by Jon E. Lewis
These successes aside, the Rangers of the post-War decades attracted a great deal of controversy. Their depredations on Hispanics on both sides of the border are well recorded, and on occasion they mounted something like invasions of northern Mexico, fighting sizeable skirmishes with Mexican forces and citizens, such as at Palo Alto and Las Cueces in 1875. One Ranger was once moved to boast: “I can maintain a better stomach at the killing of a Mexican than at the crushing of a body louse.”
A number of Rangers were also outlaws rather than the pursuers of outlaws. Prime among them was James Miller, resident Ranger at Memphis, Texas, in the late 1890s.
Miller began his long career as a murderer and gunfighter in 1884 when, aged 17, he murdered his brother-in-law. There followed a known 12 other victims. He survived a number of gun battles by the simple expedient of wearing an iron breastplate. Outwardly he was a devout Methodist, and “Deacon Jim” spoke regularly at prayer meetings. Perhaps his most famous victim was Pat Garrett, the killer of Billy the Kid, whom Miller assassinated in February 1908 near Las Cruces, New Mexico. When Garrett stepped out of his buggy to urinate in the road, Miller opened fire from concealment, shooting Garrett in the head and stomach. He died instantly. By coincidence, Garrett had once served as a Texas Ranger himself.
The Rangers continue to exist as a small, elite force of criminal investigators. They still, when need arises, saddle up to hunt men in the brush country.
Men Who Never Sleep
When the Texas Rangers ambushed Sam Bass at Round Rock, they were not the only detectives on his trail. The much-robbed Texas and Pacific Railway had retained in the case the services of Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency (“We Never Sleep”), the most significant of the private police forces in the West. Although the Pinkertons missed their badman this time, they would get others. They would also attract controversy, even hatred, in the course of doing so.
Founded by Allan Pinkerton, a Scots emigrant and ardent abolitionist (his Chicago home was used as a hiding-place by escaping slaves), the Agency gained fame just before the Civil War, when it foiled a plot to assassinate Lincoln. During the War it helped organize Union secret-service operations under the direction of General George B. McClellan. In the late 1860s and early 1870s the Agency grew rapidly, and played a major role in the labour–management conflicts of the Pennsylvania coalfields, famously breaking the labour terrorist organization, the “Molly Maguires”.
Also giving rise to prominent cases was the Agency’s involvement with Western railroad robbers. Pinkertons trailed the Reno brothers, the first in the world to hold up a train, apprehending John Reno in 1867, and William and Simeon Reno in Canada in 1868. (Extradited to the USA, William and Simeon were lynched by the Southern Indiana Vigilance Committee.) Another early target was the James–Younger gang, one which led to the death of a Pinkerton operative in March 1874 when he tried to infiltrate it. Shortly after this another Pinkerton detective, Louis J. Lull, was shot dead in a gunfight with Jim and John Younger. The Pinkerton bomb attack of January 1875 on the James cabin, in which the James boys’ mother was seriously injured and their half-brother killed, brought the Agency to a low in popular opinion. Jesse James’s hatred for Allan Pinkerton became an obsession. Once, the outlaw even went to Chicago to kill him. He failed, but told a friend that “I know God some day will deliver Allan Pinkerton into my hands.” Pinkerton died in 1884. His would-be Nemesis was already two years under the sod.
By the time Pinkerton died, leaving the business to his sons William and Robert, the Agency had opened offices in Seattle, Kansas and Denver. Head of the Denver office was James McParland, the agent who had infiltrated the Maguires, while operatives included gunslinger Tom Horn and ex-Texas cowboy, Charles A. Siringo. The work of a Western operative for Pinkertons, as recalled in Siringo’s memoir, A Cowboy Detective, included “testing” (spying on) train conductors, investigating the Ute Indian War in Utah for the government, undercover work in mines to expose thieves, detecting murderers, infiltrating unions, and chasing rustlers. Pursuing train and bank robbers was a staple Pinkerton activity. Aside from Sam Bass, the Agency was assigned to the case of the Texas outlaw gang headed by Rube and Jim Burrows, the Agency’s detective work leading to the shattering of the gang in 1888. Further north, Pinkertons so persistently harassed the Wild Bunch that they drove them out of their Wyoming–Montana stomping ground, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid eventually fleeing to Bolivia.
While some Pinkerton agents were chasing Western outlaws in the 1890s, others were employed by capital in the rash of labour wars that spread through the mines of Colorado, Utah, Nevada and Idaho. The “class struggle” in the West took on a violent, blood-red colour, with mining disputes exacerbated by the stand-up-and-fight frontier attitudes of the participants. Labour militants used dynamite to blow up mines and concentrators. Employers hired gunmen-thugs to guard their property and break up strikes. And they employed Pinkerton agents to infiltrate the unions.
The operative sent, in 1891, to the flashpoint of the Coeur d’Alene mining district in the Idaho panhandle was Charlie Siringo. His infiltration of the miners’ union in Gem was almost of a piece with McParland’s of the Molly Maguires a generation before, and would be one of the great escapades in Pinkerton history.
Arriving in the mining camp of Gem, Siringo took a job in the mine and joined the local union. This required him to take a Molly Maguire-type oath that “I would never turn traitor to the union cause; that if I did, death would be my reward.” Enthusiastic and industrious, he was elected recording secretary.
Initially, the miners were not suspicious of Siringo:
My worst trouble was writing reports and mailing them. These reports had to be sent to St. Paul, Minnesota, where our Agency had an office, with my Chicago friend, John O’Flyn, as superintendent. There they were typewritten and mailed back to John A. Finch, Secretary of the Mine-Owners’ Association, where all the mine-owners could read them.
The Gem Post Office was in the store of a man by the name of Samuels, a rabid anarchist and Union sympathizer; so for that reason I dare not mail reports there. “Big Frank” was the deputy post-master and handled most of the mail. He was a member of the Gem Miners’ Union, consequently I had to walk down to Wallace, four miles, to mail reports; and for fear of being held up I had to slip down there in the dark.
Siringo sent out his reports for months, detailing the union’s secret plans for a coming offensive against the mine-owners. When these plans were published in a local pro-employer newspaper, The Barbarian, the union realized that it had a spy in its midst. Suspicion came to rest on Siringo, whose frequent trips to Wallace to mail letters had been noted. His exposure coincided with the start of what he characterized as an “uprising” by the union against Coeur d’Alene mine-owners. The atmosphere was murderous. After being tipped off that militants were looking to kill him, Siringo fled to the store of Mrs Shipley, where he roomed, and holed up:
I had Mrs. Shipley keep the store door locked, and told her to not let any one in. I then went out in the back yard to see if the coast was clear in the vicinity of my hole in the fence. I looked through a crack in the fence and discovered two armed men hiding behind a big log. I then went into a storeroom adjoining the fence on the east, and through a crack saw my friend Dallas [a union militant] walking a beat with a shotgun on his shoulder. He was evidently guarding a rat in a trap, and I happened to be that rat.
In this storeroom I discarded my hat and coat and in their place put on an old leather jacket and a black slouch hat. Then I got a saw and went into Mrs. Shipley’s room, and next to the store wall, tore up a square of carpet and began sawing a hole through the floor. I sawed out a place just large enough to admit my body. This done, I replaced the carpet in nice shape, loosely, over the hole.
At first I had planned a scheme to barricade the head of the stairs with furniture and bedding and then slaughter all who undertook to come up the stairs. Had I carried out this plan, the newspapers wo
uld have had some real live news to record; but I hated to wait upstairs for business to come my way, hence made up my mind to go under the floor and do some skirmishing, which would at least keep my mind occupied.
The back part of my store building rested flat on the ground, and the front part was up on piles three feet high.
Finally I bade Mrs. Shipley and her little five-year-old goodbye, and dropped out of sight. Then Mrs. Shipley pulled her trunk over the hole as per my instructions.
In scouting around under the house, I could find no possible way to get out, except up under the board sidewalk on the main street. Through a crack the width of my hand, on the east side, I saw Dallas resting on his beat. He was leaning on his shot-gun. I up with my rifle and took aim at his heart, but before pulling the trigger, the thought of the danger from the smoke going up through the cracks and giving my hiding place away, flashed through my mind, and the rifle was taken from my shoulder.
Just then an explosion took place which shook the earth. It was up towards the Frisco Mill. The rifle shooting was still going on, but it soon ceased.
In about 20 minutes Mrs. Shipley pulled the trunk from the hole, and putting her head down in it, cried: “Oh, Mr. Allison [Siringo’s cover name] run for your life. They have just blown up the Frisco Mill and killed lots of men and now they’re coming after you to burn you at the stake, so as to make an example of Dickenson [for legal reasons Siringo was obliged to refer to Pinkertons as the Dickenson Agency in his narrative] detectives.” Crawling near to the hole I asked Mrs. Shipley how she had found this out. She replied that Mrs. Weiss, a strong union woman, who was a friend of mine while I was in the union, had just told her when she went across the street to find out the cause of the explosion. I told Mrs. Shipley to keep cool and put the trunk back over the hole. It was explained to her that I could find no way to get out, hence must stay.
Soon I could hear the yelling of more than 1,000 throats as they came to get me. It wasn’t long until the street was jammed with angry men. I was directly under the center of our store and could hear the leaders command Mrs. Shipley to open the door, but she refused to do it. Then they broke it down and the mob rushed in. I could hear Dallas’ voice demanding that she tell where I was, but she denied having seen me since the night before. He told her that they knew better, as Miss Olsen had seen me crawl through the window, since which time a heavy guard had been kept around the house. I heard Mrs. Shipley ask why they wanted me. Then Dallas replied: “He’s a dirty Dickenson detective and we intend to burn him at a stake as a warning to others of his kind.” Mrs. Shipley asked why they didn’t kill me yesterday when they had a good chance. To this Dallas replied: “The time wasn’t ripe yesterday, but it is now and we will find him, so you might as well tell us or it will go hard with you.” Mrs. Shipley then told them to do their worst, as she didn’t know where I was. I felt like patting the lady on the back, as one out of 10,000 who wouldn’t weaken and tell the secret with that vicious mob around her. I feared the child would tell, as he was bawling as though his little five-year-old heart would break.
Now I could hear “We’ll find the——. He’s in this house,” etc. Then a rush was made into Mrs. Shipley’s bedroom and out into the back yard and also upstairs. I couldn’t help but think of what a fine chance I was missing for making a world’s record as a man-killer; for had I carried out my first plan, this was the moment as the rush was being made upstairs, when there would have been “something doing.”
As I feared they might find the hole in the floor and then set fire to the building, I concluded to get out of there, even though I had to fight my way out.
The only opening was under the sidewalk, which was about a foot above the ground. I had no idea where it would lead me, but I thought of the old saying, “Nothing risked, nothing gained.”
Finally I started east, towards the Miners’ Union hall. The store buildings were built close together, except at my building where there was a narrow alleyway leading to the rear. It was in this narrow passage where Dallas had his policeman’s beat that morning. I had to crawl on my stomach, “all same” snake in the grass; but I had to move very slowly as I was afraid of being seen by the angry men who lined the sidewalk as thick as they could stand. Some of the cracks in the sidewalk were an inch or more wide. After going the width of two store buildings, I stopped to rest, and while doing so, I lay on my back so as to look up through a wide crack. I could see the men’s eyes and hear what they said. Most of their talk was about the “scabs” killed when they blew up the Frisco Mill with giant powder. Finally one big Irishman with a brogue as broad as the Atlantic Ocean, said: “Faith and why don’t they bring that spalpeen out. I’m wanting to spit in his face, the dirty thraitor. We Emericans have got to shtand an our rights and show the worreld that we can fight.” Of course I could have told this good “Emerican” citizen the reason for the delay in bringing me out to be burnt at a stake; and I could also have told him that he was then missing a good opportunity of spitting in my face, while alive, for my mind had been made up not to be taken until dead.
This was a hint for me to be moving, knowing that I was exploring new territory.
Another twenty-five feet brought me in front of a saloon, and here I found an opening to get under the building, which was built on piles and stood about four feet from the ground. In the rear I could see daylight. At this my heart leaped with joy. The ground was covered with slush and mud and there were all kinds of tree-tops, stumps and brush under this building.
In hurrying through this brush, my watch-chain caught and tore loose. On it was a charm, a $3 gold piece with my initials C. L. A. I hated to lose this, so stopped to consider as to whether I should go back to hunt it. While studying, I wondered if I was scared. I had to smile at the thought, so I concluded to test the matter by spitting; but bless you, my mouth was so dry I couldn’t spit anything but cotton, or what looked like cotton. I decided that it was a case of scared with a big S. I had always heard that when a person is badly frightened he can’t spit; but this was the first time I ever saw it tested.
A week or so later I bought the watch-chain and charm from a boy who had found it while the union had “kids” searching for me under these buildings on the day of the riot. When the chain was found, I suppose they figured that the bird had flown, all but this relic of his breast-feathers.
On reaching the rear of the saloon, I found plenty of room to get out in the open, but before making the break, I examined my rifle and pistol to see that they were in working order.
All ready, I sprung from under the house and stood once more in glorious sunshine. The Winchester was up, ready for action. Only three men were in sight and their backs were towards me. They stood at the corner of the saloon building, looking up a vacant space towards the main street. They had evidently been placed behind these buildings to watch for me, but in their eagerness to be at the burning, they were watching the crowd in the street, knowing that the movements of the, mob would indicate when the “fatted calf” was ready for the slaughter. My first impulse was to start shooting and kill these three men, but my finer feeling got the best of me. It would be too much like taking advantage and committing cold-blooded murder.
I glanced straight south. There, in front of me, about fifty yards distant, was the high railroad grade which shut off the view from the Gem mill where I knew my friends awaited me. But to undertake to scale this high grade I would be placing myself between the two fires, for the chances were, my friends would take me for an enemy and start shooting.
Quicker than a flash the thought struck me to fool these three men and make them think I was going up to the top of the grade to get a shot at the “scabs.”
A little to the left there was a swift stream of water flowing through a culvert under the railroad grade, and to avoid being shot by my friends I concluded to go through this and sink or swim.
I started in a slow run, half stooped like a hunter slipping upon game, as though intending to crawl up
on the grade and get a shot at the enemy, my course being a few feet to the right of the boxed culvert. I didn’t look back, as I knew my footsteps would attract the attention of the three men, and I didn’t want them to see my face or to note that my movements were suspicious. When within a few feet of the rushing water, I made a quick turn to the left and into the culvert. Just then one bullet whizzed past my head. This was the only one shot fired. It was all I could do to stem the force of the water, which reached to my arm-pits. The Winchester was now in my left hand while my right extended forward holding on to the upright timber on the west wall of the culvert. After I had worked my way far enough into this culvert so that I was in the dark and out of sight of my enemy, I braced myself against an upright timber and turned round to look back. There in plain view, was three drunken Swedes trying to see me so as to get another shot. Now I held the winning hand, and raised my rifle to take advantage of my opportunity; but my heart failed me at the thought of murdering a drunken Swede, for I had found them to be a hardworking lot of sheep who were always ready to follow heartless Irish leaders. I also thought of the danger of shooting, as the flash from my rifle would indicate my whereabouts and shots might be fired in that direction. Although from the way these Swedes or Finlanders were staggering around, I didn’t think they could shoot very straight. I began to work my way to daylight on the other side, a distance of about fifty feet. I would reach ahead and get hold of an upright timber and then pull myself forward against the raging torrent. I finally emerged from the culvert and found myself under a Swede’s house, which was built over the opposite end of this culvert, with the entrance to the house fronting on the railroad track. On walking from under the house, which was built on piles, a Swede woman at her back door recognized me. She called me by name and asked what I had been doing under her house. Her husband had been one of my best union friends. I told her that I was just prowling around a little for exercise. She laughed.