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The Twin Hells

by John N. Reynolds · English · Gutenberg #1318 · 382,883 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Twin Hells


Author: John N. Reynolds

Release date: May 1, 1998 [eBook #1318]
                Most recently updated: September 17, 2008

Language: English



*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TWIN HELLS ***



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THE TWIN HELLS

A Thrilling Narrative of Life in the Kansas and Missouri Penitentiaries


By John N. Reynolds

ATCHISON, KANSAS.


               TO MY DEAR OLD MOTHER
               AND
               TO THE MEMORY OF MY SAINTED WIFE
               THIS BOOK
               IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY
               THE AUTHOR.



PREFACE

The following pages treat of hell--A Kansas hell and a Missouri hell.
Those who desire to peruse works that tell about Heaven only, are urged
to drop this book and run. I was an inmate of the Kansas penitentiary
for sixteen months, and make mention of what came under my own
observation in connection with what I experienced. While an inmate of
this prison I occupied cells at various times with convicts who had
served terms in the Missouri prison. From these persons I gathered much
useful material for my book. After my release I visited the Missouri
penitentiary, and verified the statements of those criminals, and
gathered additional material from the prison records and the officials.
I have written chiefly for the youth of the country, but all ages will
be deeply interested in the following pages. A large majority of the
convicts are young men from sixteen to twenty-five years of age. They
had no idea of the terrible sufferings of a convict life, or they surely
would have resisted temptation and kept out of crime. The following
pages will impart to the reader some idea of what he may expect to
endure in case he becomes entangled in the meshes of the law, and is
compelled to do service for the State without any remuneration. Every
penitentiary is a veritable hell. Deprive a person of his liberty,
punish and maltreat him, and you fill his life with misery akin to those
who wander in the darkness of "eternal night," I think, when the reader
has perused the following pages, he will agree with me, that the book
has the proper title. That this volume may prove an "eye-opener" to the
boys who may read it, and prove interesting and instructive to those of
mature years, is the earnest wish of the author.





A KANSAS HELL



CHAPTER I. MY INITIATION AND CRIME

Guilty! This word, so replete with sadness and sorrow, fell on my ear on
that blackest of all black Fridays, October 14, 1887.

Penitentiary lightning struck me in the city of Leavenworth, Kansas. I
was tried in the United States District Court; hence, a United States
prisoner.

The offense for which I was tried and convicted was that of using the
mails for fraudulent purposes. My sentence was eighteen months in
the penitentiary, and a fine of two hundred dollars. I served sixteen
months, at the end of which time I was given my liberty. During the
period I was in prison I dug coal six months in the penitentiary coal
mines, and was one of the clerks of the institution the remainder of the
term. Getting permission to have writing material in my cell, I first
mastered short-hand writing, or phonography, and then wrote my book: "A
Kansas Hell; or, Life in the Kansas Penitentiary." My manuscript being
in short-hand, none of the prison officials were able to read it, and
did not know what I was doing until I obtained my liberty and had my
book published.

This, no doubt, will be the proper place to give some of my antecedents,
as well as a few of the details of the crime for which I was sent to
the penitentiary. I spent my youth and early manhood at Indianola, Iowa,
from which place I removed to Nebraska. After residing for some time in
Columbus, of that State, I was appointed by the governor to assist in
organizing the Pawnee Indian Reservation into a county. When organized
it was called Nance County, being named for Hon. Albinus Nance, then
governor of the State. I held the position of county clerk of that
county for four consecutive years. During this time I organized
the Citizens' Bank. I was its cashier at first, and, later on, its
president. I had a lucrative business and was doing well. My wife's
health failed her; she became consumptive. My family physician advised a
removal to the South. I closed out my business at a great sacrifice, and
came to Atchison, Kansas. Here I located, and made it my future home.
Soon after my arrival I commenced the publication of a daily newspaper,
known as the "Times." In the county in which I located I found one of
the worst and most corrupt political rings on the face of the earth.
This combination had controlled the politics of the county for almost a
quarter of a century. Soon I became involved in a terrific newspaper war
with the members of this political organization. An election of county
and State officials was soon to take place. In order to test the
strength of the contending elements, in my newspaper, I presented
the name of Hon. W. D. Gilbert as a candidate for district judge in
opposition to the ring candidate. A sharp fight ensued. Mr. Gilbert
was elected by an overwhelming majority. This was the first time for
twenty-five years that this ring had been defeated. The members of
it were very sore. Looking upon me as the principal spirit, I was the
object toward which they directed all their shafts of spite.

Some time before this an insurance company had been organized in the
city of Atchison. I was invited to become its president. I examined the
books of the corporation, and found it to be organized according to the
laws of Kansas; that the company had a charter from the State, and also
certified authority to issue policies of insurance, granted by the State
insurance commissioner. I accepted the presidency on condition that
the company was simply to have the use of my name, and that I was not
expected to give any of my time to the company, as I was otherwise
engaged. I was editor of a daily newspaper, and could not attend to
anything else. While this company was doing business a printed circular
was used, stating that the corporation had one hundred thousand dollars
PAID up capital. This circular was sent out through the mails over
the State advertising the business. It was charged this circular was
fraudulent; that the company did not have that amount of capital paid
in. My name was attached to this printed circular. For this, I was
indicted in the United States District Court, on the charge of using
the mails for fraudulent purposes. The advertised capital of this
corporation was SUBSCRIBED, but not all paid in, as it was not needed in
the business of the company. After indictment I was arrested, and gave
bonds for my appearance at the next term of court, which was held soon
after.

Not being able to secure the attendance of all my witnesses, my attorney
wrote the prosecuting attorney asking his consent that my case be
continued. The request was granted. When the case was called, my
attorney appeared and introduced a motion to continue the case, filing
affidavits necessary in such cases. The prosecuting attorney having
given his consent, there was no doubt in the minds of those interested
as to the continuance of the case. For some cause best known to himself,
the judge would not grant the continuance, and forced me to trial
without having a single witness. It was my intention to have some fifty
witnesses subpoenaed, to prove that the insurance company of which I
was president was not a fraud. Not being allowed to have my witnesses,
I was, under the instructions of the court, which were, indeed,
exceedingly pointed, found guilty, and sentenced to eighteen months'
imprisonment and to pay a fine of two hundred dollars. The political
ring now triumphed for a brief period. In order to prove conclusively
to the reader that this was a piece of spite work, I have only to state
that I was the only one of all the officers of that company that was
ever tried for running a bogus insurance company. Why was it that I
was the only one sent to the penitentiary when there was the secretary,
treasurer, and six directors equally as guilty as myself?

To prove more conclusively that it was political spite work that sent me
to prison, let me inform the readers that about the time the insurance
company at Atchison was organized, a similar one was organized in
Topeka. They were similar in EVERY RESPECT. I was president of the one
at Atchison, while a distinguished gentleman by the name of Gen. J. C.
Caldwell was president of the one at Topeka. Both of these companies
failed. The president of the Atchison company was sent to the
penitentiary, while the president of the Topeka company was appointed by
the governor of the State to the responsible position of chairman of the
State Board of Pardons. Many persons have asked why this difference in
the treatment of the presidents of these two companies. The only answer
that can be given is that General Caldwell stood in with the Kansas
political ring, while I did not. Every sensible man must admit that if
it was just for me to serve a term in prison for the offense charged
against me, General Caldwell should have been prescribed for in the same
manner. I have no fight to make upon Mr. Caldwell. He is an excellent
gentlemen. He was in luck. The fates were against me. Had I been a State
instead of a United States prisoner, no doubt Mr. Caldwell, as chairman
of the Board of Pardons, would have used his influence to secure for me
my liberty. That I was sent to prison is wholly due to politics. It is
unnecessary, therefore, for me to inform the reader that I am now
"out of politics." Having served out my term I returned to my home in
Atchison. As to the ring that sent me to prison, some of them are dead,
others have left Atchison to make their homes in other places, others
have failed financially, and still others have fallen so low that they
have scarcely friends enough to bury them should they happen to die.

The big wheel of life keeps on revolving. Those who are up to-day may
be down to-morrow, and vice versa. But to continue my narrative.
Immediately after my conviction and sentence I was taken to the
Leavenworth County jail. Here I remained until the following Tuesday
in the company of a dozen or more prisoners who were awaiting trial. On
Sunday, while in this jail, my wife, who died during my imprisonment
of a broken heart, and an account of which is given in a subsequent
chapter, came to see me. I can never forget this visit. She remained
with me during the entire day. During the conversation of the day I said
to her that, it seemed that the future appeared very gloomy. That it
would be a miracle if I ever was able to survive the disgrace that had
been so cruelly placed upon me. That all ambition and hope as to the
future had fled, and that I could not blame her if she should now free
herself by means of divorce, as my conviction of crime was a legal
ground for divorce in Kansas. In reply to this, the noble little woman,
her face aglow with the radiance of womanly devotion, said, that for
twenty years of married life our home had been one of sunshine; that I
had been kind to her and made her life one of happiness, and that now,
when misfortune came, it was not only a duty, but the highest pleasure,
to prove her fidelity. She kept her word. She was true to the last. When
dying, her last words were a petition for the blessings of God upon
her husband who was far away behind frowning prison walls. On Tuesday
morning a deputy United States marshal came to the jail and gave me
notice that in a few moments we would leave for the penitentiary. This
officer was a gentleman, and did not seek to further humiliate me by
placing irons on my person. I have often thought of this act of kindness
on the part of this humane official. We took the train at Leavenworth,
and in a very few moments were at my future place of residence. Lansing,
the small village where the penitentiary is located, is about five miles
from the city of Leavenworth. The entrance to the prison is from the
west. Under the watchful care of the officer who had me in charge, I
passed under a stone archway, to the left of which was a small office,
where a guard was on duty during the day time. We were halted by this
officer, who inquired if we had any firearms. No one visiting the
penitentiary is allowed to carry fire-arms within the enclosure. The
marshal who had me in custody handed over a large navy revolver. Between
this archway and the western wall of the prison is a beautiful lawn. The
walks are lined with fragrant flowers; beautiful fountains send aloft
their silvery sprays. Passing up the roadway leading to the entrance
door, and looking about me upon the rich carpet of green, the flowers
and fountains, I came to the conclusion that the penitentiary was not so
bad a place as I had imagined. I changed my mind, however, as soon as I
had seen inside the walls.

The prison enclosure contains about ten acres of ground. This is
surrounded by a stone wall some fifteen feet high, and six feet thick at
the base. It is not more than four feet at the top. At each of the four
corners may be found a tower rising some ten feet above the wall. A
guard is on duty in each of these towers during the day. He carries a
double-barreled shotgun loaded with buckshot. In case a prisoner tries
to escape he is liable to get a dose of lead, provided the officer on
duty is a good marksman. The western wall is almost entirely made of a
large stone building with its two long wings. The main building is four
stories. The wings stretching to the north and south, each two hundred
and fifty feet, contain the cells. On the first floor of the main
building are the offices of the warden, clerk, deputy warden and
turnkey. The upper rooms are used by the warden's family.

I was first conducted into the clerk's office and introduced to Mr.
Jones, the clerk. He is a very pleasant gentleman, and spoke kindly to
me, which I can assure all was very acceptable, for just about that time
I was feeling very badly. His remark was: "I am very glad to meet you,
Mr. Reynolds, but sorry to meet you under these sad circumstances." On
his invitation I took a chair and sat down to await the next part of the
progamme. As I sat there and thought of the kind words spoken to me by
the clerk, I quickly reached the conclusion that if all the officers
of that institution were as kind as Mr. Jones, it would not be as bad a
place as I had anticipated. I had no experience then that would justify
any other conclusion. Soon a side door of the office opened and in came
the deputy warden, Mr. John Higgins. Mr. H. is the sourest appearing man
I ever met in my life. At least, it seemed so to me on that day. He can
get more vinegar on the outside of his face than any other person in the
State of Kansas. He did not wait to be introduced to me. He never craves
an introduction to a criminal. As soon as he came into the room he got
a pole with which to measure me. Then, looking at me, in a harsh, gruff
voice he called out: "Stand up here." At first I did not arise. At the
second invitation, however, I stood up and was measured. My description
was taken by the clerk. In this office there is to be found a
description of all the criminals that ever entered the Kansas
penitentiary. I was asked if I was a married man, how many children
I had, and how much property I possessed. These questions were easily
answered. After the deputy warden had discharged his duty he retired. I
soon discovered that it was according to the rules of the prison for
the officers to talk in a harsh and abrupt manner to the prisoners. This
accounted for the way in which I was greeted by the deputy warden, who
is the disciplinarian of the prison. I may say, in passing, that all the
harsh manners of Mr. Higgins are simply borrowed for the occasion. Away
from the presence of prisoners, over whom he is to exert his influence,
there is not to be found a more pleasant and agreeable gentleman. In
came a second official, and, in the same gruff manner, said to me, "Come
along." I followed him out to the wash-house, where I took a bath. A
prisoner took my measure for a suit of clothes. After he had passed the
tape-line around me several times, he informed the officer that I
was the same size of John Robinson, who had been released from the
penitentiary the day before. "Shall I give him John Robinson's clothes?"
asked the convict. In the same gruff manner the officer said, "Yes,
bring on Robinson's old clothes." So I was furnished with a second-hand
suit! The shoes were second-hand. I am positive about this last
statement, judging by the aroma. After I had been in the penitentiary
some four months, I learned that John Robinson, whose clothes I had
secured, was a colored man. Being arrayed in this suit of stripes I was
certainly "a thing of beauty." The coat was a short blouse and striped;
the stripes, white and black, alternated with each other, and passed
around the body in a horizontal way. The pantaloons were striped;
the shirt was striped; the cap was striped. In fine, it seemed that
everything about that penitentiary was striped--even to the cats! Being
dressed, I was next handed an article that proved, on examination, to
be intended for a handkerchief. It was covered with large blue
letters--"Leavenworth Mills. XXX Flour," etc. It was a quarter section
of a flour sack! Nine hundred prisoners very soon empty a great many
flour sacks. After the flour has been consumed the sack is cut up into
quarter sections, washed, hemmed and used for handkerchiefs. No better
handkerchief can be invented. They are stout, stiff and durable! They
will bear all manner of nasal assaults! There is no danger of blowing
them into atoms, and the officials are not afraid to give them out to
convicts sent there charged with the use of dynamite! One of them has
been known to last a prisoner for five years.

After I had donned my suit and taken possession of my handkerchief, I
was ordered to fold my arms. Prisoners marching in ranks, or going to
and fro about the prison enclosure, are required to have their arms in
this position. The object is to prevent them from passing articles. I
was marched to the building known as the south wing of the cell house.
In this building, which is two hundred and fifty feet long, there are
cells for the accommodation of five hundred convicts. The prisoners who
occupy this wing work in the shops located above ground, and within the
prison enclosure.

The officer in charge conducted me to cell number one. Click went the
lock. The door was pulled open, and in his usual style, he said, "Get
in." I stepped in. Slam went the door. Click went the lock, and I was in
a felon's cell! These rooms are about four feet wide, seven feet long,
and seven feet high. In many of the cells two men are confined. These
rooms are entirely too small for the accommodation of two prisoners.
A new cell house is being built, which, when completed, will afford
sufficient additional room so that each prisoner can have a cell. In
these small rooms there are two bunks or beds when two convicts occupy
the same cell. The bed-rack is made of iron or wood slats, and the
bed-tick is filled with corn-husks; the pillow is also filled with the
latter material, and when packed down becomes as hard as a board. When
the beds are not in use they are fastened to the side of the wall with
a small chain. When down and in use they take up nearly the entire space
of the cell, so that it is impossible for the two occupants to pass each
other in walking to and fro. The other furniture consists of a small
tin bucket, holding about two quarts of water, and a wash-basin. A
short-handled broom is also found in one corner of the cell, with
which the convict brushes it out every morning. The walls are of stone,
decorated with a small looking-glass and a towel. Each cell contains one
chair and a Holy Bible. There is no rich Brussels carpet on the floor,
although prisoners are allowed one if they furnish it themselves. No
costly upholstered furniture adorns these safe retreats! Nothing in
that line is to be discovered except one cane-bottomed chair for the
accommodation of two prisoners, so that when one sits on the chair the
other stands, or occupies a seat on the stone floor. There is not room
for two chairs, or the State would furnish another chair. These rooms
are built of stone. The door is of one-half inch iron bars, crossing
each other at right angles, leaving small spaces about two by six
inches; through these spaces come the air, light and heat for the health
and comfort of the inmates. When I entered my cell on that eventful
morning I found it occupied by a prisoner. He was also a new arrival; he
had preceded me about an hour. When I entered he arose and gave me his
chair, taking a seat on the floor in the opposite corner. After I had
been locked in, before going away the officer said, "Now I don't
want you fellows to get to talking, for that is not permitted in this
institution." We sat in silence, surveying each other; in a few moments
my companion, seeing something in my personal appearance that caused him
to lose his self control, laughed. That he might give full vent to his
laughing propensities, and not make too much noise, he drew from his
pocket his quarter section of a flour bag and put it into his mouth. He
soon became as red in the face as a lobster. I was curious, of course,
to know what it was that pleased him so much. Rising from my chair,
going to the door and looking through the openings I could see no
officer near, so I asked my companion, in a whisper, what it was that
pleased him so. It was with difficulty and after several trials before
he could succeed in telling me what it was that caused him to be so
convulsed. I told him to take his time, cool off gradually, as I had
eighteen months, and could wait patiently. At last, being able to
control his feelings sufficiently to tell me, in the midst of his
outbursts of laughter, he said, "You look just like one of them zebras
in Barnum's Circus!" When my attention was called to the matter, sure
enough, I did look rather striped, and I, amused at his suggestion,
laughed also. Soon an officer came gliding around in front of the cell,
when our laughing ceased. My companion was a young fellow from Doniphan
County. He got drunk and tried to rob an associate, still drunker, of
a twenty dollar gold piece. He was arrested, tried and convicted of
robbery, receiving a sentence of one year. Directly an officer came,
took him out of my cell and conducted him to another department. All
alone, I sat in my little parlor for nearly an hour, thinking over the
past. My reverie was at length broken by the turning of my door lock. A
fresh arrival was told to "git in." This prisoner had the appearance of
just having been lassoed on the wild western prairies. He resembled a
cow-boy. His whiskers were long and sandy. His hair, of the same color,
fell upon his shoulders. As soon as the officer had gone away and
everything had become quiet, I asked this fellow his name. "Horserider,"
was his reply, from which I inferred that he was a horse-thief. "How
long a term have you?" was my next question. "Seven years," was his
reply. I comforted him by saying it would be some time before he rode
another horse.

The next part of the programme consisted in a little darkey coming in
front of our cell with a rudely constructed barber's chair. The cell
door opened, and an officer said to me, as if he would hit me with a
club the next moment, "Git out of there." I went out. Pointing to the
barber's chair, he said, "Squat yourself in that chair." I sat down.
"Throw back your head." I laid it back. It was not long before my raven
mustache was off, and my hair cut rather uncomfortably short for fly
time. After this tonsorial artist had finished his work then came the
command once more, "Git in." I got in. It now came Mr. Horserider's turn
to bid a long farewell to his auburn locks. He took his place in the
chair, and the little darkey, possibly for his own amusement, cut off
the hair on one side of the head and left the other untouched. He then
shaved one side of his face without disturbing the other. At this moment
the bell for dinner rang, and the little colored fellow broke away and
ran to his division, to fall in ranks, so that he would not miss his
noon meal. Once more Mr. Horserider entered his cell and we were locked
in. A more comical object I never beheld; he did not even possess the
beauty of a baboon; he might certainly have passed for the eighth wonder
of the world. When he came in I handed him the small looking-glass and
asked him how he liked his hair-cut. Remember, one side of his head and
face was shaved close, and the other covered with long sandy hair and
beard. Looking into the glass, he exclaimed: "Holy Moses! and who am
I, anyway?" I answered his question by stating that he favored Mr.
What-Is-It. He was very uneasy for a time, thinking that he was going to
be left in that condition. He wanted to know of me if all horse-thieves
of the penitentiary wore their hair and whiskers in this style. I
comforted him all I could by imparting the information that they did. He
was much relieved when the darkey returned after dinner and finished the
shaving.

I was next taken out of my cell to pass a medical examination. Dr.
Mooney, the gentlemanly officer in charge of the hospital, put in an
appearance with a large book under his arm and sat down by a table. I
was ushered into his presence. He began asking me questions, and
wrote down my answers in his book, which proved to be the physician's
register.

"Have you any decayed teeth?" was his first question,

"No, sir," was my reply.

"Have you ever lost any teeth?"

"No, sir."

"Have you ever had the measles?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever had the mumps?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever had the chicken-pox?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever had the thresh?"

Well, I didn't know what was meant by the thresh. I knew that I had been
"thrashed" a great many times, and inferred from that fact that I must
have had the disease at some time or other in my youth, so I answered,

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever had the itch?"

"What kind?" said I. "The old fashioned seven year kind? Y-e-s, sir, I
have had it."

He then continued asking me questions, and wanted to know if I ever
had a great many diseases, the names of which I had never heard before.
Since I catch almost everything that comes along, I supposed, of course,
that at some period during my childhood, youth or early manhood I had
suffered from all those physical ills, so I always answered,

"Yes, sir." He wound up by inquiring if I ever had a stroke of the horse
glanders. I knew what was meant by that disease, and replied in the
negative.

He then looked at me over the top of his spectacles, and, in a rather
doubting manner, said, "and you really have had all these diseases? By
the way," he continued, "are you alive at the present moment after all
that you have suffered?" Mr. Mooney is an Irishman. He was having a
little cold-blooded sport at my expense. Whenever you meet an Irishman
you will always strike a budget of fun.

His next question was, "Are you a sound man?"

My reply was to the effect that I was, physically, mentally and morally.
So he wrote down in his book opposite my name "physically and mentally
a sound man." He said he would take my word for being sound morally, but
that he would not put that down on the books for the present, for fear
there might be a mistake somewhere. Before discharging me, he calmly
stated that I would make a good coal miner. All the prisoners undergo
this medical cross-examination.

After I had run the doctor's gauntlet, I was conducted from the south
wing of the cell-house to the north wing. Here I met for the first time
Mr. Elliott, who has charge of this building during the daytime. It is
a part of this highly efficient officer's duty to cross-examine the
prisoners as to where they have lived and what they have been doing. His
examinations are very rigid. He is a bright man, a good judge of human
nature, and can tell a criminal at sight. He would make an able criminal
lawyer. He is the prison detective. By means of these examinations he
often obtains clues that lead to the detection of the perpetrators of
crime. I have been told by good authority that on account of information
obtained by this official, two murderers were discovered in the Kansas
penitentiary, and, after their terms had expired, they were immediately
arrested, and, on requisition, taken back to the Eastern States, where
the crimes had been committed, and there tried, convicted and punished
according to the laws of those States. After I had been asked all manner
of questions by this official, he very kindly informed me that I came to
the penitentiary with a bad record. He further stated that I was
looked upon as one of the worst criminals in the State of Kansas. This
information was rather a set-back to me, as I had no idea that I was in
possession of any such record as that. I begged of him to wait a little
while before he made up his mind conclusively as to my character, for
there might be such a thing as his being mistaken. There is no man that
is rendering more effective service to the State of Kansas in the way of
bringing criminals to justice than Mr. Elliott. He has been an officer
of the prison for nearly nine years. As an honest officer he is above
reproach. As a disciplinarian he has no superior in the West.

After this examination I was shown to my cell. It was now about two
o'clock in the afternoon of my first day in prison. I remained in the
cell alone during the entire afternoon. Of all the dark hours of my
eventful history, none have been filled with more gloom and sadness
than those of my first day in prison. Note my antecedents--a college
graduate, a county clerk, the president of a bank, and an editor of
a daily newspaper. All my life I had moved in the highest circles of
society, surrounded by the best and purest of both sexes, and now, here
I was, in the deplorable condition of having been hurled from that high
social position, down to the low degraded plane of a convict. As I sat
there in that desolate abode of the disgraced, I tried to look out down
the future. All was dark. For a time it seemed as if that sweet angel we
call hope had spread her wings and taken her departure from me forever.
The black cloud of despair seemed settling down upon me. But very few
persons possess the ability to make any thing of themselves after having
served a term in the penitentiary. Having once fallen to so low a plane
it is almost impossible to rise again. Young man, as you peruse this
book, think of these things. Once down as a felon it is a miracle if one
ever regains what he has lost. I sat brooding over these things for an
hour or more, when my manhood asserted itself. Hope returned. I reasoned
thus: I am a young man. I enjoy good health. There will be only a few
months of imprisonment and then I will be free. I thought of my loving
wife, my little children, my aged mother, my kind friends, and for their
sake I would not yield to despair. Soliciting the aid of a kind Heavenly
Father, I resolved to do the best I could toward regaining what I had
lost. My father was a minister of the gospel for fifty years prior to
his death. He was not blessed with much of this world's goods. For this
reason I began in very early life to aid myself. I spent seven years
in college preparing for the struggles that awaited me. I earned every
dollar of the money which paid my expenses while securing my education.
I carried the hod to assist in building the college in which I afterward
graduated. Few men can truthfully make this statement of themselves.
While working my way through the institution where I received my
education, I learned one useful lesson--self reliance. I learned to
depend upon my own efforts for success. Every one must learn this useful
lesson before he can become anything in life. After I had met with
misfortune and found myself in a prison cell, I was glad that I had
learned to rely upon my own efforts.

The question: "What shall I do in the future?" now came to me. That
afternoon I laid my plans which I would carry out out in the years to
come. I was financially ruined in the great battle I carried on with
the Atchison ring. I was aware of the fact that, when I got out of the
penitentiary, all the money that I would have with which to make another
start in life would be five dollars. The United States presents her
prisoners, when discharged, with a suit of citizen's clothes and five
dollars. This was my capital. What could I do with five dollars, in
the way of assisting me in getting another financial foot-hold in life?
After my release it was necessary for me to do something at once to get
money. It never entered my mind to borrow. It will be interesting to
the reader to know what I did, after my prison days were past, to make
a "quick raise." Sixteen months of imprisonment slipped away. I regained
my liberty on Monday. I received my five dollars and immediately started
for my home, in Atchison. On my arrival, Monday night, I had four
dollars and ten cents. On Tuesday morning I went to the proprietor of
the Opera House, in Atchison, and inquired how much money was necessary
to secure the use of the building for the next evening. "Fifty
dollars," was his reply. I gave him all the money I had, and persuaded
him to trust me for the rest. I informed him that I was going to deliver
a lecture on my prison life. He asked if I thought anybody would come to
hear a convict talk. In answer, I told him that was the most important
question that was agitating my mind at the present moment, and if he
would let me have the use of the Opera House we would soon settle that
question. I further told him that if the receipts of the evening were
not enough to pay him for the use of the house, that I would pay him as
soon as possible. He let me have the use of the house. I advertised in
the daily papers of the city that I would lecture in the Opera House the
following evening on my prison life,--admission fifty cents. I thought
if the good people wanted to come at all they would come even if they
had to pay well for it. I was very restless from the morning that I
engaged the Opera House until the next evening, at which time I was to
speak. I did not know whether I would have any audience. If not, I was
fifty dollars deeper in debt. The evening for the lecture came, I went
to the Opera House prepared to interest anyone that might put in an
appearance; I entered the building in the rear, and took my position on
the platform. The signal was given and up went the curtain. I was highly
pleased when I saw my audience. The building was packed. The lecture was
a financial success. In this manner I secured a nice "stake" for future
use. I delivered that lecture for several weeks in Kansas, and made a
thousand dollars above expenses. To return to my first afternoon in
the cell. I thought of another scheme. I conceived the idea that a book
about, a penitentiary, giving its history, and also the history of many
of the leading criminals, modes of punishment, escapes, etc., would be
very interesting, and would sell. I decided to write such a book while
in prison. In order to write a book it became necessary to have
writing material. How was I to secure this? It was against the prison
regulations for a prisoner to have a lead-pencil or scrap of paper. The
officials were very strict on this point. It was essential they should
be. If the prisoners could pass notes, it would not be long before a
prison insurrection would be the result. The plan that I adopted to
secure writing material was rather unique, and perhaps the reader will
like to know how I managed this difficult matter. It is wonderful what a
man can accomplish, with adverse surroundings, if he wills it. As I have
stated before, I had much to do in securing the election of Hon. W. D.
Gilbert to the district judgeship. This made him feel very kind toward
me. He came often to visit me at the prison. One day while visiting me,
I asked him to use his influence with the warden to secure for me the
privilege of having writing material in my cell. "What do you want with
writing material," said he. The answer I gave was, that I might pass
away my leisure hours in learning to write short-hand. He called on
Warden Smith, and got his consent. He told the warden that if I would
master this useful art while in prison, on my release, he would appoint
me his district court reporter, at a salary Of $2,500 a year. The scheme
was a success. I sent and got my short-hand books and writing material.
I mastered short-hand, and can now write as fast as one would care to
dictate. It was not long before I began writing my book in short-hand.
The officials, as was their custom, would examine my cell daily to see
if anything had crept in that did not belong there. They could not read
short-hand. They did not know what so many little straight marks and
curves indicated. I persevered, and one month before my time expired
I had my book completed, and sent it out by a friend who visited the
prison, who kept it for me until I secured my liberty. As before stated,
I lectured until I got money sufficient, and then I published my first
book on prisons, giving it the impressive title of "A Kansas Hell." This
book sold rapidly, and soon the first edition was disposed of. I made
enough money out of this book to place me on my feet, financially. But,
to return to my cell the first afternoon. I remained alone until time
for the prisoners to come in from their work, when I found that I was to
have a "life man" for my cell-mate, whose name was Woodward R. Lopeman.
I have given his history in a subsequent chapter. I remained in my cell
during the evening, until the prison bell rang for retiring. Strange to
say, after going to bed, I soon fell asleep, and did not awake until the
prison bell rang on the following morning. When I did awake, it was to
find myself, not in my own pleasant little home in the city of Atchison,
Kansas, but in a felon's cell. I arose and dressed, and then waited and
wondered what would be the next thing on the programme.



CHAPTER II. THE COAL MINES

I was next taken to the coal mines. These mines are located just outside
of the prison enclosure, and are surrounded by high stone walls and
stone buildings, which, by their location, take the place of walls. The
coal yards are separated from the prison campus by a partition wall,
which constitutes the south wall of the coal department and the north
wall of the prison.

Passing from one of these departments to the other, through a large
gateway, the gate being kept by a convict, an old man who murdered his
son, and who has a life sentence. Reader, how would you like to spend
your entire life, day after day, week after week, month after month,
year after year, in the monotonous employment of opening and closing a
large gate? When my escort and myself reached the mines, I was placed
in charge of Mr. Dodds, the official in control of the mines at the
surface. Mr. Dodds is a very competent officer, and has been on duty at
that place more than twenty years. From this officer I received a mining
cap. This piece of head-wear was turban-shaped, striped, of course, with
a leather frontlet, on which was fastened the mining lamp. This lamp, in
shape, resembled an ordinary tea-pot, only it was much smaller. In place
of the handle was a hook, which fastened to the leather frontlet. The
bowl of the lamp contained the oil; a wick passes up through the spout,
at the end of which is the light. The miner carrying his lamp in
this position has it out of his way. With the cap on my head and lamp
lighted, I stood on the verge of a ten by twelve hole in the earth, that
was almost eight hundred feet deep. We think that a well one hundred
feet deep is quite a distance down into the ground, but here was a
hole eight times deeper. In the mining vernacular this hole is termed a
shaft--the term that will be employed in speaking of it hereafter. There
are two of these shafts, about one hundred yards apart. Each shaft is
divided by a wooden partition which descends from the top to the bottom.
Two elevators, or cages, as they are called, ascend and descend along
the shaft. While one cage is coming up the other is going down. They
derive their motor power from two large engines, one for each shaft. The
officer in charge inquired, before making my descent into the mines, if
I ever fainted. "Never," was my reply. Persons sometimes faint in going
down this shaft. "Step into the cage," was the order given. I obeyed,
and, reaching up, took hold of some iron bars that went across the top.
The signal was given, down I started. After I had descended a few feet
a current of air coming up from below put out my light, which left me in
the darkness of an Egyptian night. Down, down, down I went. There are a
great many things in life that I have forgotten. There are a great many
more that I expect to forget, but that first ride down the coal shaft
I never can forget. Thug! I had struck bottom. It is said that when
one starts down hill in this world he keeps on going until he strikes
bottom. My readers will certainly agree with me that reaching a resting
place eight hundred feet under the surface I had found the lowest round
of the ladder. Whatever I may be in the future, to whatever heights
I may ascend, I shall not forget that my starting point was nearly a
thousand feet under the Kansas penitentiary. Water seeks its level. You
may force one below the surface, and to whatever depth you please, to
the extent of your power, but if he does not belong there, you cannot
keep him down: in the course of time he will rise.

It was six long, dreary months before I was able to reach the first
round in the ladder. Through that period I lay in the penitentiary
mines, or at the bottom of "The Kansas Hell." It is said the old
fashioned Hell has fire and brimstone; while the "Kansas Hell" has no
fire, one thing is certain, it has plenty of material out of which to
make it, and an abundant supply of sulphur.

At the end of my descent I found an officer there on duty. He told me
to step off and occupy a seat on a small bench near by. He desired
to impart some information. He advised me that while I was there, a
convict, it would not be proper to assume the warden's privileges or
endeavor to discharge his duties. In other words, the best thing to do
was to keep my place, revolve about in my own orbit, carefully regarding
all laws, both centripetal and centrifugal; otherwise, I might burst by
the natural pressure of too highly confined interior forces! I confess
that, though not subject to such infliction, I very nearly fainted over
these ponderous polysyllables! He also informed me that the beautifully
paved highway to popularity in the coal mines was to excavate large
quantities of the carboniferous substance contained in the subterranean
passages of the mine; the more coal I got out the more popular would I
be!

After his lecture was over the officer gave a low whistle, and out from
a dark recess there emerged a convict in his stripes. His face and hands
were covered with coal dust. He came out grinning, showing his white
teeth. As I caught sight of him I thought, surely, this is a fiend from
the lower regions. Take one of those prisoners with his striped clothes,
a light burning on his head, his face black and shining like ebony,
behold him in the weird darkness of the mines, and if he does not call
to your mind the picture of one of the imps of Eternal Night there
is nothing in this world that will. This prisoner was the runner or
messenger for this officer at the foot of the shaft. Each officer in the
penitentiary who has charge of a division of men has a messenger to run
errands for him. When this messenger came up to the officer he made his
obeisance. Convicts are taught to observe good manners in the presence
of the officials. He was told to take me to another officer in a distant
part of the mines, a Mr. Johns, who would give me work. From the foot of
the shaft there go out in almost all directions, roadways or "entries."
These underground roadways are about six feet in width and height. I
could walk erect in most of them. Along these entries was a car track,
over which the small coal cars pass to and from the rooms where the coal
is taken out, to the shaft, and hoisted to the top with their load of
coal. Some of these entries extend more than a mile out into the earth
from the base of the shaft. As my fellow-prisoner and I were passing
along one of these roadways to the place where I was to work, he asked
me my name and the nature of my offense. At this place let me inform,
the reader that the prisoners are given permission to converse with each
other in the mines. Their instructions are to the effect that they are
not to talk about anything but their work, but in the penitentiary the
same rule holds good as on the outside: "Give a man an inch and he will
take a yard." So, when permission is given to the convict to talk about
his work, he talks about everything else. In answer to my escort's
question as to the length of my sentence, I informed him that I had
eighteen months. He dryly remarked that was nothing, and if the judge
who sent me up could not give me a longer term than that, he should have
sent me home to my family. He also remarked that he was afraid I would
get into trouble in the mines on account of my short sentence. There
were a great many long-term fellows down there, who were envious of
short-term men, and were likely to put up jobs on them by reporting
their mistakes and violations of regulations to the officer in charge,
and thus get them punished. I informed my guide that I thought I would
get along some way with the prisoners, and keep out of trouble. I then
inquired of him as to the length of his sentence.

"Twenty-five stretches," was his reply. I did not know what he meant by
the term "stretches" and asked for information. "That is the prison term
for years, a stretch meaning a year," was his reply. I learned that my
companion, having twenty-five stretches, was carrying about with him a
twenty-five years' sentence. A quarter of a century in prison! This was
a young man. He had been in the prison for three years. When he entered
this living tomb he had the bloom of youth upon his cheek. When he goes
out, at the end of his term, if he lives so long, he will be an old,
broken down man. He will not be likely to live that long. The average
life of a convict is but fourteen years under the most favorable
surroundings, but in the coal mines it cannot exceed five years at most.

Let me tell you of this man's crime, and then you can determine for
yourself how easy it is to get in the penitentiary. This young fellow is
the son of one of the most respectable farmers in the State. He attended
a dance one night in company with some of the neighbor boys at a village
near by. While there, he got under the influence of strong drink, became
involved in a quarrel over one of the numbers with the floor managers,
and in the fight that ensued he drew his knife and disemboweled the man
with whom he was fighting. In a few moments the wounded man died.
The young fellow was tried, convicted of murder, and sent to the
penitentiary for twenty-five years at hard labor. It is awful to
contemplate. Young man, as you read this, had you not better make
up your mind to go rather slow in pouring whisky down your throat in
future?

As we passed along through the mines I thought about that word
"stretch," and as I did not like the idea of having jobs put up on me,
came to the conclusion that I would render myself popular by telling the
prisoners in the mines who might ask me as to my sentence, that I had
eighteen "stretches." I did not think that calling a month a "stretch"
would be "stretching" my conscience to such a degree as to cause me
any particular distress, for I knew that by the time I had served out a
month it would seem equivalent to a year on the outside.

After following along the entry for some distance, almost a mile, we
came to that portion of the mines where I was to work. Coming up to the
place where the officer was seated, the headquarters of this division,
my guide made a low bow, and informed the officer in charge that he had
brought him a man. Then bowing himself out, he returned to his place at
the foot of the shaft.

The officer in whose division I was to work now signaled his messenger,
and there came out of the darkness another convict, stripes, cap, lamp
and all.

"Get Reynolds a set of mining tools," said the officer.

These were soon brought, and consisted of a pick, a short-handled
shovel, two iron wedges and a sledge hammer.

"Take him," said the officer, "to room number three, and tell George
Mullen, who is working in that room, to teach him how to mine."

I got my arms around those implements of coal warfare, and following my
escort, passed along the entry for some distance, possibly two hundred
yards, when the roadway in which we were walking suddenly terminated,
and instead, there was a small hole that went further on into the earth.
When we came to this place my guide dropped down on his hands and knees
and passed into the room. I halted. I had never been in such a place
before. I did not know what there was in that dark hole. Soon my escort
called out, "Come along, there is nothing in here to hurt you." So I
dropped down on my hands and knees and into the dark hole I went.

These rooms where the miners work are about twenty-eight inches in
height, twenty-four inches wide, and about fifty feet long. Think of
working in such a place as that! Oh, how often have I sighed for room
enough to spread myself! How I would have made that coal fly had the
vein been on top where I could have stood on my feet and mined. George
Mullen, the convict who was to teach me to mine, was at the farther end
of the room at work when we entered. We crawled on our hands and knees
to him, and when my guide had delivered his message he withdrew and
hastened back to his headquarters near the stand where his officer sat.

After he had gone and my room-mate and myself were left alone, about the
first question that George asked me was, "How long have you got?"

"Eighteen stretches," was my quick reply.

George loved me dearly from that moment. I very soon discovered that I
was very popular with him on account of my long sentence.

"How long are you in for?" said I to him.

"Always," was his answer.

He was a life prisoner. At one time he was marshal of a Kansas town, and
while acting in that capacity he killed his man. He was trying to arrest
him, so he informed me, and the fellow showed fight, when he took
out his gun and shot him. It was claimed by the authorities that the
shooting was unprovoked, and that the man could have been arrested
without killing him. Aside from the fact that he had killed his man, I
must say that I never met a man for whom I had a higher regard. He was
very kind to me, very patient, and made my work as easy for me as he
possibly could. I remained with him for nearly a month, when, having
learned the business, I was taken to another part of the mines and given
a task.

"Have you ever mined any?" inquired my instructor.

"No; I never was in a coal mine before coming here."

He then gave me my first lesson in mining. I lay on my right side in
obedience to his orders, stretched out at full length. The short-handled
shovel was inverted and placed under my right shoulder. This lifted my
shoulder up from the ground a little distance and I was thus enabled
to strike with my pick. The vein of coal is about twenty-two inches in
thickness. We would mine out the dirt, or fire-clay as it was called,
from under the coal to the distance of two feet, or the length of a
pick-handle, and to the depth of some six inches. We would then set our
iron wedges in above the vein of coal, and with the sledge hammer
would drive them in until the coal would drop down. Imagine my forlorn
condition as I lay therein that small room. It was as dark down there
as night but for the feeble light given out by the mining lamp; the room
was only twenty-eight inches from the floor to the ceiling, and then
above the ceiling there were eight hundred feet of mother earth. Two
feet from the face of the coal, and just back of where I lay when
mining, was a row of props that held up the roof and kept it from
falling in upon me. The loose dirt which we picked out from under the
coal vein was shoveled back behind the props. This pile of dirt, in
mining language, is called the "gob." I began operations at once. I
worked away with all my might for an hour or more, picking out the dirt
from under the coal. Then I was tired completely out. I rolled over on
my back, and, with my face looking up to the pile of dirt, eight hundred
feet thick, that shut out from me the light of day, I rested for awhile.
I had done no physical work for ten years. I was physically soft. To
put me down in the mines and set me to digging coal was wicked. It was
murder. Down in that dark pit how I suffered! There was no escape from
it. There was the medicine. I had to take it. I do not know, but it
seems to me that when a man is sent to that prison who has not been in
the habit of performing physical labor, he should not be put to work
in the mines until he becomes accustomed to manual labor. It would seem
that it would be nothing more than right to give him an easier task at
first and let him gradually become hardened to his work at coal digging.
Nothing of this kind is done. The young, the old, the middle-aged are
indiscriminately and unceremoniously thrust into the mine. Down there
are nearly five hundred prisoners. Among them are boys from seventeen to
twenty years of age, many of whom are in delicate health. Here are to
be found old men, in some cases sixty years of age. I do not wish to
be understood as casting any reflections upon the officers of this
institution. They cannot help these things. If Warden Smith could avoid
it there would not be a single man sent down to that region of death.
The mines are there and must be worked. Let this blame fall where it
belongs. I must say injustice to our common humanity, that to work these
two classes, the boys and old men, in those coal mines is a burning
shame and outrage. It is bad enough, as the sequel will show, to put
able-bodied, middle-aged men to work in that pit. The great State of
Kansas has opened those mines. Her Legislature has decided to have them
worked. It becomes the duty, therefore, of the prison directors to work
them as long as they are instructed to do so, even if scores of human
beings are maimed for life or murdered outright each year. The blame
cannot rest on the prison officials, but upon our lawmakers.



CHAPTER III. THE COAL MINES (Continued)

After we had mined some twenty-five feet we took down the coal. To do
this the wedges are set and driven in at the top of the vein of coal,
with the sledge hammer. After my companion had struck the coal several
times it began to pop and crack as if it would fall at any moment. I
became alarmed. I was never in such a place before, and I said: "George,
had I not better get out of this place? I don't want the coal to fall on
me the first day." His reply was, that if I wanted to learn how to mine
I must remain near the coal and take my chances of being killed. This
was indeed comforting! Then he informed me that he was going to knock on
the coal and wanted me to catch the sound that was produced. He thumped
away, and I got the sound--a dull, heavy thud. Now, says he, "when coal
sounds in that manner it is not ready to drop." So he continued to pound
away at it. The more he pounded the more the coal cracked and the more
alarmed I became. I was afraid it would drop at any moment and crush me.
I begged of him to cease pounding until I got into the entry out of the
way of danger. He tried to make me believe there was no danger. I was
hard to convince of that fact. There I lay stretched out on my side next
to the coal, he driving in the wedges, and the coal seeming to me to
be ready to drop at each stroke of the hammer. "Now listen," said
he, "while I knock on the coal once more." I listened. The sound was
altogether different from the first. "Now," said he, "the coal is about
ready to fall." It is necessary for the miner to know this part of his
business. It is by the sound that he determines when it is ready to
fall. If he is ignorant of this part of his work, he would be in great
danger of getting killed from the coal falling unexpectedly. "Well,"
said I, "if this coal is about ready to drop, had I not better get out
of here into the entry, so that I may be out of danger?" "No," was his
reply; "just crawl up behind that row of props and remain in the 'gob'
until after the coal falls." In obedience to his command I cheerfully
got up behind the props and embraced that pile of dirt. He struck the
wedges a few more blows and then darted behind the props out of danger.
No sooner had he got out of the way than the coal came thundering down.
"Now," said my room-mate "go out into the entry and bring in the buggy."
"All right." And out I went on my hands and knees. I soon found my way
into the entry, but found no buggy; so back I crawled into the room and
reported. At this my instructor crawled out to see what had become of
that singular vehicle known as a mining buggy. I followed after. I did
not want to remain behind in that coal mine. I did not know what might
happen should I be left there in that dark hole alone. After we had
reached the entry where we could stand erect my teacher pointed to an
object which lay close to our feet, and said to me, "Man, where are your
eyes?" "In my head," I calmly replied. "Do you see that thing there?"
"Of course I see that thing." "Well, that is the buggy." "Indeed!" I
exclaimed. "I am certainly glad to know it, for I never would have taken
that for a buggy." It had a pair of runners which were held in their
places by a board being nailed across them. On this was a small box; at
one end there was a short iron handle. On our knees we pushed the buggy
into the room, took up the hammer, broke up the coal into lumps we
could handle, filled up the small box, dragged it out into the entry and
emptied it into a heap. This is called "buggying" coal. It is the most
laborious part of mining. Whenever a new man would be placed with the
convicts for instructions in mining he would have to buggy coal just as
long as it was possible to get him to do so. After a time, however, he
would want to take turn about with his teacher.

After we had finished getting out what we had down the noon hour had
arrived. At certain places in the entries or roadways there are large
wooden doors which, when shut, close up the entire passage. These doors
are for the regulations of the currents of air which pass through the
mines. The loud noise produced by pounding on one of these doors was
the signal for dinner. It was now noon. Bang, bang, bang, bang, went the
door. I had now put in one-half day of my sentence in the mines. Oh! the
many long, dreary, monotonous days I passed after that! At the call for
dinner the convict, ALWAYS HUNGRY, suddenly drops his tools and makes
his way at a rapid pace along the entry until he comes to the place
where the division officer has his headquarters. Arriving at this place
each convict takes his position in a line with his fellow-convicts.
All talking now ceases. They sit on the ground while eating, with their
lower limbs crossed. There are no soft cushioned chairs on which the
tired prisoner may rest his weary limbs. When seated, a small piece of
pine board, about a foot square, is placed across his knees. This is
the table. No table cloth, no napkins, no table linen of any kind. Such
articles as these would paralyze a convict! Thus seated in two rows
along the sides of the entry, with their mining lamps lighted and
hanging in their caps, they present a weird and interesting sight. The
dinner had been brought down from the top about an hour before on coal
cars. Three of the prisoners are now detailed to act as waiters. One
passes down between the two rows of convicts, carrying in his hand a
wooden pail filled with knives and forks. These culinary instruments
have iron handles. Were they made of wood or horn, the convicts would
soon break off the handles and make trinkets out of them. This waiter,
passing along, drops a knife and fork on each table. He is followed by
another who drops down a piece of corn bread; then another with a piece
of meat for each man, which he places on the pine board. There is no
"Please pass the meat," or "Hand over the bread." Not a word is spoken.
After the knives and forks have been passed around this waiter returns
and gives each man a quart of water. THIS IS DINNER. The bill of fare is
regular, and consists of cold water, corn bread and meat. Occasionally
we have dessert of cold cabbage, or turnips or cracked corn. When we
have these luxuries they are given to us in rotation, and a day always
intervenes between cabbage and turnips. In the coal mines the prisoner
never washes himself before eating. Although he gets his hands and face
as black as the coal he has been digging, yet he does not take time to
wash himself before eating. Reader, how would you like to dine in this
condition? The old saying is, we must all eat our "peck of dirt." I
think I have consumed at least two bushels and a half! I can never
forget my first meal in the mines. I was hungry, it was true, but I
couldn't manage to eat under the circumstances. I sat there on the
ground, and in silence watched the other prisoners eat. I thought,
"You hogs! I can never get so hungry as to eat as you are now eating."
In this I was mistaken. Before ten days had gone by I could eat along
with any of them. The first day I thought I would do without my dinner,
and when supper time came go to the top and enjoy a fine meal. I
imagined that after digging coal all day they would surely give us a
good meal in the evening. My mouth "watered" for some quail on toast, or
a nice piece of tenderloin, with a cup of tea. Think of my surprise,
when hoisted to the top at the close of day, after marching into the
dining-room and taking our places at the table, when I saw all that was
put before the prisoners was a piece of bread, a cup of tea without
sugar or milk, and two tablespoonfuls of sorghum molasses. It did not
require a long time for me to dispose of the molasses, as I was very
hungry, and handed up my cup for an additional supply; this was refused.
It is considered in the penitentiary an excess of two tablespoonfuls of
sorghum is unhealthy! There is danger of its burning out the stomach! So
at each supper after that I had to get along with two spoonfuls. As far
as the tea was concerned, it was made of some unknown material whose
aroma was unfamiliar to my olfactory; the taste was likewise unfamiliar,
and in consequence of these peculiarities of the prison tea I never
imbibed of it but the one time, that being amply sufficient to last
through the entire period of my confinement. From that day on I took
cold water, which, after all, is God's best beverage for the human race.
The penitentiary, so far as I know, is the only place in the State of
Kansas where prohibition actually works prohibition as contemplated by
the laws of the State! There are no "joints" in the Pen. No assistant
attorney generals are necessary to enforce prohibition there. I never
saw a drunken man in the prison. The Striped Temperance Society of
Kansas is a success.

For breakfast in the prison we have hash, bread, and a tin cup of
coffee, without sugar or milk; no butter, no meat. The hash is made of
the pieces of bread and meat left over from the preceding day. We had it
every day in the year for breakfast. During my entire time in the prison
I had nothing for breakfast but hash. One day I was talking to an old
murderer who had been there for eighteen years, and he told me he had
eaten hash for his breakfast during his entire term--six thousand five
hundred and seventy days. I looked at the old man and wondered to myself
whether he was a human being or a pile of hash, half concluding that he
was the latter!

In conversation with the chaplain of the prison I received the following
anecdote, which I will relate for the benefit of my readers. It is
customary in the prison, after the Sunday exercises, for such as
desire to remain and hold a sort of class meeting, or, as some call it,
experience meeting. In one of these, an old colored man arose, and said:
"Breddren, ebber since Ize been in dis prison Ize been tryin' to git de
blessin'; Ize prayed God night and day. Ize rascelled wid de Almighty
'till my hips was sore, but Ize nebber got it. Some sez its la'k ob
faith. Some its la'k of strength, but I b'l'eves de reason am on 'count
ob de quality ob dis hash we hab ebbery day!"

Accidents are occurring almost daily. Scarcely a day passes but what
some man receives injuries. Often very severe accidents happen, and
occasionally those which prove fatal. Many men are killed outright.
These accidents are caused by the roof of the little room in which the
miner works falling in upon him, and the unexpected drop of coal. Of
course there are many things that contribute to accidents, such as bad
machinery, shafts, dirt rolling down, landslides, etc.

One day there was a fellow-prisoner working in the room adjoining me; he
complained to the mining boss that he did not want to go into that
room to work because he thought it was dangerous. The officer in charge
thought differently, and told him to go in there and go to work or he
would report him. The prisoner hadn't been in the place more than a half
hour before the roof fell and buried him. It took some little time to
get him out. When the dirt was removed, to all appearances he was dead.
He was carried to the hospital on a stretcher, and the prison physician,
Doctor Neeally, examined him, and found that both arms were broken in
two places, his legs both broken, and his ribs crushed. The doctor,
who is a very eminent and successful surgeon, resuscitated him, set his
broken bones, and in a few weeks what was thought to be a dead man, was
able to move about the prison enclosure, although one of his limbs was
shorter than the other, and he was rendered a cripple for life.

On another occasion a convict was standing at the base of the shaft. The
plumb-bob, a piece of lead about the size of a goose egg, accidentally
fell from the top of the shaft, a distance of eight hundred feet,
and, striking this colored man on the head, it mashed his skull, and
bespattered the walls with his brains.

I had three narrow escapes from death. One day I lay in my little room
resting, and after spending some time stretched out upon the ground,
I started off to another part of my room to go to work, when all of a
sudden the roof fell in, and dropped down just where I had been lying.
Had I remained a minute longer in that place, I would have been killed.
As it happened, the falling debris just struck my shoe as I was crawling
out from the place where the material fell.

At another time I had my room mined out and was preparing to take down
the coal. I set my wedges in a certain place above the vein of coal and
began to strike with my sledge hammer, when I received a presentiment
to remove my wedges from that place to another. Now I would not have
the reader believe that I was in any manner superstitious, but I was so
influenced by that presentiment that I withdrew my wedges and set them
in another place; then I proceeded to strike them a second time with the
sledge hammer, when, unexpectedly, the vein broke and the coal fell
just opposite to where my head was resting, and came within an inch of
striking it. Had I remained in the place where I first set my wedges,
the coal would have fallen upon me; it had been held in its place by a
piece of sulphur, and when it broke, it came down without giving me any
warning.

On still another occasion, my mining boss came to my room and directed
me to go around to another part of the mine and assist two prisoners who
were behind with their work. I obeyed. I hadn't been out of my room more
than about half an hour when there occurred a land-slide in it, which
filled the room entirely full of rock, slate and coal. It required
several men some two weeks to remove the amount of debris that had
fallen on that occasion. Had I been in there, death would have been
certain at that time.

Gentle reader, let me assure you, that although some persons
misunderstanding me, assert that I am without belief in anything, yet
I desire to say, when reflecting upon these providential deliverances,
that I believe in the Eternal Will that guides, directs, controls and
protects the children of men. While many of my fellow-prisoners were
maimed for life and some killed outright, I walked through that valley
and shadow of death without even a hair of my head being injured. Why
was this? My answer is the following: Over in the State of Iowa, among
the verdant hills of that beautiful commonwealth, watching the shadows
as they longer grow, hair whitened with the frosts of many seasons,
heart as pure as an angel's, resides my dear old mother. I received a
letter from her one day, and among other things was the following:

  "I love you now in your hour of humiliation and disgrace as I did
  when you were a prattling babe upon my knee.

  *    *    *

  "I would also have you remember that every night before I retire to
  rest, kneeling at my bedside, I ask God to take care of and watch
  over my boy."

Of the nine hundred convicts in the penitentiary not one of their
mothers ever forgot or deserted them. A mother's prayers always follow
her prodigal children. Go, gather the brightest and purest flowers that
bend and wave in the winds of heaven, the roses and lilies, the green
vine and immortelles, wreathe them in a garland, and with this crown the
brow of the truest of all earthly friends--Mother! Another reason I give
for my safe keeping in that hour of darkness and despair: In the city of
Atchison, on a bed of pain and anguish, lay my true, devoted and dying
wife. Every Sunday morning regularly would I receive a letter dictated
by her. Oh! the tender, loving words! "Every day," said she, "I pray
that God will preserve your life while working in the jaws of death."
The true and noble wife, the helpmeet of man, clings to him in the hour
of misfortune and calamity as the vine clings to the tree when prostrate
on the ground. No disgrace can come so shameful that it will cause the
true wife to forsake. She will no more forsake than the true soldier
will desert on the battlefield. For those imps in human form that
endeavor to detract from the honor belonging to the wives of the country
there ought to be no commiseration whatever. Let us honor the wifehood
of our native land. It is the fountain of all truth and righteousness,
and if the fountain should become impure, all is lost. One more
reason: Before I was sent to the prison I was an evangelist, and was
instrumental in the hands of God of persuading hundreds of people
to abandon a wicked life and seek the good. During my imprisonment I
received many letters from these men and women who had been benefited on
account of what I had said to them, and they informed me that they still
retained confidence in me and were praying God for my deliverance.

Now, I believe, in answer to a mother's prayers, in answer to the
prayers of my sainted wife, in answer to the prayers of good men and
women, who were converts to "the faith once delivered to the saints"
under my earnest endeavors--in answer to all these prayers, God lent a
listening ear and preserved me from all harm and danger.


PATHETIC OCCURRENCES IN THE MINES

It is a great consolation for prisoners to receive letters from their
friends. One day a convict working in the next room to me inquired if I
would like to see a letter. I replied I would. He had just received one
from his wife. This prisoner was working out a sentence of five years.
He had been in the mines some two years. At home, he had a wife and five
children. They were in destitute circumstances. In this letter his wife
informed him that she had been taking in washing for the support of
herself and children, and that at times they had to retire early because
they had no fuel to keep them warm. Also, that, on several occasions,
she had been compelled to put the children to bed without supper. But
this noble woman stated to her husband that their lot was not so bad as
his. She encouraged him to bear up under his burdens, and that the time
would soon come when his sentence would expire and he would be permitted
to return home again, and that the future would be bright once more
as it had been before the unfortunate circumstances that led to his
imprisonment. It was a good letter, written by a noble woman. A couple
of days after this, as I was mining, I heard a voice in the adjoining
room. I listened. At first I thought it was the mining boss, but I soon
discovered I was mistaken. Listening again I came to the conclusion
that the convict who was working in the next room was becoming insane, a
frequent occurrence in the mines. Many of the poor convicts being unable
to stand the strain of years and the physical toil, languish and die in
the insane ward. To satisfy my curiosity, I took my mining lamp from my
cap, placed it on the ground, covered it up as best I could with some
pieces of slate, and then crawled up in the darkness near where he
was. I never saw such a sight as was now presented to me. This
broad-shouldered convict on his knees, with his frame bent over, his
face almost touching the floor of the room, was praying for his wife and
children. Such a prayer I never heard before, nor do I expect to hear
again. His petition was something like the following:

"Oh, Heavenly Father, I am myself a wicked, desperate man. I do not
deserve any love or protection for my own sake. I do not expect it,
but for the sake of Jesus do have mercy on my poor wife and helpless
children."

I have been able, many times in my life, to spend an hour or more in the
prayer circle, and, unmoved, could listen to the prayers of the children
of God. But I could not remain there in the darkness and listen to such
a prayer as that going forth from the lips of that poor convict; so I
glided back through the darkness into my own room, and left him there
alone, pleading with his Creator for his lone and helpless ones at home.

Reader, did God listen to the wails of that poor heart-stricken
prisoner? Yes! yes! yes! For though a prodigal, sinful child, yet he is
still a child of the universal Father. Who of us dare excommunicate him?
What frail mortal of passing time would dare lift up his hand and say,
this poor wanderer is forgotten of his God?

What a glorious privilege is communion with God. What a sweet
consolation to know God hears, though we may be far removed from the
dear ones we love. And who can tell the glorious things that have been
wrought by the wonderful Father of the race by that strong lever of
prayer. How often has the rough ways of life been made smooth. How often
do we fail to credit the same to the kind intercession of friends with
the Father of us all.

But to continue, it often happens that in the coal mines, persons,
no longer able to sustain the heavy load that is placed upon them of
remaining in prison for a long time, give way, and they become raving
maniacs. One day a prisoner left his room, and crawling out on his hands
and knees into the entry, sat down on a pile of coal and commenced to
sing. He had a melodious voice, and these were the words, the first
stanza of that beautiful hymn:

  "Jesus, lover of my soul,
    Let me to Thy bosom fly."

After he had completed the first stanza two of the officers came to him
and directed him to go back into the room to work. He replied that he
did not have to work; that he had religion, and that when a man had
religion he did not have to work. Said he, "We are now going to have
a prayer meeting, and" addressing one of the officers, "you you will
please lead us in prayer." The officer replied, "I don't pray in coal
mines; I pray above the surface so that God can hear." At this the
insane convict picked up a large piece of coal and was going to hurl it
after him, and threatened that if he did not get on his knees and go to
praying he would compel him to do so. While he was thus addressing
one officer the other slipped around in his rear and striking his arm
knocked the piece of coal out of his hand. Then the officers seized him,
one on each side, and forced him to go with them down the roadways to
the shaft, from whence he was taken to the top and placed in the insane
ward, where he remains at this writing. As he was passing down the
entries, away in the distance we heard him singing--

  "Other refuge have I none,
    Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.
  Leave, oh leave me not alone,
    Still support and comfort me."

I can never forget the impression made upon me as those words rang down
through the dark passages, coming from the lips of that insane
convict as they led him away from the confinement of the mines to the
confinement of insanity. How true those beautiful words were in his
case!


THE COAL MINES A COLLEGE OF INFAMY

The mines of this Penal institution are a college for the education
and graduation of hardened criminals, and for illustration, and the
instruction of those not familiar with the subject matter referred to,
I will relate what came under my personal observation, and some things
that I heard while in there. One day, in company with me while engaged
in mining, were two other convicts. One of these was a hardened old
crook. He was serving out a term on the charge of making and passing
counterfeit money. The other fellow-convict was a young man seventeen
years of age--a mere boy. Tired of mining, we laid off awhile, resting.
During this time the old convict gave us instructions in the manner
of making counterfeit money. He told us how he would construct his
counterfeit molds out of plaster paris, which he would use in the same
manner that bullet molds are used. He would purchase some britannica
metal. On some dark night he would go into the forest, build up a fire,
melt the metal, pour the melted liquor into the molds, and in this
manner make silver dollars. He informed us that it didn't take very long
to make a hatful of money. A few days thereafter this young man, who was
with us in the room at the time, informed me that when he went out again
into the world, if he was unable to secure work, he would try his hand
at making counterfeit money. I advised him not to do this, as it was
almost a certainty that he would be detected. He thought differently.
About a month thereafter he was released from the prison. He went out
into the world, and, unable to obtain work, DID try his hand at making
counterfeit money. Shortly before my time expired here came this young
man to prison again, with a sentence of three years at hard labor for
making and passing counterfeit money. He had received his criminal
instruction in the penitentiary mines, the result of which will be that
he will spend the greater portion of his life a convict.

There are a great many instances where these young convicts, having
received their education in the coal mines, go into the world to become
hardened criminals. Down in this school of crime, in the midst of the
darkness, they learn how to make burglary tools, to crack safes, and to
become expert as pickpockets; they take lessons in confidence games,
and when their time expires they are prepared for a successful career
of crime. It is utterly impossible for the officers of the coal mines to
prevent these men from conversing with each other. If these mines were
sold, and the money obtained from the sale of them was used in building
workhouses on the surface, and these men placed at work there under the
watchful care of the official, they would then be unable to communicate
with each other, and would be saved from the debasing contamination of
the hardened criminals. They would be saved from all this that degrades
and makes heartless wretches.

A scene occurred in the mines one day that illustrates the fact that
judges sometimes, in their anxiety to enforce the laws, overstep the
bounds of justice, and inflict excessive punishment and place burdens
upon human beings which they are unable to bear. One afternoon in the
city of Emporia ten tramps were arrested and thrown into the county
jail. During the succeeding night one of these persons thrust a poker
into the stove, and heating it red hot, made an effort to push the hot
iron through the door, thus burning a large hole in the door-casing.
The next morning the sheriff, entering the jail, perceiving what this
vagrant had done, was displeased, and tried to ascertain which one of
the ten was guilty of the offense. The comrades of the guilty party
refused to disclose the perpetrator of the act. Court was then in
session. The sheriff had these ten fellows brought into court, hoping
that when placed upon the witness stand, under oath, they would tell
which had committed the offense. Even in court they were true to
each other, and would not reveal the perpetrator. They were then all
convicted, and the judge passed a sentence of ten years upon each of
these vagrants for that trivial offense. They came to the penitentiary.
The day after their arrival they were all sent to the coal mines. For
two years they worked day after day down in the Kansas bastile. One
morning, after they had been in the mines for two years, one of the
number, at the breakfast table in the dining-room, unperceived secreted
a knife in his clothing and carried it with him down to his place of
work. He went into his little room and began the labors of the day.
After toiling for a few hours he took a stone and sharpened his knife
the best he possibly could, then stepped out into the entry where he
could stand erect, and with his head thrown back drew that knife across
his throat, cutting it from ear to ear, thus terminating his life,
preferring death to longer remaining in the mines of the Kansas Hell!
Who is there that is not convinced of the fact that the blood of this
suicide stains the garments of the judge who placed this unbearable
burden of ten years upon this young man, and who, I subsequently
learned, was innocent of the offense. I would advise the good people of
Lyons County, and of Emporia particularly, after they have perused this
book, if they come to the conclusion that they have no better material
out of which to construct a district judge, to go out on the frontier
and lassoo a wild Comanche Indian and bring him to Emporia and place him
upon the ermined bench. I do not even know the name of this judge, but
I believe, if I am correctly informed in this case, that his judgment
is deficient somewhere. But I must say in this connection, when the
good people of Lyons County heard of this suicide, they immediately
thereafter petitioned the Board of Pardons for the release of these
prisoners, and the board at once reported favorably upon their cases,
and Governor Martin promptly granted their pardons and they were
released from the prison. If the pardon had not been granted, others of
them had resolved upon taking their lives as did their comrade. One of
these prisoners was for a time a companion of mine in one of my mining
rooms, and told me if he was required to remain in the coal mines
digging coal another three months he had made up his mind to follow the
example of his comrade, preferring death to the horrors of the mines.

For the further information of the reader, as to the dread of the
prisoners of work in the mines, I cite the following which I call to
recollection. The gentlemanly physician of the institution, Dr. Neeally,
told me that at four different times men had feigned death in the mines
and had been carried on stretchers to the hospital; the particulars in
one case is as follows: One of these men feigned death and was carried
to the hospital, and was reported by his comrades to be dead. He had
suppressed his breathing. The physician felt his pulse, and finding it
regular, of course knew he was simply endeavoring to deceive. In order
to experiment, the physician coincided with the statements of the
attending convicts who had carried him from the mines, and announced
that he would try electricity, and if he failed to restore him to life
he would then have to bury him in the regular way. The doctor retired
for the purpose of getting his electrical apparatus. In a few moments
he returned, bringing it with him, and placing the magnetic cups, one in
each hand, commenced generating the electricity by turning the generator
attached to the machine. After a few turns of the crank the prisoner
opened his eyes; one or two more and he sat up; a few more and he stood
on his feet; another turn or two and he commenced dancing around, and
exclaimed, "For God's sake, doctor, do quit, for I ain't dead, but
I can't let loose!" Reader, what do you suppose was the object this
convict had in view in thus feigning death? What did he hope to gain
thereby? Being well acquainted with this prisoner, a few days after the
doctor had told me of the circumstances I met him, and asked him what
object he had in feigning death the time that he was taken from the
mines to the hospital? His reply was that he hadn't the nerve to take
his own life, as he believed in a future state of punishment, and
that he did not desire to step from the Kansas Hell to the hell of the
future, and that by feigning death he hoped to be taken to the hospital,
placed in a coffin, then taken out to the prison graveyard, and buried
alive, so that he would suffocate in his grave!

There is not a man in those mines but would leave them quickly for a
place on the surface.

I now call to mind one instance where a heart-broken father came to
the prison and offered one of the leading prison officials one thousand
dollars if he would take his son out of the coal mines and give him a
place on the surface during the remainder of his term. A man who labors
in these mines simply spends his time, not knowing but the next hour
will be his last.

As I have stated heretofore the prisoners are allowed to converse in the
mines, and as a result of this almost necessary rule, every convict has
an opportunity to listen to the vilest obscenity that ever falls upon
human ears. At times, when some of these convicts, who seem veritable
encyclopedias of wickedness, are crowded together, the ribald jokes,
obscenity and blasphemy are too horrible for description. It is a
pandemonium--a miniature hell! But worse than this horrible flow of
language are the horrible and revolting practices of the mines.
Men, degraded to a plane lower than the brutes, are guilty of the
unmentionable crimes referred to by the Apostle Paul in his letter to
the Romans, chapter I, verse 27, which is as follows: "And likewise also
the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lusts
one toward another, men with men, working that which is unseemly, and
receiving in themselves that recompense of their error which was meet."
Every opportunity is here offered for this vile practice. They are far
removed from the light and even from the influences of their officers,
and in the darkness and silence old and hardened criminals debase and
mistreat themselves and sometimes the younger ones that are associated
with them in their work. These cases of self-abuse and sodomy are of
daily occurrence, and, although the officials of the prison take every
precaution to prevent such evil practices, yet, as a matter of fact,
so long as prisoners are permitted to work in the mines it will be
impossible to break up these terribly degrading and debasing practices.
Oh, Kansan! you that boast of the freedom and liberty, the strength of
your laws, and the institutions in your grand young State, what do you
think of this disclosure of wickedness, equalling if not excelling
the most horrible things ever pictured by the divine teachers of
humanity,--the apostles and their followers? A hint is only here given,
but to the wise it will be sufficient, and but a slight exercise of the
imaginative powers will be necessary to unfold to you the full meaning
of this terrible state of affairs.

It is believed by the writer that if the people of the State of Kansas
knew under what circumstances men in the prison were compelled to work,
there would be a general indignation, which would soon be expressed
through the proper channels, and which might lead to a proper solution
of the difficulty.

In many of the rooms of the mines there are large pools of water which
accumulate there from dripping down from the crevices above; this, taken
in connection with the natural damps of the mines, which increases
the water, makes very large pools, and in these mud-holes convicts are
compelled to work and wallow about all day long while getting out their
coal, more like swine than anything else. How can this be in the line
of reformation, which, we are taught to believe outside of the prison
walls, is the principal effort of all discipline within the prison. The
result of work under such unfavorable circumstances is that many of
the convicts contract rheumatism, neuralgia, pneumonia and other lung
troubles, and, of course, malaria. Many persons that enter these mines
in good health come out physical wrecks, often to find homes in the
poor-houses of the land when their prison days are over, or die before
their terms expire. In the judgment of the writer the coal mines should
be sold; until that is done, prisoners who contract diseases there that
will carry them to untimely graves should be pensioned by the State, and
thus kept from spending the rest of their natural lives in some of the
country poor-houses.

Each person in the mines is assigned a task; he is required to get out a
certain amount of coal each week. In case the convict fails to mine the
task that has been assigned him he must endure punishment, a description
of which will be given later on. It is the opinion of the author that
something should be done to remedy this. The young men from seventeen
to twenty, together with the old men from fifty to sixty, and those
suffering from diseases, are often required to dig as much coal as
middle-aged and able-bodied men. I have seen old men marching to their
cells after a hard day's work scarcely able to walk, and many times have
I laid in the mines along with these young boys who would spend hours
crying like whipped children for fear they would be unable to get
out their regular task of coal, and would therefore have to spend the
Sabbath in the dungeon, suffering unspeakable anguish.

Because of the dangers to which the inmate is exposed; because of the
debasing influences by which lie is surrounded, it is wrong, it is
WICKED to work our criminals in such a place as those mines of the
Kansas penitentiary.



CHAPTER IV. THE PUNISHMENTS OF THE PRISON

The discipline of this institution is of the very highest character,
and is unequaled in any similar institution of the United States. The
officers are very watchful and strict. The inmates who work on the
surface are not permitted to converse with each other only within the
hearing of an officer, and then only with regard to matters that pertain
to work. The convict attends to his duties, observing the strictest
silence. When visitors pass about the prison the inmate is not permitted
to lift up his head to gaze at them. Not even is he permitted to take
a drink of water or to leave his place of work for anything without the
permission of the officer in charge. As soon as a criminal enters the
prison and is clothed in stripes, a copy of the rules and regulations
is placed in his hands for perusal. If he cannot read, an officer reads
them to him. On the first day of his admission the prisoner receives
certain tickets, which are permits for privileges granted to him. One
of these tickets allows him to have tobacco if he used the same before
coming to the penitentiary; one allows him to receive visits from his
friends; another to write a letter, monthly, to his relatives; and still
another gives him the privilege to draw a book from the library, weekly.
These privileges are highly appreciated by the prisoners. For the first
offense in violation of any of the rules and regulations the refractory
prisoner is deprived of his ticket; and in extreme cases these tickets
have been kept from the prisoner for six months. To deprive the convict
of his tobacco for a month or two, if he uses it, and many do, is a
severe punishment. This kind of punishment is usually effectual in
securing good discipline. There are extreme cases, however, that require
severer punishment. To meet this contingency, dungeons are provided. As
their name implies, they are dark. They resemble an ordinary cell with
the exception of the door, which, in the common cell, contains open
spaces for the admission of light; but the dark cell admits neither
light nor a sufficient quantity of air. There is no furniture in this
dark cell. While undergoing punishment, if a prisoner desires to rest,
he can do so by reclining on the stone floor. No refractory prisoner
ever grows corpulent while confined in these dark cells, as he only
receives one meal of bread and water in twenty-four hours! The prisoner
is often kept in these cells from eight to ten days. Sleep is almost
impossible. When a prisoner enters the dungeon he is required to leave
behind him his coat, cap and shoes. During the winter months it is often
very cold in these cells, requiring the prisoner to walk up and down
the dungeon in his stocking feet to prevent his freezing, and this for
a period of ten days, in nearly every instance compels submission. After
the dark cells thaw out, during the summer months, they are excessively
hot. Sometimes in winter the temperature is below zero, and in summer
it often rises to one hundred degrees. They are then veritable furnaces.
Generally, after the prisoner undergoes the freezing or baking process
for eight or ten days, he is willing to behave himself in the future.
They are sometimes so reduced and weak when brought out of the dark cell
that they can scarcely walk without aid. I have seen them reel to and
fro like drunken men. They are often as pale as death. That in many
cases the prisoner contracts cold which later on terminates fatally, is
one of the principal objections to this mode of punishment. There is no
doubt that the dark cells of the Kansas Hell have hastened the death of
many a poor, friendless convict. If a person in the mines does not get
out his regular weekly task of coal, on Saturday night he is reported
to the deputy warden by the officer in charge, and is sent to the
blind cell before supper, and is kept there until the following Monday
morning, when he is taken out and sent to his work in the mines. While
in there he gets only bread and water once in twenty-four hours. This
is a great inducement to work; it certainly prevents criminals from
shirking their labor, and soon converts a lazy tramp into a rustling
coal miner. There is one thing, however, that is connected with this
system of punishment that I will criticise. The officer under whose
immediate control the prisoner is placed fixes the period of his
confinement in the dungeon. It gives the officer a good opportunity to
abuse a prisoner he may dislike. These subordinate officers are not all
angels. Some of them are lacking in sympathy. They have become hardened,
and frequently treat their men like beasts. These persons should not
possess such a dangerous power. The warden or deputy warden should
decide the character as well as the period of punishment.

If in this dark cell ten days and nights is insufficient to subdue the
rebellious spirit of the convict, he is taken out and placed in the
solitary cell. This is similar to the ordinary cell, with the exception
that it contains no furniture. Here the convict remains on bread and
water until he is starved almost to death, or until he is willing to
submit and do his work as ordered.

Another mode of punishment resorted to in a few cases, is even more
brutal than the dark cell. The obdurate prisoner is stripped naked and
tied to a post. The hose which is connected with the water-works is
turned upon his naked body. The water pressure is sixty pounds to
the square inch. As the water strikes the nude body the suffering
is intense. This mode of punishment is but rarely resorted to. It is
exceedingly wicked and barbarous. It is a shame to treat a human being
in such a manner. There are many hardened criminals and desperate
characters in the penitentiary, and it may sometimes be necessary to
resort to extreme measures, but there have been many instances when, as
it seemed to me, these excessive punishments might have been avoided
and still the good discipline of the prison maintained. "Blessed are the
merciful, for they shall obtain mercy." But the author would have you
recollect that the punishments of the Kansas penitentiary are not as
severe as the discipline in her sister institutions. Many of the
inmates of this prison who have formerly served terms in others of like
character, have shown him the scars and marks of brutal punishment. One
of these poor unfortunates showed me his back, which is covered with
great furrows in the flesh caused by the cat-o'-nine-tails in the hands
of a merciless official of the Missouri penitentiary. Another prisoner
carries thumbs out of joint and stiffened by the inhuman practice of
hanging up by the thumbs in vogue in a former place of imprisonment,
and still another carries about with him ugly wounds inflicted by
bloodhounds which overtook him when trying to escape from a Southern
prison.

The foregoing is a view of the punishments inflicted from a prisoner's
standpoint. That the reader may arrive at just conclusions, I quote the
statements on the same subject made by the warden, Captain Smith, in
his able biennial report of last year. In doing so, I beg leave to state
that the convict who had ever been the object of the prison discipline,
or who had spent his ten days and nights in one of those dismal
dungeons, subsisting on bread and water, would readily say that the
warden had treated the subject in a manner "very mild."

"The discipline has been carefully looked after, and as a general thing
prisoners yield to strict discipline quicker than most people think.
They seem to see and realize the necessity of rules, and very seldom
complain, if they violate them, at the punishment that is sure to
follow. Our punishments are of such a character that they do not
degrade. Kansas, when she established her penitentiary, prohibited
corporal punishment. She is one of the few States that by law prohibits
the use of the whip and strap; taking the position that it is better to
use kindness than to resort to brutal measures. I have often been told,
and that, too, by old prison men, that it was impossible to run a
prison and have first-class discipline without the whip. Such is not
my experience. We have had within our walls perhaps as desperate men as
ever received a sentence. We have controlled them, and have maintained
a discipline second to none in the country, How did we accomplish this?
Our answer is, by being kind but firm; treating a man, although he may
be a prisoner, as a man. If he violates rules, lock him up. Give him
an opportunity to commune with himself and his Maker; also give him to
understand that he is the executioner of his own sentence, and when he
concludes that he can do right, release him. It matters not how vicious,
how stubborn, or what kind of a temper he may have, when left with no
one to talk to, and an opportunity to cool down, and with a knowledge
that when he comes to the conclusion that he will do better he can be
released, he leaves the cell feeling much different than the prisoner
who leaves the whipping-post, after having received any number of
lashes that a brutal officer may desire to inflict. One goes to his
work cheerful, and determined to behave himself; the other dogged,
revengeful, completely humiliated, and only lives in hope that he may at
some time take his revenge upon the person that ordered or inflicted
the punishment, and upon the State or country that would, by its laws,
tolerate such a brutal or slavish practice."



CHAPTER V. SUNDAY IN THE PRISON

A prisoner is always thankful for the Sabbath. He has been working hard
all week, and Sunday affords the opportunity of resting. On the Sabbath
morning, the bell for rising rings at eight o'clock. At its ringing
each person must rise and dress; he is not permitted to do so before
it rings. If he gets tired of remaining in his bunk so late as eight
o'clock, and should wish to get up and dress, it would do him no good;
it would be a violation of rules and result in punishment. After the
prisoner is up and dressed, he washes and marches out in ranks to
breakfast. It is hash, hash, hash, for Sunday breakfast, the same as any
other day, except once a month it is codfish hash instead of beef hash.
After breakfast, instead of going from the dining-room to work, the
prisoners are marched back into their cells where they remain until time
for chapel exercises.

There is a dining-room for the prisoners and another for the officers.
The room where the prisoners dine is a large hall capable of seating
fully twelve hundred men. Each table is long enough to accommodate
twenty men, and resembles an ordinary school-desk. There are no
table-cloths or napkins; nothing but a plain, clean board. The table
furniture consists of a tin quart cup, a small pan of the same precious
metal, which holds the hash, an iron knife, fork and spoon. No beautiful
silverware adorns this table; on the contrary, all the dining service is
very plain and cheap. The convicts are marched into the dining-room in
divisions, and seated at the table. Here they remain in perfect silence,
with their heads bowed.

No talking or gazing about the dining-room is permitted. After all the
divisions are in and seated, the deputy Warden taps a small bell, and
the convicts begin the work of "concealing the hash." Before the men
enter the dining-room the coffee, bread and hash are placed on the table
for each man. The prisoners are given all the food they can eat. It is
not the quantity, but the quality, that is objectionable.

If more bread is wanted, instead of calling out "Please pass the bread,"
the convict holds up his hand, and the waiter comes along and puts a
piece of bread in it. He gets but a pint of coffee, and if he wishes
a second supply he holds up his cup and it is refilled--but with water
instead of coffee. If he wishes more hash he holds aloft his meat dish,
and an officer hands him a large pan of hash, out of which he fills
his dish. Not a word is spoken during the meal. Ample time is given the
convicts to get all the food they desire; then the deputy warden, who
occupies a raised seat at the end of the dining-room, taps a small
bell, and the men march out in divisions, back to their cells on Sunday
mornings, and to their work on week days.

Breakfast over, and the men in their cells, the choir, which leads the
singing and furnishes the instrumental music for the occasion, is taken
out, and, under the watchful care of an officer, is conducted to the
chapel where they practice until time for the regular services. The
choir was composed of convicts who could sing, regardless of the crimes
for which they were sent to prison. I recollect at one time we had two
horse-thieves, two rapists--one with a sentence of forty years--three
murderers, two hog-thieves, and several others of equally villainous
records, and, last of all, the author! But this choir will compare
favorably with some of the high-toned church choirs outside! To return,
think of such a choir singing:

  "Oh, how happy are they,
  Who their Saviour obey,
  And have laid up their treasures above!"

At eleven o'clock, the prison bell rings, and the men are marched in
ranks to the chapel. When the first division or company reaches the room
where the services are to be held, the string band commences to play,
and as the divisions march in one after another they are greeted with
music. The instruments used are a piano, organ, violin, cornet and bass
viol. Very fine music is rendered by the prison band. All being seated,
the chaplain, the Rev. Dr. Crawford, a genuine Christian and God-fearing
man, rises, and in his happy style reads some beautiful hymn which
is familiar to the congregation. The choir leads and the entire
congregation sings. Such singing! The convicts have only one opportunity
a week to try their voices in a musical way, and when that opportunity
comes around it is improved. Nearly one thousand voices unite in singing
those beautiful gospel hymns! A prayer is offered; more singing; then
the chaplain, or some visiting minister who may be present, preaches a
short discourse. There is a large field for usefulness, and for doing
good, in the penitentiary. The harvest is truly great. Chaplain Crawford
comprehends the situation, and is putting forth strenuous efforts to
save these men who have drifted thus far down the currents of sin.
His labors are abundantly blessed of God. Many men go out of that
institution a great deal better than when they first entered. Were it
not for the cruel treatment the prisoners suffer in the coal mines of
that institution many more of them would be reformed. This treatment
tends to harden the criminal. The chaplain has many evils to counteract,
yet he contends nobly for the right, and some of these men are being
redeemed from a sinful life. After the sermon, the choir and the string
band furnish more soul-stirring music, which enlivens the spirits of the
prisoners, and then the chapel exercises are over. The prisoners are
now returned to their cells. Occasionally the convicts are permitted
to remain after the chapel exercises proper are over and have a social
meeting. The chaplain remains with them. These men sing, pray and give
in their religious experience. It is novel to hear these Christian
criminals telling how they love Jesus.

Immediately after the religious services are over the prison school
begins. Nearly one hundred of the convicts attend this school. The
common branches, reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, etc., are
taught. This school is graded, and under the management of the chaplain,
who is an excellent instructor, is a great blessing to the prisoners.
Numbers have fitted themselves here so that when they went out they were
able to pass examination and obtain certificates as teachers.

On entering the institution many of the prisoners who are unable to read
and write soon acquire these useful arts if they have any ambition for
self-improvement. If there was room, and this school could be conducted
in the evening, as well as on Sunday afternoons, much more good could be
accomplished. I would suggest that it would be a good act on the part
of the State to employ an officer who should devote all his time to
teaching and imparting instruction in the common branches, and let a
room be fitted up for evening school, so that all prisoners who might
desire to improve themselves could attend this place of instruction
after the work of the day was over. Nothing could be done that would be
more advantageous to the convict. The teachers for the prison school
are selected from among the prisoners, some of them being very fine
scholars.

After school is over the Sunday dinner is served. The prisoners once
more march into the dining-room and take their places at the table. The
Sunday dinner is the "crack" meal of the institution. At this meal the
prisoners have as a luxury, beans, a small piece of cheese and some beet
pickles, in addition to their regular diet. This meal is served at 2:30.

The prisoners are then returned to their cells, where they remain until
the following morning. They spend their time in the cells which is not
taken up by sleeping, in reading. The prison has a fine library of
five thousand volumes. The State Legislature annually appropriates five
hundred dollars to be expended in purchasing books. This collection
consists of histories, scientific works and books of fiction. The
greater part of the criminals prefer the works of fiction. Were it not
for this privilege of reading, the Sunday afternoons and winter evenings
would seem very long and dreary.

Several officers are on duty during the time the men are locked in their
cells on Sunday, and the cell houses are very quiet and orderly, there
is no talking, as officers are constantly walking backward and forward
in front of the cells.

This is the manner and style of spending the Sabbath in prison. The
convicts who do the cooking for the officers and convicts, are compelled
to work on Sundays as any other day of the week. It would be nothing
more than right to give these men credit for this extra work, and in
this manner reduce their sentences. The law does not contemplate that
criminals in the penitentiary should work seven days in the week and
fifteen hours each day. There are more than fifty men who are forced to
put in this extra time in hard labor.



CHAPTER VI. SCENES IN THE HOSPITAL

When a prisoner gets sick he reports to the prison physician in the
morning, before working hours. As the men march out of their cells to go
to their breakfast, those who are sick and desire to see the doctor fall
out of the ranks and occupy seats in the cell house. Soon the prison
physician, Dr. Nealley, calls and examines them. Many try to deceive the
physician and thus get into the hospital, simply to avoid work. But
the shirkers are pretty well known, and have to be very sick and give
unmistakable symptoms of their illness before they can get excused. It
is very difficult to deceive Dr. Nealley. He has been with the prisoners
so long, nearly six years, that he knows them and can tell without much
effort when one of them is sick or is not in condition to work. At these
morning examinations, sometimes there are nearly one hundred who report
as being sick. Most of them, instead of being excused, get a dose of
medicine and are sent to work. When a prisoner takes sick during the day
while at work, he is excused by his officer, and permitted to go to the
hospital to see the physician. Fully nine-tenths of the sickness of
the prison is contracted in the coal mines. The principal physical
disabilities are prison fever, colds, pneumonia, lung diseases and
rheumatism. Very few contagious diseases ever find their way into the
prison, and those that do are quickly discovered and checked by the
prison physician. When a convict is unable to work he is sent to the
hospital. This department contains two wards, in the first of which
those remain who are not sick enough to be confined to their beds, while
the very sick are kept in the second ward. Convicts, detailed for that
purpose, are the hospital nurses. It is gratifying to know that these
convict nurses have a sympathy for their sick comrades truly admirable.

Many of these sick men die. It is sad to die in the State's Prison! I
recollect one case that came under my own observation which was indeed
pathetic. A man had been sentenced for five years, and had served out
his time save one week, when, taken suddenly ill, he was sent to the
hospital and died the day before his term would have expired. This poor
fellow piteously begged of the doctor to try and extend his life so that
he could die a free man; but all in vain! On the day which would have
brought liberty he was borne through the large gate and buried in the
prison graveyard. It is heartrending to hear those men dying in the
hospital, call for their mothers, wives or sisters! The convict nurses
are as kind and sympathetic as possible, but in sickness and death there
is no one that can take the place of mother, wife or sister.

There was one man who died a few days before my term expired, for whom I
felt the greatest sympathy. His name was Frank Rhodes. He was sent from
Holton. While in jail and awaiting trial at that place he was converted.
Several Christian ladies had visited the jail and left with the inmates
a few Bibles and other religious literature. At his trial Frank was
convicted of crime and sentenced to the penitentiary for five years.
When he came to the State's prison he brought his religion with him. For
two years this man performed his duties faithfully. He soon gained the
good will of the officers. He was a true Christian man; he showed it in
his life while in prison. After awhile his religion got the better
of him; he could not control his emotions. Often during the chapel
services, when the convicts were singing their Christian songs, overcome
by his feelings, Frank would weep like a child. Time passed. It was
a bright Sabbath morning. The prisoners were marching out of the cell
houses to the chapel, to attend divine service. All nature seemed to be
rejoicing. Frank could not longer restrain himself. The glowing sunshine
has much to do with causing a man's religion to boil over. All of a
sudden, clapping his hands, Frank shouted at the top of his voice,
"Glory to God in the highest I peace on earth, good will to men!" This
was too much for the discipline of the prison. Convicts are expected to
keep quiet. A couple of officers seized him and led him back into the
cell house, where he was placed in a cell of the insane ward and was
called a religious crank. He remained in this cell for the following
eighteen months. He told me afterward these were the happiest months of
his life. He would read his Bible, sing, pray, and exhort the officers
to be religious. The deputy warden would often tell him that when he
could control his religion enough to keep quiet he should be taken out
of the insane ward and sent to work again. When eighteen months had
passed he concluded he could keep quiet, and so informed the deputy
warden. He was immediately released from his place of confinement and
went to work. While at work he was honest and quiet. His only trouble
was, too much religion! Months went by. His wife came to see him
frequently. These visits were enjoyable affairs to them. On a certain
Friday his wife was to visit him. I met him the day before, and he was
overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his wife the next day. She came.
They had a joyful time. Little did either think they should see each
other in this life no more. When the hour of her departure came they
separated not to meet again until in the world of perpetual sunshine.
The next day this poor convict was taken with the prison fever, and in
one short week he was a corpse. He died trusting in his Saviour. The
chaplain, speaking of this man's death, said if officers or convicts at
death go from the Kansas penitentiary to heaven, then Frank Rhodes was
among the saved; he was a true Christian man. After death his body was
sent to his former home, Holton, where it was buried.

The following is my experience with a poor friendless colored boy who
had a six years' sentence for burglary. I took the prison fever and was
sent to the hospital. This colored convict was detailed as my nurse.
He had been sick, but was then convalescent. He was very kind to me;
because of this kindness and good care I began to like him. He seemed
anxious to make me comfortable. "Be kind to the sick and you will win
their friendship." I was quite sick for two weeks, but began to recover
slowly. About this time my nurse suffered a relapse. He grew worse and
worse. The doctor gave him up. "Bob must die," he said to the head nurse
one day in my hearing. A day or two after this, Bob, for that was the
sick prisoner's name, sent for me to come to his couch. I sat down on
the edge of his bed and asked him what he wanted. He said: "I am going
to die, and want a friend. In all this wide world," continued he, "there
is not a single human being that I can look upon as my friend." He then
told me how he had lost his father and mother when a mere child, had
drifted out into the world an orphan boy, got into bad company, into
crime and into prison. As I sat there looking into the face of that
little darkey, I thought how sad his lot must be, and my sympathies were
aroused. I said, "Bob, is there anything I can do for you? I am
your friend, and will do all I can to aid you." I spoke words of
encouragement, and tried to cheer him up by saying that I thought he
would not die. In this I used a little deceit, but it was to assuage his
grief. I really thought he would die very soon. Then he told me what he
wanted. He said, "I am going to die; my angel mother came to my bedside
last night; I saw her as plainly as I see you now. She said she was
coming soon to take me out of prison and out of this world of sorrow.
Yes, I am going to die, but I am afraid to cross the dark river. When
I am dying I want you to sit by my bedside, take hold of my hand and go
with me down the vale of death as far as possible. It will do me so much
good. Will you do this for me? It is the only favor I ask." I told him
I would only be too glad to do so if it would aid him in the moment when
life shrinks from the shadow of death, but told him I thought he would
not die--another little fib on my part. However, that did no harm, for I
failed to convince him he would live. About 1 o'clock A. M. a couple
of nights after this, one of the watchers came to my cot and said
Bob wanted to see me immediately. I felt his time had come. Hastily
dressing, I went to his bedside. I found him dying. I sat down by his
side and took his hand in mine. I was going with him to the dark
river. He pressed my hand and a smile of satisfaction passed over his
countenance. He said, "You are so kind." I spoke words of hope and
encouragement suitable to the time and occasion. I sat thus for some
little time; his limbs grew cold; his eyes became glassy; the death dew
was dampening his brow. It was evident he would soon breathe his last.
Poor, helpless, friendless negro! What was your life's mission? Many
similar pious thoughts flitted through my mind. Without a friend! Among
all the millions of earth he could not call one by the endearing name
of friend! Sad, sad thought! After I had remained there some time,
expecting every breath to be his last, what was my astonishment to
discover his hands and limbs growing warmer. The crisis of his disease
was passed. No dark river this time! Soon his "glassy" eyes were closed,
and in a few moments he began to snore! Disappointed, I dropped that
black "paw," and went back to my cot. That little darkey is still alive.
He often asked me after that if I wanted to take another trip down to
"de da'k ribbah!"

The prisoners who die in the penitentiary are buried in the graveyard of
the institution, unless they have friends who will pay for the removal
of the body. Just outside the prison walls is the cemetery. Its location
is a walnut grove in a deep ravine. The first graves were dug near the
eastern side of the cemetery and as near to each other as possible. As
fast as this space is filled with graves it is covered over many feet
deep with the slate and dirt taken from the coal mines, a few yards
distant. Beneath this rubbish will the prisoners sleep until the trump
shall sound and the dead arise. Prisoners dying are dressed in a neat
suit of black clothes, if the body is to be forwarded to the friends;
otherwise, the burial suit consists of a cotton shirt and a pair of
drawers of the same material. The coffin is very plain, and is made in
one of the prison shops.



CHAPTER VII. ESCAPES FROM PRISON

Occasionally there is a man shrewd enough to make his escape from
prison. When a convict has almost served out his time he is generally
selected to perform the duties of a "trusty," and allowed to go
outside the prison enclosure. By good conduct other prisoners gain the
confidence of the officials, and there are instances where these men,
though they may have several months to serve, are permitted to go beyond
the walls, doing duty for the prison. But they are rare. Generally a
convict, if he has long to serve, is not trusted to any great extent.
At times these "trusties," although they may have but a few weeks to
remain, cannot successfully resist the temptation to escape. Ordinarily
the escaped convict is overtaken and brought back.

I recollect an instance where two young fellows were thus trusted. One
of them had two months to serve, and the other but twenty-seven days.
They were given employment at the reservoir, over a mile from the
prison. No officer was guarding them. They made an attempt to get away.
After being absent a few hours they were missed from their post of
duty. The alarm was given, and officers started in pursuit. They were
overtaken and caught about five miles distant, hid in the brush. They
had concealed themselves in this place, intending to make their escape
in the darkness of the coming night. The officers in search accidentally
came upon them in this brush patch. They were taken back to prison. They
were compelled to work for thirty days with a ball and chain attached to
each of their limbs, after which they were taken to Leavenworth, to the
District Court, where they plead guilty to the charge of attempting to
escape from the prison. Each of them received a sentence of one year at
hard labor in the penitentiary for this foolishness. After their present
sentence has expired, they will have to enter immediately upon the
other for trying to escape. At this writing, both of these convicts are
digging coal in the mines. They are not trusted now.

Another prisoner, a much older man than these two whom I have described,
tried to escape; he got as far as Ohio before the officers secured him.
During the late rebellion this man was a captain in the army. He became
involved in a quarrel with some of his relatives and was sent to the
penitentiary for forgery. On account of his previous good character, on
coming to the penitentiary he was immediately set to work as a "trusty."
Some few months after he was sent to the Missouri River, over a mile
from the prison, to do some work. No officer was with him. Going down
to the banks of the river he discovered a boat tied to the shore. In a
subsequent conversation, he told me when he saw that boat it suggested
the thought of escaping. His wife and children were in the State of
Ohio. They had removed there since his conviction. "The boat," said he,
"seemed to say, 'get in and cross the river.' I thought of my family.
Oh, how I longed to be with them! I could not resist the temptation. I
had some old overalls, and I drew these on over the stripes. I got into
the boat, rowed across, and hid in the woods on the Missouri side until
night. During the night-time I walked, and during the daytime would lay
by in the woods, occasionally going out to a house begging something
to eat. At last I reached my home in Ohio. I was footsore and almost
starved when I arrived." Continuing his narrative, he informed me that
he had no peace of mind. He was in constant dread of pursuing officers.
Every man he saw he took to be a detective in search of him. At last,
so great was his alarm and uneasiness, that he telegraphed the prison
officials where he was. The warden went and brought him back, For
punishment he remained in the dungeon several days and nights, and wore
the ball and chain for over a month. This man has not been tried yet for
making his escape. It will probably be overlooked because of the change
in the prison administration. His original sentence was five years.

Another prisoner made his escape, was away for five years; was then
discovered, brought back, and is at present eight hundred feet below the
surface, digging coal.

One day a young man was brought to the penitentiary under three years'
sentence. He was handsome and had winning ways. It was not long before
the officers had learned to like him. He was a natural confidence man.
It was difficult to resist his influence. After he had been in the
penitentiary a short time he was made a "trusty." For awhile he was very
dutiful and obedient. He was no fool. He gained the confidence of the
officers so that many of them would have confided their pocketbooks
to his care. He was permitted to go beyond the prison walls to quite a
distance. Finally he walked off. That convict has never been heard of
since. He was a slick one. After his departure it was found out that he
had walked away from the Colorado prison in the same manner.

The following is an instance of the shrewdness practiced in effecting
escapes. A hog-thief was convicted and sent to the prison. He related
that while traveling through the southern part of Kansas, a mere tramp,
passing by a farmer's residence, he saw a number of hogs in a lot
adjoining a grove some distance to the rear of the house. Passing up
through the grove, unperceived, he removed one of the boards and drove
the hogs out through the woods into a small pond where they covered
themselves with mud. Then driving them around on to the main traveled
road, he started with them for town some five miles off. As he was
driving along the highway, the owner of the hogs met him and inquired
where he was taking them. He replied that he was going to market. The
farmer said he was making up a car load and would give him as much as
he could get in town. After some further conversation the parties agreed
upon the price, the farmer buying his own hogs from the tramp, who went
on his way rejoicing. An hour or two thereafter the farmer, going out
into his field to see his hogs, found they were gone, and upon examining
those recently purchased, which by this time had rubbed all the mud off,
he discovered it was his own hogs he had purchased from the tramp. He
immediately set out in pursuit of the thief, whose whereabouts were soon
determined. The thief, after receiving the money, went to town, took
a train, but stopped off at a little place nearby, and instead of
secreting himself for a time, began to drink. While dissipating he was
overtaken, arrested, and held for trial. Had he left whisky alone, he
could have escaped. At the trial, which soon followed, he was convicted
of grand larceny, and on his arrival at the prison was immediately
put into the coal mines. After working there for a week or ten days he
became dissatisfied, and decided to secure a position on the surface.
One morning, as the prisoners were being let down into the mines,
apparently in a fit he fell into the arms of a prisoner; when he landed
at the bottom he was in the worst part of his spasm; the officer
in charge ordered him sent to the top as soon as he had partially
recovered, stating that it was dangerous to have a man working in the
mines who was subject to fits, as he might not only kill himself but be
the cause of the death of others with him in the cage. To make his case
more plausible, when the convict learned that the officer had ordered
him to the top, he began pleading to remain in the mines and work,
stating that he enjoyed the work and would rather do service there than
on the top. But the officer persisted; he was sent up and reported to
the deputy warden, who set him to quarrying rock. This was no better job
than working in the coal mines. Providing himself for the occasion, by
putting a piece of soap in his mouth, assuming a frenzy and frothing at
the mouth, he would almost deceive a physician as to the nature of his
malady. Later, it was decided that he was unable to do duty on the
rock pile, and was placed in the "Crank House" with the cranks. Those
prisoners, who have either lost their mind or are suffering with
temporary insanity, not incurable insane, or wholly idiotic, are classed
as "cranks," and have an apartment by themselves. As a rule this class
of individuals are harmless and not guarded very closely. Their cells
are not locked up until nine o'clock at night; the others at six
o'clock. During the noon hour the officers leave them alone, in fact,
being of a supposed harmless disposition they are at no time closely
guarded. This fellow improved the opportunities afforded by the noon
hour. He would go into one of the towers and work as long as he dared
cutting the bars with a saw he had made out of a knife. He labored in
this manner until one of the bars was sawed so near off that a little
push would remove it. One afternoon he bade the other cranks good-bye,
telling them he was going to fly that night. They made sport of him,
thinking he was growing more insane. He went so far as to say good-bye
to the officer, stating that he had received a revelation from God
the previous night, and that an angel was coming to liberate him. The
officer, of course, thought he was getting more and more insane. When
night came he slipped out of his cell and secreted himself in a portion
of the cell house where it was dark, and when the officer came to lock
up, the crazy hog-thief was not missed. Along in the night he pushed
aside the bars and made his escape. This was the last the prison
authorities heard of him until they learned he was arrested at St.
Joseph, Missouri, and held there on a charge of grand larceny for the
same thing that he was in the Kansas penitentiary--stealing hogs.
An officer went up there to get and bring him back to the Kansas
penitentiary, but the St. Joseph authorities refused to give him up. He
was tried there and sent to the Missouri penitentiary. After his term
expires in that place he will have to serve out his original term in the
Kansas penitentiary. "The way of the transgressor is hard," even if he
does pretend to have fits.

One of the most interesting and perilous attempts at escaping from the
penitentiary was the following: In the evening, after the day's work
is over in the mines, the convicts are all lifted to the top, as before
stated, and remain in their cells over night. One Saturday night a
convict, with a twenty years' sentence, resolved that he would remain in
the mines, and try to effect his escape. He had supplied himself with
an extra lot of bread and meat, and hid himself in the darkness of the
mines when the men were marched out in the evening at six o'clock. When
the count of the prisoners was made at the evening lock up, this man was
found missing. As he had not been seen since the prisoners were taken
from the mines, it was believed, correctly, that he had remained below.
There was nothing done about the matter that night, the officers
knowing there would be no opportunity of effecting his escape during the
night-time, as they had carefully closed the shafts at the top. They did
not set any watch until the next day. During that Saturday night this
convict climbed eight hundred feet to the top of one of the shafts.
The wooden beams running across the shaft are about five feet apart.
Standing erect on one of these beams he threw his arms over the one
above his head, and would swing up to it. In this manner he worked his
way to the top of the shaft. When he reached the surface how great
was his disappointment, for instead of finding the shaft open, as he
supposed it would be, he found that the cover was down and that he was
unable to get out of the shaft, and thus out of the coalfields into the
woods adjoining. When he discovered this there was nothing to do but
descend, This was a perilous undertaking. The cross-beams were covered
with oil which, dripping down from the machinery above, made them very
slippery. A number of times he came near falling, and if he had done so,
he would have reached the bottom a mangled mass. It required nearly the
entire night for the ascent and descent. When he reached the bottom he
took a lunch of bread and meat, went to the base of the other shaft,
which is about one hundred yards distant, and began his ascent of it,
with the hope he would find it open. It was daylight when he reached the
top. Two officers had been stationed there to watch him. Arriving at the
surface and just ready to get out, they took charge of, and marched him
into the presence of the deputy warden. When the convict related the
narrow escapes from death in his efforts for liberty, the deputy warden
was so affected he refused to punish him.

Out in the world, with the blessings of liberty all around us, we do
not realize the priceless boon they are to us; but when we stand in the
presence of the perils that are undertaken in order to gain them when
deprived of their benefits, we begin to comprehend the real value of
these sacred immunities of citizenship.



CHAPTER VIII. THE PRISONERS

Thinking that it may be interesting to some of my readers, I will now
give, in brief form as possible, a history of some of the most noted
inmates of the penitentiary.


FEMALE CONVICTS

He must be of a very unsympathizing nature who does not feel for his
brother, who, though sinful and deserving, is imprisoned, and excluded
from the society of friends. While we are sad when we behold our
fellowmen in chains and bondage, how much sadder do we become when,
passing through the prisons, we behold those of the same sex with our
sisters, wives and mothers. In this land, blessed with the most
exalted civilization, woman receives our highest regard, affection
and admiration. While she occupies her true sphere of sister, wife or
mother, she is the true man's ideal of love, purity and devotion. When,
overcome by temptation, she falls from her exalted sphere, not only
do men feel the keenest sorrow and regret, but, if it is possible, the
angels of God weep.

In the Kansas penitentiary, just outside the high stone wall, but
surrounded by a tight board fence some fifteen feet high, stands a stone
structure--the female prison. In this lonely place, the stone building,
shut out from society, there are thirteen female prisoners. During the
week these women spend their time in sewing, patching and washing. But
very few visitors are allowed to enter this department, so that the
occupants are permitted to see very few people. Their keepers are a
couple of Christian ladies, who endeavor to surround them with all the
sunshine possible. For these inmates the week consists of one continual
round of labor. It is wash, patch and sew from one year's end to the
other. The Sabbath is spent in reading and religious exercises. In the
afternoon the chaplain visits them and preaches a discourse. Several
of these women are here for murder. When a woman falls she generally
descends to the lowest plane.

A few days before I was discharged, there came to the prison a little
old grandmother, seventy years of age. She had lived with her husband
fifty-two years, was the mother of ten children, and had fifteen
grand-children. She and her aged husband owned a very beautiful farm
and were in good circumstances, probably worth $50,000. Her husband
died very suddenly. She was accused of administering poison. After the
funeral, she went over into Missouri to make her home with one of her
married daughters. She had not been there but a short time when her
eldest son secured a requisition, and had his aged mother brought
back to Kansas and placed on trial for murder. She was convicted. The
sentence imposed, was one year in the penitentiary, and at the end of
which time she was to be hung by the neck until dead, which in Kansas is
equivalent to a life sentence. The old woman will do well if she lives
out one year in prison. She claims that her eldest son desires her
property, and that was the motive which induced him to drag her before
the tribunal of justice to swear her life away, During her long life
of three score and ten years, this was the only charge against her
character for anything whatever. She always bore a good name and was
highly esteemed in the neighborhood in which she lived.

Another important female prisoner is Mary J. Scales. She is sixty-five
years of age, and is called Aunt Mary in the prison. She is also a
murderess. She took the life of her husband, and was sentenced to be
hung April 16, 1871. Her sentence was commuted to a life imprisonment.
For eighteen years this old woman has been an inmate of the Kansas
penitentiary. While she is very popular inside the prison, as all the
officers and their families are very fond of Aunt Mary, it seems that
she has but few, if any, friends on the outside. Several old men have
been pardoned since this old woman was put into prison, and if any more
murderers are to be set at liberty, it is my opinion that it will soon
be Aunt Mary's turn to go out into the world to be free once more.


MRS. HENRIETTA COOK

This woman was twenty-five years of age when she came to the Kansas
penitentiary to serve out a life's sentence. She was charged with
having poisoned her husband. For fifteen years she remained in close
confinement, at the end of which time she received a pardon, it being
discovered that she was innocent. When Mrs. Cook entered the prison she
was young and beautiful, but when she took her departure she had the
appearance of an old, broken-down woman. Fifteen years of imprisonment
are sufficient to bring wrinkles to the face, and change the color of
the hair to gray. This prisoner made the mistake of her life in getting
married. She, a young woman, married an old man of seventy. She was
poor, he was rich. After they had been married a short time she awoke
one morning to find her aged husband a corpse at her side. During
the night he had breathed his last. The tongue of gossip soon had it
reported that the young and beautiful wife had poisoned her husband
to obtain his wealth, that she might spend the rest of her days with
a younger and handsomer man, After burial the body was exhumed and
examined. The stomach showed the presence of arsenic in sufficient
quantity to produce death. The home of the deceased was searched and
a package of the deadly poison found. She was tried, and sufficient
circumstantial evidence produced to secure her conviction, and she was
sent to prison for life. A short time before this sad event happened, a
young drug clerk took his departure from the town where the Cook family
resided, where he had been employed in a drug store, and took up
his abode in California. After fifteen years of absence he returned.
Learning of the Cook murder, he went before the board of pardons and
made affidavit that the old gentleman was in the habit of using arsenic,
and that while a clerk in the drug store he had sold him the identical
package found in the house.

Other evidence was adduced supporting this testimony, and the board of
pardons decided that the husband had died from an overdose of arsenic
taken by himself and of his own accord. The wife was immediately
pardoned. How is she ever to obtain satisfaction for her fifteen years
of intense suffering. The great State of Kansas should pension this poor
woman, who now is scarcely able to work; and juries in the future
should not be so fast in sending people to the penitentiary on flimsy,
circumstantial evidence.

The other female prisoners are nearly all in for short terms, and the
crime laid to their charge is that of stealing.


INDIANS IN THE PENITENTIARY

John Washington and Simmons Wolf are two young Indians tried and
convicted in the U. S. District Court on the charge of rape. They were
sentenced to be hung. After conviction these Indians were taken to the
penitentiary to await the day set for their execution. In the meantime
an application was made to the President to change the sentence of death
to that of life imprisonment. The change was made. These two Indians
were placed in the coal mines on their arrival, where they are at the
present time getting out their daily task of coal. They both attend
the school of the prison, and are learning very rapidly. Prior to
this, Washington served out a one-year sentence in the Detroit house of
correction for stealing. He is a bad Indian.

At present there are fourteen Indians incarcerated in the Kansas
penitentiary. The Indian pines for his liberty more than the white man
or negro. The burdens of imprisonment are therefore greater for him to
bear. One young Indian was sent to the penitentiary whose history is
indeed touching. Ten Indians had been arrested in the Territory by U. S.
marshals for horse-stealing. They were tried and convicted in the U. S.
District Court. Their sentence was one year in the State's prison. On
their arrival at the penitentiary they were sent to the mines to
dig coal. This was a different business from being supported by the
government and stealing horses as a diversion. The Indians soon wanted
to go home. One of them was unable to get out his task of coal. The
officer in charge thought he was trying to shirk his work and reported
him to the deputy warden. The young Indian was placed in the dungeon. He
remained there several days and nights. He begged piteously to get out
of that hole of torture. Finally the officers released him and sent him
back to the mines. While in the dungeon he contracted a severe cold.
He had not been in the mines more than a couple of days, after being
punished, when he gave suddenly out and was sent to the hospital, where
in a few days he died. That young Indian was murdered, either in that
dungeon or in the mines. A few weeks before, he came to the penitentiary
from roaming over the prairies, a picture of health. It did not take
long for the Kansas penitentiary to "box him up" for all time to come.
He now sleeps "in the valley," as the prison graveyard is called.

Another one of the same group did not fare quite so badly as his
associate. The one I am now describing was sent with the rest of his
companions to the bottom of the mines. He remained there during the
first day. A short time after he went down on the following morning
he became sick. He began to cry. The officer in charge sent him to the
surface. He was conducted to the cell-house officer, Mr. Elliott. I was
on duty that day in the cell house, and Mr. Elliott, on the arrival of
the Indian, ordered me to show him to the hospital. After we had started
on our journey from the cell house to the hospital building to see
the doctor, and had got out of hearing of the officer, I said, "Injun,
what's the matter with you?" This question being asked, he began to
"boo-hoo" worse than ever, and, rubbing his breast and sides with his
hands, said, between his sobs, "Me got pecce ecce." I was not Indian
enough to know what "pecce ecce" meant. In a few moments we reached the
hospital building, and I conducted my charge into the nicely furnished
room of the prison physician, and into the immediate presence of that
medical gentleman. Removing my cap, and making a low bow, as required,
I said, "Dr. Nealley, permit me to introduce a representative of the
Oklahoma district, who needs medical attention."

While I was relieving myself of this little declamation the young Indian
was standing at my side sobbing as if he had recently buried his mother.

"Reynolds, what is the matter with him?" asked the doctor.

I then turned to my charge and said, "Injun, tell the doctor what ails
you."

Mister Indian then began rubbing his sides and front, with tears rolling
down his face, and sobbing like a whipped school-boy, he exclaimed, "Me
got pecce ecce."

"There, doctor," said I, "you have it. This Indian has got that dreadful
disease known as 'pecce ecce. '"

The physician, somewhat astonished, frankly informed me that he never
had heard of such a disease before. I was in a similar boat, for I had
never heard of such words prior to this. The sick Indian was unable to
talk the language of the white man. The doctor then sent down into the
mines for another of the Indians who could speak English and had acted
as an interpreter. On entering the office, the doctor said to him,
"Elihu," for that was his name, "this Indian says he has an attack of
pecce ecce. Now what does he mean by that?"

During all this time the sick Indian kept rubbing his body and sobbing.
What was our great astonishment and amusement when the interpreter
informed us that "pecce ecce" meant nothing more nor less than
"belly-ache." The doctor administered the proper remedy for this
troublesome disease, and the Indian was sent back to the mines. He had
not dug coal more than an hour when he had another attack, and began his
crying, and was sent to the top. He kept this up until he wore out the
patience of the officers, and they finally decided to take him out of
the mines altogether and give him work at the surface. Even here, every
few minutes the Indian would have an attack of "pecce ecce," and would
start for the hospital. At last, the chaplain, taking pity on the poor
outcast, wrote to President Cleveland, and putting the case in a very
strong light, was successful in securing a pardon for the Indian. That
"cheeky" red youth was no fool. He belly-ached himself out of that
penitentiary. I trust I may never have to spend any more of my time in
prison. If I do, I think about the first day I will get a dose of "pecce
ecce," and keep it up, and see if I can't get a pardon.


MALE PRISONERS

Ed. Stanfield.--The history of this prisoner is as follows: He was about
nineteen years of age when he entered the prison, which was some five
years ago. His people reside in South Bend, Indiana. His father, prior
to his death, was a prominent judge. The family was wealthy, influential
and highly respected. It consisted of the parents and two sons. Ed.
proved to be the black lamb of the flock. At the early age of nine
years, being sent away to school, he bade all good-bye one day and
followed in the wake of a circus show which was holding forth in the
town where he was attending school, He was not heard of anymore for
several years. His parents spent vast sums of money attempting to
ascertain his whereabouts. They finally heard of him in the following
accidental manner: His father, Judge Stanfield, had been out in Nebraska
looking after some land he had recently purchased, and, on his return
home, sitting in the cars, purchased a newspaper of the newsboy as he
came around. Looking over the paper he caught the name of his prodigal
son. There, before him, was the account of his son who, having knocked
down a prosecuting attorney in broad daylight with a coupling pin, with
the intention of robbery, had been tried, convicted and sentenced to the
penitentiary for ten years, and was on that day safely lodged behind the
walls. The sad father, on reaching home, dispatched his elder son to the
Kansas prison to ascertain if it was his younger son who was a convict.
The young man came on and soon satisfied himself of the identity of the
long-lost brother. He returned home and made the report to his parents.
From that day Judge Stanfield was a broken-hearted man. He soon grieved
himself to death over the sad fate of his boy, and the disgrace he had
brought upon the family. In making his will, however, he gave Ed. an
equal share in the estate with his brother. After the death of the
father, the mother began to put forth efforts to secure a pardon for her
son. His crime was so heinous and so uncalled for that it was necessary
for some time to elapse before an application was presented. At the
earliest moment possible the wheel began to turn. The prosecuting
attorney of Bourbon County, who had been knocked down with an iron
coupling pin, was soon satisfied, for the family had wealth. It is of
course unknown how much money was passed to him to make his heart tender
and his eyes weep over the erring child that had come so near getting
away with his gold watch and chain. A petition was soon in circulation
for his release, signed by many prominent citizens. An open pocketbook
will easily secure a petition for pardon, it makes but little difference
as to the "gravamen" of the crime. The convict promised not to engage
again in this pleasant pastime for filthy lucre. The mother of the young
man came on from the East and remained until she had secured a pardon
for her boy. The young man stated in our hearing that it took one
thousand big dollars to secure his pardon. A great many who are
acquainted with the facts in the case are not slow in saying that if
Stanfield had been a poor, friendless boy, he never would have received
a pardon, but would have had to serve his time out. There are more
than five hundred men in that prison whose crimes are of a less serious
nature, and who are far more deserving of executive clemency than
Stanfield. It is said that "rocks talk" in the penitentiaries as well
as on the outside. The history of this criminal will show my boy readers
the future of many of those who, in early youth, ran away from home, and
go out into the world to mingle in bad company.

Cyrenius B. Hendricks.--This man was sent from Chatauqua County. He was
twenty-seven years of age when sentenced. His crime was murder in the
first degree. The particulars are as follows: He had been down to the
Indian Territory looking after his own and his father's cattle. He
was absent on this business some little time. On his return his wife
informed him that a neighbor had been talking about her in his absence,
and had given her a bad character, and that on account of it she had
become the talk of the entire neighborhood. The enraged husband compels
his wife to go with him, and they proceed to the neighbor's house.
Hendricks took his gun with him. When they reached the neighbor's gate
they halted and called the unsuspecting man out of his home. Hendricks
then asked him if the charges were true as to his talking about Mrs.
Hendricks. The neighbor neither affirmed nor denied the statement. At
this Hendricks leveled his gun and shot him dead on the spot. He and his
wife in a few hours after were arrested, and, as it was too late to
take them to the county seat that night, they were guarded in an old
log house in the neighborhood. Hendricks was fastened to the wall with a
log-chain. During the night some one, supposed to be the brother of
the murdered man, came to the window of the house in which they were
confined, and, placing the muzzle of a gun through the window, shot
Hendricks. The ball struck him near one of the eyes, rendering him blind
in that eye, but did not kill him. The next day the two prisoners were
taken to jail. They were tried, and both found guilty of murder in the
first degree. The husband was sentenced to be hanged, while the wife
received a life sentence. They were both taken to the penitentiary.
After they had been there a short time Hendricks lost the other eye,
from sympathy, as they call it. For a time the husband and wife remained
on good terms. They were allowed to visit each other once a month. After
a while she tired of him and would have nothing more to do with him.
She served four years, and received a pardon. Hendricks still remains in
prison, and is a pitiable and helpless wreck. He is totally blind, and
his nervous system entirely shattered. He can scarcely lift food to
his mouth. He is so weak that it is with difficulty he walks about the
prison park. An aged prisoner waits on him constantly to care for his
wants, and to see that he does not commit suicide. Abandoned by his
wife and friends, left to his own sad fate, totally blind and physically
helpless, he is another testimonial to the truth that "the way of the
transgressor is hard," and it also illustrates how much trouble
may arise from using that little member called the tongue in an
indiscriminate manner. Since my discharge from the prison I have learned
of the death of Hendricks.

Ed. Miner.--One of the men whose history will be interesting to the
general reader is Ed. Miner. This man is forty-nine years of age.
He served in the Missouri penitentiary two years on the charge and
conviction of assault and battery with intent to kill. After the
expiration of his sentence, drifting down the current of crime, he next
embarked in stealing horses. He was arrested, tried and convicted. He
received a five years' sentence, served his time, and went out into the
world a free man. Again falling into bad company, he tries his hand
once more at the same old trade of riding fast horses, is again caught,
tried, convicted, and received another sentence of five years in the
prison, which he is now serving out. As a prisoner, Miner is one of the
very best. He never violates a prison regulation and was never known to
be punished. During the war he served his country faithfully for four
years as a member of the 12th Illinois Infantry. At the close of the
war, and just before the troops were discharged, one day on review, the
governor of the State of Illinois being present, Miner was asked by the
commanding officer to step from the ranks, and was introduced to the
governor as the bravest and most daring man in the command. The governor
gave him a hearty shake of the hand, and afterward sent him a neat
little golden medal as a token of his esteem. Miner now wears this
suspended on a small gold chain about his neck. He is very proud of it.
One of our prison officers, Mr. Elliott, was in the army with Miner, and
says there never was a braver man. It may be a surprise to the reader
that such a brave man, such a bold defender of his country's rights,
would now be filling a felon's cell. The answer to this is easily given.
It is all contained in the one word--liquor. Miner loves strong drink,
and when he is under its influence appears to have no sense. He is then
ready for the commission of any offense, ready to participate in any
kind of deviltry. Were it not for this baneful appetite there is every
reason to believe he would be a highly respected citizen. I asked him
one day what he would do when he got out. His reply was, "I don't know;
if I could not get the smell of whisky I could be a man; it has downed
me so many times that I fear my life is now a wreck; the future looks
dreary; awful dreary." With this remark Ed. went away to attend to his
duties. My eyes followed the old soldier, and, reader, do you blame me
when I say to you that from within my heart there came forth the earnest
desire that God in some way would save that man, who, away from strong
drink and the influence of wicked companions, is a good-hearted,
generous man.

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 horses, 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 wounded, 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.


EIGHT TIMES A CONVICT

Thomas A. Currens.--One of the most unique characters to be found in
the striped ranks of the Kansas penitentiary is that of the man who is
herein described. This convict is fifty-two years of age, and a native
of Kentucky. His life, save a short time spent in the army, has been one
of crime. He was a courageous lad. Leaving his home at the early age of
ten years, thus deprived of all parental protection and restraints, he
formed bad associations, and soon his future career was in the direction
of crime. The greater part of his boyhood was spent in city and
county jails and reform schools. At the age of twenty-two years he was
convicted on a charge of horse-stealing and sent to the Frankfort, Ky.,
penitentiary for six years. After serving four years he was pardoned by
the Legislature. He remained out of prison for the two following years.
We next find him in "limbo" in Indiana. He was arrested, and twenty
different charges were preferred against him. By pleading guilty to the
count of stealing a wagon, the court dismissed the other cases and gave
him a sentence of three years at hard labor. He was taken to the State's
prison. Shortly after his arrival he was put to work running an engine
during the night-time. After five months had passed away, Thomas,
reaching the conclusion that he did not enjoy watching over an engine
during the lonely hours of the night, determined to escape. Stealing an
old suit of clothes belonging to an officer, which he drew on over his
suit of stripes, he scaled the walls and was once more a free man. It
was a cold winter's night. After traveling some distance through the
woods his feet were almost frozen. Daylight was now approaching. He must
find a place of hiding during the coming day. In a few hours he would
be missed at the penitentiary. The alarm being given, the usual reward
being offered, scores would be on the lookout for him. Approaching a
farmyard, he sat down and cut up his striped pantaloons and wrapped up
his almost frozen feet. He then crawled under a hay-stack. In this place
he came near being discovered, for in a couple of hours the farmer came
out to feed his cattle, and as chance would have it took the hay from
the stack under which the convict was secreted. As he was removing the
hay, several times prongs of the fork sank deep enough to penetrate the
flesh of the runaway. He endured this pitchfork probing heroically while
it lasted, and was thankful when the cattle had received sufficient
provender. Here he remained until nightfall. He did not renew his
journey until the farmer and his family had retired and were in the land
of dreams. Almost starved, uninvited he enters the kitchen and helps
himself to what he can find. His hunger being appeased, his old habit of
taking things that he should leave alone, forced him into the bed-room
of the sleeping farmer, and forced his hand into the pocket of the
aforesaid granger's pantaloons, from which he took his pocketbook
containing twenty dollars in money. He was now prepared for traveling.
Continuing his journey for several miles, becoming very tired, he
decided not to walk any longer as there was so much good horse-flesh in
the vicinity. Near the hour of midnight, this weary tramp entered the
farmyard of a wealthy old Indiana farmer, and going into the barn led
out one of his fleetest steeds. Once more astride a good horse, Thomas
felt like a free man. During the rest of the night he made good headway,
and by the morning sun was up the rider and horse were many miles away
from the place where first they met. Entering a small village, the horse
was fed and nicely groomed. At the same time Thomas partook of a good
breakfast, which he heartily enjoyed. The fates seemed to favor the
man of crime. It is an old saying: "The devil looks after his own." A
horse-buyer had arrived in the village a few days before. When the noon
train came whistling up to the station, the convict having converted his
horse into one hundred and twenty-five dollars, purchased a new suit of
clothes, a silk hat, and a pair of kid gloves, and, representing himself
to be a traveling salesman, getting aboard, soon reaches Chicago,
where, soon after his arrival, he joined a band of crooks. He was never
discovered by the Indiana prison officials. Fifteen years after
his escape, he got a "pal" to wire the authorities of the Indiana
penitentiary, and inquired of them what reward they would pay for the
return of Thomas A. Currens, a convict who had effected his escape many
years before. An answer came that if he would remain out of the State,
he would never be molested.

Wandering about several months after his escape, he arrives in Sedalia,
Missouri. Among other little articles he was accused of stealing at
this place was an eight hundred dollar barouche, the property of
Judge Ferguson, of that place. Again this noted thief was arrested
and confined in the county jail to await trial. He was not anxious for
trial, for he knew the "yawning pen" was waiting to receive him. For
eleven months he remained in this jail, having his trial continued from
term to term. When his case was called up for the first time he feigned
sickness. The next time one of the principal witnesses was absent, and
thus for eleven months his case was continued. Thomas now yearned for
freedom. How to get out of that jail was the problem. Another term of
court would soon convene. He had no grounds for further continuance.
Fortune favored him. At this time a man was arrested and placed in the
same cell with Currens. The face of the new arrival was covered over
with blotches. The next morning Currens in a confidential manner stated
to the sheriff that his cell mate had the small-pox. Being interrogated
the prisoner said he had been exposed recently, and a physician being
called, on examination it was decided to remove him to the pest-house.
Currens was sent along on account of his exposure to the contagion. An
officer was placed in charge of the two jail-birds at the pest-house.
During the night following their arrival at this out-of-the-way place,
the officer was pounced upon by the two desperate criminals, bound hand
and foot, and with a large cork placed between his teeth, was gently
laid on the floor. His gold watch and chain, and all the loose change he
had with him were taken from his person, and the two small-pox patients
walked forth into the darkness and gloom of that night unattended by any
friendly official.

Thomas never believed in criminals traveling in groups, so he bade his
companion an affectionate farewell. Wending his way to the southwestern
portion of the State he was arrested for additional crimes and
misdemeanors. Knowing that the officers had not sufficient evidence
against him he bravely stood trial and was acquitted. However, as he was
going forth from his prison cell a free man, much to his surprise, an
official from Sedalia put in an appearance and took him back to the
scene of his small-pox escapade. At his trial he was convicted and
received a sentence of six and one-half years. He now took a cell in
the Jefferson City penitentiary. After four years of imprisonment this
notorious criminal makes an application for pardon, setting up an
alibi as the basis of the application, and succeeded in influencing the
Governor to believe the testimony, and was set at liberty, promising
that he would leave the State of Missouri, never to return. The
conscience of the said Thomas never troubled him over failing to keep
his word with the officers of the law. He did not leave Missouri, as
he agreed, but betook himself to the pleasant little city of Carthage.
Scarcely three moths had elapsed before he found himself again in
durance vile for stealing horses. He was tried, convicted and returned
to Jefferson City penitentiary under a sentence of six years. He took
an appeal to the Supreme Court. The judgment of the lower court was
reversed. He was taken back to Carthage for another trial, and was
convicted the second time, and again received a sentence of six years at
hard labor in the penitentiary. As before, he appealed the case, and the
governor, thinking the State was getting the worst of the matter, and
that a large amount of costs were being made, pardoned the convict under
another promise that he would leave the State. Currens, now following
Greeley's advice, turns his eyes toward the setting sun. He crosses the
Big Muddy, and plants his feet upon the sacred soil of Kansas. He makes
a raid upon Lawrence, breaks into a house, and is caught in the act of
trying to carry off the household goods. A courteous policeman takes
charge of him--now deeply steeped in crime--soon landing him behind
the bars. In the presence of the court he next makes a solemn statement
that, prior to this, he had been a Sunday-school teacher; that
misfortune had overtaken him, and he was forced to enter some friend's
kitchen or starve. Those who listened to his pathetic appeal inform
me that the stern judge was moved to tears, and that while he had
contemplated giving the wayward Thomas six years, he made it three.
This was the first introduction of our hero to the principal brown
stone front of Lansing. It was not long after his arrival at the Kansas
penitentiary before he gained the confidence of the authorities, and was
made a "trusty." He had an easy place given him.

His three years' sentence soon passed away. His term was reduced three
months because of his excellent conduct while in prison. Bearing with
him the good wishes of a majority of the prison officials, and followed
by the prayers of the pious chaplain, he goes forth to engage in life's
battle again. Thomas could not fully enjoy the sweets of liberty unless
on horseback. He makes his way to the capital of Kansas, and engages at
once in the dangerous business of stealing horses. He had not continued
this course long before he was arrested, tried, convicted and returned
to Lansing for five years more. Thomas had not been in the Kansas
penitentiary the second time but a few months, when he called upon the
chaplain, and with tears rolling down his face confessed he was a great
sinner, promised to lead a different life, and urged the chaplain to
pray for him. Delighted at the prospect of snatching such a brand from
the eternal burning, the man of God took Thomas into a private room,
and the two knelt down. The chaplain offered a fervent prayer that the
loving Father would take to His embrace the returning, sinful prodigal.
At the conclusion of this prayer the chaplain called upon the "sin
sick soul" to pray for himself. This was an unexpected movement by the
chaplain, and Thomas was hardly prepared for the emergency. However, he
prayed. He was converted on the spot. At least, the chaplain thought so.
Strange as it may appear to my readers, instead of this noted convict
having to remain and serve out his five years' sentence, through the
influence of this minister he secured a pardon. At the expiration of
eighteen months the shrewd convict was a free man. That chaplain was
"worked."

The fortunate Thomas next visits Atchison. A farmer came to the city one
day, driving a beautiful horse. The temptation was too great, and the
man who had been an inmate of a penitentiary seven different times
followed the unsuspecting farmer to his home, and that night rode away
the coveted prize. The Atchison County Vigilance Committee traced and
soon caught the guilty horse-thief, landing him in Atchison County's
beautiful jail. Shortly after, Thomas had an interview with the county
attorney, and it was agreed by and between them, if the horse-thief
would plead guilty, he should be let off with one year in the
penitentiary. To this the grave offender agreed, and, presenting himself
before the tribunal of justice, Hon. W. D. Gilbert presiding, plead
guilty. The county attorney being absent, the court gave Thomas, instead
of twelve months, a year and a half at hard labor. I met him in the
penitentiary a few days ago, and learned that he is putting forth an
effort to secure a pardon on the ground that had he not been promised
only a one year's sentence, he would have stood trial and been
acquitted. He claims that he should be given his liberty when his one
year is up.

Thomas was out of the penitentiary long enough to go into the army
and get a bullet through his ankle, and therefor draws a pension of
twenty-four dollars per month. He takes good care of his money, and has
enough on hand to enable him to get a good start in life when he obtains
his freedom. He is a well-behaved prisoner. He is true to his pals in
crime, never having been known to turn State's evidence. He has a mania
for taking things that do not belong to him. He claims that he never
would have been caught the last time had not his housekeeper "given him
away." The two had a domestic quarrel, and in her efforts to get even,
she told the authorities of his theft. After his trial and conviction,
womanlike, she repented in sackcloth and ashes, but Thomas would have no
more to do with her. Later, she went over into Missouri, where she has
since died. One of the first things Thomas will do on regaining his
liberty will be to secure another housekeeper, and probably the the next
thing will be to steal some farmer's horse.

This convict is now serving out his eighth term in the penitentiary.
It is fearful to contemplate these human wrecks. A wasted life, golden
opportunities unimproved, a dark and dismal future will constitute the
death knell of such fallen beings. Young man, remember the life of this
convict, and shun such a course.


SKILLED LABOR

William Hurst.--Some of the narratives in this book read like the story
of Aladin's Lamp, and we have no doubt some of them so reading are
absolutely true, while for the Lamp story nothing is claimed. For
many ages men, and particularly those engaged in the literary field
of thought, have discanted on the baseness of the passion of jealousy.
There is no sense in being jealous. You are either loved or you are not,
and hence the absolute foolishness of indulging the passion.

William Hurst, whose history we now relate, is a man of rough personal
appearance, Irish descent, and his age is now about fifty-five. Coming
to Kansas at an early day, he settled in Doniphan County, and there
courted and subsequently married one of Doniphan County's pretty girls.
Time went along as usual, and in a few years there were several little
cherubs that blessed the household of Hurst. But, as sometimes happens,
the husband began to drink, love grew colder, the necessities of the
family hourly grew greater, poverty in all its hideousness came to curse
the home once so happy. The poor, distracted wife and mother did all she
could, by taking in washing and ironing, to prevent the starvation of
her little ones. The husband through his bleared eyes imagined he could
see that other men were too friendly to his wife. He charged her
with unfaithfulness to the marriage vows. She denied the charge. Only
incensed by this he would beat and mistreat her out of all reason. For
protection she had him arrested, intending to bind him over to keep
the peace, but on the advice of officers, who are so full of it, she
withdrew the charge and he was set at liberty. For a few days he was
quiet, but soon the red liquor poured down his throat, and like a
mountain devil stirred all the dark passions of his lost and ruined
nature. He attempted to debauch his own daughter, and was only prevented
by the physical force of the ever-watchful mother. The father (great
God! is such a human being entitled to the endearing term?) turned upon
her, and again, as had often happened, abused, kicked and mistreated her
in a most shameful manner. She had him arrested a second time with the
intention of binding him over to keep the peace. He pretended, while
in charge of the officer, that he must see his wife, and together they
started toward the hovel where they lived. They met the wife and mother
at the outskirts of the little village, had some words, and before the
officer could prevent it, Hurst sprang upon the woman and cut her throat
from ear to ear jumped away, and made good his escape to the woods,
the officer, meanwhile, deeming it more important to aid the woman, not
knowing, for a moment, that the cutting was fatal. That fact was very
soon apparent. Others were called who took charge of the body, and the
officer struck out in hot pursuit of the murderer. He was followed
to the woods a few miles from White Cloud, in Doniphan County, there
overtaken and conducted to the county seat, tried, convicted of murder
in the first degree, sentenced to be hung, sent to the penitentiary to
await the final execution, which, in our State, never comes. He remained
in there about twenty months when he became insane, and was sent to the
asylum; was there about three and a half years, when he was pronounced
cured and returned to the penitentiary. He is now insane a second time.
You have all in your younger-days read the story of the maniac that
paced his cell, repeating "once one is two," and now comes the queerest
part of this narrative. Hurst seems anxious to talk to every one that
calls, and especially anxious to shake hands; but if you say anything to
him, or ask any question, his only answer is "skilled labor," and
keeps on repeating these words as he walks up and down his place of
confinement.

Who knows but the infinite God has destroyed reason to prevent the power
of darkness over this poor, unfortunate being. Or who knows but the
demands of justice are met in the terrible conscience blows which have
staggered and shattered that which originally was in the image of God.


LIFE INSURANCE AND MURDER

McNutt and Winner.--These are two of the most noted criminals in the
penitentiary, rendered so because of the dastardly crime committed
by them, and the high social relations of the latter. They came from
Wichita, and have been in prison almost fifteen years. McNutt is a fine
artist and painter. He had his paint shop in Wichita, and was doing a
very successful business. Winner was his associate, and the two plotted
and carried into execution the following horrible crime: McNutt got his
life insured for $5,000, his wife being his beneficiary. It was a dark,
stormy night when McNutt and Winner enticed into this paint shop an
unsuspecting mutual friend. Here they murdered him in cold blood. They
then set fire to the paint shop and took to flight. After the fire
was put out, the charred remains of the murdered man were found, and
supposed to be those of McNutt, the owner of the building. The wife,
cognizant of the awful deed which her husband had committed, followed
the remains of the murdered man to the grave, dressed in her garb of
mourning.

Shortly after this she applied for the insurance money on her husband's
life. Some doubts were raised as to the identity of the body. Detectives
were employed to make an investigation of the case. They made use of a
deception, and thus got the woman to confess. They told her that they
had found an accomplice who had confessed the crime, and was in jail.
They promised the wife that if she would tell the truth they would not
prosecute her. She consented. She narrated the sickening events as they
had been plotted in her presence and under her roof. Officers were now
despatched to find the murderers. McNutt was found in Missouri plowing
corn. Winner was found near Wichita. They were brought to trial,
convicted, and sent to prison for life. Winner was unmarried at the time
of his conviction. His father and only brother are very wealthy, and
living in Kansas City. I have been told they offer $20,000 for Winner's
pardon. McNutt is a very useful man in the prison. He has charge of
the painting department. He has done some fine work on the walls of the
prison chapel, covering them with paintings of the Grecian goddesses.
Both of these prisoners hope to receive pardons. Whether they will
regain their liberty is a question which the future alone can answer.


THE HOG-THIEF

In the coal mines, as before stated, the convicts are permitted to
converse with each other. I improved this opportunity of acquiring the
histories of the five hundred criminals with whom I daily worked, eight
hundred feet below the surface. I would talk with a fellow prisoner,
and get the details of his crime as we sat together in the darkness.
Understanding "short-hand," I would go to my cell in the evening and
jot down what I had learned during the day. I had no fears of any
one reading my notes, as I was the only short-hand writer about
the institution. Day after day I kept this up, until I had material
sufficient of this nature to fill a book of more than two thousand
pages. My readers should also know, that a convict will tell a
fellow-prisoner the details of his crime, when he would not think of
saying a word about it to others. As a rule they deny their crimes to
those who are not, like themselves, criminals, pleading innocence. It is
not difficult for a prisoner to get the confidence of a fellow-prisoner.
In fact, criminals love to unburden their minds to those who possess
their confidence. The truth is, convicts have related their crimes
so often to me that it became tiresome. They say it relieves them
to communicate their troubles. Pinkerton, of Chicago, the prince of
detectives stated at one time that a criminal could not keep his secret.
It is true. I know it to be a fact. It has been demonstrated a hundred
times in my association with these convicts in the Kansas penitentiary.
Securing their confidence, these men have not only told me of the crimes
for which they have been sent to prison, but also of crimes that they
have committed, and, in the commission of which, they had not been
detected, which, if I should make them known, would cause a number of
them to remain in the penitentiary the rest of their lives. I am not in
the detective business, and will therefore keep what was confided to
me. I have met but few criminals in the mines that would not admit their
guilt. I have thought in many cases, convicts received sentences too
severe, and not at all commensurate with the crime committed. I have met
a few men, however, who would stubbornly deny their guilt and stoutly
affirm their innocence. I have worked upon these men day after day, and
never got anything out of them but that they were innocent. At times,
in tears, they would talk of their sufferings, and wonder if there was a
just God silently permitting the innocent to suffer for the guilty. I
am satisfied these men are innocent, and they have my sympathy. They are
exceptions. Others, while admitting their guilt on general principles,
and assenting to the justice of imprisonment, yet maintain that they
were innocent of the particular crime for which they stand convicted.
I trust the reader will not get his sympathies wrought too high, as
comparatively few angels find their way into modern prisons. I will give
you a few illustrations. These are just samples of scores of histories
in my possession.

A hog-thief worked in the mines with me for a few days. His dose was
five years at hard labor. He had stolen an old sandy female swine with
six pigs. I asked him if he was really guilty of carrying on the pork
business. "Yes," said he, with a low chuckle, "I have stolen pigs all my
life, and my daddy and mammy before me were in the same business. I got
caught. They never did." He then related the details of many thefts. He
made a considerable amount of money in his wicked traffic, which he had
squandered, and was now penniless. Money secured in a criminal manner
never does the possessor any good. I asked him if he had enough of the
hog business, and if it was his intention to quit it, and when he got
out of the pen to earn an honest living. "No," he replied, "as long as
there is a hog to steal and I am a free man, I propose to steal him."
Imprisonment failed to reform this convict. Although a hog-thief he was
an excellent singer and a prominent member of the prison choir.

There are many murderers in the mines. In fact, nearly all the life
men are there. Some of them speak of their crimes with a bravado simply
astonishing, showing their utter depravity. Others, admitting their
guilt, say but little of details. The following will give the reader
some idea of the stories that greeted my ears almost daily, and led me
to conclude that the coal mines of the penitentiary are not inhabited
exclusively by Sunday-school scholars. This cruel and heartless wretch
had murdered an old man and his wife. The old people lived on a farm
adjoining the one where this criminal, who was then a hired man, worked,
It was the talk of the neighborhood that they had money. This human
fiend undertook to secure their "loose change," as he called it. He
procured a shotgun and an axe, and, in the dead hour of night, went to
the house of the old people. He forced open the kitchen door and went
in. He had also brought with him a lantern. He quietly stole to the
bedside of the innocent and aged sleepers. He had no use for his lantern
as the moonlight shone through the window opposite and fell upon the
faces of the unconscious victims. Setting his gun down by the side of
the bed, so that he could have it handy for use, if necessary, he took
the axe and struck each of his victims a blow upon the head. He said,
with a demoniac chuckle, that it was more difficult to kill a woman than
a man, as it required two blows from the axe to kill the woman, while
one was sufficient for the man. He then ransacked the house, and,
between some blankets underneath the straw-bed upon which the old folks
were sleeping, he found a small bag, which contained some gold,
silver and paper money, amounting to over one thousand dollars. In a
cold-blooded manner he further stated (and as I pen his words my blood
nearly freezes in my veins), in order to search the bed upon which his
victims were lying, it became necessary for him to remove the b

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