The Twin Hells

by John N. Reynolds

  Gordon Skinner.--A young man of twenty, possessed of an innocent, boyish appearance, whom none would take for a murderer, was sent up from Ellis County. His victim was Andrew Ericson, a respectable and worthy citizen about thirty-seven years of age. Skinner claims the shooting was purely accidental; that he was carelessly handling a six-shooter when it went off, the ball striking Ericson. He claims, also, that he and his victim were good friends, and that he never had any intention of killing him. The other side of the story is that there lived near Hayes City a beautiful girl, and that Skinner and Ericson were rivals for her heart and hand. Ericson, being much older than young Skinner, possessed of some property, and doubtless more skillful in the art of winning hearts, was beginning to crowd his rival to the wall. Young Skinner, not being able to endure the sight of his fair one being thus ruthlessly torn away by an old bachelor of thirty-seven, met him one day and the two engaged in a spirited controversy, when Skinner drew his revolver and shot him. Ericson lived several days afterward. Just before death, Ericson begged of his friends not to have Skinner arrested, stating he was not to blame. Skinner, moneyless, friendless, a comparative stranger in the neighborhood, his people all residing in Phillips County, this State, and, with the prejudices of the Ericson people against him, was tried, convicted and sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment. If the Board of Pardons ever takes the trouble to investigate this case, with a view of tempering justice with mercy, they will find it worthy. Skinner is a good prisoner, and has ingratiated himself in the good opinion of the officers. But the weight of a twenty years' term is heavy, and is visibly affecting his health. Death should not be left to accomplish what the Board of Pardons should take pleasure in doing. This delicate boy should be sent home to his parents.

  FREAKS OF JUSTICE.

  Robert W. Corey was sent from Wyandotte County with a sentence of three years for stealing cattle. This is a remarkable case. Corey is a blind man, and had been totally blind for thirteen months prior to his arrival at the prison; he was a taxidermist, and some years ago had taken a contract for furnishing stuffed birds for the museum of the Agricultural College of Ames; Iowa. This business requires the use of arsenic; carelessly handling it destroyed his eyesight. How a man, blind as he is, and was, at the commission of the alleged offense, could drive off and sell these cattle, is a mystery. The man who swore that he committed the theft is now an inmate of the institution, sent here for stealing since the arrival of blind Corey. This man now says that he is not positive that Corey took the cattle. On the trial, however, he swore it was Corey, and that he was positive of that fact! About the the truth of the matter is, he was the villain that took the cattle and swore it on the blind man. Corey has only a few months to remain in prison at this writing. It is terrible to heap such a disgrace upon as helpless a creature as Corey.

  His case calls to mind another in the penitentiary. He is a colored man who cannot write, by the name of Thomas Green, from Fort Scott, serving out a five years' sentence for forging a check for $1,368. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Taking an appeal to the Supreme Court, the judgment of the lower court was set aside; but at his second trial, he was found guilty again, and is now in prison serving out his sentence. How can one commit the crime of forgery who cannot write? Probably some "Smart Aleck" of a district judge can explain. I admit that it is beyond my powers of comprehension. It may be law, but there is not much common sense in it.

  OH! RIGHTEOUS JUDGE!

  Gus Arndt is the next. The history of this man will show the freaks of whisky when enclosed in the hide of a raw Dutchman. Gus came to this country a number of years ago, and went to work for his uncle in Wabaunsee County. Not being able to speak English, his uncle took advantage of him, no doubt, for he paid him only ten dollars a month for his services as a farm hand during the summer season, and nothing but his board during the winter. Gus remained here for some time, three or four years, working at these wages. He had learned and could understand and speak English a little. One day as he was pitching grain in the field an Irishman came by who resided on a farm a few miles distant. Needing a hand and noticing that Arndt handled himself in a satisfactory manner, he offered him twenty dollars per month to go and work for him. Arndt accepted his proposition, and agreed to report at the Irishman's farm the following Monday, this being Thursday when the bargain was made. That night the German settled up with his uncle, and received the balance of his wages, some $75. He had been in America long enough to reach that point in our civilization that, after working awhile, and getting a balance ahead, he must take a rest and go on a "spree." He started for the nearest town. For a couple of days he fared sumptuously, constantly drinking. He at length reached a point below zero. Half crazed, he staggers off to the fence across the way where the farmers who had come to town to do their shopping on Saturday had hitched their teams, and, untying a horse that was hitched to a buggy, Gus thought he would take a ride. Lumbering into the buggy, as a drunken man can, he drove down the main street of the town in broad daylight and out into the country. In an hour or so the owner getting ready to return, misses his horse and buggy. Making numerous inquiries about them and getting nothing satisfactory, he places the matter in the hands of a sheriff, who commences a search for the missing property. Not finding it in town he sends men out on the roads leading to the country, himself taking one. In a very short time he overtakes the noted horse-thief. Gus was sitting in the buggy sound asleep; the lines were hanging down over the dashboard, and the old horse was marching along at a snail's pace. He was out some two miles from town, and, no doubt, had traveled at this gait all the way. He was faced about, and, assisted by the sheriff, drove back to town. He was then placed under arrest and sent to jail, subsequently had his trial, and for this little drive was sent to the penitentiary for five years. Of a more unjust sentence I never heard. Gus served his time out and a better behaved person was never behind the walls. When he regained his liberty, instead of returning to Wabaunsee County, and to his uncle's house, he finds his way to Marysville, Kansas. Here reside a number of prosperous German farmers, and the ex-convict soon got work. When he applied for work he forgot to tell his employer that he had just finished up a contract for the State of Kansas. Some months had elapsed and Gus had worked hard and industriously, had accumulated a neat little sum of money, and began to feel happy once more. At this time a man passed through the country that was acquainted with Arndt's antecedents, and being a dirty dog he thought it was his duty to inform the farmer that his hired man was an ex-convict, horse-thief and a desperado of the worst type. Some men are so officious and are so anxious to do their duty when it is in their power to injure a fellow-man who is trying to earn an honest living. Gus immediately got the "bounce." He was informed by his employer that he did not want to make his home a harbor for horse-thieves. Gus took his wages and clothes and started for Marysville. He could not bear the idea of being discharged because of his former misfortune. He again applies to the bottle for consolation. He goes on another spree. When crazed with liquor he acted just as he did before; he goes to a hitching post, and unties a team of horses attached to a buggy. One of the horses had had its leg broken at some former time, and was almost worthless, while the other one was very old. He seemed to select the very worst team he could find. Maybe it was the buggy he was after! He was probably very tired and wanted an easy place to rest. He unhitched them just as if they had been his own. It was in the afternoon. The streets were full of people. Gus crawled into the buggy in his half drunken manner and started off down the road. When found by the sheriff some two hours after he had gone, about half a mile from town, the old horses were standing at one side of the road and the drunken Dutchman was lying in the buggy sound asleep, with one bottle of whisky uncorked, the contents of which had run out and over his clothes, and another bottle in his pocket untouched. He had evidently gone out for a drive. He was taken to jail, and the news soon spread that he was an ex-convict and horse-thief. He was tried on a charge of stealing horse
s, and was returned to the penitentiary for a term of two years. Here were seven years' service for two drunks! Ancient Jacob, "how tuff!" After Gus had completed his narration to me he wound up by saying, "Ven I shall oudt git this time, I let von visky alones."

  BOVINE TROUBLE.

  Woodward R. Lopeman was sent up from Neosho County for murder in the first degree. Under his sentence he was to be hanged at the close of the first year. This part of the sentence is never carried out in Kansas. The particulars of his crime are as follows: He was a well-to-do farmer residing in Neosho County, and never had any difficulty to amount to anything before this time. He was an old soldier and served his country faithfully and bravely for four years. For some trivial cause he and one of his neighbors had a little difficulty, but it was thought nothing would ever come of it, as each of them had been advised by their friends to bury their animosity before it should lead to graver results. Lopeman seemed willing to do this, but his irate neighbor would not meet him half way. One day a calf of Lopeman's, worth but a few dollars, got through the fence and over into his neighbor's pasture. Word was sent to the owner of the calf that if he would come over and pay damages for the trouble of penning it up he could have his property. This had a tendency to arouse a bad feeling in the heart of Lopeman; so, placing his revolver in his pocket, and asking his grown up son to accompany him, they went to the house of the neighbor and directly to the lot where the calf was shut in and commenced to lay down the bars to let it out, when the neighbor came from the house with his son, and Lopeman was ordered to leave the bars alone. The neighbor, who was a strong, muscular man, proceeded to chastise Lopeman; the two sons also got ready for an encounter. Lopeman, being by far the smaller man of the two, began to retreat slowly as his enemy advanced brandishing a club. When almost near enough Lopeman to strike him with the uplifted club, Lopeman, in self-defense, as he claims, drew his revolver and shot him. He fell lifeless to the ground. The son of the murdered man perceiving what was done, ran quickly into the house, and getting a double-barreled shotgun, came out and fired twice at Lopeman and his son. The shots did not take effect. Lopeman fired two shots at him. At this the son retired into the house, and Lopeman and son taking the almost worthless calf, which had been the cause of so much trouble, went to their home. Lopeman then went to the county seat and gave himself up to the authorities. As soon as the news spread over the neighborhood, excitement ran high and there was loud talk of lynching. The murdered man was very popular. His old neighbors smelled blood, and it was with some difficulty that they were prevented from taking the law into their own hands. Better judgment prevailed, however, and after six months the trial came off and the murderer was convicted and sentenced as aforesaid. This man was my cell mate. He is something over sixty years of age, of medium height, and during his younger days must have been very hard to handle. The first evening we occupied the cell together he told me of all his troubles, and I learned from his own lips that I was to room with a murderer. I felt I would much rather be at home, than locked in that 4x7 cell with a man whose hands were dyed with the blood of his neighbor. My alarm somewhat subsided when the time came for retiring. The old man, as solemnly as the Apostle Paul would have done, took down the Bible, read a few verses, and then knelt down and prayed. I sat there in mute astonishment at the proceedings of this gray haired criminal. How was it possible for a man who was guilty of such a grave crime to be devout. He often told me that he had no consciousness whatever of guilt, nor the fear and dread of a murderer. I asked him if in his dreams he could not often see the face of his victim. With a shrug of the shoulders he admitted that he could. For six months this old man and myself occupied that small cell together, so small that it was very difficult for us to get by each other when the sleeping bunks were down. We never had the least trouble during the entire time. A kinder hearted man I never met. Whenever he received any little delicacies from home he would always divide with me, and in such a cheerful spirit that I soon came to think a good deal of the old man. If we had both been on the outside world I would not have desired a kinder neighbor. His son, later on, was convicted as an accomplice, and sent up for two years. The old man has hopes of a pardon in a few years. He has a wife and several children who are highly respected and much beloved in the neighborhood where they reside. They have the sympathy of all their neighbors in this affliction and bereavement.

  WHISKY AND WOMEN.

  Doc. Crunk.--One of the many desperadoes now behind the prison walls of the Kansas penitentiary is this noted Texas outlaw. He is a native Texan, now nearly fifty years of age. After years of crime he was finally caught in the Indian Territory while introducing whisky among the Indians. He had his trial in the U. S. District Court, was convicted and sent to the penitentiary for three years. For a time during the war he was a confederate soldier. Becoming dissatisfied with the profession of arms, he deserted and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He gathered about him a few kindred spirits with which Southern Texas was infested, and organized a band of cattle and horse thieves,{.} This band of banditti became so numerous that after a time it extended along the lower line of Texas into the Indian Territory and up into Kansas. Their ravages were also felt in Arkansas. They had a regular organized band, and stations where they could dispose of their stolen property. The cattle that were stolen were run to the frontiers and sold to cattlemen who were in collusion with them, and which latter were getting immensely rich out of the operations of these thieves. They would steal horses, run them off and sell them to buyers who knew they were purchasing stolen property. For years this gang flourished. Another mode of securing stock was the following: A great many estrays would be taken up and advertised. In every instance some member of the Crunk gang would claim the property under oath and take it away. The leader of these outlaws stood trial for nineteen different murders, and was acquitted each time. He could always prove an alibi. His assistants would come in and swear him clear every time. He was an intimate acquaintance and on friendly terms with the James boys, and related many trips that he had made with these noted and desperate men in their work of "seeking revenge," as he styled it. He has no love for a colored man, and as he works now in the prison with a number, pointing to them one day he said to me, "I wish I had a five-dollar note for each one of them black skunks I have killed since the wa'." He said he considered "a `niggah' that wouldn't vote the way decent people wanted him to should not vote at all." Said he: "I know of a number that will not vote any mo'. I saw them pass in their last ballot." "The most money, made the easiest and quickest, was made by our men," said he, "as moonshiners in Montague County. We carried on this business successfully for a long time, but finally the U. S. marshals became too much for us, and we had to close up shop. We had several engagements with them; men were dropped on both sides, until finally we concluded to quit the business and return to our old trade of stealing cattle and horses. The way our moonshiner's nest was found out was very romantic. A young woman came into the district, and tried to get up a school, seemingly, but failed. I guess she did not try very hard to get scholars. At any rate she remained with a family in the neighborhood for some time, whom she claimed were her relatives. One of my men fell desperately in love with this young woman. He would be out riding with her, and, as none of us suspected anything, he would at times bring her over to our camp, and we taught her how to make whisky. She seemed deeply interested in the business. I told the boys several times that I was a little afraid of that `gal,' but they laughed at me, and so I said, `I can stand it if the rest of you can.' She even went so far as to become familiarly acquainted with all of us. We all got to thinking that she was a nice young woman, and her lover simply thought he had secured the finest prize in the world. But alas! At the proper time she fixed our camp. She proved to be a female detective from New York city. She gave away our fellows, and soon we were surrounded by a posse of U. S. marshals and their deputies. Her lover was captured and is now in the Texas penitentiary. Several of our boys were killed or wou
nded, and those of us who escaped made up our minds to go back to the old cattle trade." "What are you going to do, Doc.," said I, "when you get out of this place?" "Going back to Texas; hunt up the boys, and see if we can't find some more horses and cattle. One thing is certain I will never go to another penitentiary. I will swallow a dose of cold lead first."

  And, with this, the famous outlaw went off to his room in the mine to get out his task of coal to keep from being punished. Of the nine hundred criminals in the prison, probably there is not one of them who has seen so much of a life of crime as the famous Doc. Crunk.