless element. It was, no doubt, the crooked brain of Homer that planned the iniquity the three were to put on foot, but Boyd probably furnished the funds necessary to carry it out.

The plan was the fraudulent organization of Harper County. Horner was not particular about the location of the robbery, but Harper happened to furnish the most convenient territory. He assured the other conspirators that the plan was not only feasible but entirely safe and certain. All they had to do was to get up a petition alleging that there were at least 600 bona fide inhabitants in the county to be organized, have a census taken showing the names of such inhabitants, and present the same to the governor. Every thing would be regular on its face. The governor would issue his proclamation setting forth that a petition and census duly verified according to law had been presented and certain persons had been duly selected for county officers.

It was easy to gather up a gang of loafers from the Baxter Springs saloons and the party made up of conspirators and bums traveled westward. One of the loafers who was induced to join the party and repre-

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sent the "bona fide" inhabitants, afterward told the story. He said that after they had traveled westward for several days Homer announced that they had reached Harper County. "And now," said Horner, " we will proceed to organize this county." The papers were already drawn up. The petition with 600 signatures, copied from Baxter Springs hotel registers, was ready to forward to the governor. Everything proceeded as merrily as a marriage feast, or perhaps a better simile would be the feasts of buzzards gathered about the carrion. The looters held an election in which not only Horner, Rucker and Boyd were duly elected to office but each of the loafers was given official honors. Horner was selected as representative of the county and in the regular session of 1874, although living at Baxter Springs, he brazenly appeared as representative from Harper County, was duly sworn in and served through the session.

The organization worked out as Horner had predicted. The petition with its forged signatures was presented to the governor, the proclamation was duly issued, and on August 20, 1873, Harper County was declared duly organized. Then the real purpose of the conspirators was put into execution and reaping of the harvest of loot began. Twenty-five thousand dollars in bonds were voted to build a court house and $15,000 funding bonds were issued. I believe the Legislature legalized the issue and then Horner gaily proceeded to unload the bonds on the "innocent purchaser."

It is said that the $40,000 in bonds were sold for $30,000, and with his loot in his possession Horner went back to Baxter Springs to settle with his fellow conspirators. He undertook to give them the double cross, but Boyd had set detectives on his track when he went to St. Louis to sell the bonds, and knew the price for which they had been sold.

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The story is that Horner took out of his pockets $15,000 cash, divided it into three parts and declared that he had been obliged to dispose of the bonds at a heavy discount and had as a matter of fact only received $15,000. At this point Boyd drew his gun, thrust it in the face of Horner, and after loading him with all the opprobrious and vile epithets he had in stock, told him that unless he came across with the other $15,000 he would kill him. Horner had every reason to believe that Boyd would not hesitate to do what he said and rapidly dug up the other $15,000 saying that his talk about $15,000 was just a joke.

Boyd soon after left the town, but Horner and Rucker did not even have the grace to go away where their villainy would not be known. Rucker blossomed out as a loan shark, loaning money at from three to ten per cent per month. Horner's seat in the Legislature was declared vacant and the organization of Harper County a fraud, after all the damage had been done, but none of the thieves were punished for their crimes. The bar-room loafers who had been used by the conspirators complained considerably when they learned that Horner, Boyd, and Rucker had pulled down $10,- 000 apiece, but that availed them nothing.

The astonishing thing to me, after all, is that the thieves were satisfied with stealing $40,000. When they contemplated what was done in the adjoining county of Barber, they probably concluded that they were pikers. It would have been as easy to steal $100,- 000 as $40,000. Also, it is difficult to understand how the courts in these fraudulent bond cases could hold that the buyers were innocent purchasers. The very fact that the St. Louis parties who purchased these bonds paid only $30,000 for them was prima facie evidence that they knew the bonds were fraudulent.

It is also very difficult to believe that the governor did

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not know when he consented to the organization that the whole thing was a gross fraud, a monstrous iniquity.

The Legislature of 1874

The Legislature of 1874 met while the country was still in the grip of the panic of 1873. Hard times, as usual, had their political reaction and Kansas was being washed by the waves of reform. While the majority of the Legislature was nominally Republican, the reformers held the balance of power at least in the lower house and the men who talked loudest against the "money power" and harangued the longest against the burdens of taxation, gathered the biggest audiences and received the most applause. There was even threat of a new party, but the Republicans managed to keep control and elect the officers.

There was trouble, too, in the state house. The state treasurer, Hayes, was accused of misappropriation of public funds and was impeached and forced to resign. Hayes was an old man, probably incompetent to perform the duties of state treasurer, but was not a scoundrel. All this, however, added to the general dissatisfaction on account of hard times and in that sort of an atmosphere the Legislature convened. Captain McEachron, of Cloud County, was elected speaker and Captain Alex R. Banks, chief clerk of the house.

As a measure of economy the reform members opposed the election of a chaplain, saying that the cost of each prayer amounted to the price of fifteen bushels of corn. It was proposed to save that amount by inviting local ministers to pray for nothing, or to have such members of the house as had at divers and sundry times undertaken to preach, do the praying for the house. As the local ministers did not show any enthu-

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siasm about donating their services to intercede with the Lord on behalf of the Legislature at nothing per, it was proposed by some members that the chief clerk be required to read the Lord's Prayer, at the opening of each day's session. This proposal, however, was promptly voted down and the house was left without any one to offer up a short and snappy petition to the Throne of Grace.

Captain Henry King was at the time editor of the Commonwealth, and I might say in passing, that few if any of the great dailies of the country had abler editors. He made the incident of the chaplaincy the subject of an editorial which I think deserves a place among the literary and humorous gems of Kansas writers.

"The Kansas House of Representatives," said the editorial, " is without a chaplain and is naturally in a very bad way about it. We have never tried being a representative, but if we did we should feel the need of a chaplain to pray for us. "

"Reform, which seems to emulate the gaunt, bone-picking parsimony of the ridiculous silhouette, has now done its worst by depriving the scrimped and perquisiteless legislators of their necessary rations of grace. "

They can do without postage stamps; they might eke out a hardtack and herring existence by giving up their passes and cutting off their mileage, but it is the refinement of cruelty to stop their prayers. When the Legislature assembled and organized the first and most important duty of the House (the Senate being provided with one) was to select a chaplain. It has been customary to avoid the appearance of sectarian partiality by inviting the clergy of the city to alternate in making a prayer, for which the state paid the very moderate figure of $3 per invocation. Some reformer moved that the House do without prayers this year of reform, unless they could be made gratuitously, for each prayer cost about fifteen bushels of corn.

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"Now a man, we hold, can pray for himself gratuitously and in that prayer he can include the whole world if he wants to, but it is something different to pray against the current, so to speak, in behalf of the Legislature. Mr. Silas Wegg very properly charged Mr. Boffin extra for ' dropping into poetry,' owing to the wear and tear on his finer feelings thus induced. On the same principle a clergyman should be paid for the lacerations of his faith, consequent on praying for a Legislature. It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that no clergyman felt it incumbent on himself to pray for the Legislature. The device of calling on such members of the Legislature as had formerly done clergical work proved a failure, as it deserved. To ask a man to aid in making the laws and pray for divine aid in their fabrication was as if a blacksmith should be asked to forge a bar of iron and blow the bellows at the same time. The dual function of the legislator and the parson can not, as there are many precedents to prove, subsist in a single individual simultaneously. "

The last resort of these poor statute makers, left prayerless, was to call on the clerk to read every morning from his desk the Lord's Prayer. This was a very thin illusion of sanctity to be sure, but like Mercutio's wound it might serve. We need not, we hope, assure the members of the House who promptly, and we think unadvisedly, voted down the proposition, that there are very many excellent things in the Lord's Prayer, and it is free from the unpleasant personalities that sometimes slip into impromptu invocations. It asks for the coming of the heavenly kingdom on earth and prostrates the devout utterer before the will of a merciful Providence. It asks for all a portion of the daily bread that sustains nature and the bread of life which strengthens and stimulates the spirit. It asks that our debts be forgiven as we forgive our debtors and contains the essence of all prayers, the continual cry of the truly devout and penitent spirit in the words that should dwell ever upon the lips of every man, whether lawmaker or law observer: 'Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.' "

Now, why should not the chief clerk repeat this prayer

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in default of some one to offer up a scientific $3 devotional exercise? If the general worldliness appearance of that young gentleman were sacrificed, with his secular and seductive mutton-chop whiskers, and his presence brought up to the proper clerical standard by the addition of a white choker and shad belly coat, his resonant, clerical voice modulated to the devotional monotone, we cannot see why the most graceless legislator might not exclaim with Hamlet, 'Sweet Banks, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.' " But the lower house is without a chaplain or even the shadows of the substance, which we have shown might be produced by getting the chief clerk up in clerical masquerade. It is not only a cruel deprivation to the members, but will, we are afraid, have its influence upon the laws."

This same Legislature seriously considered a bill to reduce the salary of the governor from $3,000, as it was at that time, to $2,000; also to reduce the salary of the secretary of state to $1,800, the salary of the state auditor to $1,500; the salary of the attorney general to $1,200; the salary of the state superintendent to $1,500; the salary of the judges of the district courts to $2,000, and the salary of the warden of the penitentiary to $1,500.

The Commonwealth vigorously opposed this bill and no doubt did much to kill it. Instead of reducing the salaries as indicated, the Commonwealth declared that the governor should receive a salary of $5,000; that the secretary of state and state auditor should receive $3,000 each; the attorney general $4,000 and the state treasurer $10,000 per annum. At the close of the session the editor of the Commonwealth roasted the Legislature to a deep rich brown, declaring that it had accomplished nothing worth while, that the men who had yelled loudest for economy and reform had really done nothing, and had not seriously tried to do any-

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thing, but had been "grandstanding" to gain popular favor and applause. But if the Legislature was a calamity, it was the forerunner of worse to come.

Within three or four months after the adjournment clouds of locusts that darkened the sun came flying from the west and devoured every green thing from the sage brush lands of Colorado to the turgid flood of the Missouri. And Kansas, taking a melancholy pride in adversity, advertised herself to the world as the native habitation of the grasshopper and, even when prosperity had returned to her borders and her bins were bursting with the fruit of her golden harvests, painted the hopper rampant upon her banners.

The Fight at Adobe Walls

Among the treasured collections of Dodge City there used to be a magnificent war bonnet with its trailing plume of eagle feathers and other accouterments of an Indian chief. Why the Historical Society has not secured these historic relics I do not know, nor do I know where they are at this time. They were mementoes of one of the most thrilling and desperate fights that marked the losing struggle of the red men to hold their hunting grounds against the aggressive and ruthless incroachment of the Anglo-Saxon. In the Panhandle of Texas, 175 miles southwest of Dodge City, there had been built, while that was still a part of Mexico's domain, a rude fort of sun-dried brick, called adobe. Just who built the fort is not definitely recorded, but in any event after Texas attained her independence and perhaps before that time, the old fort was permitted to fall into a state of decay, and it only figures in this story because it marked the location of the historic battle in which a little band of

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Kansas buffalo hunters fought through a long hot June day against an overwhelming force of the bravest warriors of the plains.

The year 1874 was the year of the greatest slaughter of the buffalo. To speak of the killing of buffalo as a hunt, was a misnomer. It was simply a wanton destruction of these poor beasts which covered the prairies with their countless multitudes. The Panhandle of Texas was that year the favorite hunting or killing ground and a company of Kansas hunters numbering, according to the various accounts still extant, from fourteen to twenty-eight, had gone down there that spring of 1874 to have a part in the slaughter.

The wild Indians of the Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache tribes resented this invasion of their favorite hunting grounds and with considerable reason, for they knew that at the rate the white men were slaughtering the buffalo the vast herds would soon be extinct. The Indian never killed buffalo for the mere sport of killing; that was characteristic of the white and supposedly civilized and Christianized white man. The Indian killed to supply his needs for food and furs as he had done for generations, but there had been no diminution of the great herds and would not have been until yet if the white hunters had not come. In all the history of the world there has never been a more cruel, wasteful, and needless slaughter of animals than that which in the short space of three years practically exterminated the buffalo.

So it is not remarkable that when the white hunters came down to the Panhandle country and established a trading post and began the wholesale slaughter, the Indian warriors were filled with anger and a desire for vengeance. Among the Comanches was a medicine man who had acquired great influence over the men of the tribe. His power was not confined, it seemed, to his

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own tribe. He was regarded as a mighty medicine man by the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and Apaches. He made these warriors believe that by the use of a certain kind of war paint and by his occult powers he could render them invisible to the eyes of the white men and immune to the bullets from their guns. It would, therefore, be an easy task to surprise this band of hunters and kill them without the loss of any Indians. When the attack was made and the Indians were mowed down by the deadly fire of the white hunters, protected by the thick walls of their adobe houses, the minds of the Indians must have been disabused of the belief in the powers of Minimic, the medicine man, but still they fought with a reckless daring which excited the admiration of their foes.

It is hard for a Kansas man to acknowledge that whisky and a saloon ever served a good purpose, but it must be said that if it had not been for the thirst of the hunters which kept them in the saloon which had been organized for temporary purposes by one Jack Hanahan, and the giving way of one of the supports which held up the roof of the frontier thirst parlor, the Indian surprise would in all probability have been complete; the hunters, post trader, and drink dispenser would all have been massacred and the reputation of Minimic, the medicine man, would have been sustained. The night was far spent and the final round of drinks in Hanahan's saloon was about to be called for, when it was discovered that the center post supporting the dirt-covered roof was giving way and all hands set in to prevent the impending catastrophe.

It was considerable of a job and by the time a new support had been placed and a couple of men sent up on the roof to shovel off some of the dirt and relieve the pressure on the support, the early dawn was gilding the far reaches of the prairie.

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The Indians were slipping up through the tall grass in the dawn to the attack, when in the early light they were discovered by the men on the roof. The alarm was given and the Indians, seeing that they had been discovered, rushed with a blood-curdling yell to the onslaught. Careless or indifferent to danger, some of the hunters were sleeping out in the open and three of them were killed before they could get into the shelter of the thick-walled houses. Those who did get inside, however, were reasonably well protected, the walls were arrow and bullet proof and they had been provided with loopholes, through which the men could shoot with comparative safety. At the head of the oncoming warriors rode the half-breed Comanche chief Quanna, and with him rode the proud and gallant sub- chief, the younger Stone Calf, nephew of the old chief Stone Calf. On his head he wore his great war bonnet, with its plume of eagle feathers reaching almost to his ankles. His body fantastically painted, his wrists and ankles ornamented with circlets of silver or copper, he was as proud and valiant a warrior as ever rode to battle, a born leader of savage men.

Among the hunters in the adobe house were some of the best marksmen of the plains. They barred the door with sacks of flour from the post store, and this precaution saved their lives. The Indians rode up recklessly and, whirling their horses, backed them violently against the door. If it had not been for the flour barricade, the weight of the horses would have broken down the door. Inside were the hunters with their huge buffalo guns. They held their fire until the onrushing savages were within thirty yards, and then through the loopholes poured a murderous volley, which piled the ground with Indian dead. The Indians retreated before the hail of death, but came on again and again. The medicine man, Minimic, rode

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about among the braves on a pony which he had bedaubed with paint to make it immune to the hunters'bullets, and exposed himself recklessly until his pony was shot down under him. The young chief, with magnificent daring, rode alone through the deadly zone of fire right up to one of the port holes, through which he thrust a revolver and emptied it into the room where the hunters were. A bullet laid him low, desperately, perhaps mortally, wounded, but still unconquered he put his pistol to his head and blew out his brains.

All day long the battle raged and even then the Indians did not cease their attack entirely. Quanna, the half-breed chief, fell, desperately wounded, but it was only when reinforcements came for the beleaguered men that the warriors sullenly drew off, leaving the ground about the adobe house covered with their dead.

Of the Kansas hunters four were killed and one or two others were wounded. The number of Indians who participated in the attack was variously estimated at from 500 to 900. Probably both estimates were exaggerated, but there is no doubt the hunters were outnumbered fifteen or twenty to one. In no fight on the plains was greater coolness or daring displayed, either in attack or defense, than was shown at the fight of the adobe walls on that hot summer day of 1874s.

The Kansas Runnymede

About forty-five years ago an enterprising Englishman who had located in Kansas, evolved a new scheme in high, not to say, frenzied finance. Ned Turnley was an original thinker by nature and his native tendency was accentuated by the Kansas atmosphere and associations. He knew a good deal about the wayward sons of

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British sires who had managed to accumulate money, which the young men desired principally to scatter abroad. The English sires had a good many anxious moments on account of these sons. The young fellows were hard riders, hard drinkers, and dead game sports, but when it came to matters of business they displayed a remarkable indifference and positive reluctance to do anything that savored of toil.

One of the ambitions of an English squire is to be known as a country gentleman, the proprietor of broad acres, from which he can garner a comfortable income while he is regarded with a degree of deference by his tenants. Ned Turnley went to these rich English squires with a proposition. "Out on the great wide and fertile plains of the central part of the United States," said Turnley, "there is the opportunity to develop these sons of yours and build up a rich English colony which will be an honor to the British empire and a credit to your family." He was a bully good conversationalist, was Ned Turnley, and he knew how to appeal to these rich Englishmen. He painted a word picture of a sunset land with a soil as rich as any in the tight little isle, where title might be obtained to many square leagues, on which would graze vast herds of cattle and which, turned up by the plow and sown with grain, would yield unlimited harvests. What these sons of theirs needed, he urged, was to take a course in farming and stock raising under an able and experienced instructor.

They were dowered with good blood, as he assured their fathers, and by that assurance he appealed powerfully to the vanity of the sires. All the young men needed was the opportunity to settle down and learn the ways of the broad prairies and the business of cattle raising. His proposition was to take these young bloods to Kansas and train them for the sum of

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£ 500 each, paid in hand. Of course the English sires would have to take care of the young bloods' expenses while the schooling was going on. The fact that Turnley was able to put such a plan across and actually secured one hundred of these wild young Englishmen for his colony, marked him as a financial genius and one of the greatest confidence men of his time.

In order to get the consent of the young bloods to come to the West, it was necessary to tell a different story. To them Turnley pictured a land which was the paradise of the hunter and his hounds. He told of the vast stretches of prairie, unvexed by the plow and unhampered by settlers, where wolves and antelope were plenty and the great jack rabbit furnished better sport than the English hare. To them there was no talk of tilling the soil or watching over the lowing herds. His story appealed mightily to these young Englishmen. They were fully as anxious to come as their fathers were to have them come and so with his colony of one hundred, and in his pockets a quarter of a million of good English bank notes, Turnley began his unique experiment. The locality selected was the beautiful valley of the Chicaskia, fifty miles southwest of Wichita and on the border of Harper County, Kansas. Here he founded the town of Runnymede, in honor of the historic spot so dear to Englishmen, where the stout barons wrested the charter of British freedom from a reluctant king.

For a good many months the young Englishmen found the sport fully up to expectations. The best kennels of England were drawn upon to furnish deep- voiced hounds and blooded chargers were imported for the mounts. Joyously and recklessly the sons of proud English sires rode to the chase. A large hotel was erected at the new town of Runnymede to accommodate them and here night after night they held high car-

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nival and pledged each other's health in sparkling champagne or good, old foaming English ale. Horse races, cock fights, and sparring matches were the order of the day and night. There was some pretense of farming, but that was done by proxy. The young Englishmen were too busy having a good time to do any real work.

It must be said for them that they were good sports, too. Someone arranged a bout with a local prize fighter of Wichita named Paddy Shea. He took on one of the young Englishmen who was a willing soul, but no match for the prize fighter in the fistic art. Paddy knocked the Englishman out and it was several minutes before he awoke from his dream. When he came out of his trance and learned how Paddy had done it he was so pleased that he insisted on presenting the fighter with a handsome present, just to show that he "was a good sport, don't you know."

On one occasion there was a horse race at the new town of Harper and the English made a winning of $1,500. They immediately took possession of the leading booze dispensary, helped themselves to everything drinkable there was about the place and insisted on everybody in town partaking of their hospitality. By morning there was nothing weaker than sulphuric acid left in the drug store. The revelers presented the $1,500 won on the race to the proprietor of the booze emporium and departed joyously, ready for further adventure.

After a time the fathers back in England began to grow weary of sending remittances. Probably also they received some reports of what was actually going on and sent for their sons to come home. So the glory of the Kansas Runnymede waned and the Turnley colony became a memory.

Twenty years ago or such a matter a railroad, the

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Kansas City, Mexico & Orient, was built through the old town of Runnymede and where there had been revelry by night and also by day, there was established a new and quiet village. It still bears the historic name of Runnymede, but of the colony of hard-riding and hard-drinking young Englishmen there remain no reminders except a single grave where lies buried one of the men who came so blithely to Kansas nearly half a century ago and broke the silence of the prairies with the baying of their hounds and huntsman horns.

The Comanche Steal

One day in the summer of 1872 two or three buffalo hunters were riding through the favorite grazing grounds of the then countless herds of bison in southwestern Kansas when they came upon a camp of five men. Three of the men were A. J. Mowery and James Duncan, of Doniphan County, and Alexander Mills, of Topeka; the other two were residents of Hutchinson, probably C. C. Beemis and Major Bowlus, but of that I am not certain. The five were busily engaged in working out a plan for the organization and subsequent looting of Comanche County. They had their plans about completed, but needed a county attorney and proposed to one of the buffalo hunters, J. S. Cox, that he take the position. Cox was not a lawyer, but they assured him that a total lack of legal knowledge was not an objection but rather an advantage. To have a county attorney who was a lawyer in the organization they were forming might be embarrassing. Cox seems to have fallen in with the proposition in that free and easy way of buffalo hunters, not regarding it seriously. The quintet then unfolded to him their plan, which was really charmingly simple. It was to

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organize the county, send Mowery to the Legislature to secure the passage of a law authorizing Comanche County to issue bonds for the building of a court house, building bridges and $20,000 or $30,000 for the payment of general expenses. The second part of the interesting program was the organization of school districts and the voting of almost unlimited school bonds.

The new county attorney listened in amazement. He knew that within the 900 square miles of territory they proposed to include in the county, there was hardly a single bona fide inhabitant and not a dollar's worth of taxable property, except some roving herds of cattle which could easily be driven out of the reach of the assessor. He was curious to know who would buy the bonds issued by such a brazenly fraudulent organization and was told that in Topeka there was just as good a market for a fraudulent bond as a genuine, the only difference being the price.

So, with no one to molest or make them afraid, the band of thieves matured their plans and put them into execution. From St. Joe hotel registers, supplied presumably by Mowery, the names of residents were gathered. A census taker was appointed, one A. Updegraff, the son of an honest father and mother who had fallen among evil companions and who was persuaded to become the handy tool of thieves, although he probably received but little share of the plunder. Within the brief period of ten days or less Updegraff, according to the record, rode or walked several hundred miles over trackless prairies of Comanche County, gathered the names of 600 bona fide inhabitants, solemnly swore to the correctness of the list, and forwarded his report to the governor's office at Topeka, and on October 28, 1873, the proclamation was issued declaring the county duly organized.

Election day was drawing near and according to

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program Andrew Mowery was selected by the five to represent the county in the lower house of the Legislature. It was an easy and inexpensive election. Two hundred and forty names were copied from the convenient St. Joe hotel register and voted for Mowery. Certificates of election were forwarded to the secretary of state and at the opening of the legislative session in January, 1874, Mowery appeared with his credentials and was sworn in as a member of the law-making body. Everything moved with the smoothness of well oiled machinery.

The fraudulent commissioners were authorized to issue bonds for various purposes and did issue $29,000 to C. C. Beemis to build a court house. Getting court house bonds was Beemis' specialty. It will be recalled by those who have read the section, "The Looting of a County," that the Barber county commissioners issued at different periods to this same Beemis some $65,000 in warrants, afterwards funded into bonds, to build a court house. In addition to the court house bonds the county commissioners issued $23,000 bridge bonds and $20,000 bonds to pay general expenses, in all $72,000. Then came the second part of the program, the organization of school districts and the issuing of bonds. This opened an inviting and extensive field, but it was through the school bond steal that the looters came to grief. School district No. 1 was organized about the county seat, in which there was one cabin, named in honor of the then secretary of state, Smallwood, who was also one of the board designated by law to care for and invest the school funds of the state. District No. 1 issued bonds to the extent of $2,000 and Representative Mowery came with the bonds to Topeka and offered them for sale to the permanent school fund. With the approval of Secretary Smallwood and the superintendent of public instruction, a gentleman by the name of McCarty, Mowery

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sold the bonds for $1,750 and either pocketed the money himself or divided his loot with his confederates.

It was planned to load the school fund with at least $40,000 more but happily the attorney general interfered with the arrangement. The secretary of state and state superintendent attempted to clear their skirts, but if they were not positively dishonest they certainly were criminally negligent of their duty.

Having apparently concluded that they had gathered about all the harvest of loot there was to gather, the organizers of Comanche abandoned it to the buffalo and the coyote, and in 1876 Mowery, who had gone back to Doniphan County, somehow persuaded his neighbors to send him to the Legislature from that county, although the record of his villainy had become generally known. The Legislature of 1876 expelled him and at the instance of the attorney general he was arrested, charged