Outlaws and Peace Officers

by Stephen Brennan

  The name “Dull Knife” was selected on account of it once having been my nickname on the cattle ranges of Texas. It was given to me by cowboy companions who were in the habit of borrowing my pearl-handled bowie knife, and always finding it dull, from having killed so many rattlesnakes. Through years of practice I had become an expert in throwing the knife from my horse’s back. By holding the point between my thumb and forefinger I would throw it at the snake’s neck and seldom failed to pin his snakeship to the earth by burying the blade through his neck or head into the ground. Often the blade would sever the snake’s head from his body. Of course the knife was kept dull from being stuck into the earth so often.

  On the head of White River I visited the few ranchmen and hunters and was shown the battle ground where the Ute Indians were murdered by the blood-thirsty Whites. From what I could learn from eyewitnesses, it was cold-blooded murder. The fight was started by the long-legged, wild and woolly sheriff of Garfield County, who soon after absconded with the county’s funds. The excitement of the “Great Indian Uprising” caused the militia to be called out, and made fat pocket-books for the ranchers who had horses, hay, and grain for sale. Besides, the sheriff lined his pockets with free silver at the county’s expense.

  This was my first peep behind the curtain of a great Indian war, as illustrated by glaring headlines in the daily press. We wondered who are the real savages, the Whites or the Reds.

  On leaving the head of White River for Denver, I concluded to take a shortcut across the Flattop mountains, a distance of sixty miles between ranches.

  The start was made from the cabin of a hunter at the head of White River. From him I had bought an extraordinary fine pair of elk horns. These I undertook to carry on my pony by holding them up in front of me with the skull resting on the saddle-horn. In traveling that lonely sixty mile stretch over the old Ute Indian trail, I had plenty of leisure to ponder over that wise saying: “What fools these mortals be.”

  Crossing the “Flattops,” I saw more deer than I ever expect to see again. There were hundreds of them in sight at all times and they were very tame. Often they would stand by the side of the trail and allow me to pass within fifty paces of them. I saw one herd of elk, but they ran into the heavy timber near by before I could get out my Winchester rifle and shoot. I would have followed on their trail, as I had never killed an elk, if it hadn’t been for the pair of elk horns. I pitched camp about sundown and killed a fat buck for supper. I had brought with me some salt and cold biscuits. The venison was broiled on a stick over the fire.

  By daylight next morning the horns and I headed south. We got off on the wrong trail and were lost part of the day, but by hard swearing and a little patience we managed to get down over the rim-rock of the “Flattops” into the Grand Valley about half way between Newcastle and Glenwood Springs. On the road in the valley a boy leading a bronco overtook us. The boy was persuaded to allow me to make a pack-horse out of his bronco, so “Mr. Bronc” was blindfolded and the horns put astride of his back. When securely fastened with a rope the blind was raised and Hades broke loose. The bronco began bucking and running and the rope which was fastened to the horn of my saddle broke. Then the horns had a swift ride for quite a distance, but as the run was made towards Glenwood Springs no time was lost. The boy and I caught the bronco after he had become exhausted. Then the horns were strapped onto my civilized pony and I rode the uncivilized brute. It was long after dark when we landed in Glenwood Springs. Next day the horns were crated and expressed to Denver, and after selling my pony and saddle I took passage on the same train with the antlers.

  On my arrival in Denver I secured permission from my superintendent to enter the Cowboy Tournament at River Side Park. It was to take place in a couple of days and I had no time to lose.

  After making a search of all the livery stables in the city I finally found a small white cow-pony which I thought would answer my purpose. He was quick and active, but too light in weight for such work. I also secured an old Texas saddle, as I couldn’t get used to the high horn kind in use by northern cowboys. This old Texas saddle was the cause of my losing the steer roping prize, as the horn flew off when the weight of the steer and pony went against it. I feel confident that I would have won the prize, as the best time made was many seconds slower than the time made by me at a Caldwell, Kansas, fair several years previous, at which time I won a silver cup; and in the Kansas contest I lost valuable time by having to throw the steer twice.

  In the wild-horse riding contest luck was also against me. After throwing the big bay bronco in quick time, I sprang off the white pony onto the bronco’s head. Then to prevent him from choking to death, I cut the rope, knowing that he was in my power with both my knees on his neck and a good hand hold on his nose. But when I reached for the hackamore (a cowboy halter) and the leather blind which had been carried under my pistol belt, I found they were gone. They had slipped out from under the belt when I leaped out of the saddle. I saw them lying on the ground just out of my reach. According to the rules, no one could hand them to me, therefore I could do nothing but free the bronco and lose my chance at the prize. In reporting the matter the newspaper reporters had failed to comprehend my situation: They were green and didn’t know why I held the struggling bronco by the nose for several minutes before turning him loose. Of course my cowboy opponents realized the cause of my predicament and cheered with joy, as it made their chances of winning more secure. I had been told that they feared the “dark horse,” “Dull Knife,” from Meeker, and had made much inquiry as to my identity.

  This is what two of the leading daily papers of the city The Rocky Mountain News and the Republican had to say about “Dull Knife” the next morning. One paper stated:

  None knew who the next man was who rode out on a white pony. They called him Dull Knife, and he was from Meeker. That was all the information obtainable. But Dull Knife was a daisy. With new white sombrero, Mexican saddle, leather-fringed chaparejos, flaming red ’kerchief, belt and pearl handled revolver and knife, he was all that the eastern imagination of the typical cowboy could picture. As a bronco breaker, however, he wasn’t a brilliant success. A bay was pointed out to him and away they flew. It didn’t take that cunning bay bronco more than a minute to find out that he was wanted. With all the natural cussedness of his breed it didn’t take him more than a second to determine that he would fool somebody. Dashing here and there, with flashing eyes and streaming mane and tail, the animal was a pretty picture. The white pony was too cunning for him though, and soon put his rider in a position where the rope could be thrown and the arched neck caught in the running loop. The captive was thrown by twining the rope around his limbs and then Dull Knife made a skillful move. He cut the rope loose and held the struggling animal by the nose. But while he was subduing the horse, the man had gotten too far away from his saddle and couldn’t get back to it. The judges at length called time and the pretty bay was free.

  The other paper gave this account:

  When Dull Knife rode in armed with pearl-handled pistol and knife, a gold embroidered Mexican sombrero on his head and mounted on a beautiful, quick-reined, white pony, he was such a perfect and graceful type of a Texas cowboy that the audience gave one spontaneous Ah-h-h! of admiration. The little white was a daisy and ran up on Dull Knife’s bronco easy. Dull Knife was the only man this day to rope and throw his bronco on horseback. But the rope had fouled in the bronco’s mane, and it was choking to death, so Dull Knife cut the rope, mercifully, freed the bronco and lost his time to ride. Dull Knife assayed roping and tying, but luck was against him. The horn of his light Texas saddle broke off close to the fork. Regaining his rope he tied it in the forks of his saddle and tried it again, but his beautiful little cut horse was too light and tried to hold the big burly steer which dragged it all over the corral, so Dull Knife, chafing with chagrin, had to give in to hard luck and call it a draw.

  Dull Knife and E. A. Shaeffer next stretched a steer in quick time.

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p; Several days after the tournament George Golding and Mr. B. G. Webster, while riding in a buggy, happened to see me on the street. Hailing me as “Dull Knife” they called me to them. They said they had been trying to find me but no one knew who “Dull Knife” was or where a letter would reach him. I was then informed that the judges had voted me fifteen dollars for skillful cowboy performance and that a check for that amount awaited me at headquarters. Of course I went after the check and still retain it as a relic, as it states that it was presented to “Dull Knife” for skillful cowboy work.

  For many years afterwards, and even up to the present time, I meet men who call me “Dull Knife,” from having seen me at this Cowboy Tournament. It was several years after, before Geo. Golding, who is still proprietor of the City Sale Yards and Stables, and has since served as Denver’s Chief of Police learned of my identity.

  In the course of a week or two Mrs. Tice brought suit in a Denver Court to annul her partnership with Mr. C or for damages, I have forgotten which. I was the star witness, and on the strength of my testimony as to the way cattle were being stolen, Mrs. Tice won. The foreman and one of his cowboys who were present in court, were surprised on finding that I was a detective instead of an outlaw.

  A few days after ending Mrs. Tice’s case I was off for Wyoming as a cowboy outlaw.

  Kalter Skoll, the Cheyenne, Wyoming, attorney, who has lately won fame through the conviction and execution of Tim Corn, the stock detective, had written my superintendent to send him a cowboy detective who could make friends with a gang of tough characters on the Laramie River.

  Before starting, my superintendent informed me that I was going up against a hard proposition, as Gen. Dave Cook, head of the Rocky Mountain Detective Agency, had sent three of his men up into Wyoming to get in with this gang, but had failed, they being on the lookout for detectives, hence wouldn’t allow strangers to enter their camp.

  On my arrival in Cheyenne I called on District Attorney Skoll. He explained the case on which I was to work. He told how Bill McCoy had shot and killed Deputy Sheriff Gun in Lusk, Wyoming, and of McCoy being sentenced to hang for the crime, but that he broke jail in Cheyenne just before he was to be executed, and was trailed up to the Keeline ranch, which was run by Tom Hall, a Texas outlaw and his gang of cowboys, who were supposed to be ex-convicts from Texas. He felt sure that McCoy was in hiding at the Keeline ranch, but he said it would be a difficult matter to get in with them as they were on their guard against officers and detectives.

  I boarded the Cheyenne northern train and went north to its then terminus. There I bought a horse and saddle and struck out, ostensibly for Fort Douglas, about one hundred miles north.

  The second day out I stopped for dinner at “Round Up No. 5 Saloon.” This place was run by Howard, an ex-policeman and saloon keeper from Cheyenne. His wife was an ex-prize fighter and dance hall “girl” during the palmy days of the Black Hill excitement in Cheyenne. She was now getting old, but could still hide large quantities of liquor under her belt. After dinner I proceeded to get drunk so as to kill time. Mr. and Mrs. Howard drank with me. In telling of my past I told just enough to lead them to believe that I was a Texas outlaw headed for the north.

  About 4 p.m. I saddled my horse and made a start for Fort Douglas, but on shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Howard, they being the only people beside myself present, and bidding them goodbye, they persuaded me to have one more drink at their expense. Then, of course, I had to treat before making another start. This program was kept up for half an hour.

  I had never mentioned the Keeline ranch, which I knew lay over a small range of mountains five miles east. As winter had set in, there was very little travel on this Fort Douglas road, and the cowboys had all gone into winter quarters. Howard depended on the summer cattle round-ups for his business. He said he and his wife merely existed during the winter seasons. His saloon was located at No. 5 round-up grounds.

  Finally, I mounted and made another start, pretending to be drunker than I really was. As I rode off, Howard wished me well. Checking up my horse I remarked that I would be all right if I could run across some Texas boys up at Douglas. Then I asked if he knew of any Texas boys in that part of the country. He replied: “There are several Texas fellers not far from here, but they are in trouble and won’t let strangers into their camp.” At this I wheeled my horse around and rode back. I asked where they could be found. He replied: “No use going there, for they would run you off and perhaps kill you. The officers have been trying to get detectives in with them. They swear they will kill the next that looks suspicious.”

  I answered: “If they are from Texas I’m not afraid of them. Just tell me where they are and I’ll take chances on the killing part.”

  He pointed out a bridle path around a high peak and said I would find their camp on the other side of this on the edge of a clump of cottonwood timber. We then went into the saloon and had two more drinks and I bought a quart of his best whiskey, which was the same as his worst, though labeled differently.

  I explained that the boys could drink with me and then run me off if they wanted to; but Howard plead with me not to go.

  On mounting I buried the spurs into my horse’s flanks and gave a cowboy yell and away we flew through the heavy grove of cottonwood timber. There was no trail, and my horse had to jump fallen logs and trees and I dodged projecting limbs. I wanted to prove to Howard that I was a reckless cowboy who had no fear of danger. Looking back I saw Howard and his wife watching me. The saloon was finally lost to view and then I rode slowly and began to lay plans, though it was quite an effort as the whiskey had gone to my head.

  Howard had told me that there were fourteen men at the Keeline ranch, but he wouldn’t tell me what kind of trouble they were in.

  On reaching the foot of the high peak I struck the bridle trail which had been pointed out. This I followed over the range. When on the opposite side, my horse was made to gallop in the most dangerous places, for I figured that my horse’s tracks would be examined. In a rocky place where the trail went around a point and where a horse on a gallop could hardly keep his feet, I stopped. Here I knew the horse’s tracks couldn’t be seen. At this point I got above the horse and gave him a shove over the rocky bluff. He landed on his side in the soft sand in the dry arroyo, twenty feet below. The fall knocked the wind out of him, but he soon recovered and jumped to his feet. I held one end of the rope so that he couldn’t get away. The impression of the horse and saddle showed plainly in the sand. Climbing down on the rocks I fell on my left side, leaving the impression of my body in the sand where it would have been had I fallen with the horse. I then jumped up, and dragging my crippled left leg through the sand, led the horse to a place where we could get back to the trail. Here I pulled off my left boot and ripped the seam of my pants’ leg nearly to the knee. Then I rolled the knit woolen drawer’s leg up above the knee. This made a tight roll which checked the flow of blood, causing the knee to become red. It also had a tendency to shove the flesh downward and make the knee look swollen. I then rubbed the knee with dry grass and poured some of Howard’s “rattle-snake juice” on. After tying the left boot to the saddle I mounted and headed for the large grove of cottonwood timber on the bank of the Laramie River.

  Just after the sun had set I came in sight of a group of log houses on the edge of the grove. Not a breath of air was stirring and a column of smoke from a chimney pierced the lead-colored clouds above. I was riding slowly across an open flat. Soon I saw a man come out of the large log house. Then others followed until there were about a dozen lined up against the yard fence. I wondered what kind of a game I was running up against and where it would end. It was a case of forward march, with me, even though it led to death “all same,” a fool soldier who marches up to the cannon mouth to have his head shot off so that posterity can weep and plant flowers on his grave.

  As I drew near my body reeled as though drunk. My left leg was kept stiff and out of the stirrup. When within sixty paces of the yard
gate where all the men stood, a fine looking six-footer, who proved to be the boss, Tom Hall, asked: “What in the h—are you doing here?” I replied that my leg was broken and I needed some help. Hall sprang out of the gate and running up to me asked in a soft, sympathetic voice, how it happened. There was a wonderful change in his looks as well as voice, when he found I was crippled.

  Soon the whole gang, all heavily armed, were around me and I was taken off the horse and carried into the house where I was seated before a blazing log fire in the large fire-place. Then Hall got down on his knees before me to examine the wound. I took pains to roll up the pants’ leg which was only ripped part way to the knee, so as to hide the roll of knit drawers, this being the secret of my swollen knee. I had previously been shot with a large caliber bullet through this knee, and there was a large scar where the bullet entered, and another on the opposite side where it was cut out by the doctor. This helped to brand me as an outlaw in their minds.

  After pressing the swollen flesh with his hand, Hall asked me to move my toes. I did so, as I didn’t want the leg to appear broken for fear they might haul me off to a doctor. On moving my toes he said my leg was not broken. I asked how he could tell by the moving of the toes, and he explained. Then he asked me to bend my knee and also to twist it around, but this I couldn’t do on account of the pain. He decided that my leg was badly sprained or out of joint. He ordered hot water and a towel brought and my knee was bathed and the hot towel bound around it. Then he demanded an explanation as to how I came to leave the Douglas road to visit them. I explained matters fully, and told the place where my horse fell over the bluff. He asked why I left Texas to come up to such a cold country so late in the season. With a smile I told him that the people of Texas tried to get me to stay, and even followed me to Red River on the Indian Territory border in hopes of overtaking me so as to compel me to stay. This caused a laugh, as it meant that officers of the law had chased me to the State line.