A gallows built for five stood back of the Tombstone courthouse. The high board fence about the yard shut it off from the view of the public. A thrifty citizen erected a grand stand from which the hanging might be witnessed. There seemed prospect of his making considerable money. One morning, when he went to put the finishing touches on the structure, he found it a mass of wreckage. Tombstone did not approve of turning the tragedy into a box-office attraction.
Two miners sat on the dump of the Lucky Cuss mine on the hill back of town. Far below, they could see the courthouse yard, the yellow pine gallows, the strong crossbar above it, the five dangling hempen nooses. The door of the jail opened. Dowd, Sample, Howard, Kelly, and Delaney walked out, herded by deputies, Sheriff Ward at their head. The little procession crossed the yard and mounted the gallows stairs. The five condemned men took their places in line on the trap.
“I’ve knowed all them boys well,” said one of the miners on the Lucky Cuss dump. “Fine fellers as you’d want to meet.”
“Hard to understan’,” remarked the other. “Five husky young fellers. Full of life this minute. Dead as this chunk o’ rock five minutes from now.”
“Had many a drink with them boys. Been to the Bird Cage with ’em. Set in poker games with ’em. Shore wuz nice boys.”
“Look like soldiers standin’ up thar. Heads up. Shoulders back. Game, all right.”
“Yes, sir, knowed ’em well. Set and talked with ’em many’s the time jest like I’m settin’ here talkin’ to you. Dan Dowd played as purty a game o’ bank as you ever seen. Shore knowed how to handle chips.”
“What’re them deputies doin’?”
“Stroppin’ their hands behind their backs and stroppin’ their ankles together. That’s the way they do. Old pals o’ mine, all them fellers. Spent their money free. Many’s the—”
“That’s the black caps, ain’t it? They’re slippin’ on the nooses. The sheriff’s shootin’ them knots tight agin their necks. What’s that deputy steppin’ back to the rail fer?”
“He’s goin’ to cut the string. Good night. Thar she goes.”
“God!”
“Done dropped ’em through. Well, I’ll be damned. And jest to think I knowed all them boys well. Yes, sir, knowed ’em well.”
“Can’t see ’em. Can’t see nothin’ but a black slit in the floor of the gallows.”
“Jest a black slit. That’s all. And black as hell.”
Into the blackness, five men had dropped to death. The Bisbee massacre had been expiated.
Train robberies came into vogue among Arizona outlaws in the ’nineties. Lonely deserts, convenient mountains, and trains bearing fortunes in their safes made the crime attractive. Train robberies at Canyon Diablo, Maricopa, Rock Cut, Willcox, and Stein’s Pass were pioneer successes for daring spirits to emulate. Black Jack Ketchum was one of the most famous of these early-day robbers. After robbing a bank at Nogales, he killed a man of Sheriff Fly’s pursuing posse at Skeleton Canyon, adding one more tragedy to the many tragedies of that famous pass in the Peloncillos. Black Jack, it was supposed, buried much of his loot in a cave in Wild Cat Canyon at the south end of the Chiricahuas near William Lutley’s ranch. He called this cave Room Forty-Four. Captured after a train robbery, Black Jack imparted to Leonard Alvorsen full directions as to how to lift this treasure. But, unfortunately, Alvorsen had no opportunity to go on a treasure hunt, being detained behind bars at Yuma. Falling heir to Alvorsen’s information, Bert and Harry Macia of Tombstone ransacked Room Forty-Four, but no doubloons or pieces-of-eight rewarded them. Black Jack, a Falstaffian robber much given in prosperous days to fat capon and flagons of sack, was sentenced to hang at high noon in Clayton, New Mexico. On the gallows he appeared anxious. “What time is it?” he asked. He was told it lacked one minute of twelve. “Well, hurry up,” urged Black Jack. “I’m due to eat dinner in hell at twelve sharp.” The drop, it is said, severed the giant’s head from his body.
They still laugh in Arizona at the silver-rain train robbery at Willcox in . Grant Wheeler and Joe George, the bandits, found $60,000 in Mexican silver dollars stacked in sacks in the express car. This money was too bulky to carry away, and they used it to weigh down the dynamite they placed against the safe. The explosion wrecked the car. The dollars went flying through the roof and on toward the stars, and fell in a silver rain over all the landscape. Telegraph poles were shot full of coins, which later were scraped off like barnacles, and a pile of crossties beside the track was turned into a silver mine. Searchers worked for days picking up the money, some of the silver pieces being found a half mile from the railroad, and, strangely enough, all but $600 was recovered. The two robbers got only $1,500 from the safe and were trailed by bills with corners singed off which they spent in saloons during their flight. Joe George was caught and sent to Yuma. Billy Breakenridge, Sheriff Behan’s famous deputy, who was now Detective William Breakenridge of the Southern Pacific Railroad, tracked Grant Wheeler to Mancos, Colorado. There, when the robber was cornered without hope of escape, he blew out his brains.
Burt Alvord, Sheriff Slaughter’s old deputy, was living during this period at Willcox. He owned a cattle ranch, took a hand in politics, and had been elected constable. But he was the same genial roistering, devil-may-care fellow as in old Tombstone days, and everybody liked him. Living in Willcox, too, was William Downing, a cattleman reputed rich and looked upon as an honest, substantial citizen. But Downing had been a member of the notorious Sam Bass band of outlaws in Texas, had served two terms in the penitentiary, and had been run out of Texas
