CHAPTER IV.

LIFE AND DEATH IN THE FAR WEST.

THE boarding of a railway train at Coolidge, an attempted robbery, and an accomplished murder, have awakened the West out of a pleasing dream of security. These attacks upon railway trains are by no means of frequent occurrence, though when they happen they are talked of so much and for so long a time that they grow to be familiar. To stop and rob a train, is an exploit that obviously demands united force, well-ordered plans, and desperate courage. It is the Waterloo of the rowdy's campaign, which works its level way through the year by petty larceny, horsestealing, gaming, and an occasional shooting. In 1874 the Union Pacific Road was the scene of the first of these outrages, when the train bound East was boarded by seven men, who got clear off with £2000. A few years later this same Santa Fé line, on which Coolidge

stands, was the scene of an attempted robbery by a famous gang which takes its name from its leader, "Big Mike Rourke ; " and only last year, the anniversary within a day of the Coolidge affair, the Santa Fé train was captured by four men, who compelled the express man to open the safe, and robbed it of its contents, which did not happen to exceed £1000.

The fame of Jesse James's exploits filled England at the time that they aroused the United States. They were marked by an audacity, a resource, and a ruthless barbarity which placed their leader on a pedestal where even now he is regarded through the West with a kind of sorrowful admiration. Jesse James was hanged, and his body now rests in the little front garden before his mother's house. His brother is in jail, the gang is broken up, and people had grown into the belief that they might go about their business along the great high-roads to the West with the assurance that they were in a civilized and law-abiding country. Then comes this affair at Coolidge, and all is excitement and apprehension. It was curious to note on leaving Kansas City this morning (October 4, 1883), the tearful groups bidding farewell to friends going out West. It is a far journey, and the average of accidents on a run of 634

miles must be taken into account. But over and above this is the new terror of the night journey, and the possibility of being wakened up by pistol shots and ruffianly demands for your portable property.

The scene of the murderous outrage of Saturday was admirably chosen. Coolidge is a small village, a few miles distant from the border line of Colorado and Kansas. There is a roadside station with a telegraph office, and a shed that passes for a refreshment bar. The village itself consists chiefly of a drinking saloon and a gaming house, neither held in favour by the police. The train reached Coolidge about one in the morning, and made a brief stoppage. The conductor was about to start it when he noticed a man climbing up behind the express car. He thought it was a tramp engaged in the not unfrequent enterprise of securing a free ride. He called out to him to come off, but the fellow pressed forward and entered the express car. This was in charge of a man named Peterson, who is the hero of the day wherever the story has reached. Peterson was lying on his back upon some sacks, and was just dropping off to sleep when he was awakened by the conductor's challenge of the supposed tramp. He looked up and saw by the dim light of the

oil lamp a man standing by the open door. The stranger covered him with his pistol, and fired, the bullet passing close by his head and lodging in the floor of the van. Peterson dropped his hands as if he were mortally wounded, and the stranger, turning round, fired at the conductor, who was standing on the platform watching him. This shot also missed him. Peterson, before lying down, had placed his revolver by his side. When he dropped his hands he felt out cautiously with his right for the pistol, a double-action Colt. He touched the muzzle first, and, with his half-closed eyes fixed on the robber, he slowly moved his hand along till he got a firm hold of the butt and his finger on the trigger.

Meanwhile the robber, concluding that he had slain the express man, moved towards the rear of the van in search of anybody else that wanted killing. The baggage man had been seated by the doorway when the first shot was fired, but by this time he was comfortably located under the table in the refreshment shed. He has subsequently explained that not being armed, and feeling rather in the way when shots were flying round, he had concluded he would be better under the table. As the robber moved towards the rear of the van, Peterson, sitting up and covering him

with his revolver, fired. The robber, taken aback at this liveliness on the part of a corpse, returned the fire, but his pistol went off before he could cover his man. At this moment Peterson saw another man climbing in at one of the side doors, and, setting his back against the side of the car, prepared for the newcomer. But panic had already seized upon the robbers. The first one jumped out by the door through which the baggage man had already beat a strategic retreat. The second disappeared without firing, and, the van being now cleared, Peterson proceeded to barricade the doors in readiness for an expected siege.

The gang, which consisted of only three men, were divided, two being told off to seize the express van, and the other to secure control of the engine. Their plan was to get the train drawn out of the station, when they could proceed with their work at leisure, stopping the train when the booty was secured, and pulling up where they pleased. With pistol pointed at his head and with horrible oaths, they ordered the engineer to "pull out." The unfortunate man does not seem to have had time either to refuse or to obey. Turning sharp round on hearing this injunction, he was straightway shot dead. The