Over The Wall

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TENE

By LEE DUNCAN Ex-Convict No, 9256 Oregon State Prison

Frontispiece

E. P. DUTTON

& CO., INC. NEW YORK

HVea ye LO& OVER

THE

WALL

COPYRIGHT, 1936, BY E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED :: PRINTED IN U. S. A. FIRST

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EDITION

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This story is respectfully dedicated to LEWIS W. JAMES WARDEN of the Oregon State Prison, a man whose ideals and fine principles pulled me out of a slump and, I sincerely hope, made a man of me. THE AUTHOR

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CHAPTER

ONE

| AM always sorry that I have not kept a diary. T-have | tried and failed. Perhaps it is as well for the world... ... For quite a lot of explosive secrets have been told torrie, and-.- =: - ©

if I had a record of them I might be tempted one day to publish them.

Asitis, I cannot.

Ishould have no evidence.

Only my recollection. . . . But diaries may be amusing, too. Suppose I had jotted down some of the principal incidents of my life? Of all the vivid remembrances a man has as he gets older,

there is none that strikes him as so good or so beautiful as that of when he was just an ornery rough-and-tumble kid,

playing hookey from school, swiping apples and watermelons from leather-lunged hucksters, gathering scrap-iron, old rags and dirty beer bottles from the city dump for pitiful remuneration to his mother’s dismay, and engaging in innumerable neighborhood imbroglios, fighting at the drop of a hat, and to skin and teeth, in a brainless though heroic

effort to be ultimately proclaimed undisputed champion rough-and-tumble scrapper of his school ward. Down deep in every boy’s heart lies an ambition to engage in fistic combat, time and time again a winner until eventually he meets

the local blustering bully and whips him to a fair-thee-well. Whether or not these fierce daydreams of a boy have ever actually materialized into a happy ending, when he has become a man, there is that unfailing tendency to recall count-

less incidents of youth with exaggerated reminiscences. I can recall with exceptional vividness all of mine, be-

cause I had such an unusual opportunity to be reared in a

-

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prosaic environment, yet I chose a protracted experience of rambling around inside of box cars, on top of sooty passenger car roofs and brake rods underneath, and later on

I took my place in long snaky lines of convicts at a State prison with an habitual semi-lock step, and red numbers a foot wide on the back of my blue-gray uniform. I cannot say that I am sorry. I won't even attempt to say that I could have prevented it. My philosophy in life is ‘and : always has been pretty much to the effect that:

. “Whatis to be, will be.” Perhaps I should even add: +11. “igvhether it happens or not.” If what I write carries any

hint of an alibi for what I have done, it wasn’t that I in-

tended to depict it that way. While there are memories of momentous things in my life, I have never once felt important enough in any sense of the word to consider myself a hero or a righteous figure of romance. Quite the contrary. Yet, on the other hand, I know without a trace of ego that

there has never been anything synthetic about my life; it has been very real to me. Of course, I don’t know a thing about you. You are just becoming acquainted with me, and it is quite possible that you will not like me or any of my deeds. If that is true, then it will be all right with me. I will at least derive considerable satisfaction in writ-! ing of my own experiences in my own crude way. As I work on this book of facts, I am thirty years of age.

Still a young man, if age were determined by years; but this is a hard life I have experienced, and already I have

lived over my alloted time. So it seems. I have escaped the clutches of death so narrowly at times that it is almost miraculous that I still live and walk around like other people who have led their commonplace, uninteresting lives. I often think that I am living on borrowed time, that the law of averages should have blotted me from the picture long ago—Pouf!—like a candle. It is difficult to remember a time, as I look back over my

life, when most of my thoughts and actions didn’t seem to "be influenced, in some degree, at any rate, by the inherent

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1 “

perience I had with a pair of brass knuckles, cg

"exlonly

called “knucks,” having bought them from a town soak for twenty-five cents. It was back ig

rmed days

thought of breaking the law.

I recall vividly an

when Fourth of July celebrations called for more ‘or less fighting among

the men, mainly more, although the boys

weren't supposed to participate in any way, according to all standard ethics. A grown tough was running 4 gyp game in this particular instance, where banners, boxes bf candy, wooden canes and other articles were supposed fo be given away for winning a certain number on a whel.| I lingered inauspiciously among the crowd until fie nity pre-

sented itself to pilfer a box of chocolates. (The t gh caught me red-handed, however, and when he started to slap me, I slipped the brass knuckles on my right hand, swung for all I was worth, and to my intense surprise, knocked him cold. Before anyone could grab me, I slipped a handkerchief around the weapon, and into the coat pocket of a crowding bystander it went. \ My earliest thoughts staunchly harbored the conviction that, by removing myself from my accustomed place of residence, I would instantly escape into an ideal existence,

filled with strength and ability to occupy myself in prosperous pursuits that escaped me in the restricted area in which I was familiar. My people were not distinguished by hereditary rank or social position; they were not endowed with all those faculties that can make the world a garden of enchantment; but they were as honest as the day is long, and were characterized by respect from everyone they came in contact with. My father was just a small business man, and was generally referred to as “comfortably fixed.” He owned a little

grocery store which catered mainly to the railroad trade. He always waited on the grimy customers himself, seldom depending on a clerk’s assistance. He either never knew how to enlarge his store or he never cared to, depending more on keeping his unimposing shelves well-stocked with

)

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fresh staple products than anything else.

He never cared

much for an influx of new customers either, being contented

as long as the steady railroad trade remained.- He got so he was able to estimate within a few dollars just how much the next week's trade would bring into the old-fashioned

oak-work money drawer; but he really never learned the value of a dollar, and his worldly possessions failed to lift him above the comfortably fixed class. He used to drink a little bit, but never enough to show

any cumulative effect. Asa general rule, he would go out of a Saturday night after store-closing time for a little “toot,” occasionally still having a slight hangover on Sabbath morning. But only once did I ever see him on a real souse, and

that was the only occasion that I can ever remember when he was listed as an absentee from Sunday night church services. But that one time almost terminated with disastrous

results for him.

It seems, if my memory serves me right,

that after he had stood with one foot on the brass rail in front

of the bar until his tongue was thick and inarticulate, and his legs took on that rubbery effect, he staggered over to an

empty seat at a rummy table, where several seasoned rummy hounds sized him up promptly

and expertly as a sucker

ready for a trimming, and smoothly relieved him of his roll to his last dime, which totaled up something over one hun-

dred dollars of the precious long green.

The removal

perpetrated so expertly tended to sober him up somewhat, and because a terrible fear of immediate consequences was borne in upon him, he put his thinking cap on and began to

figure.

Something like an hour later, about twelve midnight, he weaved and staggered into the front room of our home, his eyes bleary, nose and face unnaturally red and hat awry on

one side of his head; and seeing my mother seated at the

fireplace, calmly stern and unrelenting, he blurted in a choking gasp:

“Ma, I've been slugged—and robbed.” What happened in the next ten minutes is a matter of un-

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13

forgettable history around home, and I distinctly remember taking a heavy chair down to a shop on the following morning to be re-assembled, after its having fallen to pieces on my father’s head. And it was on that next day that a clerk, which was so rarely needed, was called in on emergency duty by my mother to tend to the store. Always did I long for travel and excitement. In an effort to get such notions out of my head, my father bought me a violin when I was about ten, hired a teacher to make

trips to our home several times weekly to give me lessons, and to all intents and purposes, my future was already laid out into exact designs where I was headed straight for a commanding place in the music field. But on the warm and placid days of summer, the cool, rippling current of a nearby stream always extended a far more pleasant invitation to

me than remaining inside the house scraping a bow across the resin. My teacher’s trips became sporadic and infrequent, and finally he threw up his hands in disgust in a sort of traditional temperamental outburst of madness and ceased to come any more altogether. Which made my father and mother very sad, and myself very happy. Inever touched the violin from that moment on, but I remember

that my father, upon returning from his occasional mild sprees from the neighborhood gin-mill, would invariably pick up the instrument and turn to fiddling “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree” or “A Bicycle Built for Two,” in such a sentimental strain that tears would moisten and glisten his optics profusely. I was just like any other boy, healthy, liked outdoor sports such as hunting, fishing, swimming, wading, camping, picnicking, gathering nuts, wild berries, plums, grapes, as ed gatherwell as wild flowers; but I also habit of acqu their ing fat pocketbooks, _And this last just naturally explains the fact that I always did prefer a life of hazard and adventure to a quiet, serene existence. Animal psychologists believe that animals roam about, especially at night, not always in search of food, but because of an inner urge for adventure,

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and are unconsciously hoping something hazardous, calling for all their powers of escape, may turn up. That passion for hazard and adventure must be an inherited trait of mine from some hunting, fighting ancestors. That passion has caused me a lot of grief, and brings to my mind, “Of all sad

words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these:

‘What a

sucker I've been’.”

The years passed and finally at the age of fourteen I decided quite definitely to remove my person to some poeticsounding, mysterious land a thousand miles from my own prosaic home.

Hardly had this impulse become a conviction

than I hastily packed all of my clothing, and made my way to the railroad station to board a train for Kansas City— which to me then was the metropolis of the world.

For a

period of two or three days in that city, the sheer weight of unbearable loneliness bore me down, and my soul was wrung with wild home-sickness, but I overcame this wave of nostalgia by making it my business to see the town. The possessor of some thirty dollars when I stepped off the train at Twentieth and Main Streets, I threw this away

with reckless, youthful abandon.

I was an enthusiastic

patron at the many and various concessions at Electric Park, made my rounds at the theaters, and whiled away expensive hours trying my luck with ancient twenty-two

rifles at shooting galleries. Then the inevitable occurred. One night, when the summer rain was beating down on the pavements with elemental ferocity, I found myself with

only one thin dime between me and absolute poverty.

With

a careless flip of the meager coin as to whether I would eat doughnuts and coffee or enjoy a cheap burlesque, I looked down on the wet street, and saw that the old Globe Theater on Walnut Street had won the toss. Somewhere about eleven o’clock that same night, I stood

gazing hungrily through the heavy plate-glass windows of a busy café on North Main Street, at the white-coated waiters serving trays of steaming hot, appetizing food to the

patrons.

The realization struck me forcefully that not only

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15

was I almost starved to death, but that my bed that night would have to be a dark hallway, packing box or something of that type. I stared at the wet blobs of yellow that lay on the glistening streets, a smudgy gold string of them where the street lights showed drearily through the rain, and for an instant, I felt a wave of incredible loneliness sweep over me. The owner of the café had neglected, for some reason or other, to place the awning down, and my clothing had been reduced to a soggy mass from having my nose pressed against the plate glass for so long. Of course, I could have moved over under one of the awnings near by, but there wasn’t much use. Icouldn’t have got any wetter. Isuppose it was the fact that I was so thoroughly soaked and dejectedlooking that I was pointed out to a big, red-headed husky

inside by a heavy-built woman who was seated behind the cash register. A moment later the man opened the swinging door and stuck his head out in the downpouring rain. “Hey, Kid, want a job?”

Now, there was a certain pride about me, a pride that was stern enough to weather some days of poverty and want if necessary. That pride would have prevented me from asking for food, but now with work in sight, my heart turned a couple of extra flip-flops at the thought of a good square meal. So I nodded my head vigorously in agreement. He gave me a quick, understanding smile. “Okay. Come on inside and talk to the boss.” The boss proved to be the woman behind the cash register, a buxom blonde with a beautifully molded figure despite her plump appearance, and whose face, even though it bore lines of dissipation, was lovely and a study in feminine wiles. This woman could be charming and gracious, and full of winning little ways from the coyest of smiles to the shyest and most melting of glances, but I was to learn that her glance could become as hard and unrelenting as granite when she wished. Now she was appraising me with a quizzical narrowing of

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her light blue eyes. “Ever bus dishes for a living, Sonny?” I shook my head negatively, but suggested quickly: “But I can learn.” “You ran away from home—didn’t you?” She had been a bit over-quick with that question, and I was thoroughly disconcerted for a moment.

However,

I

managed to blurt: “No, lady—I'm an orphan.” She permitted herself a delicate little smile. “An orphan? Oh, well—have it your own way, Angel.” She turned to the big guy. “Take him back to the kitchen, Red, and tell

the cook to feed him something. He looks darned near starved.” There is quite nothing that can produce the complete psychological change in a hungry person that a good warm meal can. Probably you have felt blue or depressed or hard-boiled some time in your life; then you crammed a big steak with all the trimmings down your gullet, and presto, al. So you felt the world wasn’t such a bad place after now, from a wistful, lonely kid full of dreams of home that only a homesick kid can have, I wis suddenly changed into a conquering, self-confident youngster once more. The buxom blonde seemed to take an intense interest in me, for some inexplicable reason, and the unreadable fate literally show-

ered luck on me. The woman not only was the owner of the café, but was also the proprietor of a hotel directly across the street. When I had reached the jaded stage through my gastronomical exertions, I reported back to her at the cash

register for duty. With her plump elbows resting on top of the cigar counter and her round, slightly double chin cupped in wellcared-for hands, she eyed me with a sort of affectionate appraisal.

She turned to the redhead, who reminded me of

a big cat, with the strength sliding and rippling and purring under his thin silk shirt. “Handle the cash-box for a minute, Red. I'm going to take this kid over and give him a room. He can report back

OVER

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She grabbed an umbrella and started

“Follow me, Angel.”

We were met in the small office at the top of the stairs of the hotel by a dark, glowing girl, with eyelashes that curled back thickly and a mist of black hair across her forehead. She really was a superb creature—tall, firm, young, but the

freshness was fast leaving her and already her face was beginning to show the ravages of a dissipated life. Through an established custom of her stock in trade, the young woman flashed her usual suggestive smile, although I was too inexperienced to interpret the real meaning. The buxom blonde shot a stony rebuke at the girl. “Never mind the goo-goo eyes, Kate.

This kid say’s he’s

an orphan, and we'll let it go at that. Let him stay up in Harry’s room on the third floor. He’s going to be my new busboy.” The brunette flushed an agitated pink, and bade me follow her. “One moment,” the blonde called sharply. “Harry’s got a room rented here the year round, but he only stays here three or four times a month.

A salesman of some kind, I

guess. He keeps a lot of clothing and stuff up there. You won't disturb any of it, will you?” Her tone was sweetly soothing, but there was also a hard ring in it now—a sort of warning. “I won’t even look at it,” I replied innocently. She assented in precisely the right tones. “All right, Angel—T’ll trust you. Show him his room, Kate.” I kept pace with the girl to the room and upon stepping inside, I glanced around rather befuddled. It was an unusually large room, light and airy, and various pieces of clothing and toilet articles were hung or placed indiscriminately around. “Gee, this is a swell room,” I ventured.

“Not bad, and you'll find Dolly one of the swellest pals you ever had, too,” Kate said. “But don’t ever get her

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down on you. She’s a bad enemy. You'll like it fine here, though, I'm sure. Well—good night.” As she closed the door, she laughed, a tinkling little laugh, somehow intimate

and enticing. The following morning I arose early, and made my way across the street to the café where I was to be initiated in the art of bussing dishes. The place was almost empty of trade at that hour, and the blonde, whose name I had learned from

Kate was Dolly, informed me that most of the patrons were of the sporting variety and invariably started stringing in late. She then inquired if I had ever “hustled trays.” This was a new art to me and in explanation, she said that this was a service offered without charge by the restaurant for errant sleepers in the hotels near by. She added that there would be lots of extra money in that for me if I showed an inclination to be friendly. A colored fellow had had the

tray hustling job, but had been discharged the day before. I took the job.

Dolly showed me how to fill the orders and prepare the food neatly on a tray, and she also spent a lengthy period of introducing the intricacies of balancing it above my shoulder, supported by one hand. My very first trip to a hotel came dangerously close to resulting in absolute failure. Two breakfast orders were on the tray, and were to be delivered the street except to With the

to a certain room in the old Strand Hotel down a block-and-a-half, but no alternative remained cross the street in order to reach my destination. palm of my right hand supporting the broad, flat

container at a precarious angle, I came within a gnat’s whisker of losing tray, orders, and even my equilibrium,

when two speeding street cars just missed me by inches. but finally I reached the other side in safety, and got to the hotel intact. At that time, before Andy Volstead had his brainstorm, and the saloons were still flourishing in Kansas City like the

American Beauties in Pasadena, the visitor upon enterin the hotel was faced by a long bar, set in established Amer-

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19

ican style along one side of the room. Several hanger-ons who were lined up along the bar taking their whisky straight, apparently knew at a glance that I was new and green on the tray-hustling job, and I was the recipient of an unmerciful kidding. The elevator man’s shriveled, ebony features crinkled humorously as he inquired, “Whar you all want to go, boy?” I answered him that the room was located on the second floor. “Want to watch yo’sef,” he advised. “Sho is some wil’, wil’ women galivantin’ up there.” ; A moment later, I rapped on the panels of the designated oor. “Come in,” said a voice that was decidedly feminine but sounded sleepy. I pushed open the door, and the sight that met my eyes almost made me lose the tray once more. Two girls were in the room, and these two brightened ladies were in varying states of deshabille. Isuffered agonies of shyness, and immediately tried to assume an utter fascination in ceiling inspection. Yet when the charmers introduced themselves I had to look at them squarely. They glanced up to meet my blushing gaze with shameless naiveté, tugging at a stocking, adjusting a brassiere or sundry unmentionables with no fluster whatsoever. To a mere tray hustler they were just as well in the nude as otherwise. It was not just a suggestion of brazenness; it was merely a habit of years standing from a point of flaunting Nature in the raw to the best advantage. One of the girls was seated in a chair directly in front of me, with one well-shaped limb drawn up, and she was in the

act of pulling on silken hosiery. She stared at me for a long moment, then burst out laughing. “What do you know about this» Does muvver’s rosy-cheeked babe have to hustle nasty old trays for a living?” Then: “Well, innocent, come in and set the breakfast down before it gets icecold.” I gulped. The room wore a disheveled appearance, and

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there were beer bottles strewn from one end to the other. Surprises were

piling up, swamping

my

youthful

brain.

My tongue was inarticulate, but I stumbled over and did as I was told. The other girl who was reclining on the bed giggled for no apparent reason, I thought. Her wise eyes slid over me with a mocking

expression.

“Snap

out of the trance,

Honey Babe, or your eyes will pop out of your head. We won't bite you.” I ignored this remark the best I could, and informed them in a tremulous tone that the price of the two meals was one dollar. When the girl on the chair gave me a two-dollar bill in payment, I managed to count out one dollar in change after dropping two or three coins on the frayed carpet. I offered this to her, and started out.

Keep it. We She refused the money with a shrug. trimmed a sucker for a half-a-C last night, so I guess we can afford a little tip for you.” Her face was etched in an expression of utter perplexity. “Say, you're really just a green punk, ain’t you? Don’t ever offer anybody back all of their change while you're on this job. Always hold out some, and keep on holding ’ull they squawk;

then hand it

over and apologize.” My grin was a poor cripple as I offered dumb thanks. Her parting shot was: “Better take that buck down and have some of the clover removed from your golden locks, kid.”

Such experiences as this proved to be a on the tray-hustling job; my youthful zeal thoughts of clamoring confusion and after fused to become flustered or dismayed.

hardened as the next one.

daily occurrence drowned further a few days, I reI became just as

I liked Dolly, Kate, and Red

tremendously, but that didn’t prevent me from sneaking out of my room with a couple of the pseudo-salesman’s suits

under my arm, and hocking them to a Jew a block or so distant for a few doltars.”I had sense enough to realize that I was deliberately flirting with danger as the man was due

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21

to return at any time, and after deciding to transfer my belongings to another part of town, I proceeded to forget all it for the present—and remain. Working and mingling in the environment that I was, my knowledge became an amazing thing to behold. I learned quickly that a dollar bill was a fish-skin; a two-dollar note was a Hard-Luck-Charlie; a five was a fin; a ten a saw-buck; a twenty a double-saw; fifty a half-a-C; a hundred-dollar bill a century, and a thousand-dollar bill was a Gee. I saw

and became familiar with the hopheads or cokes—the cocaine addicts on the snow; the needles or hypes—morphine users, tars or muds—smokers of opium; and the griefers who were habituated to marijuana or Mexican hemp. Then I saw the more advanced narcotic addicts, who shot unbelievable doses of powerful heroin in the main line —the

vein of their arms;

the hysien

users; chloroform

sniffers, who belonged to the riff-raff element of the dope chippeys, who mingled freely with others of their kind; canned heat stiffs, paragoric hounds, laudanum fiends, and last but not least, the veronal heads.

Oh, yes, and there

were the chloral addicts, and they were a crazy lot. . I learned that heading the licentious element were the women of loose morals, commonly referred to as ladies of the streets,

but who for the most part peddled the use of their charming bodies to any man passing a cursory venereal examina-

tion for a fixed or even higher price, inside of hotel rooms

and such. I learned that women

such as these, whores they were

called, who daily peddled use of their flesh at alarmingly

frequent intervals, often as high as fifty times per day, procured the services of a husky congenial advertiser of their wares, who would bring new customers up, and receive for his work a cut of the net receipts. Such a man was called a pimp, and it was a part of his job to protect his employer, and make certain that no one rolled the lady for her dough. One afternoon after a few weeks, I went to my room to

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bathe, and as I swung open the door I knew that someone had been in the room before me. Several additional pieces of toilet articles had been placed carelessly on the dresser, and a couple of bulky traveling bags were in one comer. This evidently was Harry, I thought, who had been so long in coming around, and it meant that I would have to put some distance between myself and North Main Street. Then something attracted my immediate attention. A leather wallet had been tossed upon the bed, apparently being forgotten by the owner. Upon opening, I found to my intense surprise that it contained slightly over four hundred dollars in currency—more money than I had ever had my hands on before. That guy is some salesman, I mused. In a tumult of self-approval and towering exaltation I pocketed the wallet without the hesitancy of a second thought, and then began hurriedly to pack my extra clothing in a suitcase. Here I was—foot-loose, adventurous,

highly imaginative. I had always wanted money and the things it would buy, and figured that if I ever got them I would have to steal them. Well—I had got away with the stealing, all right, and now all I had to do was to make the getaway. That didn’t frighten me; evading arrest is like a few other million things in life, a matter of chance. So I went to the door, opened it, and stepped out in the hall. To my utter consternation, I came face to face with Dolly. Her blue eyes swept me derisively as she saw the suitcase in my hand. A strange maliciousness was in her glance that should have warned me, but I was too full of youthful confidence to harbor thoughts of defeat. “So you're all packed up, Angel,” she said in a sweet

voice, curiously mixed with biting sarcasm. “Surely you wouldn't leave without calling over at the restaurant for your wages?” Something about her remark sent an apprehensive shiver sliding down my spine. “My mother is ill, and wired me to come home,” I distinctly remember blurting out, without thinking, of course. Immediately I realized my uncompro-

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23

mising blunder, and I felt a hot flush rushing to my cheeks. “Oh—so the sweet little orphan has now got a muvver?” she said, her rouged lips curling disdainfully. Then her manner changed abruptly, and she grasped my arm firmly; almost snarled: “Come on back in the room, Sonny Boy. Mamma wants to talk to you.” “I’ve got to hurry and catch a train. Honest I have.” Her free hand twisted the knob on the door, and swung the frame of wood on its hinges with a savage gesture. Her sharp blue eyes flitted to the bed, then she turned on me with an animal-like ferocity. “Where is that poke that was on the bed?” I felt as though she had struck me across my face. “How do I know? I never saw a poke in this room.” My voice was thick with resentment and futile protest. Her blue eyes close to mine were tense, half-closed, and I

felt as though those blue eyes were piercing my very soul. “You're a damn liar, Angel. Will you stand a frisk?” “Why should I?” I jerked myself free from her grasp, and started for the stairs. Dolly’s voice rose hysterically. “Red—oh, Red! Come up here.” Her voice was like a toll of impending doom to me. In a moment he appeared, all of his six feet of purring physique soft-footing it up the stairs. His powerful body moved with the effortless grace of a huge cat. The unblinking stare of his narrowed eyes made me feel about the size of a shrunken peanut. A peculiar emanation of undischarged dynamite seemed to surround him as he advanced. “Well, he done what you said he would, big boy,” Dolly said, now in a calm voice. “He grabbed the four C’s off the bed quicker’n you could bat an eye.” Red grasped me around the neck with two large hands that felt like bands of steel.

“All right, kid,” he snarled,

“shell out.” “I haven’t any money,” I protested stubbornly.

stinate nature was getting the best of me.

My ob-

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Red’s smile was cynical.

WALL

“Listen—Dolly don’t lie.

But

if you want me to, I'll find out for myself—see.”

His sudden decision was no whim. The futility of further argument was apparent, so with a gesture of resignation, I removed the leather poke from my pocket and handed it over to Red.

“I suppose you'll turn me over to the police now?” “No, we don’t snitch to the bulls,” he snapped. Then his manner softened somewhat. “I kinda figured you was smarter than this, kid.” I remained mute. “You grabbed the whole hook, line and sinker just like a little sucker. You'd better lay off this crooked stuff, or

old Father Time will be taking care of you in one of these joints with steel windows.” “Was this a plant, Red?”

His face fell abruptly into stern lines; his voice was gravely authoritative. “Sure. I know all about you copping Harry's suits, and selling them to a long-whiskered Shoniker

a couple of blocks down the avenue. I found ’em and took ’em out of hock. I and Dolly didn’t know but what you

needed that dough, but we wanted to find out for sure.

So

we figured this plant.” “Suppose I had gone out a window with that four hundred dollars instead of coming out the door like a big sap. Then what? Your plant wouldn’t have been so hot, would it?”

Red smiled. “We'd just been out four hundred bucks’ worth of bum paper, that’s all.” I felt both chagrined and angry.

I stole a surreptitious

glance at Dolly, and while her gaze was unreadable, the line of her mouth seemed somewhat rueful. “Do you want to stick?” Red asked.

I shook my head.

He growled something unintelligible and paused long enough to light a cigar. He puffed on it for a moment. Then he shrugged and smiled with an ancient wisdom.

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2§

“You can stay or go, kid, but in any event, a little advice won’t hurt you any and might come in handy to you later on in your life. Always take advantage of the breaks if you're determined to steal now and then—but break clean. Never take advantage of hospitality. You're just a youngster, and you're careless about little trifles that apparently don’t show up a whole lot on the surface of things, but your real trouble will begin when you start violating the law of friendship. Don’t ever double-cross your own kind.” For once in my life, I felt hopelessly young and inexperienced. “I'll try and remember that, Red,” I said. Dolly’s voice, with a tentative question in it, rested in

air, as I slipped through the door a moment later on my way to the street.

Another hour and I was on a train, bound for

home. My mother seemed happy to see me again after this escapade, and she listened intently as I glossed over my experiences with unconcealed ego. I did not attempt to relate all the incidents in true detail, meanwhile trying glibly to impress her with what a tremendous success I had been. She smiled and nodded and smiled, but beneath the surface

of her emotions, I felt instinctively there ran a current of fear, however.

My father refused bluntly to be fooled. His

comments concerning his real opinions were kept in darkness more or less, but it was evident his skepticism was complete. I did not remain home long, for the lure to get going again got the best of me. - This time, however, I was leaving with

the mutual consent of my parents. As I look back and reminisce on my past, one distinct scene flits among my recovery of recollections. It was a late evening of dying September, 1918, and Mother and I were seated on the veranda of our home, which was situated on a towering hill. Early autumn was beautiful, and the thousands of blinking

lights of the bristling Missouri metropolis lay before us in the distance. My mother pointed, and as I followed her gaze, I could plainly see the beacon light on a huge office

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building, and the familiar lettering on the beacon, “—

—

The City Worth While.” My mother, a tall, graceful, though frail-looking woman,

with beautiful auburn hair tinged with gray, began speaking softly: “The city worth while,” she murmured. “Oh, if you would only pattern your life after the wording of that beacon; let it be your aim wherever you go—whatever you do.” Now, I want to digress long enough to say that I am not

trying to be sappy, but every guy has got a mother, and I don’t care who the guy is, he just naturally looks back and remembers things like this. My mother paused for a long moment, as if listening to the soft murmur in the tree tops. Then her mouth quivered into a wistful smile, and it seemed that she had suddenly grown much older; there were deep lines on her face and her eyes had a hard, bitter look. “Your father is worried about you, and so am I. We've come to the conclusion that we’ll let you drop your school work for a few months and travel, because we feel that this

will cure your restlessness quicker than anything else. After you go out and find that home is a pretty good place, after all, we want you to come back and settle down.

And re-

gardless of where you go, we ask that you conduct yourself in such a way as would be becoming of a gentleman. Will you promise me to do that?” I squirmed uncomfortably, but I made myself speak lightly: “I promise, Mother.”

As I said before, a man can’t help remembering stuff like

this.

He remembers, because he has made so many mistakes.

I did not secretly vow unbreakable resolutions

at that time,

I remember distinctly, because even then I knew how easy and natural it is to break firm resolutions. Too many inci-

dents that are unforeseen or not contemplated upon can happen to comoletely change a well-directed course of a mere person’s life.

CHAPTER TWO

WITHIN a few weeks I was penniless; then I migrated out on the road.

I learned how to ride freight trains,

how to *““mooch a meal” from restaurants and back doors of residences, and how to “put the lug on a guy” in the streets.

Soon I was in San Francisco.

As I wandered over the Bay

City, broke, dirty and disgusted, I began to look for some-

thing to eat and a place to sleep. I soon found a flop-house dive that was generally patronized by crippled beggars. The place was a pandemonium with drunken bums, riff-raff of the

coast,

beggars,

many

crippled

other; bandaged, maimed, diseased.

in some

way

or

They were prostrate on

the floor, asleep in broken-down chairs, or leaning in a half-

standing position in the smelly corners, some yelling and howling. The whole district consisted mainly of cheap, unpainted frame rooming houses, greasy restaurants, lowly lurid cabarets, with their gaudy, anemic-looking soliciting girls, all

with unmistakable signs of flagrant vices.

Dime museums

with painted pictures of nude women, or illustrative of some

homosexual monstrosity, seemed only fitting to arouse the intelligence and interest of the jaded, callous and deadened

denizens and visitors of the filthy district. Opium dens or hop joints were hidden away behind Chinese laundries or in gloomy and apparently bare basements under the uneven Shooting galleries and blood-and-thunder pavements. movies were generously patronized by the riff-raff element from the four corners of the globe. The books, papers and magazines sold there reflected the mind of the district. They 27

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consisted almost entirely of two-gun and hard-riding stories of highwaymen, detecuves, war pirates, and true confessions

of degenerates and queens of the Barbary Coast. Sprinkled in with these stories were novels of a degrading and most immoral kind, such as Night Life of a Bartender’s Daugh-

ter, etc. On the first floor of the flop-houses were certainly a hundred or more men sleeping on the floor itself, without mattresses or bedclothes. Most of them had taken off their shoes and rolled them in their coats to make a bundle which they used as a pillow. Some were sleeping on newspapers which they had spread on the floor and were without any covering whatever. There was an old iron, pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room blazing away, sending out a sickening heat, hardly sufficient, however, to keep warm

the men sleeping in the corners of the room. Only men who made themselves habitually drunk by stale beer and other poisoned stuff sold as whiskey in those districts could have found it possible to sleep in such a pest house. I know I could not sleep. The animalism and despicable foulness and filth made one almost despair of mankind. It certainly brought back my mother’s words to me: “After you find that home is a pretty good place.” Well—it wasn’t such a bad place, at that, I mused grimly. A rather momentous

thing occurred, however, in that

lousy flop-joint: I fell in with a hobo whose moniker was “Frisco Whitey.” He said he had just been released a few days before from a penitentiary down in Oklahoma, still had the “bull horrors” to a certain extent, and therefore, hadn’t

as yet gained back his old nerve enough to go out and pull a job to net him a few dollars. Hence the sojourn in the louse-dump. “What were you in the pen for?” I asked him. “Well, you see, a dick nabbed me with some swag, collared me, took me to the can, booked me, and slammed me in the

bridal chamber. In the dock the dick gave a line to Judge, and the ’cutor held me for a rap. At the circus, they ap-

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29

pointed me a lousy ambulance chaser who was a scrammer. The dick got up and ladled out the broth to the Judge again and spelled out his pedigree.

This, with my bum homework

around over the country, got me a five-year rap on the rocks at Granite.” I gazed at him dumbly after this bit of recital. He laughed heartily. “That’s all right, kid. You're okay, and you’ll wise up after you're with me awhile.” He suggested that we go on the road until his nerve returned and we started immediately. He taught me alot. I soon became, under his tutelage, an expert hobo and a petty swindler. He sent me to a firm in Chicago that supplied him with phony jewelry. He taught me how to look sad and to whimper and cry so that a customer would come through when I tackled him. I would approach a man, apparently an out-of-town visitor, or anyone who looked as though he might be a prospect, and, producing the cheap brass watch.

I would begin to cry and say that my father had died and left me his watch. My prospective customer’s greed very soon overcame his sympathy and, justifying his action by the thought that if he didn’t purchase for a few dollars a solid gold watch that seemed to be worth fifty dollars, some-

one else would, he would pay me what I asked and hurry away. I formed a very low opinion of humanity as a whole when I was selling phony jewelry for, unfailingly, the men I approached were anxious to take advantage of a boy’s apparent necessity and ignorance. I became, in those days, very much like a wild animal, always on the go, without knowledge of or care for the rights of others, restless, a real menace to society. I was

arrested occasionally for vagrancy, but never remained in jail long. I became an expert at riding the rods or the blind baggage. The jungles were my home and hoboes my companions and teachers. On one occasion, I rode all the way from Dalhart, Texas, to Yuma, Arizona; my berth being the

guts of a dining car on a transcontinental limited. Frisco Whitey and I remained together only on alternate

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periods in different sections of the country during our first few months of association, and one day when we were back

in San Francisco, loafing about the Embarcadero, a man came up and asked: “How would you like to see China and Japan?” Whitey replied for the two of us that we were anx-

ious to see them, but didn’t savvy how to stow away. Neither of us knew anything about ships, although we knew

every bolt and plank in a bex car. “Well, I can get you on a boat, fellows,” the man said,

“if you want to go.

All you have to do is to see that the

chutes are clear and the coal slides into the boiler, and it is

an easy graft and Whitey and I officer, who took that the man had

good pay.” went with him and he delivered us to an us aboard as coal passers. We soon found lied to us about the easy graft, and we had

to work like nailers, but strange as it seems, I liked the ma-

chinery and did not mind the hard work.

Whitey’s re-

action to this hard labor was quite to the reverse, however. He was sick and irritable most of the trip, and spent his

spare time in cursing the fate that brought him aboard ship. We were given one day’s shore leave in Shanghai, and my companion bought two dozen bottles of square-neck gin at fifty cents “Mex” per bottle, which means about twentyfour cents per bottle. We came back by way of Japan, bringing a cargo of sulphur into San Francisco. Whitey’s sea-sickness wore off on the way back, and we

decided to make another trip; this time on a vessel that put us into Magdalena Bay and was engaged in some shady work. After we got back this time we went to Reno, Nevada, where we made some pretty fair money rolling drunks. We got a little too hot to become comfortable at this after a while, so we started working the “phone” which was just one of the little schemes we tried to make an easy living. It would be called a racket nowadays.

Of course, it was small

stuff to the big-shot flim-flam artists, but it was buying beans

OVER THE WALL

31

and bacon for us when the other lines got a little too warm. I would first enter a drug store we had picked out to victimize beforehand. I would make some trifling purchase, offer a ten-dollar bill and depart with the change. While I was in the act of leaving the shop, my towheaded confederate would dash in and toss the same clerk a one-dollar bill,

requesting change in a hurry so that he might use the telephone. He would then go to one of the pay phones, but would soon rush back to the clerk. “Say,” he would declare, “that was a ten-dollar bill I gave you

and you only gave me back change for a one-dollar

The clerk, of course, would invariably laugh and reply that Whitey was mistaken. He remembered very well that it was a one-dollar bill.

“It was a ten-dollar bill,” Whitey

would insist angrily. “I know because I wanted to use the phone, and the number I wanted to call was written on the back of a ten-dollar bill. Now, look and see.” Certain that he had made no mistake, the clerk would look in the cash register at the ten-dollar bills.

To his consternation,

he would find that the one right on top had a phone number scribbled on it.

(The one I had given him.)

There re-

mained nothing to do but admit his “mistake” and hand over the rest of the change for ten dollars—except call a cop. That never happened—luckily for us. Then, another scheme we played was “throwing the line.” When a well-dressed man would be stopping over between busses or trains, Whitey and I would approach him, pretending to be tourists, and then would propose that a good way to squander time while waiting for the next bus would be to draw a chalk line on the sidewalk and toss coins for keeps. Of course, the stranger would always lose heavily, if he played long enough, as the coins used by us would be treated beforehand with chloroform and an adhesive substance off of tape, so as to make them stick where they fell near the

mark, and as a general rule a man would stay around playing

the game in a sort of desperate hope of regaining some of the

fj =

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losses by improved marksmanship. Whenever a man would reach the stage indicating he was becoming suspicious, and

was getting ready to yell for a copper, Whitey and I would take out double-time on the well-known heel-and-toe, calling, “Good-bye, we've got to catch a bus,” as we sped away.

Whitey and I finally started in the stick-up racket, gasoline stations, grocery stores, drug stores and garages being our prey for the most part. acted as a car driver, while my companion handled the heat. We encountered many ex-

periences where only by the closest of margins did we escape capture with our skins intact. As I learned, I got big ideas. I reasoned that it took only a little more skill and no greater risk to rob a bank than a drug store. Whitey resisted. But we both began to get an occasional case of shaky nerves following one particularly close shave, and I wanted to try my hand at the forgery game for a while. Those were the days of plentiful employment at high wages, and the universal medium of exchange was checks, with not too many interrogative remarks. I suggested as much to Whitey. “Me and you forgers, kid,” he exclaimed scornfully. “Listen, if you start slinging ink on a bum check racket, you can do it all by your lonesome.”

“We're getting hotter’n a firecracker on these little stickups we've pulled,” I protested. “I'd rather get nabbed passing bum checks than sticking a gat in a guy’s ribs.”

medals for a heist job,” I came

“Oh, come off.

Let’s go down across the

line for a spell. They tell me there’s some hot-looking chile capinas ready to be plucked in old Mex.” So down below the line we went. I'll never forget how

—_——

He grinned.

get yourself in a jackpot, you'll mug, but you won’t send any town for your friends to hang want to consider a paperhang-

——

“Yeah. Well, if you ever have a reproduction of your copies back to the old home up over their fireplace. You ing career from that angle.” “I suppose they give guys back.

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Whitey and I fell victims of a Mexican Border race track tout. “Follow my advice,” the fellow said smoothly, in explaining the merits of a certain horse. “Yes, sir, follow my

advice in everything.

I'll see that you get a winning today.”

We took the tout’s tip on each of the first four races, with the result that when it came time for the horse to run which

he had been glorifying in race track lingo, our working capital had been reduced to exactly twenty cents. “Well,” Whitey said philosophically, “we've still got two good seats for the big race, and twenty cents will buy two bags of peanuts. I'll go get the peanuts and we’ll watch the horse that tout’s been raving about come in on the home stretch at tailend position, while we eat the goobers.”

Whitey took our twenty cents and departed, returning some time later with two bags of popcorn.

“I thought you

were going to get peanuts,” I said. “What’s the idea of coming back with popcorn? Myself personally, I don’t like popcorn.” Whitey grinned sheepishly. “I was just about to get the peanuts,” he alibied meekly, “When that damned tout came up and told me to get popcorn. I got popcorn,” with a

despairing gesture of washing his hands of the whole mat-

ter. That night we went back across the line, and Whitey hurled a brick wrapped with burlap sack through the front window

of a little jewelry store, and

we escaped with a

handful of cheap rings while the burglar alarm, of an an-

cient type, was raising Hades. On the next day, we picked up a few dollars on the junk, and back across the line we went to play the races once more. This time we figured we'd take it hit-or-miss without a tout’s advice. There was a

horse running in the third race named after a well-known movie actress, and Whitey, after studying the records of

the horses in the race, said: “Well, it’s a cinch that that satchel ain’t got a Chinaman’s chance.” I had a hunch, or premonition, or whatever you want to

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call it. “What do you say we put this twenty slugs we got on that gal? She looks lucky to me. Go on over there and buy a ticket on her—to win.” Whitey started grumbling, but he ambled off in the direction of the contribution window, and that little mare . romped home in front to pay the neat figure of $34.20 for two bucks. Boy, did I feel good! “Did we knock em dead

this ime?” I gloated exultantly. “That three hundred and forty-two bucks will kind of pay for this trip down here, eh, what?”

“No, it won't,” Whitey responded somberly. “I only bet on that horse to show, and so we've got only seventy bucks.” Not being very lucky at horse racing, we started drifting

around the country more or less, once again, and finally back up in San Francisco we looked ourselves over good and managed to find a dollar or so on our persons. “Let amble down to the Chinaman’s and play a little lottery,” my pal

said. “Okay,” I agreed, “but that’s a poor way to get rid of our last dough.” Down in San Francisco’s Chinatown we went—at night. Horror of the Limehouse. Orientals with long fingernails seated like fat spiders awaiting the enmeshing of the human fly. Inscrutable eyes peering out from the dark places. Mystery, and lots of it—to the uninitiated. But to persons familiar with Chinatown as Whitey and I were, there was

no horror, just an age-old custom, always mysterious to the suspicious Occidental. True, the fat Chinks were ever on the alert to trim some sucker at fan-tan, but the slant-eyes

were only on the lookout for cops, that’s all. The first trip to Chinatown, I wished for a gun more than anything else, when I didn’t have one. But I got to realize that should a gun be accidentally discharged in the heart of that sector, it was more than likely that a half-dozen Chinamen would have keeled over from sheer fright.

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3

I always liked the pagodalike turrets, aloof and mysterious, outlined against Frisco’s cloudy sky, and the shop windows, where, from a curious mingling of embroidered slippers and straw hats, images of Chinese gods looked out serenely. Always evident everywhere was the fantastic contrast between the oldest civilization—and the commercialization of the newest. We went down to Wong Foo’s and Whitey and I each played with the fickle Goddess of Luck, he being the more fortunate, winning $137.50 on a nine-spot ticket, and I winning nothing but experience. He was tickled as a kid with a toy switch engine, explaining that he had played the game countless times, but that this was the only occasion where he

had even got a smell. To explain the game: The Chinese lottery is one of the oldest games in the world. It is as mysterious as the Chinaman himself, but as simple as A.B.C. when played once. The agent sells to his customers a ticket on which are printed eighty Chinese characters. The customer is allowed to pick out any number of characters, the price of the ticket depending upon the number of characters selected. These characters are punched by the agent on two tickets, one of which he keeps and the other he gives to the customer. When the drawing is to be made, four rice bowls are placed in a row.

Small

tickets, each bearing one of the eighty characters, are distributed at random in the four bowls, twenty numbers to the bowl. A second drawing is then made from four numbers and the number drawn designates which bowl is to contain the lucky numbers. These numbers are then punched into hundreds of key tickets which are distributed to the customers to be compared with the ticket on which his selections are punched. By the simple process of placing the two tickets on top of each other, it is possible to see at a glance how many correct characters have been selected. The awarding of the prizes is complicated or simple as the

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method of play chosen by the customer is complicated or simple.

A “nine-spot” play, for instance, pays 35 cents if he

picks four numbers right, $3.50 if he picks five right, and $35 if he picks six right and so on. The lottery companies limit the amount to be won to $2,000. We

drifted up north to spend our lottery earnings, and

there it was that we concocted a bright little scheme which would have been great had everything worked out as we planned. We called up a professional bail bondsman at his bond office, and informed him that we wanted him to

post five thousand dollars cash bond for a friend of ours in jail, and for him to bring the money to a designated street

number, in a classy part of town. (The people who belonged at this number were on a vacation in California.) It wasn’t long before the bondsman arrived, but he was in company with an associate. The associate decided to remain outside, however, like a good fellow, while the bondsman

came in. No sooner had he entered than Whitey flashed a heat on him and commanded the frightened man to “stick ’em up.” “Did you bring the five grand?” Whitey gestured. The bondsman replied that he hadn’t. We then demanded that the bondsman strip. After we had searched his clothing and person and found a fairly good diamond and about fity dollars in money, we told him that he could have the op-

portunity of putting his clothing back on before we tied him to a heavy davenport. After making sure that he was securely hog-tied for at least a few minutes, we turned out the lights and departed. The last job we pulled together we looted a betting place which was a cigar store, on the day of a Kentucky Derb race. Whitey had cased the lay beforehand, and had boasted incessantly that the caper would net us at least about four grand, but we only counted eight hundred after it was all over. We ascertained later that the pickers of a winner had just been paid off and gone their way before we ap-

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37

peared, and that was why we didn’t get more. The Derby was just another horse race, apparently, to those still studying their forms when we entered, pushing before us the men who had been at the cigar stand. One guy had the nerve to ask in the face of a gun: “What can I do for you?” “We represent the charities, fellow,” said Whitey, prodding him in the ribs with a cannon.

“Give till it hurts, old

man.” Then he turned to the gang. “Get to the wall, you mugs; face it with hands up. We didn’t have a Derby winner, but we have something the ‘bookie’ will pay off on,” he laughed, gesturing with the heater. “You too, fellow,” he added, stirring a guy out of his absorption, who was still

deep in his racing form. Race horses will do queer things to a human, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this guy, who was still kind of dazed from losing so heavily. You could see that by the expression on his pan. He dropped his paper with alacrity as he perceived the impending shift of money had nothing whatever to do with the ponies at Louisville. I emptied the cash register at that end. “Your seventh-race customers won’t be bothered by us,” Whitey spoke out. I went through the motion of stroking the line of men for weapons, fanned each of their money and

valuables with a thorough expertness I had acquired through

experience, then told them they could lower their hands.

We backed through the cigar store, emptied the cash till at the front end, and lingered in the doorway a full minute gazing at the customers facing the wall like so many stooge statues. “Just stay in that position a few minutes, you mugs,” Whitey warned, as we pocketed our guns and backed out through the doorway. Then we walked swiftly to our car parked around the corner, crawled in, meshed gears, and

started weaving through the 'busy traffic. A few days after this, Whitey and I split. I was becoming

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sick of the stick-up racket and still had forgery on the brain. Whitey shook his head somewhat sadly when I broached that subject again. “So you just can’t get that stuff out of your head. I kinda thought you been kidding me all this time.” He faced me squarely and explained further: “You've never been fingerprinted yet, but if you start forging paper, your prints will be plastered on every check you cash. And they’ll make your mug at every place you visit. Being just a kid yet, you'll be pretty easy to grab.” But I was not easy to sway this time, and Whitey went

his way,'and I went mine.

He did not remain on the West

Coast, but picked up and went directly to Detroit.

Several

years later, I heard definite news about him, but it was bad news; he had been killed in a bank raid.

Frisco Whitey

—

—_—

—_—

er

———

was dead. I felt sorry as hell about it. For Whitey was a plenty smart guy, courageous and a true-blue pal, if there ever was one in the world.

CHAPTER THREE

I BEGAN to practice conscientiously for this forgery profession; determined to be not just a paper hanger of the dime-a-dozen variety, but would become a superforger— being that full of ego. However, I did manage a scheme whereby I could turn the signature specimen upside down and carefully draw the required name out. This method tended to manufacture a fascimile to just about as near perfect a reproduction as was humanly possible, at the same time leaving none of the characteristics of my own handwriting.

To be a superforger, I had to experiment with all

types of inks, pens and paper; get a portable typewriter and check protector, so I added these to my equipment. No sense in going at things half-cocked. In those days young punks were holding down jobs as clerks and timekeepers, so I knew that I could dress and act the part and not come under suspicion by assuming such roles.

I prowled many a print shop, and stole many a litho-

graphed check. The next step was fairly simple—pick out some corporation or firm, pay some small printer to attach their letterhead to about forty or fifty stolen checks, get

an original signature of the signee, and I was all set.

It was

pretty easy to cash checks, especially, if they just looked

good, and the donor was fortunate enough to have an honest line and an Honest John look. The average American busi- ness man considers himself too intelligent to be bested by a rubber-check artist; and if he likes the looks of a man or

woman at very first glance, he thereafter relies on his ad39

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mitted shrewdness everything else for I might say that than I ever made brainless age when

and judgment of character, and takes granted. I made more dough with Frisco Whitey in the check racket. I was just at that I believed it took an intelligent guy to go

out and slip over a few rubber checks, but that any bum

could go out and stick a man up and get away. What a little sap I was. For instance, I thought I was master-minding the public when I was working the florist shop gag in so many different cities. Here is the way it went: I would pick up a morning paper, and turn to the death notices. Choosing a name that sounded kind of substantial and ritzy, I would go down and go into a florist shop, and with a solemn look on my features would ask to be shown a nice wreath I'd try my best to display a little discrimination in my selection, would finally purchase one, and would request that a card be included on the wreath, expressing my bereavements and so on, and then would present the bogus check. The

difference would net me a tidy sum in exchange. Then, there was the one where I would dash breathlessly up to a clerk in a drug store of a late evening, and present a card, on which was written or neatly printed, the name of a

reliable maternity nurse.

I would state that this case needed

The profit I realized on these little swindles was insignificant, but the kick I was deriving out of it was something, believe

me.

Another scheme I had to get by without honest work,

was to appear at the desk of a prominent hotel and ask for my mail. (A letter I had mailed myself from a distant city.) The letter would be handed me. I would open it and draw

—

would present the forged corporation check. This was a pretty good one, I must admit, for the clerk would always be rather befuddled by the time he had filled the order by having to contend with an apparently young husband who was anxiously awaiting his offspring to come into the world.

, ———— ee oe ——

particularly immediate service, and after the order was filled,

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41

forth a check for seventy-five dollars, written on the stationary of some big bank.

“Here, Mister, take out five dollars

for two days room rent and give me the change,” I would sa Invariably I would get the change. Hotels were easy prey for my bogus checks, for the most part. But sometimes everything wouldn’t be easy sailing. For in addition to being easy prey, a large hotel is also a

place where it is extremely easy to stumble.

Clerks in large

hotels have been bamboozled so often by paper-hanging artists that, more often than not, they are very adept at siz-

ing a man up—and they very seldom make mistakes. As a general rule, if the clerk in a hotel is doubtful, he will ask for

credentials.

Then, upon compliance with this request, if

he is still undecided, the clerk will present the check to the

credit manager. If the credit manager is skeptical of the check’s genuine value, he will call the assistant manager of the hotel who happens to be on'duty, and it is up to him to decide what is to be done.

Three times, my checks were

passed from hand to hand until they reached the assistant manager, and it was a severe strain on the nerves on each occasion. There is a strong psychological reason why large hotels are so easy for rubber checks. First—hotel men cash checks because it has been their custom to do so for years. There are so many people that regard hotels as their homes and expect this courtesy. Second—hotel men are moral cowards in such delicate situations because they do not want to run the risk of offending the guests and losing future business. In Salt Lake City, I abandoned the corporation check racket for forged travelling checks which was a highly unsuccessful venture for me, and almost immediately a chase was on between myself and company detectives. In Denver, the chase became so warm that in desperation I sunk all my forging paraphernalia in Cherry Creek, and enlisted in the

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United States Army for a three-year hitch.

On January 17,

1921, I was mustered into service at Fort Logan, Colorado,

at the tender age of seventeen years and fourteen days. When I raised my right hand to take the necessary oath, however, I maintained that I was the required eighteen years of age. The officer in charge of the recruiting station did not question my veracity, because I undoubtedly looked the age, as the several years of travelling around over the country in a constant battle of wits with the law, had put lines in

my face that shouldn’t have been on a seventeen-year-old youth. After about a month in Fort Logan, I was transferred with

eighty-four other men to Camp Lewis, Washington, then a bristling Army cantonment of almost wartime population and activity. I was assigned to Company D, Forty-Seventh Infantry, Fourth Division, to a machine-gun outfit, and thus

began a period of my life in which I accomplished things that I am somewhat swell-headed about to this day, regard-

less of how it ended. My enlistment came about as a last resort of desperation when forces of John Law were literally brushing my heels, and I didn’t expect or even hope for it to last long. But strangely, I soon discovered that I liked the outdoor Army life from the start. And it was a beautiful country—the great Northwest. Dozens of crystal streams shaken in silver folds coursed and rippled through the woods, the blue and valley-starred mountains, and through the great Camp Lewis region. Cold

sweet water gushed from pine-clad mountain sides in deep and dripping hollows where the clear streams rose. Hidden rivers leaped from shade to light. Hills and mountains were a shimmering delicate sight in tender new greens gilded by the misty golden light of the almost perpetual Olympian spring sunshine. Wild grapevines dangled pastel-tinted leaves. Yellowthroats piped a continuous symphony in the willows where the leaves were wet. By evening there would be the occasional sound of thrush whose overflowing tawny notes enchanted the pines.

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43

Wild deer roamed the beautiful wilderness. Deep granite canyons were fiercely rugged in the Nisqually River country. Unusual geological formations abounded in this almost untouched Pacific Northwest paradise. There were towering mountains to climb, narrow paths where the lumberjacks had trod through the valleys rimmed with green crescent mountains, creeks which mysteriously disappeared only to come to the surface again, subterranean streams to be viewed at the bottom of deep natural wells. There were a number of State parks in surrounding counties. In the deep heart of the hills were a hundred hidden water courses with their plunging waterfalls like silver running horses. The hills had a thousand misty nooks tempting the soldiers to stray from reveille and retreat and stay and bask in the sunshine by mint-bordered pools or frothing rapids. This comparatively new country was as different from the flat, farmer-infested Middle West of which I was a native, as a coconut is from a pool cue, and it was hard to

keep a guy from rhapsodizing in praises. My

company

commander

was a young Captain, whose

forefathers for many generations back were Army officers, and who himself had been trained in famous old West Point. He was a born leader, and possessed a personal magnetism

that attracted to him at once every old-timer or rookie he came in contact with. Within two months after I reached Camp Lewis, he recommended that I be placed in complete charge of the regimental canteen, a gold-brick job of no

litle importance.

This was appr by oved the regimental

commander, Colonel Mearns, and by some twist in the makeup

of

my

temperament,

I never gave a single thought to

amy stealin , Fgh Tswas in an almost perfect off half thé Army post on my fiew job. I believe the reason was that Thad too many things in which I was intensely interested, to occupy my mind. Once I had settled down to my new life, I immediately

got in touch with my people for the first time in over three years, telling them of my enlisting in the service and judging

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from the tone of their answering letters, they very happy about it, probably believing that straight for a Generalship or something like were firmly convinced that at last I had chosen career, and that I was all set to become famous.

seemed to be I was headed that. They an honorable Of course,

they had no knowledge of what had transpired during the course of the three years that remained unaccounted for, and I never took occasion to try to explain. I discovered one thing in particular soon after my advent in the Army, that I needed in the worst way to build myself up physically. I began earnest training for all sports events that took place on the enormous parade ground at frequent intervals with hundreds of participants, and I don’t believe any world’s champion ever lived up more rigidly to his training regime than I did. After a few months the change in my appearance was remarkable, and on July 4, 1921, I was

proclaimed winner in both the one-hundred and two-hundred-and-twenty yard dashes, and on the same day I hit the tape third in the four-forty. The pick of thirty-five thousand soldiers stationed in Camp Lewis participated in the events that day, and my accomplishments didn’t tend to inflate my natural ego a bit. Right after that I started on a boxing career under the tutelage of my company commander, who was no mean exponent of the art of self-defense himself. With a lot of experience back of me from rolling drunks, I was naturally a hard hitter with a fast left hook, and administered a pleasant

snooze in the initial heat to my first opponent. I didn’t win all the time, being whipped to a frazzle by a guy I particularly disliked, although I did compile a fairly commendable record. When it came time for my company to have their annual machine-gun practice on the range, I started in with plenty of enthusiasm and wound up as a sharpshooter, only lacking six points of qualifying as an expert gunner. With all these things to do and strive for, I had little time to

think about crime. In September,

1921, the War Department abolished the

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45

famous old Fourth Division, built up the Third Division from its remnants, and my company, as well as my batallion, was ordered to take over the small, but very modern post

at Fort Lawton, Washington. Our new outfit was the Fiftyeighth Infantry, and while we lost our old Captain in the ensuing shuffle, our new company commander, Captain Cartwright, was his equal as a swell guy.

He was a big,

handsome, strapping six-footer, of about thirty years of age, and every man in my company swore his allegiance to him from the start. After eighteen months had passed by in the Army, I placed

an application for a three-months’ furlough.

Captain Cart-

wright objected to this move by me, saying that it was his

intention to have me transferred to the machine-gun school at Camp Dix, New Jersey.

I won out in the end, however,

and I left Fort Lawton with a furlough in my pocket, and

with the best intentions in the world to return upon its expiration, but Fate had other things in store for me. In Seattle, at a downtown hotel, I discarded my uniform for civilian clothing, and took a boat to Shanghai, China. And there I was, still in Shanghai, drunker than hell on rotgut

when my furlough expired.

When I turned up as missing, Captain Cartwright got in touch at once with my people, and as the weeks turned into

months, my mother started a series of letters to the Captain at Fort Lawton, bitterly ridiculing the Army as the cause for my absence, and holding them responsible in every way.

I was not to learn of all this until years later, but the following letter is a reply that Captain Cartwright mailed to my mother: Fort LAWTON, WASHINGTON. NOVEMBER 14, 1922. Mrs. J. H. Duncan, 323 EAST 12TH STREET. My DEAR Mrs. Duncan:

Yours of October 30th and November 6th at hand.

Regard-

ing your son, Lee Duncan, who was formerly a member of this

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company, I can only state that we have neither seen him or heard of him since he left this post on furlough.

Judging from your letter, I assume that you and some of the

people in the same community have a decidedly erroneous conception of the real American Army, which I will try and correct as much as possible.

I am of the same opinion as other members of this company in that I do not think that your son had any intention, and . that he did not desert the service of the United States, for the following reasons: I have had command of this company for

one year and shortly after I took command, your son was one of the particular men of the company that came particularly to my attention. On account of his being above the average intelligence, he was one of the first men in the company that I made Private First Class and he was next in line for noncommissioned officer, and had he returned to the company after his furlough there is not a particle of doubt but that he would have been a corporal now, with excellent chances for advancement to higher grades. I considered him one of the brightest

men in the company and he is one man that never gave me one bit of trouble in any way.

His character is excellent, and his

morals, to the best of my knowledge, perfect. I suppose this has caused you a lot of worry, and I do not want to cause you any more, but in justice to the character of your son, and to your opinion of the Army in general it is only fair to say that I do not think your son deserted but that he has met with some accident or has been unavoidably detained due to no particular fault of his own. He had no reason

for leaving the service as he was getting along particularly well,

more so I should say, than the majority of other men in the

company. We have a great many excellent men in the service, men of very excellent character, and it is my firm belief that the young

man wandering around in civil life has more chances and is more liable, to lose his good morals than a man in the service. The Army does not offer any extra inducements in that line and the chances are ten to one that a man that cannot make good

in the service will fail quicker in civil life than he will in the Army. It is necessary to drop your son as a deserter as the Regula-

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tions of the Army of the United States, by which we are governed require that this be done after a man has been gone ten days absence without leave. It is not necessary that we produce papers showing consent

of the parents in any case where the man says he is eighteen years of age. In that case we do not require consent from the parents. Now if your son had told the recruiting officer that he was under eighteen years of age, he would

not have been

accepted in the service without written consent from you, and that consent would have been filed with his service record. If he did say he was eighteen or over then his statement would

have been accepted as true and later on if it developed otherwise then he would be liable to trial by court-martial for fraudulent enlistment.

Regarding a man ruining himself in the Army, this is a preposterous statement to make, for no man has the opportunity to ruin himself in the Army as in civilian life. If he does ruin himself in the Army, then his character and morals were such at the start that neither the service nor civilian life could save him. Scan statistics and you will find that the percentage of ruinations are far greater in civil life than they are in the service. A term in the Army will be of immeasurable assistance to

a man, and if he does not come out a more fit physical specimen

towards character and morals, and personal pride on his own part and thence to some decent civil occupation, then his is an exceptional case.

I sincerely hope that your opinion of the Army and its men

will change, and that this may all concerned. I remain,

be cleared up satisfactorily to

Very truly yours, LESLIE J. CARTWRIGHT. Captain, 58th Infantry, Fort Lawton, Washington.

I really felt tough about being marked down on Uncle Sam’s books as a deserter from his Army, and I even contemplated seriously the thought of giving myself up to military authorities. Once back in the States, however, I dismissed this idea from my mind. I arrived back in San

Francisco on Christmas Day, 1922, with two dollars in my

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pockets, and I lost no time in starting to study up ways and

means of resuming a career of crime just where I had left off upon my advent in the Army. I won't go into details, but finally I found out that everything has an ending; my first Waterloo occurring on a cold December day in Portland, Oregon. I had been getting over like a million, so to speak, all afternoon, turning rubber checks into long green, and finally I went into a big hardware store to get nd of the last solitary one. I made a five-dollar purchase and tendered a one-hundred dollar phony in payment to the clerk. He looked at the corporation check, which was fixed up as pretty as one of Insull’s utilities bonds; then he looked at me and finally said: “I’ll have to see Mr. Ward, the boss, before I can cash this.” But instead of going to see any boss, he walked over and

closed and locked a big, heavy door which left, as far as I could see, only himself and me inside the store. “Closing time,” he remarked shortly, and then, “follow me.” 1 followed him up a short flight of narrow, darkened stairs, and

we came to a small office which contained a big two-hundred pounder, about thirty-five years old, and a neat-looking little private secretary. The clerk stated the business at hand, whereupon Mr. Ward sized me up and down intently, then

deliberately turned his back and said brisk tone: “I know that corporation, the men that run it. It’s pretty late, catch somebody at their offices.” I reflected quickly as the man sat the telephone. It wasn’t reassuring

over his shoulder in a and I personally know but I might be able to

down and picked up to know that I was

locked in a building with a couple of suspicious guys, one of

them who looked husky and fast and tough enough to be an ex-All America football tackle, and him at that very moment trying his best to make me out a liar and crook, and

with a better than even chance of doing that very thing. The telephone is a useful little instrument, an informal means of

quick communication. But what an abomination it proved to be when the store manager started asking for the number

OVER THE WALL

49

of the firm I was attempting to pose as sitting ace-high with. I inwardly hoped that quite a few things might happen at that moment; for instance, that somehow it should be the

wrong number, that Central should develop one of the periodic spells of flagrant carelessness, that should any person be in the office, he would ignore the call.

Mr. Ward’s cool demeanor was like a rough edge sawing on my jagged nerves. There was nothing abrupt or impatient about him, but he was considerate, mannerly, and seemed

in no way annoyed at the delay in an answer. It just seemed that he realized that he had a bum check artist in a trap, and

that he was just waiting for the net to tighten to just the right tension before he pulled the string which would dump me in police headquarters. Then, when I finally heard him

say, “Hello,” I felt helpless to retaliate in defense of myself, more so than before. “What's that?” he asked, in the mouthpiece. “Oh, you say he’s at his home. Thanks a lot.” He

asked for a new the phone again, to me. “What want just went I'll get him this

number, paused interminably, spoke into talked a minute, hung up and then turned do you know about that? The fellow I down to the Portland Athletic Club. But time.” You're the most persistent guy I

ever met, I thought grimly.

I could even hear the page boys

calling for my potential nemesis through the telephone after Ward had got his connection. That was a strain—waiting for something to happen. Then the tension was suddenly broken. Ward hung the receiver on the hook disgustedly. “He’s gone again,” he said to me. He turned to his secretary. “Go ahead and cash that check. I believe it’s good.” Sure took you a long time to make up your mind, I mused, as I counted the money. Suppressing a little smile of self-approval, I walked out of the store ahead of Mr. Ward, his clerk and his secretary,

and made my way with assumed nonchalance to the Union Station where I bought a ticket for Seattle. In that spot I was nabbed just two hours later, still waiting for a train that was far late of the regular schedule that would have

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transported me to safety.

I was slouched back in one of

the traditional high seats, paper, and my baggage, stone bag, beside me on approaching, but a sort

with my face buried in a newsconsisting of a suitcase and gladthe floor. I didn’t hear the law of intuition warned me too late;

intuition classed three of the four men standing in front of me correctly as bulls: they were above medium in height, above medium in weight, above medium in coloring, above medium in everything. Their occupations were as sternly etched on their faces as if the word “Detective” had been hung on a large placard on each of their breasts. They were all eyeing me intently, and I saw at once that no one else but Mr. Ward, of Ward & Company, was there in person, himself. He was standing there spraddle-legged, eyeing

me with a disdainful smile.

“That’s the man, all right,” he told one of the dicks. “I recognized that ring he’s wearing the minute I stepped through the door.” I felt like kicking myself. The ring in question was an unusually large gold band with a facing of opaque Oriental design. It was unique, to say the least, and now I remembered clearly that I had neglected to remove the ring when I visited the store. The store manager had spotted it the very instant he stepped inside the station, getting a clear

view from the position of my hand in holding the newspaper.

“This your check?” one tall, swarthy-faced dick with ice-cold eyes asked, holding the phony paper in his hand. My mind was racing like a T-Model on Pikes’ Peak, but denial was impossible. Mr. Ward was standing in front of

me with that cynical smirk on his lips, so I decided to try a big bluff. “Yes, that’s my check,” I answered, after a pause. “Well, it’s got so much rubber in it that it bounces.”

I simulated a fairly helpless shrug. was paid me on a bill in good faith.”

“That’s too bad.

It

OVER

“Oh, yeah.

THE

Try another one.

51

WALL

That one’s frayed at the

edges.”

[was caught and I knew it. There was only one thing to do, be hauled down to the hoosegow, clam up and hope for the best. Very soon I was locked up, all right, and with the exception of when a harness bull brought me my meals,

that was the last I saw of the dicks until the following Monday afternoon. Then I was led out of the cell to face every

single merchant to whom I had tendered a bum check, and

was promptly identified by each as their defrauder. A dick stepped up with a devilishly harsh laugh.

“Well,

what do you think of it now?”

Frankly, I could think of nothing to say for the moment. For the life of me, I hadn't been able to figure out how Ward had identified the bogus check so quickly after I had passed

it.

I asked the dick

about it.

“Well, his bank opens again for business from six to eight o'clock every evening as a service to merchants,” he explained. “So after he left you, he went down and found out

your paper was a phony. We figured you might have a car, but a lot of guys try to make their getaway on a bus or train. That's the reason we came down to the Union Station

and grabbed you.”

The dick pondered for a moment, and

then his voice cut like a whip as he went on, almost con-

temptuously: “Nice outfit you had, kid, but it’s sure got you in a hell of a jam. Spokane has put in a bid for you for some bogus corporation checks you passed over there, and they’ll probably throw out a hook for you when you finish here in Oregon.”

That didn’t make me feel any better.

“So you made me

on those jobs, and the Spokane authorities want me now,

eh?” “Sure as shootin’, Spokane wants you,” he repeated drily, blowing cigarette smoke through his nostrils, “and you

ought to thank me for tipping you off.” When the judge sentenced me to the penitentiary for

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one year a couple of days later, he said: “If you had only exercised the same amount of energy to make an honest living rather than a dishonest one, you might have made a success of life. You have both strength and intelligence and if properly applied these would have made you twice as much money as you could make dishonestly. And honest money goes further and gives more pleasure. No man ever gained anything by being crooked.” My ears were still burning as he continued: “I hate to sentence you or any other young man to the penitentiary, unless the crime is of a severe mature, but under the law there is no alternative.

It is my firm belief that you will be released from there a confirmed criminal with small hope of salvage, because it is hard for any man to go up there, where he must mingle and associate with a hardened criminal element, and have a real chance of ever going straight again.”

CHAPTER

FOUR

T WAS a gray day and damp when I made my entrance into the Oregon Penitentiary, escorted by two burly Portland travelling guards. Even the police car coughed as it came to an unsteady halt before a gate marked “Closed.” A coarse-featured man with a question in his eye stepped up to the side of the car. “Got a fish, eh? Well, you'll have to walk up to the main gate. I'll tell ’em you're coming.” We made our way up to the cement walk edged on one side with magnificent roses and a perfect lawn, and on the other side with spreading dark green-leafed trees. The appearance of the landscape was that of a beautifully kept estate. Close-clipped greensward, carefully tended flower beds now a mass of spring bloom, massive trees, precise fences—a bit too high and sturdy-looking to a man wearing cuffs and leg irons, but this defect was almost hidden by climbing roses bursting with red buds. This was a little too perfect and caused the premonition that hell was about to be reached. Ah, there it was—at the end of the gravelled driveway which divided the grounds—there was the manor house, gaunt and spreading and gray—a

typical estate—

the estate of the disinherited of society. As we approached the tower which marked the entrance to Jack’s house, a head appeared at a high window. A guy with a gun in his hand was looking us over and, being satisfied as to who we were, he directed us down the wall to a

narrow iron gate. This gate upon our arrival emitted an electrical buzz that made me jump 53

a little, much

to the

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54

amusement of mush-face in the tower. Cautiously the guards with me raised the iron latch and we entered. Mysteriously the gate closed, marked by a dull clang that added density to the day’s grayness—a density and tension. Well, I was finally inside a penitentiary and the doors were locked. Over that North Wall yonder many years before, Tracy

and

Merrill had

painted the stonework

red

when they tired of confinement. In the turnkey’s office while I waited for orders I examined the stripped austerity of the room. Not a single thing was in evidence not necessary to the regular routine of the place. The ominous tension in the cautious plainness of the room made me almost wish for the dog-eared waiting-room magazines. Pretty soon a guard stepped in the room. “Strip to the hide, throw your clothes in a pile over in the middle of the floor, and sit down in that chair there. Make it snappy,”

came staccato-like orders from the gruff turnkey. I started jumping, and my clothes were gone over with minute care by deft, practiced fingers; then my body was examined, to ascertain whether or not there were any con-

cealed narcotics. My underwear and socks were tossed back to me, while my other apparel was bundled up and taken away. “Al right, lad. We're through with you here. Step into the Chapel—you’re gonna get mugged in a minute.” A heavy-built, dark-complexioned man with a genial smile stepped unexpectedly into the room. He looked me over curiously for a moment, then grinned. “Well,” he said, “through?” What the hell is it to you, I thought, but I answered:

hope so.” “I mean are you dressing out?” “Nope—just came up from Portland.” “Sorry. First time?” “Yeah.”

“How long——?"

“I

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55

“Long enough.” Just then a man whom I later learned was the Deputy Warden came in, and he and my inquisitor chatted for a few moments; then the Deputy turned to me: “This is Mr. Robertson, kid, a newspaperman. Don’t be afraid to talk to him.” Robertson centered his gaze my way again, we grinned at each other and were instantly at home, so to speak.

“Listen,” he said, “there may be a story in you, after all. How do you feel going in like this, springtime and all that stuff? Is there any kind of message you would like to leave those on the outside and all that kind of thing?” “Let somebody else do that,” I said. “I didn’t get a load

of poles from the judge to be sorry for; just a year flat, and I guess it fits.” He studied for a moment. “Just a year. Then you should

be thankful for that. By the way, is there anything you can be thankful for—and just dressing in prison?”

I had to laugh. “You've just got to have a story,” I said, “so you ask me what I've got to be thankful for. God, what a question to ask a man! But I suppose I'm thankful for the grub and a place to eat. Thankful for a heat of steam, fed canned, when

it gets cold. What

has any guy got to be

thankful for just going in the stir?» On the square—you

want the dope. You want to know what a guy is thankful

for? All right. He’s thankful for—Hope. “Hope for the things he’s yet to do, that the past is past. I hope that when I'm through with the game—the bulls are

through, hope that this hope will last. Not a hell of a lot to

be thankful for, the clang of prison bars, but I'm thankful for health and that my folks don’t know I'm in.” Robertson reached out and placed a bill in my palm. “I think you're all right, kid, and thanks for the story. Here's a fin to buy you some fags.” The Deputy grabbed the five-spot. “No dough allowed

inside the walls. I'll buy the fags for you.”

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Ii always remember that first night in the joint. For there’s something about a penitentiary at night that makes men walk softly. Maybe it’s the inherent instinct of a man to tread softly in the darkness. Maybe it’s the civilization in man that makes him mindful of his brothers’ comfort. Be the reason what it may, in the penitentiary when the lights

are out, when the cell doors clang with their final bang,

men—guardians of the damned—warders of the forgotten —tread softly)

/1 stood talking to my cell-mate. Talking in an undertone,

just above a whisper. It was after nine o’clock and the lights were out, and here and there came the echo of a cough and

a half-smothered oath as an aching body squirmed around for a soft spot on a straw mattress for the worst hell that a man knows on earth—a night with one’s dreams in a penitentiary.) Squinting sideways through the barred door of my cell, I could see down into the Chapel. Down there, catlike and alert, a sentry paced back and forth, an ironic expression on

his face. Outside, downtown somewhere, a good two miles from where I stood in my steel drum, a clock boomed out

the half-hour. As its notes died away, I heard it—a singsong

kind of a song, nameless, crooning, almost moaning, and I

turned to my cell-mate. “What the hell is that?” My tough-looking cell partner shrugged in the semidarkness. “A fish—eighteen years old. Doing two flat. First time in. Just a kid—three weeks inside. They had him up on the carpet, but the old man just talks to him—won’t discipline him. Seems the kid don’t know what it’s all about; sort

of a nightmare, the croaker says—but it gets on your nerves. He’s quiet now, but he'll start again. Funny, ain't it? Ain’t got no tune to it; no tune that a guy could call a tune, and the same words. Listen.” * Then I heard them—once—twice—three

times, the cry

of the—Oh, what the hell, a guy can’t explain it . . . The boy was singing, crooning, mumbling, “I Love You Truly.” ~

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There were some kind of word pictures in his mind, but

only God knew what they were. I looked out through the bars of the windows and into the prison yard. Everything had become sort of misty with fog. The singing had now become a choking wail; and I wanted to get some place where I couldn’t hear any more of the damn crazy noise,) My cell-mate knew it, and he just kind of grinned and shrugged again. “It’s stuff like this that makes a monkey stir-simple. We all get dingier'n a pet coon inside these dumps.” And then a chorus of yelling started in unbroken unison from all over the cell house. “Lay down, half-wit”; “Throw

yourself over the tier”; “Stick yer head in a cell bucket”; “Do yer singing in church”; “Sing ‘em, punk, sing ’em”; and “Boo-000-0-0.” Burglar, cutthroat, scoundrel, strongarm; each in a prison cell, a motley crew dishing out an ovation to a guy that couldn't take it. After two or three days of incarceration, my cell-mate

was released from the institution upon completion of his sentence, and I was assigned to a drum

which

was also

shared by an old fellow, serving two years for a liquor law

violation. The prisoner was a rancher, moderately wealthy, and had a family of three or four sons and daughters, to

whom he was greatly devoted. He was a pain in the neck; he had a lifelong habit of chewing tobacco and displayed

no indications of weakening from it. On the contrary, the

habit was even when the art of slip-stream

apparently becoming stronger, and continued he went to bed. He had a beautiful technique in expectoration; merely turned his head—and the did the rest. His accuracy was nothing to write

home about, however; in fact it hinted a sad lack of accom-

plishment as, upon crawling off the straw each morning there would be big, ugly brown stains on the steel wall, evidence of where he had missed the target by inches to spare. Back and forth, back and forth, he would

pace on the

floor of the drum, his lips moving quietly, gooty-like, as if in an appeal to some unseen force. Occasionally he would

4 {

58

OVER THE WALL

throw himself heavily on his bunk and start raving about his little wife, his sons and daughters, his ranch, and even

of his moonshine. He would suffer sudden alterations of mind and go in a frenzy, cursing the judge, prosecutor and jury with well-chosen epithets that were truly gems. He had a husky, almost snarling voice when he wanted to use it, and his command of sulphurous profanity was always a thing to marvel at, and was a far removal from both the King’s and President Wilson’s English. Finally the man’s whing-dings became so pronounced that I went down to the cell-house guard and demanded a move. “Don’t get all excited,” he responded cheerily. “The old guy’s moving in about fifteen minutes—to the foolish factory across the way.” Before many weeks passed I was given a regular job of mixing mortar for some bricklayers. All around me on this particular work were men supposed to be the hardestboiled in the institution. One day my attention was attracted to a pleasant-faced young Irishman, who finally sidled up and started a conversation. When I learned that he was Tom Murray, supposedly one of the most dangerous criminals in the Northwest, I gazed on unbelievingly. I had read and heard about his exploits, but in my mind had pictured

him more on the lines of John Public’s popular conception of a tough

criminal

and bank

robber, a beetling-browed,

gimlet-eyed guy with a “winiger woiks” lingo. Even after I got to know him better, it was hard to credit this smoothcheeked, athletic-looking young fellow with the cold, slate-

gray eyes and full, well-molded features with so dangerous areputation.

Murray had the physical sureness, and the ges-

tures of suppressed powers which seemed resultant of a trining in sports. He had the slender waist of a boxer, with the deep, broad shoulders of a discus thrower. He was no

professional athlete, however; just happened to be one of

those natural perfectly built specimens of manhood. Murray was a believer in force, overwhelming power, and a gun was his god. He thought that such a racket as

OVER THE WALL

59

forgery was plainly effeminate, and told me as much. But I pointed out the fact that I was only serving a year for forgery and that he was serving twenty forbeing a tough mug, and that he wasn’t the only guy capable of making a big splash in the puddle of crime. One day I had a funny experience. I was walling across the yard when a big fellow stopped me, asking for “the makin’s.” I pulled the tobacco and papers from my shirt pocket and the man, after rolling himself a cigarette out of the package, stuck my tobacco in his pocket, strolled un-

concernedly off and seated himself on a convenient block of wood.

I eyed him somewhat curiously, if not askance,

hardly knowing just what to make of the matter, when Murray strolled up. “Say, I just happened to be watching when that guy took your tobacco and then beat it. That's an old habit of his with fish just new to the joint, and it sort of gets in a man’s hair having to put up with stuff like that. Why don’t you go over and get the big stiff told off?” Always a man who wanted to impress a friend, I, while

certainly no Jack Dempsey in action or build, ambled over to the gentleman in question, tapped him briskly on the shoulder and said in a businesslike

fashion: “Say, guy, what

do you think this is—Christmas? Hand me back my weed now, or I'll knock your block off.”

The fellow looked up in annoyance, and then moving with incredible speed for so big a man, picked me up by my ankles, whirled me around his head in hammer-throwing fashion, let his hands slip as he did so, and the next few moments found me separating myself from a near-by pile of flax straw, and wondering just exactly what had happened. It also occurred to me to ascertain at once the identity of the man I had tried to reprove. I learned quickly enough that he was “Oregon” Jones, a roughhouse guy possessed of considerable wrestling ability and an extremely broad, but very strange sense of humor. “Oregon’s one of my gang,” Murray then explained,

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laughing. “We just wanted to try you out and have a little fun with you.” Every time I looked at Jones, he impressed me more. He was not only big and thick-chested, but everything about him betokened immense reserves of power and energy. Half measures and compromises were foreign to his nature. He didn’t even compromise with the guards or officials. His strong, rather harsh face held a pair of brown eyes that could wished,

bore and

holes

into milder-natured

his powerful,

muscular

men

hands

when could

they almost

break a man’s arm with one jerk. Ellsworth “Crowbar” Kelley, Jones’ partner-in-crime and another member of Murray’s gang, was a far different type. While he gave no outward impression of hardness, his ability to back up anything he undertook was just as firm as that of Jones. His eyes were peculiar in that, while seemingly frank, there was a veiled quality to them which concealed his natural hardness. It did not take long for the other convicts to notice my confidences with Murray and his gang, and my ego whispered to me that I was just a little superior in both intel-

ligence and ability to the rest of them. We did not mingle

with the “hoosiers,” as Murray preferred to refer to most

prisoners, but displayed particular discrimination by associating amongst ourselves, for the most part. The prying eyes of prison officials were surreptitiously glued upon us constantly, but I was too destitute of prison knowledge to be aware of the fact. And stool pigeons, ever alert for possible favors, were everywhere. In the parlance of the underworld, an informer is called

a “stoolie.” He is the outcast of his kind, the prey of the criminal who finds out his secret, the butt of the policeman

who uses him but despises him. They are widely used but not respected by prison officials, and when they make a mistake and land in a punishment cell, they receive even less

consideration from their fellow-prisoners—once they are

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61

marked. Now and then a stool pigeon would display ambassadorial qualities. In such case, he would not plunge into the crass barbarity of becoming objectionably personal. He would establish a contact of easy chat. He would, of course,

casually wonder if your long sentence had not become somewhat of a bore and then would assure you that he had a cinch escape planned and ready to execute, that you could not afford to overlook. It took an expert judge of human nature to resist the beguilements of such an informer, and once a man started pouring out his sentiments, he was lost. I am going to tell you of one case of where the services

of stoolpigeons were of inestimable value—of where their rotten hides were literally worth their weight in gold, but,

of course, it is an isolated case, and I will digress long enough to size up Tom Murray’s complete gang for you. It is important that I take care of that here, for something is about to happen. First, there was Murray, and you know all about him. And Oregon Jones.

And I have told you

that Kelley was one of these horribly deceptive-looking men who appear to be weak, and are not. His features were not combative, his gaze not aggressive. But I omitted to tell

you that Oregon Jones had a strange influence over him. Kelley seemed to idolize his partner-in-crime as a master. He never acted on his own initiative, and it is safe to assume that he may have been a model prisoner except for Jones. Of course, this is merely a conjecture. Kelley had the stuff in him to be honorable and right, and he had the stuff in him to be evil and bad. His was a blending temperament,

a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde controlling his thoughts tions according to his moods. Two other members of the gang stand out like a light in a fog. One we will call Joe Blackwell, twelve years for hold-up, who had figured in

and acbeacon serving several

escapes from the prison, having reached open country be-

yond the walls on more than one occasion. The other, William “Snoose” Johnson, a lean and wiry little Norwegian,

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serving five years with a bad criminal record back of him. With his bony chin ever thrust forward aggressively and his cold, steely eyes set in deep, bone-rimmed sockets, alertly searching for a loophole, he looked bad and was bad.

Murray confided to me one day that he and his gang were going to take advantage of an escape plot he was figuring out, and asked me if I wanted to go along. I laughingly answered him in the negative and informed him in no

uncertain tones that I desired to hear no part of the plan,

but he insisted on telling me the whole thing. His explanation was simple: “You won’t squeal—you’re not built that way—but even if you did squeal, your life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel after we’d get out of the hole and back in the yard.” He went on to say that with the possible exception of Kelley, he knew every man in his gang was tough and was willing to take desperate chances to escape. “But Kelley must be tough,” he said. “Jones swears by him, and that’s all that is necessary to make him okay with me.” He assumed that these four convicts were hard-boiled and would go the limit in any escape plot, and his assump-

tion was not far-fetched.

Thus a clever plot, born in the brain of a cunning and resourceful man, took shape, and the five convicts got busy. It

was the custom for a train to enter the prison yard every morning on or about eight o'clock, carrying steel, cement,

lumber, etc., for the buildings which were in the process of

construction. Murray, having served time before, well knew the possibilities of a stool pigeon as to how quickly underground news could reach prison officials. So with a word here and a word there by either him or a member of his gang to the friendly ears of an informer, the information passed that the men were to capture the train on a certain morning, and ride out to freedom. Soon Murray knew that his scheme was working perfectly, and his plotting beginning to materialize. While the officials said nothing to him personally, or to any member of his gang, he knew at once that the stoolies were on the

OVER THE WALL

63

job, for he was being watched a little closer, and the train was under somewhat heavier guard. And I felt instinctively that the officials had me under surveillance, too. It was plain

that they were unable to conceive how I, a one-year man and a forger at that, could be lodged so securely in the gang’s confidence. Murray’s gang consisted of desperate hold-up men; I was just a paper hanger on the books. That

is a rare combination inside the walls, a bank stick-up and a forger swapping confidences. I was later to learn how stool

pigeons and prison officials figure out brain-teasers of this kind. There was but one obvious conclusion for them to reach. Tom Murray and his pals could only be using me as a tool to help them gain their objective. They concluded that as I was serving but one year, I would attempt to smuggle guns back inside the walls for the desperadoes’ benefit, should everything else fail for them.

But regardless of the officials’ reasoning, Murray managed to smuggle a hacksaw blade from the prison machine shop, and passing this to Jones and Kelley, he instructed

them as to the next step in his plans. They were not being subjected to such a keen scrutiny as himself, and when the opportunity presented itself, the two men strolled unconcernedly to “Hog Alley,” between the prison dining-room and the South wing cell block. With a home-made key manufactured from a spoon handle, they quickly opened a heavy lock guarding the steelbarred door, leading from the day room on the main floor

of the penitentiary into the basement, used for storing commissaries. After some thirty minutes of diligent work sawing a bar on the basement window opening on the front yard, their job was complete. With a chuckle of satisfaction after reviewing the large opening caused by the missing bar, the men then adjusted it back in its place, and carefully

fastened it with chewing gum. Brushing the saw filings away, they then reported back to Murray that everything was O. K. Then came the morning they were looking for; it loomed

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misty with light rain and fog. As the eight hundred prisoners marched into the yard from their cells, there was no in-

dication in their demeanor that anything out of the ordinary might occur this day. The reason, of course, with the exception of myself, the gang of plotters, and a scant three or four other convicts that Murray trusted, none of the eight hundred convicts knew anything. The officials were aware, however, that something—a something that was surcharged with dire possibilities was bound to happen. To them, the very air was filled with an ominous warning. They were grim and tight-lipped, but Murray and his gang were sublimely indifferent to their attitudes. The young leader sidled over to me in the yard about eight o’clock. “We're all ready to go, Pal,” he hissed. “Go on over and

swipe the coupling pin from the first box car, will you?” I nodded, and walking unconcernedly over to the desig-

nated car, managed to snap the chain holding the coupling pin, put it in my pocket and a moment later tossed it in a

pile of debris near by. This stroke of strategy in stealing the coupling pin was significant, as it meant that the train would be held up for a few minutes. At 8:40 o’clock, a locomotive and two freight cars pulled into the prison yard,

and the alarm was quickly conveyed to the guards to be on the alert; 30-30 rifles, short carbines and shotguns,

with

their glistening barrels and ugly noses, looked down from the walls, and the guards

surrounded

the train in tense,

nervous postures. The guards and the officials were so busy watching the cars that they did not notice six men race across the yard to Hog Alley. Tom Murray and his gang and one other man, whom we will call Steve Regan, serving fifteen years for bank robbery and taken in the plot at the last moment, quickly forced the heavy lock on the steel door, and five minutes

later, they were through the opening made possible from the sawed bar on the basement window. Crossing forty feet of open lawn at breakneck speed, without once look-

OVER

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65

ing back, they mounted the stairs leading to the Oregon prison’s famous “bullpen guard tower” at the southwest corner of the main building. This was the most dangerous moment. For the barest fraction of a second, the six convicts’ subconscious minds

shot up a question. Would they be met with a hail of lead when they opened the door of the tower, or would the way to freedom be clear? There was deathly silence inside, that’s

all. The men listened with mounting apprehension and quickening breath as Joe Blackwell swung an axe from a side-arm position to smash the lock.

CHAPTER FIVE

¢¢\WELL, here goes nothing,” Joe remarked grimly, and C-r-a-s-b-! the fragile lock caved under from the blow of the axe, and the door swung open. And then the convicts sighed with relief, and suddenly they were

happy, keenly elated, and they laughed out loud. For Tom Murray’s strategy had watch. The tower was to the call of arms, “to were just too expansive

worked with the precision of a empty. The guard had also rushed watch that train.” The men’s grins to hold out against. This was too

easy. Six long-termers leaving town, and at the same time bidding farewell to a total of ninety-two

years amongst

them. Tom Murray was beating a twenty-year rap in just a comparatively few short months after his incarceration, for he had just arrived at the joint before I did by a few days.

The convicts passed through the empty guard tower, dropped to the ground where the sweet tang of freedom enlivened their intellect, and racing across the 100 yards of

open lawn to the paved road leading east from the city, they stopped an automobile driven by a salesman for a local cider works, dazed him with a blow behind the ear, and

commandeered his car. Oregon Jones took the wheel, but the convicts made no attempt to eject the frightened man from the car.

Jones pressed his foot to the floorboard of the machine to get the maximum speed, and at the State Reform School,

six miles southeast of the city, the convicts left the main road, turning the car into a side road, leading to a timbered 66

OVER THE WALL

67

and brushy area. They drove about a mile-and-a-half into the woods and abandoned the car, taking the man with them about a quarter-mile farther on in the brush. Here

they released him after taking all his cigarettes and matches. Oregon Jones also proposed to take his overcoat, but this was met with objections by Murray. “Hell no, it’s too heavy to fool with,” he said. “We're travelling light.”

rmly, from | then were

Tom

of 2 sshed gnins s 100 time ongst 1 just 10101,

few wel

dom

ds of citys Jocal

“and

but man

-hin€

ho0ls

malt

ered

Jones then gave the man his key to the car and told him that he could go, but the salesman was admonished, to “Go slow or we'll blow your damn brains out.” - None of the

convicts possessed a gun, and Jones was simply putting a big bluff over on the fellow and getting away with it. Back in the prison, everything was violent commotion and agitation for a few moments. Out in the yard, some of the convicts marvelled at the brilliant maneuver of Mur-

ray’s to effect escape; others were still running around like chickens with their heads chopped off, trying to ascertain how the men got away.

And

I was situng down

in the

middle of the yard all by myself, fighting to keep from laughing out loud in exultance. The escaping prisoners had been seen while they were racing down State Street by the wives of the day turnkey and the Deputy-Warden, respectively, and the alarm was sounded at once. The officials received the news, first with consternation

and amazement, then chagrin. They had been outwitted by

the convicts, and they saw through the ruse immediately. They were dismayed and ill-humored, but out of the confusion came the realization that six desperate fugitives were

at large somewhere, and a posse of guards was systematically organized, and started out in cars in pursuit of the

fleeing men. Soon, other posses of the Salem police, deputies from

the sheriff’s office and

many

volunteers

were

quickly organized and rushed out in pursuit. Within a span of a few hours there were literally hundreds of manhunters

in the field, including many members of the Portland Police Department, and every man was out for blood. All

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highways in either direction of Salem were closely guarded and officers were stationed in all of the more important ~ towns and cities to watch the railroads. Then it was that the hundreds of inevitable false reports began to pour into the Warden's office at the prison. Everyone, it seemed, had seen one or more of the fugitives and to

judge by the telephone’s incessant ringing, they had been at a thousand different places at once. False report after false report added to the confusion of the officials but nevertheless, Snoose Johnson surrendered to a couple of old, seasoned, man-killing guards of the prison the follow-

ing day after the escape. It would be more appropriate to say, perhaps, that he accidentally walked right on to the guards, during a light fog, and that there was no alterna-

tive but to be shot dead should he have put up a fight. Steve Regan, the last man admitted to the gang, was the

next to be captured after two-and-one-half days of liberty. But here was a half-starved and weary escape that came within the proverbial eyelash of bluffing his way through, with certain capture staring him in the face. Torn from skulking through the brush and hopelessly lost in the fog, Regan stumbled upon the little town of Stayton from the north. Before he knew it, he was well inside the town and

he did not dare to go back. He kept on going, avoiding the - main business streets, meanwhile shivering with apprehension at every dogged step, lest he be stopped. Finally, he arrived at the bridge which crosses the swift Santiam River. He was hardly on the bridge when two guards approached him from behind, but he kept on walking at a moderate pace, determined to bluff his way through if possible. The guards stopped him, questioned him briefly, and after eyeing him speculatively, one of them said: “Oh, he’s all right. I know him.” With a super-human effort to control his quaking knees, the convict again walked leisurely on, but his unkempt appearance aroused the suspicion of two guards in an auto-

OVER

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69

mobile that came up behind and passed him on the bridge. At the far end of the bridge the car stopped. For an instant, Regan’s brain froze, but still determined to bluff his

way

through,

he answered

their questions as best he

could and thought he was getting away with the bluff until one of the guards took hold of the sweater the convict was

wearing, and raised it up, revealing the numbers on his prison shirt. That was all. With a weary gesture of defeat,

Regan shuffled reluctantly forward and held his lacerated wrists in front of him for the cuffs. Joe Blackwell and Crowbar Kelley were the next two that felt the jaws of the posse trap snap on them. As did the little Norwegian, Snoose Johnson, Kelley and Blackwell stumbled on some guards in the intense darkness of

the fourth night out, and they immediately found themselves facing the business end of a few 30-30’s. That un-

fortunate blunder meant only one thing for them—back to

the prison and solitary confinement in the bullpen, for an

indeterminate period.

Tom Murray was the next to be entangled in the man-

hunters’ net. The young desperado, with Oregon Jones, was skirting the highway near Jefferson, about eighteen miles

south

of the

prison,

when

a couple

of National

Guardsmen surprised them and captured Murray. It was about 9:30 that night that the guards were seated in a parked car on the side of the highway, when the two fugi-

tives stumbled within twenty feet of them, and the com-

mand of “halt” was immediately given. Both fugitives broke

into a run and the soldiers opened fire. Thirty-thirties sounded their angry whines but the men continued to race on at top speed. Then Murray struck headlong in a wire fence and his clothing became enmeshed in the barbs, but Jones was more fortunate, and skimmed under the wires to

freedom. The guards continued their incessant firing and the bullets passed over Murray’s head with menacing purrs.

Then he called out: “Well, here I am. Come and get me.”

70

OVER THE WALL When he was searched, a revolver which had been stolen

from a ranch was found on him. The gun was fully At no time, however, had Tom Murray attempted try to use the weapon on the guards. As yet, the killer had not developed in him. This certainly was

loaded. to even ruthless no bad

man, with a loaded revolver in his possession, the while sub-

mitting tamely to a couple of amateur manhunters. But the

fact of the matter was, Tom Murray was not looking for blood. He had utmost confidence in his ability to make a

clean getaway in time to come, and not take human life. He was shackled and handcuffed by the guardsmen and within

an hour he was back in the prison, giving surly grunts to questions from the Warden.

“Well, Murray, I'm glad to see you back,” was the Warden’s greeting as the prisoner was led in. “Well, I'm not glad to get back,” Murray snapped.

“I suppose life in the brush is pretty tough?” the Warden ventured. The convict’s grim answer was as chill as ice. “No, not

tough. It’s great. I wish I was right back out there beating around in the brush. And that life out there ain’t near as bad as these other guys said. We lived pretty well, Jones and I, on stolen chickens and such.”

Tom Murray was led away to a cell in the prison bullpen, to join his recaptured companions. Here, the five stayed for a matter of some thirty days, with only a steel-slat bunk

for their bed, and a daily menu consisting of a small bowl of beans or hash and two thin slices of bread and a bowl of black, poisonous coffee at ten-thirty each morning. At the

end of this month of harsh discipline, they were placed back in the yard, with all privileges given back to them.

After Oregon Jones had skimmed under that wire fence, he had apparently vanished in thin air as far as the posses were concerned. The manhunt became even greater than before, but their concentrated efforts to recapture the des-

perado were in vain. After a week or more of dogged

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OVER THE WALL

searching, the posses were called in and Jones was definitely

given up as mussing. And “missing” he certainly was—for a while. But Oregon Jones and I were to meet again. Back to the trowel went

Murray,

to the monotonous

labor of laying bricks. He had perpetrated one clean escape from a supposedly impregnable prison, and he had supreme reliance in his ability to devise another. When he and the gang were released from the bullpen, I had an abundance

of milk, sugar, matches and smoking tobacco ready for

them. With that gesture I had unconsciously instilled a greater confidence and respect in them for me than ever before. It was still hot, burning summer within the walls when

I was approached in the yard by a good-looking young fellow, with tousled blonde hair and a smooth, pleasant face.

He was attired in a white shirt, flaming necktie and a light

sport sweater, the habiliments denoting clerk in the front office.

his position as a

“Your name Lee Duncan?” he asked facetiously. I brushed a heavy coating of cement from my face. “Yes, I’m behind this concrete that’s plastered on my face.”

He laughed shortly. “My name’s Carl Bartlett. Doing seven flat for embezzlement.” I offered my calloused right hand. “Glad to know you.” “What I wanted to see you about is this: I just run on to

something out there in the front office a minute ago that concerns you. I came out here to tell you about it.” I gasped in surprise. “Concerns me?” “Yes. See here, Duncan—I’'m not supposed to tell you this, but I've decided to let you have the whole unmitigated

truth in one blow. It’s the best way. A detainer is waiting for you out in the front office from the State of Washington. Just came in.” My insides suddenly shrunk and my mouth flew open for some air. This was almost a kayo punch good for a ten count. Bartlett coughed slightly, and a frown appeared be-

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tween his wide-spaced eyes. “Bad news like this hits a guy hard—being grabbed at the gates of one joint, and stepping right into another with about two-to-twenty years hanging over his head. Better knowing in advance, though, don’t you think?” he said significantly. I looked him right in the eye, felt an instant, cold resolution to escape course through me. “Thanks, old man, for

telling me this. It’s better, all right—a hell of a lot better knowing in advance.” A wide grin flickered across his mouth. “I believe I get you, Duncan,” he responded, “and if I do, I'm wishing you luck, see. And, by the way, remember that I know how to

keep clammed up.” After Bartlett had left and I remained standing in the middle of the little yard, I was confronted with a puzzle. Why had the Washington authorities waited so long before suddenly deciding to install their detainer for me? An uneasy hunch clicked instantaneously in my brain; perhaps the penitentiary officials had had something to do with the hold being out there in the front office for me. It was a rather wild conjecture, and I was familiar with the

fact that distorted criminal minds had before this been known to imagine strange persecutions at the hands of penitentiary officials, but in this case Ithoroughly was convinced that my

mind was not distorted—not yet, anyway.

At once it cae to me clearly for the very first time how

coldly and how antagonistically the officials had regarded me ever since the Murray break for freedom. I knew now they were aware that I had been intimately acquainted with all the details of the escape plot before they had actually materialized, and instead of playing the role of an informer to gain their favoritism, I had kept the details of the plot strictly to myself. I felt that it was possible that the officials’ wrath and resentment towards me had been a contributing factor for a detainer being out in the head office. Perhaps this was an unfair indictment against

OVER

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73

the officials, but I had every reason to believe that my attitude towards them had caused them a deep resentment towards me. Well, it was a mutual, tit-for-tat affair, any way you looked at it. Resultant events of the following few weeks convinced me that my hasty deductions had been correct, to a certain

degree. I moved around restlessly,

ting, and finally I decided to the walls. I reasoned that if I prove definitely that I would Washington upon my release

planning, figuring, plot-

ask For a trusty job outside was refused flatly, it would have to go to the State of to stand trial on another

charge. Being of an impulsive nature, and without further thought, I approached the Deputy-Warden, the first time

I saw him in the yard. The Deputy was a tall, heavy-shouldered, heavy-featured man, handsome in a hard way, with a

short, thick neck, and a cynical smile seeming ever to touch his lips. “Deputy, I will be released from this place before many

months are past, and I would like to place my application for a trusty job outside the walls, for the duration of my sentence.” ) The Deputy gave a little laugh, as hard as brass, and I felt instantly that my voice had betrayed my eagerness. “I be-

lieve you would run away if I put you outside, Duncan.”

I shrugged, whirled, and started to walk away. He called me back. “I'd give you a hat—except for one thing,” he went on. “But this year’s sentence might not be

the finish of things for you.” I no longer feigned ignorance, but asked him pointblank: “Is there a detainer for me in the front office?”

What I interpreted as a savage brightness, the brilliance

of triumph, flashed for a moment in his eyes. Then he shrugged, the gesture of superb indifference. “There is a detainer waiting in the front office for you upon your re-

lease,” he answered, and wheeled shortly. I walked away, resentment rankling in my heart. I was

24

OVER THE WALL

chagrined at first, and then I became angry. No longer was

there any question as to this particular official’s attitude towards me. I resolved upon one thing at that moment— either to escape or be killed in the attempt. As a sort of solace for my disturbed state of mind, I strolled over to a corner of the yard where the old-timers were always congregated. This was their sanctuary, and whenever I got the blues, I liked nothing better than to hear

them philosophize on past and probable future events of the universe. Half-a-century of crime. Products of the Gay Nineties,

octogenarians,

and

Salem

the

only

home

they

knew and death not far away. They would lean on canes and boast a little sometimes of the lives they led back in the days when the “Gibson girl,” bicycles, and peg trousers

were all the rage. The “Hog” would object very strenuously to his record. Once he told a warden it didn’t do him justice. “Why, it ain’t right, Warden,” he said. “I served two other terms that don’t show on the card a’tall.”

Then there were also “Old Gallagher,” “Grandpa Judy,” and “Smiles” McIntosh. Quite an original crew. In accordance with their flippant observations, the older convicts re-

garded the steady influx of younger and still younger men as just another insignificant milestone of tradition, shoved into oblivion at the hands of a nervously progressive civil-

ization. The ancient stirbirds smiled indulgently at the ignorance

of modern

youth,

invariably

placed

a wrinkled

hand on your knee and confided that old-time crookdom was an institution the like of which the new generation would never know. They would tell you it was a school of business, their explanations always being offered with a

combination of infallible wisdom, silver-throated oratory ~ and politics. More often than not they completed their tale with a general biological survey of deficiencies of human nature that could have been actually acquired

only in a

laboratory somewhere. They revealed professional crime as a delightful vocation

OVER THE WALL

25

for adventurous youths and for improvident and otherwise restless citizens of the wide and spacious land who were inclined to that channel as a means of livelihood. They imparted secrets of their respective roles to certain stoic, tight-mouthed young fellows who were considered solid, their tales being depicted as a sort of a progenitive of wild romance and, by way of proof, would refer with pride to

innumerable large and esteemed hauls of swag, directly traceable to the easy availability of old, worn-out

peats,

prehistoric bank vaults and other simple jobs when nights were not too clear with moonlight, and before the era when

pesky hordes of organized State police were ever ready to swoop down on them in radio cars, fortified with submachine guns, bullet-proof vests and tear-gas apparatus. “My boy,” one old-timer recited a bit pompously, “trivi-

ality and pettiness were unknown

to the honorable pro-

fession of thuggery in the good old days. Our frequent sessions in stealing concerned only the most profound jobs and were always prefaced by a thorough casing of the lay beforehand by our ‘gay cat’ cooking ‘soup’ out of eightyper-cent dynamite out over a fire somewhere in the woods, cutting out fuse into proper lengths, and getting a batch of brown lye soap in readiness to smear the com. There never was any of this brainless running around like these young,

modern-day punks do, such as driving past a joint at breakneck speed, size it up at a minute’s notice, and then go back

and try to make it and get away. No, sir. We used to savvy all the ins and outs of a dump before we tackled it, and we

were honorable. Get me? I said honorable. Why, the very fate of poor overworked mothers and underfed kids often hung upon the judgment of our success when we assembled around a strong box.” Then, he coughed softly, and confided: “Of course, we sometimes got hooked, and were rapped with jolts in different stirs, but understand, only

through moments of relaxation did we get sloughed when we had to fill our systems with several slugs of bug-juice

OVER THE WALL

+6

to relieve our minds from figuring out some pretty weighty jobs.” The old fellow relapsed into a prolonged period of silence, methodically whittling a pine board into thin shav-

ings. “Yes, sir, it’s a scandalous shame the way these young kids go about getting jobs nowadays,” he said finally. “But there’s one young fellow in here that takes my eye; reminds me a whole lot of a man I knew back in the old days— Harry Tracy was the man’s name.” “The terrible Harry Tracy,” I repeated. “And you knew him?”

“You ask me if I knew him.” The old fellow dropped his board and edged up closer; the other octogenarians be-

came instantly alert. “Say, listen. I'm going to tell you about a break he made here once.” “And who is the fellow that reminds you of him?” I interrupted. “Tom Murray,” was the prompt reply. He toyed with his knife a moment, slid the sharp edge over his thumb, and

then went on: “Harry Tracy, No. 4088, was twenty-four

years old when he started hell a-poppin’ around this joint, and he was just about your size, but he was as wiry as a steel

spring, quicker’n a cat with his feet and hands, and was the deadliest shot that I ever knew, and I've known plenty of guys that were fair with a shootin’ iron. His partner was Dave Merrill, a brother-in-law, No. 4089, and while I never cared much about Merrill, personally, I reckon he

had plenty of guts, all right. This break I'm going to tell you about began with bewildering unexpectedness, lasted about a minute, was accomplished by ruthless murder, and

ended in one of the most widespread manhunts in the history of this Western Coast. Tracy was a man with nerves of steel, with whom the killing of a person was a question of expediency only, and he had faculties perfectly adapted to a criminal career—except for one thing—he had an inherent egotism and bragged too damned much for his own

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good. He liked notoriety, and nothing suited him better than to see his name in headlines. He had killed a lot of men,

committed innumerable reckless stick-ups, and had been confined in several joints prior to his commitment in this dump, where, incidentally, he was kept longer than at any

of these other institutions. “I'll never forget the day the escape was accomplished— June ninth, 1902. Tracy had outside aid, for during the preceding night presumably, two rifles and a large supply of ammunition were cached in the prison foundry by a friend —a man who later came back and shook a life jolt for planting the guns. Tracy and Merrill were both shaking twentyfive year raps, and I was working right alongside them in the foundry; but in reality it was man’s work—it was a mule’s work—or an elephant’s. Well, anyway, about seven o'clock the next morning the two men secured these weapons and right off the bat Tracy shot and killed Shop Guard Frank S. Farrell, a man who had whipped billy-hell out of him the night before with a cat-o-nine tails on his bare back. Tracy said then-and-there he intended to kill him for the beating and as you can see, later developments

proved he wasn’t a guy to kid much. A prisoner named Frank Ingram tried to stop him and he went down with a slug in his guts. Which served him right. They then seized a ladder which was used in the oiling of machinery, and ran toward the north wall. Tracy fired again, and S. R. T. Jones, a tower guard, toppled to the ground, dead. If you

notice, Tracy wasn’t wasting any ammunition. As they . scaled the wall another guard, named

B. T. Tiffany,

at-

tempted to stop them; but the desperate pair captured him and used him as a shield against bullets while they retreated from the prison. When they were safely out of range they killed Tiffany, and took refuge in the deep forest south of Salem. “Well, naturally, the bulls were plenty scared after this

orgy of killing, and it took nearly an hour and a half for

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the prison officials to recover from the panic and organize pursuit.

But once

begun,

the manhunt

was

pressed

with

vigor and grim thoroughness. Towns were notified. Roads and bridges were guarded. Posses scoured the woods. Bloodhounds were obtained from the State stir at Walla

Walla, Washington. A first reward of $5000 was offered and the cry of ‘Get Tracy and Merrill Dead or Alive’ was heralded throughout the Northwest. But that same night— what do you think they done? Why, that very same night they re-entered Salem, where they appropriated the cloth-

ing, money and two horses from a fellow named Roberts, at the point of a rifle. This piece of daring spurred the officers to fresh efforts to trail down the men, but without success.

The next day a couple of members of the pursuing posses were held up by the fugitives, and a horse, buggy and rifle were taken. Right after that their trail was lost near Needy, in Clackamas County.

“From then on, Tracy and Merrill played a long game of hide-and-seek with the law, made ’em look like rat terriers

trying to catch coons. Along about the last of June, they bobbed up at La Center, Washington, and made their way past Olympia, where they captured a fishing boat and made a Swede fisherman row them to Ballard. Then they started to Seattle. A couple of weeks later, Tracy shot and killed Deputy Sheriff Raymond of Snohomish County and also a harness bull, named Breese. About the same time he in-

flicted a fatal wound on a game warden named Rawley. Let's see, it was about July fourteenth, if I remember right,

that Sheriff Deggeller of Lewis County, Washington, wired this dump that Merrill's body had been found. It was gen-

erally conceded that Tracy murdered his pal, but there were a thousand different versions of the affair, so one guess was

as good as another. But I don’t think it was Merrill’s body.” My narrator stopped in his long recital, and turned to one of the old-timers. “What do you think about it, Hog?”

“Youre

absolutely

right,

Andy,”

Hog

responded

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quickly. “Dave Merrill was a young man, and the decomposed body that was brought back had false teeth.” “Yes, and that ain’t all,” Dad Judy spoke up. “Merrill's head was shaved as bare as a billiard ball when he left, and

that guy that was brought back, had long black hair. I saw it myself.” “A puzzling circumstance,” I ventured.

“Was the body

badly decomposed?” “Yes, it was,” my narrator continued. “Apparently it had been lying out in the woods for a few days before it was found, and the buzzards and wolves had it chewed up

considerably. But to go on about Tracy: About the last of July he was located first at Roslyn, Washington, then Wenatchee, Coulee City and Ritzville in succession. More than once he betrayed his identity by his damned bragging, only to escape from the vicinity by consummate strategy or taking dare-devil risk. But came a time when even his ingenuity failed him.

On the fifth of August,

1902, with a

posse surrounding a wheatfield where he was hiding, suffering with a terrible wound in the hip, he terminated his own career with a bullet through his brain. Tracy had guts; and right at the last he went the Dutch route rather than let the posse take him alive.” My narrator picked up the pine board again, and began to whittle with measured strokes. “In all, Tracy killed eight men and wounded one in his escape attempt,” he said slowly. “I helped dig his grave when I was on a gun gang, and I saw ’em dump his body in the hole, wrapped in an old dirty blanket, then cover it with a barrel of quicklime which was flooded with water. After the bulls reassured themselves that the lime had left nothing but a few white bones, they made us fill the hole with dirt, and put a little old white slab of wood at the head. There Harry Tracy lies now beside the guy that was brought back as Dave Merrill, in an unmarked, weed-grown grave which is darkened on winter evenings by that wall yonder, near which he

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raised hell-and-tarnation to scale over twenty years ago.”

“That was a very interesting account,” I said, after a pause. “And about Tom Murray—why is it that you com-

pare him with Harry Tracy?”

The old convict looked at me peculiarly. “For several reasons,” he answered. “He’s got the very same characteris-

tics, actions; he’s wiry, quick, strong and he’s a natural-born

gunman. But the main thing is his eyes. Did you ever look in ’em real close? They're just naturally twins to Tracy’s eyes—smilin’—mockin’ damned eyes—but as cold as forty below zero. And,” he added thoughtfully, “I don’t like to

make prophecies on some things, the future of Tom Mur-

ray being one of ’em, but in this case I'm going to do a

litle prophesy’n—that before many months pass Tom Murray is going to do things that will make Harry Tracy turn over in his grave.”

CHAPTER SIX

VV HEN I informed Murray of my talk with the Deputy-Warden and of my fixed determination to escape, he readily agreed that this was the proper attitude for me to assume. He further added that he was working on a scheme whereby he might maneuver his second escape, and that he would count me in on his plans if he could see ultimate success ahead. So far during my incarceration I had been mixing mortar, laying brick and doing odd jobs around the concrete mixer, but about this time an appropriation was fixed by the State Legislature to finance the construction of several large retting tanks for the penitentiary flax department, these tanks to be constructed outside

the walls. Twenty convicts were to be put on the job and to the amazement of Tom Murray and everyone concerned, he and his gang were placed outside under heavy guard to run the concrete mixer and the wheelbarrow brigade. About two o'clock of the first afternoon, Murray sidled up to me. There was a grim look of satisfaction on his lips. “I believe we’ve

got it made,”

he whispered

somewhat

tensely. “This is not the escape I've been figuring on, but it’s a better one, if anything.” I looked at him unbelievingly. “I fail to see any escape from this place. Looks like they’ve got enough guns to start a first-class slaughter.” “There is plenty of artillery around here, all right, but

listen.” He paused and looked about and listened, and then he went on in a low, rapid mumble: “This looks pretty good to me. A heavy wire grating is fastened in front of 81

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the door at the bottom of No. Two Tower. Probably you noticed it when we marched around to work. I've found that the wall guards never use that method of entrance, but

always go around the upper cat-walk when going on or off duty. As it happens, we have to pass right by this door

when we go inside the walls of an evening, and with all the gang lined up and the screws on just one side of us, it looks pretty simple for us to clip the wire. Get the idea?” As I considered, all this fired my curiosity overwhelmingly. “Not quite,” I said. “What do we do after we finish

clipping the wire?” His feverish anxiety brushed aside the question. “Nothing to it. After the wire is cut, you and I and Blackwell and

Kelley dashes inside, opens the door and plants there until the rest of the gang gets inside the walls. We have better than an even chance of not being seen because the wall

guards’ vision will be obstructed from the upper cat-walk, and the rest of the screws will just be turning the corner.”

“Then I suppose we are to rush up in the tower and clout the guard and take his rifle and revolver?” “How did you guess it?” “Sounds all right, but who’s going to clip the wire?” Murray hesitated a moment in deep deliberation. “You'd better do that,” he said abruptly. “You're only shaking a

year and the bulls are not watching you like they are Blackwell, Kelley and me.” His right hand darted into my hip pocket, leaving a pair of wire-cutters inside. Suddenly he hissed to another convict near by, who was in the act of

dumping

a cement sack of its contents into the mixer.

“Come here, Blackie.”

The fellow looked up quickly, and at a gesture from Murray, walked over to where we were standing. “This is Blackie Willos,” Murray said in introduction. “Just new to the joint, but I'm pretty sure he’s eggs-and-the-coffee. I'm

going to let him in on this caper.” Willos was twenty-seven but he looked much older. He

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83

was short and chunky in build, though he had a quick way of moving and was quite active and agile of body. His black hair, a coarse, heavy mop,

grew

down

over

his brow

to

within an inch of his beetling eyebrows. His eyes, grayishbrown and heavy-lidded, were like pieces of metal that had

been forced into the coarse swarthiness of his face, whose

plainness was unrelieved by the long, sharp nose and wry gash of a mouth. While his dark face looked clever and hard and supremely self-confident, and his eyes held that gleam which is born of delight in adventure, dangerous or otherwise, it was distinctive and would have intrigued the

scientific eye of a character reader, whose snap judgment

would have said that Willos did not possess an abundance of

intelligence. This would have been wrong, of course. Wil-

los was one of the shrewdest individuals I have ever come in contact with. With his hard, cave-man’s face, he looked bad, and he talked a good escape, and I took an immense

liking to him immediately.

He had an unenviable crime record back of him, having been sent up from Umatilla County, Oregon, for seven years, and prior to that, having worn Number 30307 on his back in San Quentin Prison, and having escaped from the State Penitentiary at McAlester, Oklahoma, to beat a five-

year rap. Although I did not dream of it at the time, Blackie Willos’s life, from this point on, was to be strangely blended

with that of Tom Murray’s. He was later to figure in a sensational episode with the young leader and he was to be one of the leading characters in a life and death drama. Murray quickly outlined the plot to him, and as the two men stood there, Willos interrupted with an occasional

monosyllabic assent of approval that denoted whole-hearted enthusiasm and a willingness to go the limit for freedom.

At the finish, the young convict turned to me. “All right— you've got the necessary business in your pocket. Do your stuff as we go inside tonight.” As we marched on our way inside the prison that eve-

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84

ning, I tried my utmost to keep in step and assume a care-

less nonchalance without betraying a trace of nervousness. It was a hopeless task; my nerves were tensed at too high a pitch. I realized that I would have to work at lightning speed to cut the wires away in time to enable us to dart inside the doorway and not be detected. Just as the line of convicts rounded the base of the tower, my right hand went to my hip pocket and drew the cutters out. I edged my way cautiously to the door, and then began snapping the heavy strands of wire with all the strength and speed I was capable of. With every clip, a metallic sound resounded and vibrated that soon had my nerves worn to a raw edge, but as the line of convicts kept moving slowly ahead, so did I keep the cutters working. Finally only a small space remained uncut and although the end of the line was in the act of rounding the corner, I felt that I still had time to finish the job. Murray suddenly joined me, his gray eyes glittering. “Give me those cutters

and Ill spell you off. We've got just about ten seconds to get through that door, and we've got to work fast.” He had almost cleared the necessary space, and then he

lifted his head. It was a quick, alert gesture—a perfectly coordinated body throwing itself in readiness for a hopeless

attack. Senses which had been sharpened to the threat of danger throughout breathless years now warned his muscles and brain that some unseen circumstances spelled dan-

ger. I followed his gaze upward—saw the ugly muzzle of a 30-30 caliber rifle which the guard on the cat-walk above us was pointing at our heads. Simultaneous with this, some-

thing else happened—something that caused my belly to turn an inside flip-flop. The keen, deathly whine of a rifle bullet cut shrilly through the silence of the summer evening, and a chip of brick spatted sharply against my cheek

to the left of me. I slowly turned around, and came face up with the men-

acing bore of a rifle. A guard was peering along the smooth

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85

barrel, and instant death glinted in the narrowed eyes of the man. “Move—you son-of-a-bitch, and you’re a goner,” he gritted. “Hey, you, Blackwell, Kelley, Murray and you little black-headed guy over there—line up with this fellow. I'm taking you all in to the big fellow.” Murray stared, straightened, and slowly a new expression twisted his features. He seemed to find a peculiar fascination in that black muzzle. “I'm the man you want,” he said shortly. “It was me that was clipping that wire.” The guard grinned so that his teeth were bared in a savage, wolfishly hungry expression. “You don’t have to tell me who I want, or who was clipping that wire. I saw both of you guys working them cutters, and I know you and your gang. I want all of you.” We had been thwarted in our escape from prison, and for that infraction of rules we were sentenced for an indefinite stay in the bullpen. The place consisted of eight tiny cells in a row, one of these called the “dark hole,” hav-

ing a solid steel door with two or three small holes bored through the surface near the top for ventilation, as the only

method of entrance. Each cell contained a steel-slatted bunk and a cold water faucet, that’s all. There

lavatories—just

excrement

buckets.

A small

were no

bowl

half-

filled with beans or foul-smelling hash, two thin slices of

bread and a bowl of black, bitter coffee, were given each bullpen occupant at ten-thirty o’clock each morning. There were

no electric lights, magazines,

books

or newspapers,

smoking tobacco or matches, soap, towels or shaving necessities, clean clothing or facilities for bathing in

the incor-

rigible cells during the period I am speaking of. ‘There was no_opportunity to exercise; nothing to do in the summer

but sit in the -hot steel-walled cells anc earn to hate all mankind, and during the winter months sit and freeze

until your body felt like an iceberg, for there was nothing to protect the inmate from the searing-hot weather of summer, or the inclement weather of winter. )

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(‘In the bullpen, I really learned what the word “stagnation” meant. When a man must by force of circumstances be servile to overbearing discipline, without

diversion or

recreation of any kind, he stagnates, literally and figuratively, mentally and physically. If he was blessed from the start with amiability, he immediately lost it in the incor-

rigible block, and a perpetual grouchiness substituted itself. If a man is treated cruelly due to bad prison conditions, he

hasn’t

the

normal

human

nature

an individual

should have if he doesn’t rebel, for a human being can stand only so much. How I learned to hate in that place! Hatred is one of the most harmful, fatiguing, and destructive emo-

tions. A person cannot consistently hate and continue in good physical and mental health—hating in the bullpen helped to put the skids under more than one prisoner. I used to believe that there was no human being in whom there were no good or attractive qualities; that if there

were, he would not be a human being. In prison I quickly changed my mind on that score. I have seen convicts who have been, and have myself been, kicked, cuffed, slapped

and clubbed around by guards who, had they been men with an ounce of real manhood

in them, would not have

treated a mad dog in such a way. During my first incarceration in the bullpen, “Cripple Jimmy,” as he was called by the other inmates, due to a suffering with a curvature of the spine and a dislocated hip,

was in incorrigible cell Number One, the dark hole. He had been accused of insulting an officer, and without a hearing, he was summarily transferred to the bullpen. The decision was arbitrary, despotic, summary. Neither at that time nor at any other time was he informed of the details of the accusations against him. Nevertheless, he served almost oneand-one-half years for an alleged violation of a prison rule he never violated.

The first six months were spent in the dungeon, as I have told you, a small cell, four feet wide, eight feet deep and

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It had neither bed, mattress, spring nor

pillows. At all times it was dark, wet and damp. The cold cement floor was the only resting place, because Cripple

Jimmy could not remain on the slats. When we first went down,

Murray

Jimmy’s cell.

peeked

through

one of the small holes in

He never spoke a word, but the murderous

look that came into his eyes was plainly a warning that a

day of retribution would come.

He was quiet, calm and

cool; the molten flow of his emotions had sunk to intenser,

fiercer depths out of sight. For talking

back

to one

of the

yard

guards,

Peaches,

just a mere youngster of high school age, was put in the dungeon with Cripple Jimmy. In the cell he found only

the usual rusty human excrement bucket, and the cell faucet which, whenever turned on, the floor. His sojourn lasted his only contact with the through the small holes and

caused oily water to drench six months. From the outside, living world, he could look see the rain, wind and snow,

and a few rays of sunlight once in a while, but outside of

this he remained in eternal darkness. Never was he privileged to indulge in a haircut or shave. Once he was allowed to take a bath out under a pipe in the open yard.

It was

in the winter and he walked thirty feet through mud and stood upon a cement block under the pipe, washed himself with the cold water at the same time that the rain, wind

and snow beat down upon his naked body. Then he was rushed back to the dungeon, where he was again confined for several more months, having no outdoor exercise meanwhile. Bullpen prisoners were given a tablespoonful of lye to

use in cleaning their cells, particularly for disposition of the offensive sewer odor. The sickness that results from dampness, exposure, solitude, so weakened some of the men that they were driven to desperation. They resorted to any

means to get out of their misery, if only to the prison hospital.

One common method was to slash their wrists with

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a smuggled safety razor blade.

WALL

But this instance concerns

our old friend, Snoose Johnson, who

came down

shortly

after the advent of Murray and me and others of his gang. Snoose had written a letter to a leading Salem daily news-

paper telling of cruelties to inmates, had put it in a bottle, and had thrown it into the flume which runs through the prison yard. It was later found by some boys swimming in the stream downtown, who delivered it to the editor of

the paper. cism

and

It was duly published and caused no little criti-

condemnation

of the officials,

and

then

when

fingerprints were taken from the paper to be compared with the records in the prison files, it fixed Snoose definitely as the perpetrator. For this act, he remained in solitary confinement for eight months. But he got an idea, and scratched the small of his arm and

the ankle of one foot with a pin. When his morning portion of lye was given him, instead of using it to kill the sewer

odor, he placed it on the scratched portion of his arm and

leg.

In a short time the lye ate away the flesh to the bone

and two or three half-dollars could have been inserted in the wounds. When he begged to be taken to the hospital after

much delay, a roll of bandage was thrown in his cell and he cared for himself after infection had set in and swollen his

limbs to huge proportions. “I always did hate a bull,” he said one day, after his arm

had become a mass of rotted flesh, “but now I'm going to be a killer of bulls.

God help the next bastard that tries to

pinch me.”

He made good his word. Within a few months after his release, two detectives caught him coming out of a Post Office following a safe-blowing job. A gun fight ensued, in which he killed one of the dicks, wounded the other seri-

ously, but was wounded badly himself in return. He received seven years at the Government prison at McNeils

Island, but infection had set in the bullet wound and he died within a month or so after his incarceration.

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In my own mind I carefully weighed the administrative point of view many times over, their problems of discipline. I tried to allow, without prejudice, for the over-zealous

attitude of most of the men who were forced to suffer these

physical and mental tortures in the dungeon, the bullpen cells, and the bullring and the dark hole of the Oregon State Penitentiary. ' The men did escape—but what of it— as long as they did it without harming anyone? They didn’t sign any contracts upon their incarceration that they were going to stay} Some of the men did insult guards by calling them the vilest of names, did fight with their cell partners or draw a “shiv” occasionally in the yard. I'saw all of these things and knew that they were true. I did every one of the aforementioned things myself. But that didn’t necessarily mean that such punishment in the bullpen was justified. One answer to the question is found in the discipline of prisoners in hard-boiled Sing Sing. I mention this prison particularly because it contains without a doubt some of the most vicious and hard-boiled gang of criminals and desperadoes in the United States. I would say that the majority of inmates of most State prisons, taking a cross-section, would be fifth-rate amateurs alongside those of the famous old bastile on the Hudson. This is true and has always been true if we judge the groups by the gigantic nature of the New York crimes, or by the number of killings in which they have participated. Yet Sing Sing prison has no incorrigible cells or dark holes.

Warden Lewis E. Lawes, of

Sing Sing, wrote a book a few years back titled Life and Death in Sing Sing.

He writes, in part:

Nor are the prisoners punished by showering, bucking, whipping, confinement in the dungeon, etc., forms of punishment such as were thought necessary in the old days of Sing Sing and which are, I regret to say, still used in many prisons of this country. There is neither cruelty on the one hand, nor cod-

dling on the other, but common sense applied freely. . . .

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Discipline is not synonymous with harshness, inflexible rules, browbeating, and the breaking of a man’s spirit. If a man is ever to return to society he will need spirit and courage. Locking a man in a cell and secluding him from normal contacts will not cure him of anti-social tendencies, but will, in fact, make it more difficult for him to adapt himself to social conditions.

The Constitution of the State of Oregon provided that “cruel and inhuman punishment shall not be inflicted,” in dealing with the treatment of criminals. This provision, Article one, Section

16, was included in the fundamental

law of the State by the pioneers of the Oregon country nearly eighty years ago. That provision stated that it was not, therefore, an expression of mere maudlin sentiment of law-breakers by modern sob-sisters. On the contrary, it was the expression of a profound conviction by the early settlers of the State of Oregon that a man did not necessarily lose the quality of manhood because he had broken the law, and that even the criminal was entitled to a degree of fair treatment. A constitutional provision is one thing; its observance is another. Doubtless many a citizen of the State of Oregon in reading this enlightened passage in his State Constitution experienced a satisfying sense that all was well with the administration of the criminal law.

Doubtless, too, many a

judge in passing a penitentiary sentence upon some individual convicted of the crime, said to himself: “The man is

receiving his just deserts.” But are there really many citizens that take the pains to acquaint themselves with the actual conditions of prison life and the actual manner in which punishment is meted out? And there are comparatively few judges who have sufficient interest in the men they sentence to the penitentiary to familiarize themselves in detail with the concrete methods whereby their sentences are executed.

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Once a man is sentenced to a prison for a crime, the com}

munity withdraws

him from its sympathetic

protection.)

Private citizens and judges consider his case as settled, as not requiring any further attention from them. The actual execution of the penitentiary sentence is left absolutely in the hands of the prison officials, warden and guards, from whose determinations and decrees the prisoners have no appeal. There is no neutral authority with whom the convict can register complaint for ill treatment, such as actual cases

I have already described. There are no official prison inspectors, like bank examiners, to drop in unexpectedly to see whether the institution is conducted in accordance with the spirit of the Constitution. A penitentiary at no time can be likened to a kindergarten. Any sap can tell you that. There are men confined in every penitentiary in the land who are dangerous bozos, to be handled with the highest degree of circumspection. But nevertheless, when legislative assemblies spend their time building and strengthening a Constitution, it shows that they

~ fully intended it to be observed, and the spirit should be preserved. Far different from Warden Lawes’ ideas on conducting a successful prison administration, were

those of the late

Edgar Wallace, the celebrated newspaper man and novelist. He said:

A new form of punishment must be devised if the world is to defeat crime. I have become convinced that the present penal systems are all wrong. Prisons have become so luxurious that they are no longer corrective, but a sort of a social club where the prisoner is allowed to associate with others of his kind. He is given concerts, wireless parties, and sees the latest cinemas. The punitive value of his sentence is unfelt and he comes out of prison morally unchanged. Prisons should be changed so as to put the fear of God into those who have to live in them; and I believe they should be made places of punishment so bad that even the habitual crim-

*

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inal will hesitate before committing a crime that would

him back.

send

I do not advocate cruelty, but I do believe they

The should be made almost unbearable within sane limits. one and most effective weapon within the forces of law and order that can be used against the criminal is the weapon of terrorization, and it is a weapon that should be used without mercy.

J

Which all sounds very sensible—on paper—but what Mr. Wallace overlooked was this: That terrorization will make the most dangerous criminal in the world servile and obedient—as long as he is serving time. Start a man to a life of eternal hating, and the erstwhile gentle-minded forger or ~burgler will become a deadly killer with constant murderous impulses and the desire to destroy before he will go back to a life of living death. The question is often asked what should be done with a refractory prisoner. Doubtless few people would object to having him punished by removal from society, from his fellows, by confinement in an isolated room until his spirit

of insubordination was broken. But every normal person would insist that such isolated confinement be of a physiologically wholesome character, according to sanitary rules, that there be a chance to exercise, protection against inclement weather, a bed or cot on which to sleep with adequate coverings, occasional opportunity to bathe and shave, reading, writing and visiting privileges; the right to secure medical treatment, and that access to toilet be provided. Any other type of confinement for punishment would strike the normal citizen as contrary to his sense of human decency; for, after all, however grave may have been the prisoner’s offense, the hapless fellow is nevertheless human. At best, hundreds of men must lead unnatural lives when

herded together in one institution, especially one belonging to a medieval period. Nature intended man for an outdoor animal—for a husband, a father, a protector of his family,

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(When all the natural desires and promptings

are thwarted, a man is living an unnatural life.

In time, such

an unnatural life will bring about unnatural emotions and Now, some people might say bosh to all this, and

express the thought that it sounds too much like preaching. But it isn’t. Torture will not cure the sick soul or warped mentality—caused by an unnatural environment. Every

normal man that goes to prison figures he’s got a righteous penalty to pay if he doesn’t escape. As a general rule, he doesn’t kick at a fair sentence. But he doesn’t figure to pay by suffering mere brutality. It is good sense that he could pay infinitely better by working and letting his labor reimburse the State for all his expenses, and by sending his wages

to his family and by learning to support himself when he

goes back to society. Now, what do you think is the best business—to take Edgar Wallace’s method and goad them on to fresh hate and reprisal, to indolence and viciousness so that they shall go back to society poisoned through and through with criminalty, or to try Warden Lawes’ way and try to teach them something better? Pat Shannon, one the the squarest guys that ever wore a uniform, was talking to me one day after Murray and I and

the bunch were released back in the yard.

“There's a pretty

rotten bunch around here running this place, Duncan, but

the trouble with most of you fellows is that you blame all of us guards for brutality, where, as a matter of fact, some of

us are pretty white. And then, you got to figure this way, an inexperienced guard can go to work in a prison with the best of good fellowship intentions, but after a few weeks

invariably his original good will towards his charges will have dwindled as he discovers that kindliness and good na-

ture are not infrequently interpreted as weakness.” Well, I could understand that very well.

Certain hard-

boiled and crafty prisoners who are ever on the alert for treachery inevitably make hard-boiled and suspicious

>

actions.)

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guards. An old prison guard as a general rule, unless possessed of an extraordinarily even temperament and ability in handling men,

naturally learns to mistrust good

and bad

prisoners alike, and makes no distinction in their treatment

of men, so arousing hatred and spreading the contagion of fear and revenge. Men unrelenting in temperament from

inheritance, can under such circumstances no more help growing relentless and cruel as a guard, than he could help growing tanned when exposed to an ardent sun. Direct blame cannot be laid to the individual; but it must be laid

against the weakness of humanity in general. “But discipline, Duncan, as discipline is defined, is sadly lacking in here, thanks to the Warden and his deputy,” “How can there be discipline, Shannon went on to say. with absolutely no work to occupy the men’s minds, except

a hundred or so on the construction jobs? can there be order—when

How in the hell

instead of giving you fellows

credit for having souls and a thinking apparatus, they cling to the theory that the inmates can only be handled by force and cruelty? “The powers at in the papers that things going on know. I worked certain occasions

the pen here don’t ever let anything get they can keep out, and there's a lot of that I'd like the people downtown to in prison when men could only speak on and smoke three times daily, and there

were riots and killings going on almost daily.

That’s the

way this guy is going to have it around here pretty soon.

He thinks he can sit in a swivel chair and manage eight hundred prisoners. Well, he'll find out different one of these days.” “Pat,” I said, “your life is a good deal like a convict’s,

isn’t it?

Both of us spend our waking hours in prison.

Of

course, you sleep in quarters instead of a cell, but it is prison, too.

Your hours are long, and your pay small, and you go

in for considerable peril like a trainer in a cage of tigers.

want to know just why a good guy like yourself is working in a damned dump like this?”

I

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95

“Because I have a family, and it’s beans and bacon for them,” he said with a grimace. “Most of my time is spent behind prison walls. It’s kind of funny, ain’t it. Us guys scramble and pull wires to get jobs as guards, and you convicts go over the wall whenever you can.” “Perhaps the difference is that you are at liberty to go, even if you do not,” I suggested.

“I cannot resign, you

know. Possibly if the law required that guards serve for life or for twenty years you would have to be watched to keep you from escaping.” He laughed. “That’s about the right answer, all right.” I agreed that it certainly was.

CHAPTER SEVEN

w e f a d r a y e th in t u o k c a b n e e b d a h y a r r u M m o T R AFIE t n e m y o l p m e n e v i g y l n e days, he was sudd

in another

k c u r t e g u h y n a m , e m i t at th t A . y r a i t n e t i n e p e th part of be to s l l a w e th de si in d e l u a h g n i e b e r e w d o o w d r o c of ads

to d e k c a t s g n i e b s a w it , e v e i l e b to e g n a r t s , d n a , up stacked

k o o t y a r r u M . l l a W h t r o N e th of et fe t n a c s w e f a within is th of s ie it il ib ss po g n i r e g g a t s e th w a s , e c n a l g a at in this all s n o i t s e u q g n i m r a s i d w e f a y B . ed at el e m a c e b d n woodpile a e r e h t at th d e n r a e l he , s r e v i r d k c u r t t c i v n o c e th to directed . in t h g u o r b be to s d r were several hundred co k c a l B e o J , y e l l e K r a b w o r C at th l a c i n o r i t s o m l a It was as b jo e m a s e th n o d e c a l p be d l u o h s f l e well, and mys r u o h an r e t f A t. lo e th d e n i o j r te la s o l l i W e i k c a l B Murray. t. ou e m d e l g n i s y a r r u M or so of work, ” ? e e L , d o o g s k o o l at th e l i p d o o w is th t u o b a g n i “See anyth . y l r e g a e d e n o i t s e u q he d e t c e r i d n e h t ; t n e m o m a r fo y l l a c i t p e k s m i h I looked at ing my

, d o o w d r o c of s k c a t s e gaze to th

carefully scann

e c e r p n u an e v a g t r a e h y m y l n e d d u S t. gh si everything in , d e m i a l c x e I ” , g n i h t e m o s e se I s, ye , l l e H “ t. is dented tw “the wall.”

. d o o g so k o o l t ’ n d i d it , er But when Ilooked clos

” . m o T h g u o h t , r e v o r e e k a m n a c e w k n i h t t ’ n o «I d , d e e r g a he ,’ er ov t o n , o N “ . d e l k n i w t s e y e y a Murray's gr

” . r e d n u t u b “ , d e t c e l l o c d n a m l a c perfectly

at th of e c n a c i f i n g i s e th p s a r g to t n e m o m a e m It took ” ? l e n n u t a n a e m u last remark. “Yo . l e n n u t a , s e Y “ . h g u a l l o o c a h t i w e m a c Tom's reply d re ti g n i t t e g e ar s al ci fi of e th at th e v e i l e b to g I’m beginnin 9

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97

of feeding us and want us to escape. This out is a cinch.” “It’s bound to work,” I agreed enthusiastically.

out.

“A clean

Let’s get the gang.”

Kelley and Blackwell listened intently while Murray unfolded his plot. They were very much interested and after some intelligent planning, reminiscent of an Army Field-

General’s, Murray had his scheme complete.

Thus, work

for another escape began, work to effect a wholesale delivery, in fact, for within a week’s time there were over a

dozen

members,

trusted

long-termers,

tearing

out huge

chunks of clay in a tunnel that would have done credit to so many experienced sewer diggers. Preparations for the escape included the construction by us convicts of three separate chambers within the huge pile of cordwood, and the start on the tunnel was made leading from the larger of these chambers. Progress could be made

from one chamber to another, however, by removing short

blocks of wood which could not be distinguished from the larger ones. The entrance into the outside chamber in the woodpile was cleverly concealed also with blocks of wood

that could be removed easily. The first chamber was merely a blind, in that, if the officials should run on to this, they would probably look no farther. The second chamber

was used for the convicts to change to old wearing apparel, before taking their shifts in the tunnel. The third and largest chamber, where the actual digging was taking place, was spacious enough to hold several tons of earth. Shirts and trousers with their numbers cut out and de-

stroyed, old shoes and prison caps replaced clean clothing while digging for freedom. The handles of shovels and picks were sawed off short so that free action would not be impeded in the tunnel, and the tools were sharpened into a razor edge. An old-type of kerosene lamp was uncovered

by Murray somewhere, and this was used to furnish light while working. In fact, there was nothing but smooth precision and enthusiastic team-work in this potential wholesale

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delivery, concocted by a cunning and alert brain, determined to beat the wall. It wasn’t long before the work was so far advanced that

we felt our longed-for freedom almost at hand. We were within three feet of the North Wall, and the trying labor It was unanimously agreed that the ceased temporarily. break should take place on a certain morning when the annual field meet would be under way on the prison ball diamond and the prisoners’ and guards’ attentions would be directed on this event. By this time, there were fifteen convicts in on the deal, and among them was a guy whom we will call Billy Crosby, serving a twenty-five-year rap on a heist job. He was quite

a favorite among the prisoners and was the star pitcher for the prison baseball nine. His criminal career was crammed with daring incidents, and he was considered as solid as the

wall that lay before us. He which in Tom Murray’s lingo But it wasn’t long before afternoon, I and another guy

was “eggs and the coffee,” meant that he was all right. something happened. One named Mike volunteered our

services to go in the tunnel and dig to the wall. For the most part, we had been used as lookouts up to this time while

Murray or Blackwell or Willos had been inside at work. But this day, Murray had a hunch. It started this way. At two o'clock, in company of Joe Blackwell, Blackie Willos

and Crowbar Kelley, he started to enter the tunnel. Something about the way that the short blocks of wood were placed in the entrance, attracted his attention. puzzled.

He seemed

He leaned forward tensely, examining each block minutely.

Suddenly he raised up, his face strangely sober. “What's the matter?” Blackwell queried. Murray puffed on a cigarette a minute, then he muttered.

“This don’t look right to me. Somebody’s been in this hole.” Blackwell registered astonishment. “What? Impossible. Why, it looks all right to me.”

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99

Murray shook his head, his gray eyes were hard. “No, it isn’t all right, though. I'm telling you somebody’s been monkeying with that wood.” The convicts’ faces grew strangely sober. They looked around. There were fifty men employed unloading the trucks and stacking the wood in a great neat pile, and every man was apparently absorbed in his work. “Well, what are we going to do?” Willos demanded. “Stand here all day and get a rank, or get in that hole and go to work?” Willos thought Murray was imagining things. Murray’s brows knitted closer: his good-looking face became set in graven lines of thought. “I got a hunch we might be walking right into a trap,” he said, speaking rapidly, voice low. “Now listen, you guys—if we've got a rank, we're the one the bulls are laying for. Therefore, we have got to stay out of that tunnnel today. Somebody else has got to go in.” “I think you're all wet, Tom,” I said abruptly, ‘but I'll

see Mike. Maybe he'll go in with me.” In a few minutes I had returned with the convict in question. “You want to go in awhile and dig?” Murray asked him. Mike nodded immediate assent. “I been wanting to go in there and see how she looks,” said Mike,

started.” Murray shrugged. today.

“ever since we

“Well, you're liable to get an eyeful

I think we got a rank, and I'm going to find out.”

Murray’s remark suddenly chilled his original enthusiasm. Mike’s eyes narrowed with instinctive suspicion. “You mean me and Lee might get caught in there?” Murray’s eyelids drew together. “You might,” he said shortly. “But you're game, ain’t you?” “Game as hell,” answered Mike. “How about you, Lee?” “Okay. Lets go.” “Listen, fellows,” Murray said. There was a faint harsh note under a forced calm.

“If there’s a rank, I'll throw

three rocks on top of the woodpile—one at a time.

And

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100

when you snappy.” Barely a way inside Captain of

THE

WALL

hear them—that means, come out and make it

half-hour later, after Mike and I had made our the tunnel, things started to happen fast. The the yard and a burly guard appeared on the

scene, although Mike and I didn’t know of this development

as yet. “Every man report to the yard at once,” the Captain called out, a stern emphasis to every word. “Come on, fellows, I mean all of you.” The convicts all dropped their wood at the Captain’s command, like it was so much hot iron. As they filed past

the guards, every face was tense, eager, electrified. I learned of this later. “Boy, if this ain’t a nice rank,” Black-

well whispered, as he stepped to Murray's side.

“There’s a leak some place in our plans,” Murray hissed,

“and I'd sure like to know where it is.” He hesitated for just a moment, and then quickly picked up three rocks from the ground, and tossing them in the air, one at a time, he let them fall on top of the wood pile. With that, he and Blackwell made their exit to the yard. When Mike and I, who were digging in the tunnel, heard the dull sound of the three rocks land on the woodpile above our heads, we could scarcely believe our ears. Our hearts bounded; stood still; began to hammer under our mudstained shirts. Dropping our tools, we quickly scrambled out of the tunnel into the larger chamber where the dirt was piled. From there we made our way into the second chamber, and working with all the speed we were capable of, we

shed our muddy clothing, replacing it with clean attire. We then made our way out, crawling on hands and knees, to the first chamber, to where the exit was located. Mike reached forward to remove a block of wood, and as he did

so, an audible exclamation escaped his throat. I started a question, but he tossed up his hands in a warning, helpless gesture. you.

”

“Look,” he muttered tensely, “straight in front of

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WALL

I looked, and the sight which met my eyes madé fy face

Ce

blanch. For standing directly in front of us, some thirty-feeg,:~ =. was Big Ivan, Yard Guard, his burly form and -alert-eyes™ blocking any attempt to emerge out into the fresh air. We replaced the short block of wood, lay back with our brains working in a mad jumble, and waited—desperately hoping that the guard would leave. But the guard didn’t leave. He stood right there, for one hour—two—three. All during those three hours we fought doggedly to keep hope burning within us, a far-fetched hope that perhaps this was just one of those miraculous coincidences that always happen sometime during a man’s lifetime. It was a losing fight, however, for Big Ivan’s keen gaze was a little too alert,

his heavy body a little too obstinate and determined in its very stance. Mike gave a sigh of resignation. “We might as well get

out

of here,

and

give

ourselves

philosophically. I nodded assent. “Might as well. going out of here, though. He might us are in here. We'll draw straws and Mike agreed to this plan, and on

up,

No not see the

Lee,”

he

said

use in both of us know that two of who goes out.” matching of two

splinters of wood, he was the unlucky one. A moment later, he had removed the short blocks of wood, and emerged out in the summer air, only to be immediately seen

by the guard. “Well, kid,” Big Ivan greeted, “it’s about time you're coming out.” “About time I'm coming out?” Mike echoed, pretending to be surprised. “I've been in there asleep, Ivan. Hiding from

work.”

He laughed, but the sound was forced and uncon-

vincing. “Oh yes, I know,” Ivan said tolerantly. “I’ve been waiting for you to come out all afternoon. Come on, let’s go up to the house.” I was instantly out in the air and on my feet as soon as the

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102

FL

guard

THE

ab ‘gone with his prisoner.

WALL

After brushing all evi-

+: +: «’dente of mud from my clothing and shoes, I started on my * Wwiy td the yard just as the evening whistle blew. I couldn’

repress a smile as I marched to the cellhouse. This was a lucky break to rave over. Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Murray and I and all of the rest of our plotting colleagues were locked in our cells, except one. And that exception was Billy Crosby. It later developed that he had turned stoolie and had advised the Warden of the proposed escape. While it never was established as an absolute fact that Crosby really committed this unpardonable sin—from a convict’s viewpoint,

nevertheless,

the rap was

forced

on

him, and the

other convicts avoided him as if he were some vile and repulsive leper. He was placed outside the walls with trusty privileges a short time after this incident, and his original sentence of twenty-five years was commuted to six. Then, right on the heels of his commutation, he escaped himself. Once again, I and my gentle-natured pals were assigned

to cells in the bullpen for an indefinite stay of solitary confinement “to think things over” while on a diet of beans and hash. After thirty days or so, we were back on the “main line” with all our customary privileges of smoking marijuana. For the smoking of marijuana (flower of the hemp plant) was rampant in the Oregon prison in those days. I neglected to mention this before, and in case you have never familiarized yourself with the “weed” in any way, shape or

form, I will offer an explanation in regard to the kick a guy gets out of it. The drug was obtained by the convicts from hemp hauled into the prison yard and which came in large truckloads of flax which was worked up in the penitentiary flax mill by the convicts. Marijuana,

pronounced

“merry-hawina,”

and

called

“griefo” or “merry” by addicts that use it, is a product of Mexican hemp, just as hashish is a product of the Far East. Marijuana, however, is used in a cruder state than is hashish,

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103

and because it contains a volatile drug, it is most often taken in the form of a smoke, and sometimes mixed with tobacco. It produces a high exhilaration, and when taken in excess, it

motivates brutal criminality.

It is notorious that gunmen

who occupy the lowest level in the ranks of crime, such as hired assassins, are usually wretched cowards. To under-

take assassination, they need something to “pep them up.” Give one of these professional murderers a few whiffs of marijuana mixed with tobacco and he immediately loses all sense of fear.

For a brief time nothing daunts him; he be-

comes a killer, ruthless and deadly.

I do not mean to infer that either Murray or Willos or Kelley needed

anything to “pep them up,” for the killer

instinct was in them, and only time was required to bring this fact to light; but there is no doubt in my

mind

that

marijuana did bring all the thoughts of vengeance and viciousness in those men’s character to the surface. Each one of them, in time, becomes an avowed killer of bulls, and “griefo’ didn’t help them to forget. Marijuana is worse than opium, sets a man who smokes it almost crazy, and sometimes makes him violent. It creates

false illusions and hallucinations, and I have seen many men go insane through its use. Fifty per cent of the convicts used it, many guards used it, and Tom regret, and to mine.

Murray

used it to his

The narcotic has been valued at $125,000 for a ten-acre

patch, on the underworld rate of $50 per pound.

In cigar-

ette forms, the method in which the dope is always used, it

sells for §5 a package of twenty. common

The weed is more or less

to South America and Mexico, where its use by

addicts is prevalent.

It is cut from the ground, dried in the

sun, rolled into cigarettes and then smoked.

After Murray emerged from the bullpen this time, he resolved to effect his next escape single-handed. Too many guys in “on the know” was not good business, and besides his many incarcerations in the medieval-like solitary row was

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quickly establishing him as an incorrigible. So, going about his way quietly alert, his constant vigil for a loophole was soon rewarded and early fall found him again ready to leave his twenty-year sentence behind. A power flume enters the prison in the center of the West Wall, and turning abruptly about in the center of the yard, it courses south and empties out under the South Wall.

A guard tower juts upward,

almost above the water, which makes it hazardous for any convict to attempt to cut a bar leading to freedom, for by craning his neck a little, the guard can see the heavy iron grating quite plainly. But Tom Murray had a hunch that this flume could be beat. He was more firmly convinced than ever that his hunch was correct when he noticed that the guard was always an interested spectator while the Saturday afternoon ball game was in progress, always having a pair of powerfullensed binoculars fixed to his eyes and apparently oblivious of the grating beneath him. He managed to get possession of three hacksaw blades, and on a certain afternoon, he was

ready to put his hunches on trial. After hasty thought, he figured that if he escaped at all, he would have several hours’ start before he would be missed, so why not give another man a chance to go.

He asked me about it, just as the ball

game started. “No, Tom, I won’t go with you,” I said. “I want to leave awful damn bad, but I'm not serving a long enough jolt in here to beat a long-termer out of a swell chance to make it. Take young Hughes with you. He's shaking a sawbuck.” No sooner said than done. He took Hughes into his confidence and the young fellow readily agreed to his plans. I had given Murray a bum steer on this play, although I did not contemplate such a thought at the time. So about two o'clock in the afternoon, while the excitement of the ball

game was at its height, Murray and Hughes dropped in the flume at a point near the laundry, swam until they came within about thirty yards of the point where the power flume passes under the wall. There Hughes waited under

OVER

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10§

the railroad bridge until Murray swam ahead and cut the bars that extend from the wall to the bottom of the flume. It took him nearly half-an-hour to cut through the steel bars, and all three of the hacksaw blades were required for

the job. And all the time he was sawing, he was virtually under the guard’s nose, but he might as well have been in China, for the guard was absorbed heart and soul in the stirring ball game. When the bar had been cut, Murray signaled to Hughes and the two men swam out to liberty. At three o'clock one hour after the escape, these bars were inspected by a prison guard and a report was made that they were all right. But a couple of bars were missing when the inspection was made. A combination of blindness and absence of thought truly proves profitable sometimes. The convicts were not missed by the officials until after the evening lock-up at 4:30 o'clock, giving them a start of two-and-one-half hours. They really had more start than this, for by the time a search was completed to ascertain that the men were not planted within the walls, and the missing bars were discovered, another precious half-hour was con-

sumed. There was just one report of the missing fugitives. After emerging to the outside world, wet and dripping, they made their way southward along the mill race until they came to a group of boys swimming, where the county road crosses the stream.

“Hello,” shouted the boys in unison, “come on in.” “No, thanks,” replied Murray, with a chuckle, “just go-

ing out.” That was the last seen of the fugitives—for a while. The authorities presumed that this time Murray would attempt to guide his companion into secure nooks discovered on his previous flight, and fears were expressed openly that he would avoid the mistakes which led to his recapture before. With a gesture of humiliation, the Warden sent the wires humming with the startling report, “Murray gone again.” But it was just two weeks and a few days after he had

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escaped, that the Warden received a wire that Murray had met recapture in Butte, Montana. When he reached the Oregon prison, Murray still showed mute evidence of a third attempt to win freedom while police were placing him in jail in Butte. He was captured after he had entered a store there in search of money, and when an automobile, bringing him to the police station from the scene of the attempted crime, stopped at the station, he attempted to run. The hard-boiled police didn’t shoot; they caught him and then administered a beating that kept him calm and cool until he greeted the Warden in Oregon. Outwardly he was very meek, but inwardly he was a seething inferno. A battered head with bloodstains on his shirt plainly showed the results of that beating. "He was placed behind prison bars once again, sullen and dissatisfied and laughing only when he was asked if he would attempt to escape again, but he did tell this story, however: “We made a wide sweep of Salem after we left the sur, and we walked to Portland, sleeping in the daytime and traveling during the night.

In the Portland railroad yards,

we grabbed ourselves some freights and rode into Butte. In Butte, we had to get some money as we still had our ‘con’ clothing on, and we picked out a store to burglarize. “As we were approaching the store, Hughes got cold feet

and refused to go on with it. I offered to do the job alone, however, and ordered him to stay outside. Having no keys to pick

the lock with

or any

tools to smash

it with,

I

sloughed in a window and the crash of the falling glass awoke the proprietor, and I got a rank. I didn’t know the bulls were outside, though, and when I handed out a sackful of

clothes for the two of us, and some chuck, why, instead of handing them to little Hughey, I placed them right in the arms of a big dick himself. “That’s all there is to it. Hughes either took a run-out powder without warning me, or else he got a hot rank him-

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107

self and didn’t have the opportunity. Anyway, he was gone —I was left—holding the sack. I hope to hell he gets away, but if he did do a run-out, it was a dirty trick.

Murray mused awhile, an ironical smile touching his lips. “We

were headed

for Yellowstone

National

Park.

After

that, we were to go Fast. But that’s all off now. It happens that I've changed my course. I'm going straight south now— to the bullpen.” } NE I felt tough about Tom’s consistent hard luck—not only that he had to come back to the stir, but also because of the fact that I had sicked him on to a guy whom I had considered as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar—but who had proved him-

self otherwise.

And then came the realization that the gang

wasn’t getting over so hot. But in middle October, I was handed an agreeable surprise when the Warden, a stoutish man with graying hair, silvery at the temples, a wide stub-

born jaw, and hard brown eyes, called me into his office for an interview and offered me a trusty job outside the walls. I expressed a willingness to accept the proffer, without dis-

playing my true feelings of inward exultance. “hat” without further ado!

Once

trusty privileges, I didn’t stay long.

Iwas given a

outside the walls with

On the fourth day I ran

away, as soon as the guard’s back was turned, leaving my remaining prison sentence and the State of Washington rap behind.

Within a half-hour after I escaped, I almost came face-toface with a prison guard who was standing watch on a rail-

road track a mile or so away from the prison.

After making

certain that I had gone unnoticed I skirted down the tracks a hundred yards, and passed to the rear of him undetected.

My greatest fear was that this happened to be open season for deer, and I was certain to be suspected were I to unexpectedly confront one of the hunters. Late in the afternoon, however, I came abreast of a small cabin which was

situated in an open clearing in the woods, and after reassuring myself that the owner was absent, I entered the place,

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discarded my prison cap which I placed in the cook stove, obtained another misfit by proxy, and took possession of a Savage repeating rifle which was hanging on the wall. It was a marvellous day out in the woods; a hundred times more beautiful than ever before because I had just emerged out into the clean air from a place where the environment had been constantly pervaded by dismal gloom and sullen melancholy. A rough country in which I was traveling, the October sunshine bathed the rugged valley in a hue of misty gold, and leaves of yellow and red thickly blanketed the woods trails. Hardly anything can compare with the retreating splendor of autumn, and even my being a fugitive from justice could not take from me the sheer beauty and enjoyment of it. Late that evening I came to the broad Willamette River, one of the principal streams of the Northwest, and for a while I was sorely puzzled as to just what procedure I would employ to gain the opposite shore. It was becoming quite cold now that the last vestige of crimson glory of a late autumn sun had definitely retreated over the horizon, leaving a rapidly closing dusk in its wake. Iknew that it would be a hazardous risk to attempt to cross any of the bridges, as these were certain to be closely guarded. Finally I decided to build a raft, and after looking around a bit I found a number of logs, and by an old fence some rusty baling wire. After I completed the construction of my rude raft, I sat for many minutes shivering on the bank of the river as it ran mysteriously by, singing with its lips to the pebbles. The rushing water appeared quite harmless—but a large stream is always treacherous enough to instill fear. At last I shoved my makeshift raft in abruptly and with a long pole to aid me I started across the stream, placing myself recklessly into the uncertain hands of the Goddess of Luck;

and before gaining the opposite shore, I fully believed that the fickle lady had gone exploring elsewhere. The pole was worthless to me after reaching the middle of the river, and

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109

then the current began to carry my raft swiftly downstream. My heart froze when without warning the fragile craft dissembled, the rusty baling wire being unable to hold the strain. The rifle splashed in the water, my own self following with remarkable speed, and right then I under-

went a hasty metamorphosis, and started paddling for dear life. I was still clad in the woolen trousers and heavy regulation prison brogans, which, within a moment, added to my weight tremendously, and my soaked clothing felt like something leaden pulling me down. The current was intolerably swift, the water ice-cold, and I was a very tired escaped convict splashing desperately ahead for a long life. Finally I reached the other side, and for a while I just lay on the bank and rested my tortured lungs, but my soaked attire

coupled with the cold air forced me to get to my feet and start going places. Later that night I prowled quite a respectable joint in a little town, where I got outfitted for clothing and a few bucks of the filthy long green along with it which I needed so badly. From there I travelled to Medford, Oregon, in a stolen car without even taking the precaution of changing license plates—an extremely fortunate but foolish move on my part as the distance is something over three hundred miles from the penitentiary. At Medford, along about midnight a day later, I fell in with some cattle men, who were

shipping a car of potential steaks and roasts south, and when

I proffered by services as a cowpuncher on the trip, I was

immediately accepted, although I hardly knew one end of a

cow from the other, and thus secured for myself the safest sort of transportation as far as Gazelle, California. From there on I paid my way to the vicinity of Sacramento, tramping into the city after nightfall in the guise of an ordinary “vag.” I played the role well, for it was easy to brush back the curtain to a few years past, and my youthful experience with Frisco Whitney came to my rescue. As a matter of fact, I played the role so well that I came within a

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frog’s chin-whisker of being run in by an officer, but I put up a good line of boloney that I was in search of lodging

with dough to pay for it, and he let me go. In a little town called Maple Park, one name being just as

good as another, I engaged in the industrious profession of

carefully going through all accessible places in several dif-

ferent ritzy-furnished ladies’ boudoirs, and for this time and trouble was rewarded with a number of hoops set with rocks that were daisies, exquisitely designed wrist watches, a

couple of necklaces that weren't so hot and a little dough. From there I made my way on to San Francisco, where I had not been for several years, and disposed of my loot to a

pawnbroker whose thieving disposition was even more pronounced than my own. “Vot? Fife hundert?” he exploded in well-simulated wrath, in response to the price I asked for the valuables. “Hot diments, hot vatches, and neglaces I could buy for

twenty dolla’s.

Vun hundert.

Take it or leave it.”

“I'll take it, old chin-whiskers,” I said, and, incidentally,

was tickled to death to get it.

My last lap into the city of San Francisco, however, was not completed until I had encountered an experience that proved a closer shave than you could get from Tony, the

barber. In Maple Park, I had stolen a Cadillac touring car and drove this to Monette, where I abandaned it when the

heap became afflicted with carburetor trouble.

Then in

Monette I bummed a small cardboard box from one of the

local storekeeper, and into this I dumped some junk of varied value which I had, picked up prior to my advent in Maple Park, placing the trinkets gained from that town on the inside of my shirt—next to my skin.

Then I bound the

package neatly in some wrapping paper, and after scribbling

an assumed moniker on the face of the package, and address-

ing it to the Railway Express Office in Oakland, I went down to the depot to send it away. The station proved to be closed at that particular time, however, so I climbed into

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ITI

an empty gondola on a rattler a few hours later, which was headed south. The floor of the car was dirty; so I laid my package down, left the gondola and entered a rice field just a few yards from the tracks. I grabbed a couple of bundles of rice on the fly, crawled back in the open-air observation once more, sent

the bright beam from my “bug” from one end of the car to the other to tell me where to distribute my flop. The flashlight rays found the inert forms of a couple of bums lying

at the opposite end of the car, apparently fast asleep. Aftera

casual survey, I dismissed them from my thoughts and lay down on the rice straw. Fully determined not to succumb

to much-needed sleep, within a few minutes I did just that. I was rudely awakened a few hours later by a savage boot in my side from a big, capable-looking kick belonging to some guy of obvious authority. Opening my eyes, I gazed up quite bewildered, and was astonished to see one ham-like, muscular-looking hand pointing a bug at me, flooding the end of the car with a sudden brilliance, while the other mitt was gripping the butt of a menacing rod. At first the glare of the light blinded me, and turning my head somewhat, I noticed that the two men who had been stretched out in the other end of the car, were standing with their mitts

thrust high in the ozone.

I was ordered to “get up on your

dogs and stick your mitts in the breeze” —which

I did with

alacrity. Then I discovered something amiss. I groggily mulled over the fact that the package which had been lying at my

side and a .38 automatic which I had kept thrust in my waistband were missing. I was searched but not too thoroughly —as the dick, as the guy turned out to be, overlooked the

sparklers inside my shirt. He was just on the point of letting us scram when a flicker from his bug found the package and the heater nestling in the center of the car a few feet away.

This wasn’t so very difficult to figure out, although it kind of made my kneecaps rattle.

While I had been engaged in

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a snore, the heavy jolting of the open-air Pullman had caused the equalizer to become dislodged from my belt, and the

constant rocking of the rattler had caused both it and the package to slide farther down the floor. The dick tried to imitate Sherlock Holmes just solving a thriller, and ordered me to pick up the package and open it. Lt keep your digits off that heater; I'll take care of that.” I could feel hot blood sweep over me, and the muscles of my Adam’s apple began doing a dance. I untied the strings with fumbling fingers.

Then the junk—small rocks, hoops

and blocks—ticking rhythmically, sparkled and glistened up to a hazy, laughing moon. “Say, you guys are gonna talk now—and talk fast.

Who

does this loot belong to, and where did you glom on to it?” He turned to one of the other men, a long, lanky guy.

“All

right, bum—give me a fairy tale.” “Well—me and Shorty got on this train in Sacramento. We were almost asleep when some guy got in this car at Monette and woke us up. Whoever it was left something in the car, and then climbed right out again. Then a few minutes later, just as we were deciding to see what the guy had left—this fellow climbed in. That’s all I know about 1t, mister.” I was conscious of a sudden calm, although a wild desire

seized me to laugh. I felt almost like reaching out and shaking the bum’s dirty paw. His story had given me the opportunity to present a desperately sought alibi in case I would be forcibly escorted to the hoosegow. Such did not occur, however; fate was with me. As I was climbing from the car, I took it on the Arthur K. Duffy. The purple-vaulted night was fairly dark, and the railroad yard with its crowded tracks of trains and cars made it even more intensely so. The gray matter sized this advantage up instantly, and I had hardly struck the hard-packed earth with my feet than I threw my body flat on the ground, gave a quick series of

CHAPTER

AM

EIGHT

going to tell you something about the “Third

Degree” here, because if ever a guy was tromped on, tamped, sapped, slugged, slapped, kicked, and given a gen-

eral overhauling in the Frisco can, I was the bird.

You have

heard about the Third Degree, a gentle little practice the

American Police are notoriously noted for indulging in quite frequently, but have you ever seen it in operation?

Have

you ever seen a guy after he emerged from a room, after anywhere from two to twenty coppers had worked on him

for a few hours? Have you ever seen a man whose ribs were caved in from the eternal kicking of big, thick-soled brogans; or his back a solid mass of raw, lacerated welts caused by infliction of a rubber hose; or a fractured skull caused by the downward sweep of a lead-filled sap? If you haven't, then you don’t know much about the ultra-modern American police methods. The Third Degree is a secret and illegal practice. The Third Degree—the inflicting of pain, physical or mental, to

extract confessions or statements is widespread throughout

the country. Physical brutality is extensively practiced. The methods are various. They range from beating to harsher forms of torture. The commoner forms are beating with

the fists or with some implement, especially the rubber hose. That inflicts punishment but it is not likely to leave permanent visible scars. The man who has ever taken a beating

with a rubber hose at the hands of police officials probably will never have any permanent scars to carry around on his body as a grim reminder, but the scar in his heart will remain

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113

rolls and kept right on rolling until I was safely under the last line of cars on the parallelling tracks. It was a simple getaway, and a punk could have safely executed it, but the

incident was a close shave in progenitive with the San Quentin calaboose, at that.

Frisco’s Embarcadero, after so long an absence, looked both familiar and good to me and I did not have the guts to leave—to place more terra firma between me and the Oregon stir. I went back to the stick-up racket, for I wanted some cash, geetas, dough-ra-me, a bunch of the green fodder

that makes the world go round.

But one night Lady Luck

said, “Guy, I'm going to hang a sleeper on you,” and I was

caught red-handed on a drug-store job out on California Street. Then I was taken for a one-way ride down to the Hall of Justice on Kearney Street, was printed, mugged and

a few other things, promptly discovered as a fugitive from

the Webfoot State, and the officials at the Oregon joint were wired to come and get their prodigal prisoner.

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To defend the Third Degree is to advocate lawlessness, often flagrant and habitual—committed by those who are especially charged with the enforcement of the law. The practice of coercing confessions is a violation of a constitutional right. The District Attorney who winks at the practice is flouting the Constitution. Speaking strictly in an unbiased frame of mind, which, frankly, is very hard for me to do when the question of police is brought up, I will con-

cede that they have to deal with a peculiarly debased and hard-boiled class of professional criminals, some of whom were developed through the rise of crime syndicates. The question I am trying to pass on to you is whether, to meet this situation, the police in general should be permitted to

violate virtually every principle implied in the Bill of Rights and to treat innocent persons as brutally as they treat the guilty. The Third Degree is an accepted institution in most places. “perience has proved to the police that it is an easy substitute for energy and intelligence lacking in police organizations—and they know when they lack it and when they don’t. For Third Degree is no more and no less than a hardy substitute for normal intelligence in policemen and detectives who habitually resort to it. It is much easier to put a suspected prisoner in a closed room and club him than it is to go out and systematically gather evidence necessary to prove his guilt or innocence. The only signs of diminishing use of the system are the cases where the police are intimidated themselves by gangs or friends of the prisoner, or where the prisoner has sufficient wealth to bribe his inquisitors out of a beating. The methods used in Chicago are outstanding; they include the application of the rubber hose to the back, kicks in the shins, beating the shins with a club,

and blows struck on the side of a victim’s head with a telephone book. Other methods used are suspending a prisoner upside down by handcuffs or manacles and the ministration of tear

with him to the day he dies.

1g

In his soul he has become a

killer, lustful and vengeful.

The method most commonly employed in police stations around over the country is protracted questioning. By that, I mean questioning at times by relays of questioners—so protracted that the prisoner’s energies are spent and his powers of resistance are overcome. At times, the questioning is accompanied by blows or by throwing continuous straining light upon the face of the suspect. At times the suspect 1s kept standing for long hours or deprived of food or sleep, or his sleep is periodically interrupted to resume questioning. Methods of intimidation are widespread. Threats most always are of bodily injury. They have gone to the extreme of procuring a confession at the point of a pistol or through fear of a mob. Prolonged illegal detention is a common practice. The law requires prompt production of a prisoner before a magistrate. In a large majority of cities, this rule is constantly violated. I once knew a man who was kept in a county jail eight months and three days before he even got a preliminary hearing. Eight months and three days before he even knew what the magistrate and District Attorney looked like. Then when he did appear before the magistrate, he received ninety days in jail; making all told nearly one year for a trivial offense. The presumption of innocence entitles an accused person,

even when lawfully arrested and imprisoned, to retain the privilege of an ordinary citizen until conviction. The prisoner should not be punished until after he has been adjudged guilty. Now, my good friend, I am not preaching to you and I am not trying to create the illusion that criminals like us are a gang of lily-white angels. But I am going by what your criminal statutes tell you in black and white. And I want to tell you that there are men today serving time in State penitentiaries who are innocent as hell—who were sent there as a result of intimidation and beatings of the rotten Third Degree system.

—

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Examinations do not always take place at police stations. One suspect I know was carried to a newspaper office for questioning. The frequent participation of District Attorneys in the Third Degree sessions was stated to me as a fact by many criminal friends. A distinction must be drawn between the Third Degree in which beatings are used by the police in daily practice upon ordinary suspects, and the exceptional Third Degree employed by the State in the solution of outstanding crimes. Illegal detention and detention incommmunicado are most common. The police are slow about bringing prisoners to court or even booking them, as I told you before.

As far as records

show, men are usually produced in court not later than forty-eight hours after the entry of the arrest; but, in fact, the true date of the arrest is often not entered. An advanced

period of kidnaping (prior to arrest) makes the records wholly untrustworthy. Men are frequently not booked at all, and there is no record of their being in custody. “Losing” men for days at a time is common. The absence of record blocks attorneys when they go to the police demanding to see their clients. Of course, professional criminals usually have their at-

torneys on watch in advance of their arrest, but persons who do not make such arrangements often have difficulty in getting in touch with attorneys. Anyway you look at it, the Third Degree is just as unlawful as going out and sticking up a bank, and robbing it of its cash. That is true, in strict accordance to law. The police have no right, and should not be allowed, to punish a prisoner until he has been adjudged guilty. And even then, it is not their business to do the job. Police are very slow to learn, but they should get wise to the fact that their beatings and clubbings as a mode of exercise are causing an awfully high mortality among them every year. After I had recovered from my beating at the hands of the bulls in Frisco, they took me to police court. Police

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court—the court of a thousand sorrows and a million regrets. The court of first experience and most permanent

memory. The court where law is required at a minimum, and where justice should be most essential. Beggar and burglar, gambler and gunman,

drunkard

and dope

murderer and 7zaquereau, all had to appear here.

police court is just about the same.

fiend,

Every

This was Judge Mc-

Shane’s court in Frisco—the court of the multitude.

This

was the court of the petty and mean and the court of the minor offender; their cases swiftly heard and the sentences given in the same way. And this was the court of arraignment for the tough and hardened, a court to grant them

hearing and determine disposition.

Judge McShane’s court

—the court of the multitude, where a daily torrent of life swept on and through, seemingly ever gray and sombre.

What do you say we dip an hour right here from my crim-

inal life—and from the flood of disreputable humanity? It was about 2 p. M. The clerk called the case of a colored guy, charged with disorderly conduct, found asleep on a sidewalk at the corner of Third and Howard Streets, down on the skid-roads. Judge McShane settled comfortably in his chair, cleared his throat and began monotonously: “Ever convicted of disorderly conduct before?”

The Jig, a thin-chested, sly-eyed guy with a shock of black, kinky hair, shifted nervously. ‘“Nosiree.” “Ever been convicted of anything?” “No, sah.” “What do you do for a living?

ever do any kind of work?”

That is, I mean—do you

“Yes, sah. I wuz a soft shoe dancer in a vaud'ville troupe that drifted in this heah town of Frisco, when it all went broke an’ disbanded.”

“Um—that’s bad.

You say that you're a dancer?”

“Yes, sah.” “Well, get them dogs of yours working, then.

court be a judge of your dancing ability.”

Let the

11g

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prisoner underwent a curious transformation of a

sudden. His rather emaciated body seemed to cringe apologetically; his ebony face took on a shy expression, his heavy lower lip protruded tremulously, he bowed his head and looked out of the tops of his eyes until only the whites were

showing—but this was preliminary stage stuff. started to dance.

Then he

The agile boy from below the Mason-and-

Dixie executed every step in his accomplished repertoire, and he did it with such marvellous precision and versatility that

soon every person in the court room and even the Judge were swaying their bodies to keep in motion with his staccato-like steps. Soon His Honor realized his undignified

enthusiasm, and he suddenly jerked up straight, with the crowd in an hilarious uproar. He was a man of swift action. A split-second later, his big mitt slammed down on the polished surface of his bench with a crash that jarred numerous typewritten sheets of court data from their resting place, and sent them flying over the room. “Keep right on dancing down through the middle of that aisle and out of the door,” he bellowed. “Case dismissed.” The next case called concerned a man who had passed a worthless check. A tall, lean young man with burning

black eyes and a bitter mouth stepped forward.

Following

him closely, his gray-haired mother bowed by seventy or more years of hard toil and disappointments, walked tear-

fully before the Judge's bench.

All of a sudden everything

was tensely quiet—the crowd sensed drama here.

“This is my boy,” the old lady sobbed. money here, Judge.

I saved most of it.”

“I've got the

She unwrapped a

handkerchief on the bench and out rolled a stack of nickles, dimes and quarters, several dollars worth, or enough to cover the check.

There came a strange softening on Judge McShane’s impassive face, a smile to his broad mouth

and a flush of

warmth into his blue eyes—an expression that did credit to a judge.

“All right, Mother, that fixes it,” he said very

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quietly. He turned to the defendant. “Some day you're not going to have a mother to get you out of scrapes like this. You ought to think of that while she’s living.” The young fellow’s lips dropped slackly, but there was a shadow of dejection in his eyes. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and nodded dumbly. As the old mother led her boy away by the hand, another

case was called, and he was another colored gentleman. “An’ I ain’t nevah comin’ back no mo’, no sah,” he told the

judge, rolling his eyes at the officer who had picked him up as vag.

“Just a minute,” the Judge admonished the shuffling Negro. “What brings you here, my good man?” “Ah reckon it wuz a policeman, yoh honah.”

“I mean why did you come here?” . “Well suh, when you looks at me, you looks at one ob de bes’ cotton pickers in Loozana. I done come heah foh to pick cotton—place called Bakahsfeel.” “Well, this is not Bakersfield; there’s no cotton picking here. Why didn’t you stop in Bakersfield?” “Jes’ one ob dem strange intermissions, ah guess, yoh honah. Lawd, Lawd, ah goes to sleep in dem ol’ box cabhs, suh—doan see Bakahsfeel, doan see nothin’—an’ putty soon

ah wakes up in dis heah town with Mistah John Law a-shakin’ me an’ heah ah is. Seems lak ah always ride right

past wuk an’ nevah sees it. Lawd, Lawd.” “How soon can you get out of town?” “Dis town’s too foggy fo’ me, Judge, yo’ honah, an’ I'se headin’ South whar th’ sun is.

Yes sah, South whar th’ sun

1s.”

“I want to know how long it'll take you to get out of town?”

The Jig looked at the clock and shuffled his feet.

“Ah’m

on mah way this minute, Judge,” he grinned.

“Good-bye,” the Judge said.

“But just one more thing—

head back towards Bakersfield, where there’s some cotton, and next time leave a call with the brakeman.”

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121

“Yes sah, Judge, yes sah, an’ thankya,” the fellow called back as he drifted through the door. And so the flotsam and jetsam continued to pass by Judge McShane’s reviewing stand.

Some were sentenced to thirty

days, three months, six months or even a year at Engleside,

while others were turned loose to sustain a remnant of selfrespect, and to get a new grip on themselves.

Then my case

was called, that of Lee Duncan versus the State of Cali-

fornia, with the charge of unlawfully, feloniously, purpose-

ly and deliberately, and with premeditated malice attempt-

ing to hold up and rob a certain drug store at the point of a gun, and to kill in cold blood if fecessary to gain that de-

sired objective, with the possible penalty upon conviction of from five years to life within the walled confines of Folsom Prison. . It looks long enough with all that rigamarole on paper, but it sounds a hell of a lot longer when a judge is telling 1t to you, but I entered a plea of “Not Guilty,” and instructed the court to appoint me a mouthpiece for defense. The Frisco dicks that nabbed me with a heater in my hand wired at once to the Oregon prison, as soon as my identification was made known, without consulting their Chief. The main cheese of the Department contended, however, that as

I had such a short, unexpired sentence remaining in Oregon, that I should be compelled to pay first for my crime in California. The traveling guard came down immediately to return me to the northern prison, unaware, of course, of the

developments that had transpired. Hence, my appearance in Judge McShane’s Police Court for arraignment for trial; and a legal snag was encountered by the Oregon prison guard for about three weeks. Finally after the guard had made a couple of trips to Sacramento to interview the Governor, the Frisco Chief agreed to drop his charges against me, with the provision that I remain forever out of the

Golden State. The travelling guard was a gangling, buck-toothed, towheaded guy whose squinty green eyes seemed to dart sus-

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picious glances every direction at once. He didn’t waste any time after greeting me gruffly, but suggested a “skin frisk,” this being the vernacular for a minute search requiring the doffing of all clothes. He found nothing, of course, and then pulling a heavy Oregon boot from his bag, demanded that I put this on. The “Oregon Boot,” a product of the ingenious brain of a former convict of the Salem stir,

had gained wide favor in police circles throughout the coun-

try in the transportation of criminals to distant points. It is composed of a heavy weight of cast steel which is supported above the insteps by means of braces and a heel plate that is screwed into the heel of the shoe. The boot does not interfere with the comfort of the foot, as the weight is supported entirely on the braces, but to walk is a difficult and slow process, and to run is impossible. After the heavy boot had been adjusted to my leg, a pair of handcuffs was slipped over my wrists, as was also a single cuff with a long lead chain attached. From the Hall of Justice I was taken directly to the Ferry

Building. It doesn’t require much juggling of my thinking apparatus to recall quite vividly that night as I walked through the Ferry Building, where hundreds of curious could

view me with open disdain; walking and swinging one of

my lower limbs like a broken-down cow with the black-leg, and the boot sending a grating clank, clank, resounding from one end of the place to another. On the other side of the Bay, in Oakland,

I was taken aboard the Shasta Limited,

where all the berths were down and hunky-dory for inviting sleeps. But my guard told the porter: “We're not using our berths on the way back. Just bring us a couple of pillows.” He sensed my unspoken question as he methodically took the precaution of removing the cartridges from his revolver. He knew I could not get away, or should have known it, particularly when I was handicapped with cuffs and leg irons, and by a chain attaching me to a heavy satchel,

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but he was taking no chances on me getting my fingers on his loaded revolver in an unguarded moment.

“To look at you a guy would think you were guarding the James Boys, instead of a one-year man with only four months left to do,” I remarked.

“Why don’t you get wise

to yourself? I'm not going to try to get away.” The guard’s greenish eyes bored and gleamed. “They all say something like that. With that heavy boot on, you might get up during the night and knock my brains out. That’s the reason we're not taking advantage of the berths.” “Why didn’t you bring shackles if you were afraid I might try a getaway?” “I suggested them, but the Deputy said to bring the boot. And he’s the boss, you know.” “Listen,” I said. “I wouldn't try to get away from you for two reasons: One is because you are the guy that kept me

from going to Folsom; the other reason is that I've got only a few more months to do up there, and when that is done,

they’ll have to convict me before they can send me to Walla

Walla.” He eyed me curiously. “What do you Walla?” “I mean that detainer waiting for me.”

mean—Walla

“Humph. Why, that charge is squashed, Duncan. A detainer has got to be renewed every six months, and yours

wasn’t. as trusty That couldn’t

Besides, you would have never got outside the walls if those charges hadn’t been dropped.” information made me feel pretty good, and I repress a broad grin. “Well, that’s certainly good

news to me.

How about calling the porter and having him

let our berths down?

You know damn well I'm going to be

good now.” He gave a short, rather disagreeable laugh. “I came down here three weeks ago to take you back to Oregon, had a hard time getting you at all.

going to keep you, see?”

But now that I've got you, I'm

He was emphatic on that point.

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“We don’t sleep in a berth, and that’s that. However, if you don’t pull anything on the way back, you can eat like a King. The State’s paying all bills.” Thanksgiving Day, 1924, in the bullpen—turkey day, and there had been a total abstinence of food for us incorrigibles for almost thirty hours. We heard the hundreds of other convicts as they marched into the prison auditorium for the vaudeville show, and the echoes of mixed boos and

applause following each act. And already, we knew, they had partaken of that feast of all feasts in stir—turkey with all the trimmings. This was one dirty trick that was original, we contended, and we racked our brains trying to figure out which one of the officials had been smart enough to think of such a diabolical idea. Our hungry horrors were intensified tenfold when the bulls started to strut around the cat-walks to relieve their fellow-officers in the towers, meanwhile chewing on soggy toothpicks after loading their bellies with the holiday meal. By the time 6 p. M. had rolled around we didn’t try to restrain ourselves longer; we began to yelp and howl like a gang of skinny coyotes, bellow cat-calls and curses,

and hurl every foul epithet known at the prison guards and the prison system, at society and at everything pertaining to law and order. Then all at once our hysterical mouthings terminated abruptly. The great steel door opening into the bullpen from the chapel swung on its huge rusty hinges and white-coated flunkies from the dining-room—a half-dozen of them started down the creaky steps with their arms literally loaded with trays heavily laden with portions of Kid Turkey's anatomy and all the delicious eatables that usually go with such a morsel to round out a perfect meal. Just like so many mechanical robots the flunkies emptied the trays of food into each of our respective cells, without uttering a single word or breaking their immobile mouths into a single smile, then walked back up the wooden steps, closed the door, and left us temporarily repentant incor-

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125

rigibles with our thoughts—in a silence so tense we could almost have heard the proverbial pin drop. The industrious scraping of spoons on plates began, and for fifteen minutes continued without a single let-up; then suddenly we started

never did jabbering like so many happy monkeys in 2 zoo. ascertain just what type of phony psychology the Warden was experimenting on when he pulled that idiotic stunt, but whatever it was it failed to change the status of our regards for him a whole lot. On the following day we went back on our restricted rations of the customary diet of old reliables; and the gods of the elements also decided to effect a change by replacing the erstwhile wet weather in the form of a heavy snowstorm. The cold atmosphere became almost unbearable in the medieval-like dungeon and upon awakening each morning,

the fronts of our small cells would be banked with six or eight inches of snow. Other complications arose—the water pipes burst during the freezing weather and the Chapel flunkies were forced to carry our drinking water down to us, and also carry our cell buckets with their human excrement to the lavatory in the yard. They eyed this latter job distastefully, although I don’t blame them for that, and often we were compelled to breathe the unutterably filthy odor of the buckets in our cells for five or six days at a stretch without having them emptied or cleaned. It is difficult to describe what filthy and repulsive creatures we had become from our offensive body odors caused from absolute uncleanliness within a few weeks’ time; and with our dirty, matted mass of uncombed whiskers and hair,

we truly felt and looked like ragged vagabonds from nowhere. Eventually we were released from this hell-hole; not merely because the officials believed our punishment sufficient, but because of the fact that we were just causing them too much trouble and confusion owing to the bursted water pipes, etc.

I saw Tom Murray right after I had rejuvenated myself

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by a warm bath, haircut and shave, clean clothing, etc., and

right away he asked me a question: “Want to do me a favor when you get out of the joint?” I felt a little surprised, a little cautious, a little amused, for

the blonde-headed convict had changed tremendously since I had seen him last.

I felt innately that I knew what the re-

quest was going to be.

“Yes,” I said finally.

“Most any

kind of favor where I can fill the bill.” He looked at me, and his face looked hard.

bring me back some rods when This was the question I had bring them back,” I responded, are you sure that that’s the route of here?

“Will you

you get out?” expected, all right. “I'll “if you will use them. But you want to take to get out

It will mean the rope if you fail.”

“Don’t I know it? Listen.” Murray’s throat was dry; his voice husky. “I've beat this joint twice from inside the walls, and both times I’ve beat it clean. Both times I was caught, but I returned on each occasion without trying to

get tough or kill anyone.

But I want to tell you something.

If I ever leave this dump again, I'm going to leave it with blood on my hands, see? I'm going to get tough—and stay

tough until I either get away for good or drop through that trap upstairs at the end of a rope.”

This was a Murray I had never known before.

ah

:cided

to let him go on talking before I risked an answer. “There’s two ways for me to get out of here, and if the first way works, then it won’t be necessary to bring any rods back. But it takes someone outside to work for me, and you're the

only guy I can depend on to keep his word. Now, here’s the lay. I've got twelve hundred slugs planted outside, and I want you to get it and send it back to me. Not a whole lot, but I might be able to spring myself legitimately if I place the dough in the right party’s hands.” “You've got the dough planted? Will I have to dig it u

»”

“Sure.

T'll make a map tonight showing the exact spot

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129

where the money is planted inside a quart fruit jar. I'll bring the map out in the yard tomorrow morning and explain everything to you. After you dig the dough up, go to Lakeside, and to the St. George apartments.

lor, parks there.

My gal, Helen Tay-

When you see her, tell her who you are,

and then give the money to her.” “Yeah. Then what?” “Helen’s smart, and she knows how to spring me—if I can be sprung legitimately. A good-looking satchel can work miracles with an old twist-crazy guy like the Parole Officer.” “Does she already know anything about me?” “Why, sure. After you got nabbed in Frisco, I figured this thing out. I sent a couple of underground kites out to her and explained the whole business. She says it’s a good scheme.”

“Does she know where the money is planted?” “Yeah. But she’s waiting for you to come and get it.” Murray’s gray eyes glittered. “And if this don’t work out all right, and the worst comes to the worst, I can always blast my way out.” “If I bring you back some rods,” I added significantly.

Murray stood silent for a moment.

“If you bring me back

the rods,” he repeated in a low voice. “And, Pal, they could murder you for that, too. Murder you legally.”

“They could do that,” I agreed. “But now I want to tell you something.

If this other thing don’t work out accord-

ing to Hoyle, I'm going to bring you back some heaters, not

only because of the fact that I want to see you get out, but

because I have learned to hate. The things that I have seen and the things that I have gone through have made a bull hater out of me.”

“I know I can rely on you. And by the way,” Murray put his hand on my shoulder as he said this, speaking confidentially, “I told Helen to take care of you when you got out, just like she would me if I were down there in your

—

—

128 place.

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She’s a swell dame, and she'll do it, too; she don’t

mess around with every guy that comes along.” “Well, now, maybe that won’t come in handy—to a guy just out of a stir.” “Sure it will,” he laughed.

“I wrote and told her, ‘What's

yours is mine, Helen; and what’s mine is Lee Duncan's’.

19”

CHAPTER NINE

HAVE told you that Murray was altogether different now than heretofore. He was quieter, more reserved, and a sort of grim look touched his lips to replace his ordinary, happy-go-lucky smile. Soon, several “cons” noticed I

the change in him, a change

that the alert officials also

noticed, and it was generally believed that Tom Murray was cowed, tamed, depressed with fear of the dreaded bullpen’s

punishment. But I knew different, for I understood the young convict as perhaps did no other man, probably knew him better than he did himself. I knew that he was hoping desperately that the money he had planted outside would spring him legitimately from the joint, through Helen Taylor’s connivance—but that it was a sort of a far-fetched hope.

And I knew that if it didn’t work, he was ready to

become a killer at an instant’s notice. Had the officials but known that inwardly he was seething with rebellion, and that he was but a keg of human dynamite ready to be touched off, they would have kept him under the strictest surveillance possible. For he was now dangerous. He was continually “pepped up” on marijuana, and he was discarding all escape plots where violence was not an item. No longer was he just a _ keen, resourceful convict planning on an escape where no thoughts of staining his hands with a guard’s blood was assured. He was thinking in terms now of vehement force, of overwhelming power. But the officials never once dreamed of the murderous thoughts racing through his brain and they 129

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were sublimely confident that he was “cured” once and for ail.

The cold and foggy winter, always miserable inside the walls, finally melted into early spring, and many things had happened around the prison. Things that were startling.

For Joe Blackwell, classed as one of the really bad men of the joint, was outside with trusty privileges and this was almost too amazing to be true. Granted permission to interview the Warden, Blackwell astounded his listener with his first remark: “Warden, how’s the chance to go out trusty?” The Warden was bewildered and he showed it. He was speechless. Blackwell remained unperturbed. “Warden,” he said, “I've tried a few escapes from this prison in addition to lamming a few times. I am still hanging around, however, doing time, and the way things are going I'll lose my four years good time in spite of hell. If you'll give me a chance to break away from this gang and go outside where I can try

to earn my good time back, I'll promise to stick.” The Warden was a suave, cold, self-contained individual.

He was not a man to betray his emotions easily.

“You want

to break away from the gang, eh?” he parried. you respected that gang.”

“I thought

Blackwell stiffened and there was a pale cast to his face. “I do respect them,” he said grimly. “Respect them more than anyone in this dump. And that’s just the reason I want to get away from them. I respect them so much that if I stick with them, I'll be with them heart and soul in any caper they undertake. That's why I want out trusty.” The Warden gazed at Blackwell hard and long, silently turning things over in his mind. Then suddenly he reached

a decision.

He was an excellent judge of men, and he was

convinced that this convict was telling the truth. “All right,” he said abruptly, “I'll give you a hat, Joe, but God

help you if run.”

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So Joe Blackwell went out trusty, driving a tractor miles

away from the prison, where the green fields and wholesome air replaced the stench of the cells and corridors of the ancient cell block wings, and he stuck. Crowbar Kelley was now employed in the cell house, where he was up early in the morning and out until late at

night.

But he never made any attempt to escape and he was

observing

all the prison

rules religiously.

His

idol and

master, Oregon Jones, was gone, and without Jones, Kelley was like a ship without a rudder. Steve Regan, who had figured in Murray’s initial escape, was now employed in the pump house, considered a “gold

brick’s” position in the prison, where he was also permitted to stay out of his cell until late hours, but there was no sign of trouble from him either. In fact, everything was running so smoothly inside the walls that that alone should have been an ominous sign that something was brewing. The officials received a letter from

Oregon Jones, in the late fall of 1924, and it was still a puzzle

they were trying to solve. The letter had been addressed to the Head Chapel Guard of the prison, and was postmarked Buffalo, New York.

Here is the full text of the letter: CatHoric CLuB oF BurraLo, NEw YORK. Dear Sir—I guess this will be a kind of a knockout to you

but nevertheless it is true.

I am coming back there (Salem)

within the next few weeks. I would come now but I am married and I don’t want to leave my wife broke. I was in Niagara Falls yesterday and Toronto, Canada, the day before. And I am leaving tonight for Chicago. My wife is here with me but is going to stay here with her folks. And when I make her a few dollars, I am coming back to Salem. Give the gang my best regards.

OREGON

JONES.

Jones did not return to Salem during those following few

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132

weeks, however, as he promised he would do. The Oregon prison officials wired immediately to Buffalo, Niagara Falls, Toronto, Chicago and a few other Eastern points to impart information to the various police departments to look for Jones and generally remind him of his laxity to fulfill his promise. But it was of no avail. His whereabouts was a closed secret for months. While Steve Regan, Crowbar Kelley, and Joe Blackwell had apparently discarded all thoughts of escape and were making good inside and outside the walls, I was having difficulties of my own. And it was because of a little playmate called “Patches.”

The guy in question was a yard bull, and

he gained the beforementioned moniker by the inmates

through the fact that when he was first hired at the joint, his

clothing, especially the southern region of his pantaloons, was a series of badly repaired patches. The inadequateness of britches finally became so apparent that a guard’s uniform was demanded, as nudist colonies were not the rage in those days, and it was evident from the moment that the uniform, which rather enhanced his sloppy physique, com-

manded him no more respect than his baggy relics had. This went against his grain, and he tried to make up this deficit by arrogant bluster. He was a big, dark-faced ape, with a blue sheen of beard under his skin, ears like the mainsails on a tramp schooner, a red, pimply beak, and thin, tight

lips that he only liked to part when exploding overbearing demands.

He liked me just like I like poison ivy, and vice

versa. Right after I got out of the bullpen for escaping, I was put to work out in the yard sawing wood with an old-fashioned bucksaw type of implement. There were plenty of other guys out there—as a sort of punishment for infractions of various rules—and one day the erstwhile warm weather went for a walk, and we had a blizzard that was a hum-

dinger. Owing to the extreme cold the men were compelled

to only work two-hour shifts; that is, work two hours, and

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then for the following two hours huddle around one of the pot-bellied stoves inside the “Doghouse.” Ihad openly ridiculed Patches several times, and here was his chance to get even. It was a simple retaliation; he just kept me out in the cold hustling cordwood to the sawyers with no chance to go in to the fire with the other guys. The more I brooded over this, the firmer became my decision that a little of this was too much, so I proceeded to tromp inside the “Doghouse”

with the other fellows when the next shift changed. About an hour elapsed before Patches missed me, but as soon as he detected my absence he came in blustering and bellowing that I return to work immediately. A helpless anger simmered in me and I flatly refused to comply with this demand. Ill-bred insolence being his strongest natural weapon he reached over and grabbed me by one arm, jerked me to my feet and started to march me forcibly to the Chapel,

whereupon

I broke

loose

from

his flabby

grip,

swung with all my weight, and Patches buried his nose in a couple of inches of snow. But then hell broke loose from me. I suppose I have the record of making the quickest entry into Oregon prison’s bullpen; I did not walk or run, slide or

jump down the steps leading to the little cells, but the bulls just picked me up like a sack of meal, swung me a few times by heels and arms for practice, then threw me down. I landed like a piece of wet spaghetti, and for about five minutes I had a hard time trying to convince myself that I hadn’t tumbled

down

the sheer, granite walls of Royal

Gorge. When I was released back in the yard only four days remained of my sentence—making one year of solid time. My old friend Patches saw me at once, came up undismayed and just as blustering as ever with the demand that I take my erstwhile place on the woodsaw. I believe I would have worked for any other bull right then, but my hate was so poisonous for this man, that once again I refused, flatly and decisively. Patches had armed himself with a sap while I

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had been in the bullpen, and now he drew this out in such

slow motion that I could hardly repress a grim laugh. advanced

upon

me,

motioning

threateningly,

with

He the

words, “You son-of-a-bitch, we'll see whether you go to work on that saw or not.” Now, that particular epithet happens to be one that I wouldn’t have swallowed from any guy living, let alone Patches. So I threw another whingding, and hit him in his big belly, knocking him down and then began putting the boots to him. For this act I was given the most severe sentence that an inmate could receive —that of being confined in the Dark Hole. I haven’t told you about the Dark Hole as yet. It was a place that never was shown to visitors, and very few people besides the inmates released back to society, knew that such

an inhuman type of confinement existed inside the Oregon State Penitentiary. It was located on the second tier of the north cell block, in the back, out of sight, where it

could never be ferreted out by a pair of human eyes not aware beforehand of its location. It was utterly dark inside, with the walls painted black; too small to stretch out full length on the filth-infested, rust-imbedded steel floor, and the ceiling just barely high enough to sit up. It contained no bed, no blankets, no water, soap, towel, lights; nothing

except a rusty human excrement bucket. Two thin slices of bread and a bowl of tepid water was brought up once each day. An illiterate Mexican had been confined in the Dark Hole a few days previous to my own entry and when the door had closed on me he informed me in broken English that a man had died in here once. The Greaser amused himself by trying continuously to warble that universal song hit “La Paloma,” but what proved to be his only source of amusement proved to be my added distress, and in order

to make him keep quiet I threatened constantly to stick his bristled head in the foul-smelling cell bucket. It was not until about 3 p. M. of my fifth day in the

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Dark Hole that a guard opened the door and ordered me out. I had been kept one full day over the one-year sentence set by the court. When I stepped out on the narrow tier, the full glare of the afternoon sun sweeping through the west windows struck me full in the eyes and for a moment I was as blind as the well-known bat. I was taken to the dress-out room where a minor official was waiting with the head tailor, and already my prison-made suit and other cheap clothing was laid out in readiness. After I had bathed and cleaned some of the dirt and stench

from my body and re-entered the room, the official importantly and tried to start a conversation, but the ably damned dirty treatment I had been subjected stirred me with a deep and brooding resentment ignored him completely as I dressed in my ridiculous looking front. After I had knotted a flaming red

shifted detestto had and I funnynecktie

from the ten-cent store and threw on the burlap-lined coat,

I was taken to the Chapel and thence into the front office to collect my five dollars and sign my final release papers. For a moment, when the Chief Clerk handed me four dollars and sixty-five cents, with the explanation that “You

owe the State thirty-five cents for overdraws,” I was overI had ordered whelmed by a sense of utter perplexity. nothing from the commissary department for several months and there should have been several dollars to my credit. The Warden, his Deputy, and several other officials and

guards stood watching me closely.

The words that had

been crowding to my lips for hours wouldn't be choked back any longer. “I'm going to tell all you damned belly robbers what I think of you before I leave,” I said. “I think you're the rottenest, sneakin’est, dirtiest bunch of double-crossers I've ever

seen,

and

I've

seen

plenty.

Anybody

that

would

deliberately steal thirty-five cents from a half-starved convict just dressing out of a stir would steal the coppers from his dead mother’s eyes.”

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The Deputy-Warden offered me a limp hand at the front gate a few moments later. I snapped at him with all the viciousness I could incur: “Hang it up. I didn’t see you sticking your mitt out when I was living on bread and water in the Dark Hole—and I sure as hell don’t need it now.” The Deputy reddened and looked completely befuddled for a moment, my words having stung him like a whiplash. Then as his eyes wavered before mine, the redness of his face curiously vanished, being replaced by a strained whiteness.

I turned my back to hum in deliberate contempt, and

heard his words over my shoulder as I walked way: “You think you seen something and went through a few things on this trip—but you didn’t.

If you ever come back, damn

you, I'll keep you on bread and water in the Dark Hole until you get down on your knees and crawl and whimper like a starved dog.” As I went down State Street, I took ironical stock of my baggy suit, cheap shirt, tie, cap and 1913-style button shoes. The American prison system, I thought, where rehabilitation of character, morals and physical and mental well-being

is supposed to be the order of things.

Boloney!

Now I

hated law and order worse than ever before, and most of all I hated that thing called society. At that moment, thirty

pounds under weight, facing the world with four dollars and sixty-five cents, with a brain revolving with hate, I was crazy enough to be legally and rightly confined in any nuthouse in the country. And at that moment I realized I was demented, but I wasn’t sorry; I was demented with a desire

for vengeance. I wanted nothing more right then but to get some guns in to Tom Murray, so that he could start blazing a path to freedom by destruction of guards and officials. I was walking along in intense absorption, and I suppose maybe mumbling my thoughts out loud, and had just about reached the street car tracks when a touring car, rather the

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OVER THE WALL

worse for wear, pulled up alongside and a guy called my name. I whirled around quickly and to my surprise saw it was the old guard, Pat Shannon. “I just got off shift when they were turning you loose,”

he.said. “Crawl in the wreck of old ’97, and I'll give you a life.” I laughed. “I guess you savvy how I feel about these penitentiary bulls?” | Shannon

grinned

broadly,

then

stared

at me

seriously

for a moment. “Yeah. But you don’t regard me in the same light as you do the rest of them.

I know that, kid, without

you telling me. You know that I'm not working in that guard tower just because I like to sit around with a rifle across my knees and take pot shots at fellows who are trying to escape. I'm working at the pen because jobs are scarce and I've got a family to support. Now, come on, crawl in this rattletrap with me and we’ll go down to the house and get something to eat. It'll make you feel better to get a good home-cooked meal in your belly.” There wasn’t much conversation as we sped through the wide streets; I was too absorbed in looking around at the beautiful lawns and flower gardens and filling my lungs with some wholesome air once more. Shannon’s house was not large, but it was homey and comfortable-looking, even from the outside. It stood on a large lot and everything gave the appearance of scrupulous care; the lawn was neatly raked, the windows were spotlessly clean, and the curtains

which hung in them looked freshly and carefully laundered. Neither his wife nor any of his children were present when we arrived, and he began to show me around his home. He showed me his wife’s many fine white leghorn chickens and his two dogs, and when we came to his guns, I couldn’ repress a chuckle. It was ironical that I had just been given my release from the most serious punishment in the penitentiary—was considered an irreparable incorrigible—and an hour later a prison guard was showing me his guns.

138

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Shannon suggested that we go downtown, and he let me drive while he directed me by the various places of interest, the Governor’s home and the other State officials’ mansions, etc. Then we went to the business district where he made some purchases. “What do you want for supper?” he asked, as we stopped

in front of a butcher shop.

“A juicy steak, veal cutlets or

chicken?” “If you're leaving it squarely up to me,” I said, “I would like a mess of veal cutlets.” The old guard’s eyes twinkled appreciatively. “Veal cutlets and pan gravy. Well boy, you ain’t plumb loco yet, anyway. You picked my weakness.” A few minutes later he emerged from the store, his arms

loaded with packages of meat and other commodities that can make a hungry man wince. He smiled crookedly as he climbed in the car. “We'll feed you something that will put some fat on them skinny ribs of yours.” When we returned his wife was home, and Pat introduced

me by saying: “Well, Mother, here’s the boy I've been telling you about.” I had not been in the presence of this type of a woman for so long that I felt somewhat abashed and taken back, and I did not stir until Shannon grasped my arm and drew me forward. She did not wait for a formal introduction,

but burst out: “You're Lee Duncan. Why, I never was so surprised. I thought you would be a bigger, harder-looking man. But I really do know so much about you. I'm happy to meet you and I'm proud to shake your hand.”

There was a ghost of a smile on Shannon's lips.

“Now,

Mother, you should have known Lee was not a hard-looking guy.

I told you he was just a kid, didn’t I?”

Just what is the matter. with a guy when he gets so confused and embarrassed that he can hardly mumble a reply to a decent, motherly woman? I was that way. But I immediately felt the warmth and kindness of Mrs. Shannon’s

OVER nature.

THE

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She was a stately woman,

with a finely molded

face; her cheeks like rose petals under their mesh of wrinkles,

her brown eyes still soft and lustrous.

And the way she

smiled made me glad I was alive, after all. I wondered about all of this, but then I knew that such hospitality had no

special significance to these folks. It was just as casual as the sunshine, a symbol of old-fashioned cheerio. Mrs. Shannon was smiling now. “I'm glad you're finally out of that place up there.

You know, Pat tells me about

everything that goes on in the penitentiary. And sometimes

I wish he wouldn't tell me all. It makes me feel bad to learn

how some of the boys are treated.”

“Some of the treatment is pretty bad,” I commented. Her eyes were full of wondering interest. Then she

spoke sharply: “It’s inhuman.” The guard nodded to his wife and winked knowingly. “Come on, Ma, let’s get supper young fellow’s starving.”

ready,

will

you?

This

Just then a pretty girl, I should say an extremely pretty girl, walked in the room; their seventeen-year-old daughter. She was not large, but dainty and graceful of form. She had a humorous mouth, one of those noses that are cute and turned-up, and black dancing eyes—eyes that regarded me frankly. Mrs. Shannon introduced us as the girl came forward, and she displayed a frank, open interest. She clasped my hand firmly, in a manner that made me warm to her immediately. Here was a girl that was a swell fellow, without the slightest trace of self-conceit. “I am glad to know you, too, Mr. Duncan,” she said. Then: “Would you like to see some of the group pictures of the high school graduation exercises?” “Sure I would.” She laughed. “I graduated this year, and I still like to boast about it.” In the living-room she gave me a nice, big, soft woozy

pillow to put at my back on the lounge; brought an ash

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tray, cigarettes and matches over and set them near by; turned on an electric fan; showed.me the high school pic-

tures, played the radio and did everything possible to make me feel at ease. This sort of knocked me off my pins. And to think that this was the home of a penitentiary bull. As I dwelt on this thought, I almost forgot the girl. She was an interesting conversationalist, and while she tactfully avoided any subject concerning the prison or any

phase of my criminal career, it was obvious that her father had made my life behind the walls an open book to her. I was by no means a figure of romance in my two-bit suit, and my emaciated physical frame would have done credit to one of those “ninety days before using” physical culture advertisements. I was impressed by the change between Shannon, the prison guard, and Shannon, the husband and father at home. At times, I had seen him surly and impatient with certain

fellows at the prison, but now he was all help and consid-

eration.

He helped his wife in the house with utmost care.

His face softened, and I realized how much he loved this

fine woman. A guy people, and I enjoyed Shannon’s two grown town at the moment.

just had to like these plain, sincere their company. I wanted to meet sons, but they were working out of The supper was something to rave

about, and after making a glutton of myself I sat back with

a strained sigh of relief. The guard leaned back in his chair, his forehead wrinkled with thought. Then his face lit with a fire of decision. “They held you a full day over your time up there, didn’t they, Lee?” I nodded. “Then I'll tell you what we’d better do tomorrow morning: I'll lay off from work, and we'll go down to the Governor’s office and park there ’till we get a chance to tell him something about. this prison administration that will make him open his eyes. We'll prove to him in black and

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WALL

141

white by the Portland court records that you were detained one whole day over the sentence set by the Judge. We'll also tell him about you being released from prison from the Dark Hole. How does that strike you?” My mind ran unevenly and irresolutely as I considered. This was a development I had not even contemplated, yet it was undeniably the surest and safest method of incurring vengeance upon the officials. And I could sue them—and in all probability collect. Any attorney in the country would take a case like that just for the notoriety that would follow, alone. But this wasn’t a case of where just dollars and cents entered the scheme of things. I wanted my vengeance to go deeper than that. I wanted to see if Tom Murray’s dollars would get him out—and if they wouldn't, I wanted to get him some guns inside the walls so that he could retaliate by murder. Crazy? Sure I was crazy—crazy with hate. Show me the man that isn’t crazy when he emerges into the outside world following a period of torture in prison. Here was a golden opportunity to institute a sensation—maybe be the cause of having the prison administration ousted—and get paid for it. But my crazy mind fought against the desire. Such a procedure would cause me so much notoriety that to get guns in to Tom Murray would be next to an impossibility. So I answered in effect to Pat Shannon’s interrogation: “No, Pat, the prison administration has an investigation

coming, all right, but there is something else I've got to attend to at once. I've got to leave town immediately.” All Pat said was: “All right, Lee. It’s just a swell chance to raise some legitimate hell, that’s all.”

But Mrs. Shannon’s face stiffened into gray obstinacy. She looked at me as an artist might look at an exalted statue that’s made of dry, crumbling mud. “You ought to remain for a while.” “Sorry. But I can’t.”

142 “If you

OVER THE WALL would

stay with

us until

you

recover

your

strength and your outlook changes a little, I am sure you would be better off. But if you leave with bitterness in your heart, it will be awful easy to get in more trouble.” Her tone was full of gathering remonstrance. I felt the ironic rebound of her words, but I laughed away her protestations. “I can’t afford to get into further trouble, Mrs. Shannon.” When I left the guard’s home a few minutes later, his

voice was full of futile protests; Mrs. Shannon’s had the coaxing inflections of a child’s; and their daughter’s voice, with a tentative question in it, rested in air: “You'll remember us——>?" And I called back over my shoulder: “How could I

ever forget?”

CHAPTER

TEN

OM MURRAY had held up and robbed the bank at Fort Louden, his actual loot amounting to about seven Gee’s, but when the State examiners investigated the affair, the president of the institution reported the loss at

almost three times that amount.

According to all the daily

sheets the reported loss had been made good by the insur-

ance company, but the notorious young convict confided

to me on numerous occasions inside the stir that the bank president had appropriated the balance of many thousands of the long green, which were above the actual haul. Im-

mediately following the hold-up, Murray made his way into the rough, rugged mountainous country, where he lay low until the excitement died down, and after hiding $1200 of the loot, travelled on to Portland through scattering lanes

of posse men that still were on the trail, undetected. In Portland a young woman whom he met at a local resort lor. him, the

entered his life—through his regular dame, Helen Tay“You'd better scram under cover, Tom,” Helen told as soon as she had joined him in a designated booth in resort, their prearranged meeting place. “If you give

up your kisser around these joints, some fink is liable to put

the finger on you. The bulls are wise, for those people glommed a good look at your mug when you stuck the heat on them in the bank. They know I'm your gal, that we've

been laying up together for over a year, and the dicks have

been smoking my joint two or three times daily for over a week trying to find something. The clowns in this burg

143

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144

believe in that ‘Cherchez la femme’ stuff, I believe the Frogs term it, ‘Look for the dame!’ ” “Um—that doesn’t sound so hot,” Tom

mused

aloud.

“So you believe they’re wise that I pulled the caper?” Helen,

pretty,

blonde

and

dimpled,

nodded

her

head

slowly. “I’m sure of it. They've given their play away. And you mustn't come near my apartment.” Then she asked abruptly: “Are you going to scram out of town?” “Hell no. I'm going to stick.” “Then you're a damn fool, Tom. But listen—I'll tell you what to do in that case. I know a little black-haired cutie named Gwen, and she’s a whiz at running a bootleg joint. Best I ever saw. The only thing is, she’s a junker— but she’s solid.

Now, I know a swell little mark that can

be bought cheap, and it will be a regular gold mine if you want to open it up.” “Sounds good.” “I'm glad you're interested. You go down there with Gwen, buy a lot of furnishings, and you just lay low, and

let her run the joint. And then after everything cools off, I'll toddle down to you.” “Aren’t you afraid that if I get down there alone with Gwen, I'll chippey on you?”

Tom asked, with a grin.

Helen shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“Listen, big boy,

if I didn’t believe I could trust you alone with a gal, I'd

never be the means of getting you acquainted.” So that’s how Tom Murray came to rent a vacant flat on

Portland’s East Side, spent about a thousand bucks for furni-

ture and a lot of stuff and prepared to embark in the liquor business. But inadvertently he told Gwen the source of his riches. Now, it happened that this particular twist had a “man” who was serving a six months term in the county jail. She rushed to her friend and poured out the story of the rich young bank robber. Her “man” put his thinking cap on, and being anxious for freedom, he attempted to dicker with

OVER the officers for his liberty.

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WALL

145

The little cutie, hearing of the

reward which insurance companies offer for bank robbers, hurried to another set of officials, told her story, and the

reward was promised, as was her “man’s” freedom. The “informer’s” tip was very, very authentic. While Murray was concentrating on how many quarts of this and how many quarts of that would be necessary to start on this more respectable profession of bootlegging, he was being made the victim of a rather neat little double-cross— or rather, a clever double double-cross. Led by Chief Inspector Moore and Mr. Miley, of Portland, a posse composed of Burns men and Captain Harms, Detectives Goltz, Thomas, Collins, Maloney, Schulpius, Tackaberry, Phillips, Coleman, Leonard and Hyde, rushed the house where the

“change in racket” was under way. Murray was discovered in a hallway, while he was in the innocent task of carrying stove wood from the basement. He was covered with a halfdozen revolvers and manacled. Well, that was all of that. Little Gwen, the blackhaired cutie, had wrecked Tom Murray’s future, by bargaining for her “dope daddy’s” freedom.

The officers in Portland saw no reason to take this young bank robber in any more serious vein than the many others they had come in contact with. His had been the normal life of any boy, with the exception of fourteen months in San Quentin Prison, and an affection for robbery.

He had

gone to school in Winslow, Washington, and had finished the second year in high school there before he had quit school at the age of fourteen and gone to work. His first job was in a shipyard. He had also worked in sawmills and on several vessels operating out of Seattle. Murray knew when they had him cold and he took the rap like a man, only he was under the impression that a term of ten years would be meted out to him. The District Attorney had promised him that if he pleaded guilty, saving the county the expenditure of an expensive trial,

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two ten-year sentences would be given him, but they would

be made to run concurrently. When he stood before the so-called bar of justice, however, and the two sentences were imposed, they were made to run consecutively instead of concurrently. So he was double-crossed by the ’cutor, and at that moment a sinister fire kindled in his eyes. He was now

face-to-face with a twenty-year rap, and that meant thirteen years and four months, with good time for unblemished behavior taken off.

Over thirteen years of hard time,

Sure, there was a of wretchedness, of soul-killing hell. pardon board inside the prison where commutations were

meted out to the deserving and undeserving, but this pardon board was not for him.

Wasn't he a loser, and wasn’t

the Bankers’ Association back of him to offer strong opposition for any

proposed executive clemency

present itself in years to come?

that might

There was no alternative

but to shake that time in the stir—unless he could escape. Right then a vow was made that was never broken—but here I go getting clear off the main theme of things. That's the trouble with a guy that doesn’t know how to write a story. And now for an interesting sidelight—at least, it’s in-

teresting to me.

Not so long after Murray’s incarceration

in prison for heisting the Fort Louden jug, the middle-aged president who had reported an exaggerated loss to the insurance company, and his young woman cashier became deeply infatuated with each other. Presumably to secure funds for an elopement, or to cover up defalcations, a

fake robbery was staged.

Cash and securities were with-

drawn to a cache and during the president’s absence the cashier framed a lurid tale of having been held up and robbed. When the official investigation started, the president lost his nerve, deserted his wife and family, borrowed

a friend’s car and with his accomplice sped away to California, where he left the machine a wreck, to take a train

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east. He notified his relatives by wire of the cache and most of the stolen securities were returned. Apprehended in Birmingham, Alabama, the errant couple The president expressed contrition were brought back. and hastened to plead guilty to embezzlement and to making loans, knowing

the bank’s

reserve

was

impaired,

and

was sentenced to a maximum of thirteen years in the peni-

tentiary. Before sentence he declared that he knew he violated the rules of society and was willing to pay the penalty, and wanted to do all in his power to help in meeting the losses of the depositors. The cashier first pleaded not guilty, but her former employer with his dwindling nerve insisted that she change her plea, and take “her medicine,” as he chose to express himself. It is doubtful, with a clever lawyer, if she could have been convicted, for she was the victim of her employer and all her life would pay the

penalty society imposes upon her sex for indiscretion.

If

the cashier had run off with Tom Murray, the bank robber, instead of the bank president, she would at least have had more of a man, for whatever Murray was, he was not a craven. And I think you'll agree that a bank robber is always preferable to a bank wrecker. Well, the big-shot banker was dressed in the joint, and

right away you would have thought by the way the Warden and the Deputy treated him that he was the King of Egypt, in person. None of that dirty old mixing mortar, laying bricks or sawing wood by hand; he went right smack into an office where he could gold-brick around with a white silk shirt, a Stetson felt, and regulation “civies.” For his eats, he migrated three times daily down to the “bankers’ table.” Yes, they had such a thing in the Oregon

sti.

The

ex-bankers

didn’t have

to stuff their gizzards

with such unwholesome chuck as goat stew, half-done beans and sow-belly; they were privileged to partake of such victuals as tenderloin steaks, mushroom sauce, and can-

taloupe a la mode, at a special table composed of their

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ex-Congressmen,

ex-State

Representatives,

and

other ritzy flim-flams. It is necessary that I go way ahead of the natural sequence of this story to tell you more of this convicted banker, common

thief, betrayer of an important trust.

served two years inside the stir. most

of the other bankers

He

had

During that time, like

serving

time,

he was

privi-

leged to go outside the walls at any time he wished to walk around and generally view the beautiful landscape. His ex-cashier also was allowed this

privilege.

Therefore, it

was only natural that they should get together daily and hold clandestine meetings in a pretty little secluded glen all by themselves. Then at the end of twenty-four months, on the urgent recommendation of the judge who had sentenced both him and Tom Murray to the penitentiary, he was paroled back to society by the Governor. The learned judge was moved with deep compassion for the confessed defaulter. He pleaded to the Governor for his release on the ground that the bank did not fail so completely and absolutely as was supposed at the time of the trial. Apparently, the banker didn’t get away with all the money, but even the judge did not suggest that he didn’t help himself to some of it, nor did he attempt any apology for the hurried journey of the suspected pair to the distant Southern city. The prison officials also recommended his release quite vigorously—explaining that the State was deeply indebted to him for reorganizing the accounting system at the penitentiary. His services in these departments were doubtlessly invaluable,

and

due to his earnest efforts he completed

a

combination weekly production inventory, operation and distribution reports covering details of every department of the institution, which was the means of simplifying and supervising the inspection of many departments and correcting and overcoming leaks and discrepancies. Of course, the banker had given a good deal of attention to account-

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ing systems, their potential leaks and plausible discrepancies,

during the course of his banking career.

He could be

rated as a two-way expert: able to devise an accounting system that would get him out of the penitentiary, but not quite smart enough to work out a system that would save him from getting in. But there was no reason why the defaulting banker’s invaluable services in a congenial white collar job should have entitled him to any more consideration than was given to Tom Murray, who had robbed his bank of one-third the

sum that was later paid the institution by an insurance company. There was no reason why any more favors should have been granted him than were given to the unlettered

thief who sneaked was sentenced to scutching plant or I have digressed a few

a few dollars from a cash drawer and spend monotonous days of toil in the performing menial tasks about the prison. from the sequence of the story to record

facts and sidelights, necessarily belonging

to this

part. Now, I'm going to tell you about the hiding place of Murray’s twelve centuries. He had told me that ten miles of fairly good mountain trail lay between Fort Louden and the spot where he had buried his dough. It was about ten o'clock of a drizzling gray morning, my third since being released from the joint, that I started out; estimating that it would take me about four or five hours to reach my destination.

I had equipped myself well for the hike,

but not too well, as a cold,

thick sheet of Oregon

mist

sprayed steadily upon my yellow slicker as I made my way down through a canyon trail, lined on either side by a dense brush-covered area.

I stamped over the wet path until finally I came to a spot where the trail suddenly broke from the canyon, forking abruptly into two different trails to either side of me in the woods. I halted, completely puzzled. One bore to my left, where it gave evidence of coming out over a long reach of red, canyon-seared hills; while the other turned

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sharply to my right, plunging deeper and deeper into the dark pine forest. This was something I hadn’t contemlated. Murray hadn’t told me about two separate trails forking off here from the main trail. There was the choice

of two possibilities—and I could only accept one and reject the other with a hope to high heavens that I was lucky. I chose the trail to the right.

Fate was peeved about something that morning, however. At 5 P.M. I was right back at the same forking of the cross trails, mad at myself, trail-sore and utterly weary from the effects of unaccustomed exercise. I stared with bleak eyes far in on the other trail, cursed a few times for

good measure, then shambled ahead once more.

The spring

downpour of driving Oregon mist had lasted all day, and

now the damp air was filled with premature dusk.

Soon

the darkness had deepened until I could hardly distinguish the dim outlines of the trail. I don’t know how many kilometers I reeled off, although it must have been a hell of a lot, when I found myself climbing a veritable mountain-

side. The climb became slightly less precipitous, and I squatted down on a wet boulder to light a fag and rest. I knew that I was still on the trail as my flashlight bore out that indisputable

fact, but that was all I did know.

As

far as my bearings were concerned, I was as lost as a guy

could be. The way was still pretty steep when I forged ahead, and very dark; not so much that I could not keep the path, but dense with the gloom of the crowded woods. At either shoulder stood a thick growth of trees, bushes, vines, small

or large, woven at random into almost impenetrable barriers. To my surprise, I unceremoniously entered a small clearing, and ahead of me I could make out only the faint-

est outlines of a roughly constructed house.

I sensed im-

mediately that this shack was a glimpse of journey’s end, however; the one that Murray had told me about.

I got peppy and walked swiftly ahead and with the aid

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of my bug, entered an open frame in which a door had once hung, but the remains now lay warped and cracked on the rough, uneven floor. This shack which had once been Tom Murray’s hideout was truly a hidden camp in the very heart of the rough hills. It struck me as peculiar when the bright rays from my light found a couple of sar-

dine cans, that to all outward appearances had only recently been opened and emptied of their contents. But my ticker

turned a double-somersault, and my worst hunches came true when I saw where a board had been removed from

the floor. It was patent that further investigation was unnecessary. I could clearly distinguish the impression of where a quart fruit jar had been removed from the earth just under the board, and when I looked in a small enclosure at the rear of the shack, presumably having been used to store wood, the jar was disclosed, apparently having been tossed there with a careless, unthinking gesture. Whoever had

removed

the glass jar containing the dough,

had

also

brought a lunch along to stave off hunger. Someone had beaten me to Murray’s cache, and right away I suspected

Helen Taylor.

Iwas pretty much in a quandary as to what

my next move would be.

During the remaining long hours of the night I curled

up in a human ball on the floor of the shack and tried to

snatch an uncomfortable snooze as the light, driving rain

continued to patter on the leaking roof. I was forced to give it up as a bad job, and before a bleak, dreary dawn had broken I was on my way back to Fort Louden. Arriving in town, footsore, with blisters like toy balloons, and utterly fatigued, I immediately secured a room in a hotel where 1 bathed, re-dressed in clean clothing, eased my ravenous appetite, went to bed and slept the day through.

The next day I packed up and went to Lakeside and directly to the St. George apartments.

I inquired of the

landlady if a Helen Taylor was present.

The landlady

was a small woman, with lavishly rouged lips and painted

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cheeks, and her clever eyes narrowed to study me. My query seemed to affect her peculiarly and a strange canny expression came

over her face; a close-mouthed

look as

though she had something to guard. “She isn’t here now,” she said presently. “Do you know where she went?” I asked suspiciously. “No, I don’t.” She looked at me closer, more carefully. “What are you—the law?” “For crying out loud—do I look like a bull?” Her tension relaxed perceptibly. “You greatly resemble a young deputy-sheriff in this town,” she said. “You look enough alike to be twins. I've been expecting every day for a warrant to be out for her on a morals charge.” Then: “What do you want with Helen, anyway?” “Strictly business.” “Well, you'll probably find her out at one of the roadhouses. I can’t tell you which one.” “Thanks,” I said, as I stalked out of the apartment house,

on my way to explore the various local rendezvous in search of a certain frill whom I suspected of pulling a fast one over on a daring and brilliant and resourceful thief, but a sucker

for the women.

CHAPTER

"THE

ELEVEN

landlady had told me that I would probably find

Helen in a roadhouse.

Well, she was as right as two

rabbits. I did meet her for the first time in a gaudy roadhouse very late that night, after I had looked in vain for her at two or three other joints. She was sitting at a table alone over in a corner where several pseudo-palm trees stood in big vases: a classy-looking dame, dressed in the latest style in a tight-fitting black velvet dress, a little expensive fur piece all askew over one shoulder, hat cock-

eyed over her ruffled hair, her head drooped listlessly and her arms hanging limply at her sides. She was screwy

drunk. There was no doubt about that. The manager had pointed her out to me, and after he had left I stood looking at her, wondering how to best

handle the situation.

“My boy friensh left me,” she man-

aged to stammer when I tapped her on the shoulder.

“Better let me get a taxi and take you home,” I said. “All n’—taksh me home.” With some assistance from the manager and a waiter, I got Helen into a taxi, and she mumbled the address of her apartment repeatedly as we skimmed along. I already knew this, and paid no attention, wondering all the while which would be the best method of sobering her up: to bust her on the chin or toss her out of a window for the ratty trick she had pulled on Murray. When we got to her home I paid the driver, and helped her upstairs and unlocked the door that disclosed a medium-sized but almost lavish apartment. It was a place fixed for the taste of a little queen, I53

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something I instinctively gathered my convict pal’s ex-cutie

was not. I found a can of tomato juice, gave this to her, and by the time she had sobered somewhat and I had heated a cup of java on the electric stove, served it to her strong

and black, an hour later, she appeared almost as rational as a drunken twist would ever be.

“Who are you?” she asked. “I don’t know you—do I?”

“No, I guess not.

Now

see here,” I said, “I'm just out

of the Big-House up in Salem, and I'm a

ray’s.

Understand—a pal.

pal of Tom Mur-

He told me all about the dough

he had planted, and wised me up that he had sent an under-

ground kite, informing you of me. Well, What

Lee Duncan’s the name.

I've just been out to get the plant, and do you know about it?”

it’s gone.

She didn’t betray a whole lot of emotion; she was fairly woozy yet. “So youre Lee Duncan. Well, I guess you are the guy, all right, because you fit the description Tom passed on to me.” “What did you do with Murray's jack?” I asked. you spent all of it yet?”

“Have

She suddenly seemed to throw off her bleary lethargy,

and snapped

up straight on the side of the bed.

“Listen,

guy, there never was a man that drank too much, or gambled too much, or committed an occasional murder, who didn’t excuse himself by the statement that a dame drove him to it. It’s the classic alibi. It’s the man’s invariable method of painting his faults with a romantic glamour. It’s

the old sure-fire sympathy gag. And now that Murray’s dough is gone, you've trying to ride me for a fall. It won't

work, see.” Her voice had risen to a hysterical pitch. But it didn’t faze me much; I was too sure I was right.

“Squawking won’t help a bit,” I said. “Either you produce, or I'm going to slap seven kinds of hell out of you.”

“Don’t be silly, sap. I've already told you. I haven’t got it, and never did have it.” Convinced in my own mind that she was lying, I stepped

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THE

over and slapped her on one side of the head just as hard as I could. She tumbled on the floor, a cut above one eye beginning to bleed where a locker.

I reached

she had struck the corner

down

and

took

hold

of her

of

dress,

jerked her to her feet, and started to hit her again when

she began whimpering: “If that dough is gone, I haven’ got it, but I know who did get it.” “Who?”

“Sundown Whitey.” “Just who in the hell is Sundown Whitey?” She looked at me appealingly. “Can I sit down?” “Yes, you may sit down,” I told her, “but if you start

any more boloney I'm going to finish right where I left 0

n»

She sat down on the bed again, and wiped the blood from

her eye with a ridiculously little perfumed silk handkerchief. Soon it was soaked with blood, and I went into the bathroom and got a towel which I soaked in cold

water before passing it on to her. “Be sure and make up a good story before you spill it,” I warned. “I don’t know

his last name,”

she said

at last.

“But

he’s a card sharp, an all-around tin-horn gambler and a cheap hustler. I used to go out with him occasionally when

I danced at the Shanghai Café.

I hadn’t seen him for a long

time, though, until just the other night, and then we went over to the Shanghai again and we both got pickled. I

was soused pretty bad, lost my head and spilled my guts about where Tom had his dough planted. Whitey hasn’t been around town since then, come to think about it,

and I know now that if the money is gone, he is the only one that could have got it.”

“Sounds kind of fishy to me,” I commented. “Are you sure you didn’t send him out to dig it up just to get in on the split?”

She fluttered her eyelashes over eyes that were suddenly glinting with tears. Strangely, there seemed nothing sophis-

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ticated or worldly about her now.

“You know,”

vealed, “I thought enough

Murray to skip with

of Tom

she re-

him when I was already married to a pretty fair guy. not fair for you to say that I took his dough. about it.

It’s

I feel hurt

I'd do anything to help get him out of the pen,

for I think he really loves me, and I know I'm crazy about

him.”

Dimpling demurely, she told me about her husband. She patted her blonde, wavy hair, adjusted the long neck of her

velvet frock which I had torn loose revealing her breasts, and sighed. “He really was a good guy, conscientious as hell, and a good, steady worker, but he was different from Murray is of the adventurer type, more like a wild,

Tom.

untrained animal than a man.

I love him for it.”

I began to soften. “Tell me some more,” I encouraged. “See all this?” She pointed at the beautiful tapestries, the walnut furniture, the soft, thick rugs. “A rich old guy in town put up the jack for this layout, and he is keeping me in bread and butter and a mess of swell rags. He comes down here and visits me a couple of nights a week, and the rest of the time I amuse myself as best as I can.”

“By trying to drink all the hard liquor that comes in on Coos Bay?” I ventured. She laughed. “Mostly,” she admitted, “but honestly, I never hit the booze until Murray got grabbed and went to

the joint.

But I'd trade all this right now if Tom could

get out, and we could just pack up and leave this damned

West Coast forever.” I remained silent for a while, puffing on a stogie I had removed from her sugar-daddy’s box of two-bitters. “I believe you,” I remarked finally. “And I apologize for that smack I gave you awhile ago.” “That’s all right,” she said quietly, snapping an expen-

sive lighter into flame and touching it to a perfumed fag.

She

alternately dragged

long inhalations from

the weed,

OVER THE WALL

157

and dabbed at the small trickle of claret above her optic for a minute. Then she continued: “After Tom went to

the penitentiary, I was left without what in the hell to do. You see, could rake up for a mouthpiece. mine gave me a wrong steer and

a cent and didn’t know it cost everything we Then a girl friend of told me how to make

some easy money whenever I didn’t have a regular job dancing around night clubs and such. I stayed in Portland, and one night when the bulls raided a place, I was caught in a room with a guy and was taken down to the station. A dick came up to my cell and said it was either two hundred and fifty bucks or three months in the can. “I said: ‘Gee, that’s a lot of money,’ but I didn’t know

just who in the heck to appeal to to get me out of the jam. Then I happened to think of this rich lumber man

that later set me up in this classy layout, remembering that he was hot and bothered about me when I was dancing in

The Shanghai down here; always trying to date me up. Well, he got me out right away, and he asked me to come down and live in this apartment for his pleasure once in a

while.

So that’s the story, and here I am.”

I told her about what the landlady had said to me when I first inquired at the apartment house, and asked her what She said in explanation: “It’s true. There's a it meant.

young punk around this town wearing a deputy-sheriff’s badge, and he’s crazy about me but I never give any member of the law a tumble. He’s got a jealous disposition and vindictive, and he’s trying to find out for sure if that lumberman is paying my bills and coming up to my apartment, so he can slam a morals charge on me.”

“Does this deputy-sheriff resemble me?” “Yes. Quite a bit. Only he’s bigger than you.” “Helen,” I said, speaking in a low voice, “I promised to

help Tom Murray get out of the pen. I came down here purposely to get the money he planted, but now that it’s

gone, I've got to go out and get him some more.”

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“You mean we've both got to help him,” she said softly. “I'll help you steal the money.” “You don’t know what “You're a dame, I protested. you're talking about.” “I don’t know what I'm talking about, eh?” She gave a

toss of her blonde head and glared.

“Don’t make me laugh.

You think I'm helpless just because I'm a dame. You can’t tell me anything about women. A mere man making ob-

servations about females!

Why, a hundred men are caught A good-look-

and land in the hoosegow to every woman.

ing gal caught by a man cries or in some way vamps the poor sap. He gets all filled up with sympathy. Do you think a big strong man is going to cart a little girl off to a naughty old jail?” “It’s possible.” “Bunk. He'll probably take her to lunch.

A dame can

do most anything that would mean jail to a guy, but she’s more intuitive and knows how to handle a tight situation,

where

a man would

be lost.

When

we

gals are in this

game we can explain most anything, and we can alibi as innocently as you sip your coffee.”

“Yeah—T'll concede that. But your game of hooking sugar-daddies varies considerably from my game of sticking the heat on a guy for his dough.” “Granted,” she persisted.

“But I can do a lot of different

things, and could be a lot of help to you.

I can drive a car

just as expertly as you can, and I say that before ever see-

ing you with a wheel in your hands.

And I can case a lay

without suspicion, something you probably could not do. In case of a pinch, a bull won’t take us for a ride. No, he'll

let us go because we've just been out on a petting party. Now, tell me, do we double up or do you go alone?” I relented. “I believe we’ll double up, Helen, and you ought to make a good partner.”

“I just knew you'd say that.” She sidled up close, and placed an arm around my neck. “It seems to me that Tom

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159

wrote something about taking care of you. In that case, you better rent an apartment down here at this place.” “I'd better,” I acquiesced, “do that tomorrow.”

Good crooks as a rule are dreamers—dreamers of beautiful women. That is why a good crook generally changes his women so often, or else has three or four of them on the string at one time. His natural impulses are restrained during his numerous sojourns in prison, and when he gets out, he does not look for a gang moll, as is the general belief, but he has all the specifications summed up in his mind for a perfect dame: she would be a sort of a combination of

Cleopatra, Helen mother.

of Troy, Jean Harlow

and Whistler’s

Such men demand nothing less than perfection for

their dough. A guy just out of stir, when he falls into a lucky haul, wants a gal who is beautiful but not dumb or vain, clever but not too clever, sophisticated but innocent, a swell sport but irreproachable in her conduct. They want someone

who can cook with one hand and play the piano with the other, who combines all the virtues of all the ages and with all the charms of the leading vampires. Naturally, Helen was no such a perfect woman, but at that, for tired eyes, hardly a more soothing treatment could have been prescribed than an hour or two of gazing at her. Her profile was patrician plus; her eyes were large, gentle or hard, as she chose to make them, her hair sun-scorched and her lips a perfect cupid’s bow; and her figure could have been the despair of sculptors. But with her cocktails before dinner, wine during dinner and highballs after dinner, she was really a bottle-fed gal. She prided herself on her ability to take her whisky straight, but once in a while she over-estimated her capacity and passed out, not even stopping to swoon on the way. Her morning-after hangover was a regularity, and she adopted a diet of bromoseltzer and bicarbonate of soda as her regular breakfast dish. She was all woman, however, and had her moments of uncertainty and self-criticism, and was always wondering out

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loud: “Is my nose shiny?—I wonder if I ought to change my haircut?—How does this new dress look on me?” and sO on. The first job we pulled together, we went down across the line and she engaged a room in a hotel over a jewelry store, and I rented a near-by

room

shortly after she had

become established. We never tumbled that we knew one another from Adam until we cut a hole through the floor that night, into an airway behind the wall of a balcony in the store. Then we tore a hole through the wall, opened the safe by knocking off the knobs and punching the combination. After we got back, we rented a small boathouse down on

Coos Bay, where we manufactured our own “soup” and kept the tools necessary to our profession cached while we

were not working. We specialized on theaters, Helen as a

general rule hiding in one some place or other during the progress of a Sunday night show, where she remained concealed until one or two o'clock of a morning. Then I would come around with the equipment, she would let me

in through a door which we would securely lock inside after my entrance, and we would proceed to off the safe. It might be in order here to impart a few secrets profession: A safe in underworld parlance is called

on the knock

of the a box,

crate, pete, crib, can and other names. The safe burglar is

called a box-man, a pete-man or yegg. The latter term is seldom used now. Opening a safe is an art and is not learned in a day. But a good teacher can teach a guy a whole lot, and they have taught me, through the use of diagrams

and such. There are fewer men engaged in opening safes than in any other similar racket. The oldest method of opening a safe is the use of a sledge hammer and a punch. When this method is used the combination is first knocked off and a steel punch is inserted in the hole. The size of the punch used is governed by the axle of the combination. It does not require many

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161

blows from a hammer to drive the axle far enough to cause the door to open easily, when the handle is turned. This method

will not apply to the newer, more modern petes,

however, and can only cause entrance into old-fashioned

safes. The good box-man prepares his own soup.

Most of the

old-timers usually manufactured theirs in the jungles, as it has a very strong and obnoxious odor while being made. It is best when alcohol must nitro. When poured into

prepared in then be used the dynamite the container

an enamel container. Denatured to separate the sawdust from the has disintegrated, the mixture is which is almost filled with boil-

ing water, and is permitted to boil fifteen minutes. I might say that twenty sticks of 6o per cent dynamite (some use

80 per cent) will make close to half-a-pint of soup. After the mixture has boiled for fifteen minutes, it must be allowed to set about ten minutes after it has been removed from the fire. The sawdust rises to the surface of the water

and the soup goes to the bottom. By pouring the water off slowly, the soup is retained in the container and can be skimmed off. It is better and far safer to draw the oil off softly with a syringe, and as softly discharged into a bottle half-filled with alcohol. The alcohol is to prevent explosion by jarring. Soup—half oil, half alcohol—can be fired with a fuse,

but will sustain quite a jolt without resenting it. There are many

very accomplished

box-men

even today who

have

never discovered that golden alcoholic secret. I knew a yegg once who was travelling in a “hot heap” on his way to pull a caper in a big store, a bottle of soup in his hip pocket. The night was obscured with a heavy fog, and inadvertently he

swung over into a deep ditch and crashed headlong into a telephone pole when he swung far to the right to avoid hitting another car on a curve. The consignment of soup ex-

ploded, and all that was left of the yegg was a few mangled bits of flesh. His partner, who was riding in the rear seat,

strangely lived to tell the tale, although he had been hor-

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ribly mutilated and permanently disfigured. Nothing so disconcerting would have happened if the man had mixed the soup with alcohol. Some box-men are rather ticklish about using boiling water right off, and manufacture their soup in a more conservative fashion. They place a cake of dynamite in the cold bottom of a kettle.

Luke-warm water is added slowly,

extreme

a man

and the kettle set a-simmer over a benzine lamp. It is of necessity

that

be

very

careful with

the

caps, and wrap them in cotton so that they will not explode if accidentally dropped. Some inexperienced soup-men use

too much soup in attempting to open a safe, and the result is often disastrous. A guy that has played the racket a lit-

tle while quickly ascertains that about three-quarters of an ounce will open a medium-sized safe, the amount to be increased proportionately for larger boxes. I know some old-timers who placed

the soup

in the

cracks around the door of the safe, but this method causes

a very loud explosion and sometimes results in the paper money in the safe being destroyed. The most common method is the one where the combination is knocked off, and the soup is placed in the opening. A cup is made of home-made lye soap by forming it over the end of a two-

ounce bottle or a larger object similarly shaped. If the soup is carefully measured and placed, the resultant explosion will hardly be heard outside the building. There are other

methods of opening safes but they are all more or less variations of those I have named. Some of the small portable safes are entered through the bottom as many of them have a filling of cement covered

only by a thin sheet of steel. Making an entrance of this

kind necessitates only brawn and a suitable tool. A heavy meat cleaver can very easily be used if the safe happens to

be located in a butcher shop. Acetylene torches are seldom used on any safes except large ones, because if used on a

small safe the heat would be likely to burn the currency and

possibly even melt the silver coins. Another device used is

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known as the “can opener.” When this method is employed, the front sheet of the safe is literally torn off, baring

the mechanism and making it easy for the pete-man to effect an entrance. I never did try to be really fancy on a box, but scores of pete-men have told me it is impossible to open a safe by sandpapering the finger-tips and feeling or

listening for the tumblers to drop. When safes are opened without any signs of entrance having been forced, the pete-

man generally regards it as an inside job pulled by someone who had access to the combination, either from an employe of the firm owning the safe or of the firm where it was purchased. The longer I stayed with Helen and we continued to knock off the safes together, the better did I get to understand her. She was a victim of many queer moods at times, but despite this failing she was a regular gal—a new model with an inherent quantity of sugar to make her sweet and feminine and appealing, and plenty of natural spice to make her interesting. Individuality was her greatest attraction for men, and she didn’t have to follow the crowd to But dames are peculiar creatures. make herself likable.

Strange as it may seem, she said this to me one day: “I drink bug-juice, smoke two packages of fags every day, run around and have intimacies with wealthy old saps old enough to be my dad, but I hate it. There’s nothing I'd like better than to be something different.” It was no secret to me that she did really love Tom Mur-

ray—not a love that could be defined lightly as an addiction to romantic glamour or a longing for a good time with

a guy that could furnish it, but a love that was deep, unyielding and promised to last forever. Her amorous impulses were frequent, but I realized in my own mind that her idea of yielding to relations with me was due almost wholly to the fact that she believed she owed them to me because of Murray. Here was not a twisted view of life, love and sex. She possessed a remarkably clear brain and

well knew that she was deliberately abusing her own psy-

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chology by shocking relations—but it was fast killing her soul. If she could have been with the young convict, she

would have been clean and I knew that she would have been happy. I had been very careful to avoid meeting her old sugar daddy when he made his occasional visits to her apartment, but one night I saw him quite unexpectedly. I had just reached the upper landing of the stairs and was on the verge of turning the corner to go down the carpeted corridor, when out of Helen's apartment emerged a large gentleman with a caved-in hat. His exit was more in the nature of an expulsion than anything else. I felt instinctively his identity, and the spectacle of a fellow-sojourner on this planet getting the grand bounce always is fascinating to me. I guess I laughed. He saw me standing there rooted with interest, glared at me, and then he turned to smite the door with his stick. After rapping on the panels a few times with no response, he waved the cane at me and used some violent language to no one in particular, and stamped off down the stairs, crashing against the railing on either side at every

step. When

I entered

the

apartment,

Helen

was

sprawled

across the bed crying. She paid no attention to me as I stood staring. “What's wrong?” I asked. She rolled over on her side, and dabbled at her eyes for a moment. “Did you see that big mug out there?” “Yes. I saw him.” “Well, I gave him the gate tonight,” she said with considerable finality. “He’s as fine a guy as there is in the world when he’s sober, but he’s a champion party-smasher when he’s drunk. I had to lay an ash tray over his head, and tell

him to get out and stay out. And from now on, I'm through with this chippying around with them old saps.” I noticed that the lumberman had left plenty of good

stogies in the humidor, and reached over and plucked one

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165

and lighted it. “Helen,” I said, “how would you like to make a trip up to the stir tomorrow and visit Tom?” She amped up, beaming. “Do you mean it?” “Sure I do. We've got a little dough ahead now, and I

kind of thought it would be nice if you would go up and slip him the dope that we're going to try to spring him on the legit’.” Helen came over and sat down on my lap and placed her arms around my neck—kissed me in mock loudness. She

seemed happier than I had ever seen her before. “Just to think I'm going to see Tom,” she raved. “I'd better take him

up some books, magazines, cigarettes and candy. And, oh yes, I'll take him up a roast chicken and a banana cream pie made with my own little hands.” She pursed her lips for a pause as if in intense thought, then raised up quickly. “Let’s fix everything tonight, Honey, so that I can start early tomorrow morning.” “Oke-doke,” I agreed, removing a bill from my pocket. “Here’s a double-sawbuck, Helen, that I want you to give

to Tom. They'll let you give him a hug and a slobber when you first get in, and then slip the twenty in his shirt pocket. If you figure you've got a chance, whisper in his ear that if we can’t get him out on the legit’, I'll get him out the other way.” She looked at me questioningly. “Never mind what way,” I said. “The only thing you've got to be careful of is to watch them screws. They'll be trying to hear every word you say.” That night we worked until three o’clock in the morning roasting a chicken and fixing other eats, and sure enough Helen baked a couple of banana cream pies. We had a lot of fun getting everything ready. And the next morning when she was all outfitted in a white frock, white shoes and hat, she looked good enough to eat. We kissed and said “Good-bye,” and wished each other luck.

Fate ruled that that was the last time I was ever to see Helen.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

FTER Helen had gone, everything grew monotonous and lonesome, and I decided to go out and case a mark.

I sized up a hardware store where they had a lot of goodlooking rods, and an old box sat over in a corner that was a pushover. I went back to the apartment house, ate alone,

then went down to the little boathouse on the Bay, to get everything ready. That night the hardware store was the theater of operations. The safe was really a back number;

to think of soup would have been paying it a compliment.

After a half-hour’s work with a “Come-along” and a punch I declared myself within ten minutes of the dough. All that remained was to batter in the inner lining of the box.

But just at that moment it seemed that I heard something, and I cocked a sudden and suspicious ear. After listening tensely for a pause I reversed the bar for another attack upon the sheet-iron lining. I paused in mid-swing, just as a bullet whizzed past my ear. Almost without thinking, I

grabbed a gunny-sack containing twelve gats and a bunch of ammunition and dived through an open window at my

left—where I had entered. I encountered no opposition as I cautiously made my way to my car and drove away. I ought to tell you

here that I had a car of my

own,

bought and paid for, but didn’t want to use it on the job right in the same burg where I was staying. Neither did I want to steal a car, for a hot heap is dynamite on any caper except a heist, where a quick getaway is concerned. So

what did I do just before going down to the hardware store that evening? Why, I went to an agency, rented a driver166

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167

less wagon, and I must have been completely off my nut,

unconsciously thinking about Helen or something, because I deliberately picked out a sedan with six bright red wire

wheels. Then before I left, I conveniently registered under my own name, giving my correct address at the apartment house where I was staying. self that I as screwy as a out plowing corn instead of crime wave, you are right. een.

If you are mumbling to yourpet coon and should have been trying to perpetrate a one-man That is where I should have

As I wheeled along in the rented heap, I tried to figure out the puzzle why the guy, whoever he was, attempted to

kill me instead of trying to capture me red-handed

inside

the store, alive. And I wondered why I had not been chal-

lenged or shot at when I made my exit through the open window. I didn’t know the answer to those questions, but

there was one thing I did know that was a moral certainty: there would be no “slopping the hogs” on this night with Helen for two very excellent reasons, the first being that

she was gone, and the second being that there was no swag to divide.

I had been forced to leave my “Come--along” and other tools beside the open pete, but this didn’t worry me a whole lot; I had worn gloves so there would be no prints to give me away. And I could manufacture another “Comealong.” But I had an uneasy hunch and decided that I'd better drive down to the Bay, clean up the boathouse, and conceal my caps, fuse, soup and other tools in a different hiding place. I ripped up a section of the flooring on the boat, planted all the stuff underneath, carefully fitted the boards back and nailed them, and turned my attention to the new,

shiny rods in the gunny sack. They were all blue-steeled babies, a half-dozen of them Police Specials with long bar-

rels, and every one of them well-balanced and breath-taking beauties. After a while I packed them all in an empty suitcase I had on the boat, then crawled into the sedan and started back to the driverless agency.

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Now that I can look back, I can understand that the man-

ager was entirely too profuse in his thanks when I paid him off.

That alone should have warned me, but it didn’t.

I

lugged the suitcase back to the apartment house, walked up the winding staircase, and a moment later was in my own apartment. There was no such a feeling as a fear or pre-

monition

that something was rotten in Denmark,

when

I

pressed the light switch. But an instant later under the glaring illumination of a triple-globed chandelier, I saw too distinctly the forms of two burly guys when they jumped at me, thrusting revolvers in my ribs. “Stick ’em up, big boy.” I dropped the suitcase and elevated my arms, then low-

ered them as the ruffles clicked in place on my wrists. I looked down at the bracelets, too amazed to speak. Boy, this had been speedy! I was given a skin frisk, with no

~ words of explanation being wasted in the meantime by the bulls; then I and the suitcase were hauled off down to the

station. Just as we entered the can, a man seated in a swivel chair with his big brogans cocked upon the cluttered surface of 2 pigeonholed desk asked: “Did you experience any troule?”

I immediately catalogued him as the Chief of Police. “Naw—we

didn’t experience any trouble,” one of the

guys who had nabbed me, answered. “We just went up to his room, sat down and proceeded to wait for him to come in. Shortly after midnight, in he walked, all tired and dusty,

lugging a regular damned arsenal, and all his dough in bills pinned to his undershirt. We just put the six-shooters on him, snapped on the bracelets, and the jig was up.” “Did he tell you anything yet?” the Chief asked. “We

didn’t ask him anything yet,” the bull guffawed.

“But he'll tell us. We'll soon have him talking plenty.” But the man had changed his mind on that firmly implanted belief when after a couple hours had passed, he

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169

checked up and found that they had talked plenty and I had said exactly nothing. By just listening I learned how I had got caught. A resident living near the store got up from him bed in his darkened room to go over to a window to raise the sash, when he happened to notice me effecting an entry into the place of business. Being an intimate acquaintance of the proprietor and priding himself on his excellent marksmanship with a gun, he determined to assume a hero’s

role by personally killing me first and calling the law afterward. He had to pinch himself a couple of times to reassure himself that he had really missed, but then he did the next

best thing by notifying the authorities the license number

of my car, equipped with six red wire wheels, which his

alert inquisitiveness had ferreted out, to my misfortune. The longer the bulls questioned me the hungrier I became, until finally I was ravenous enough to eat a mule stuffed with dynamite, and intimated as much.

“How’d you like a juicy T-Bone steak?” queried the Chief. I guess I sighed a little, but kept mum. “Mummm—sounds good, doesn’t it? Steak with French fried potatoes, mushroom gravy, and all the fixin’s?” “Pressure like that doesn’t disturb me,” I insisted.

“That’s not meant as a Third Degree, but you can get the steak if you open up and tell us all about these safe burglaries that’s been going on around here.” “I believe I'd rather continue on the hash. Or do you feed hash?” The Chief ignored my interrogation. “I believe I'll get you the steak and all the trimmings, anyway. You can’t talk when you’re hungry,” he conceded. “I thought you were kidding me,” I jeered, between mouthfuls after the meal was brought around. “Not on your life,” he answered. “I made a bargain. I'm keeping my part, and now you keep yours.” “I don’t make bargains.”

170

OVER

“What?”

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WALL

he exclaimed angrily. Then:

“You seemed to

have a little cash on you.” “Sure. I'm not broke. It’s my money.” “Well, I'm assuming the price of the beefsteak was yours, too. I'm taking that cut out of your roll,” he chuckled, like

he might have got a fast one over. “I promised to get you the steak but the police department isn’t paying for it. It cost you $1.10.”

“That’s okay. It was worth it.” The Chief changed his tactics. “Why did you come down into this territory to pull all this stuff?” I laughed in his face. “I'll bite—you tell me.” He grunted in exasperation. “Well, be a damn fool, and

you'll think you bit off plenty of time, anyway,” he remarked Two then it pencil,

drily. days passed in a cell before I heard from Helen— was in the form of a message printed with a lead cleverly concealed in a baked potato, which she

had somehow managed to have smuggled in my food which came from a downtown restaurant. The message was short and to the point, dealing with the question of whether I wanted her to send me in some hacksaw blades or not. I sent an answer to her the following day by an outgoing bootlegger inmate, with the insistence that under no cir-

cumstances must she visit me at the jail and for her not to attempt to smuggle in anything other than printed mes-

sages as I would effect some method of escaping by myself. My freedom hadn’t lasted very long. I had got back in

jail trying to get Tom Murray out of the penitentiary. 1

remembered the Deputy-Warden’s subtle warning to “not

come back,” and I also remembered the Shannon family’s begging insistence that I remain with them at their home,

Already many crimes were charged against me; already I was bound over to the Grand Jury. I was going to escape; every minute

that thought.

of my

waking

hours were consumed

with

I went over my cell in a minute search in

OVER

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171

an effort to discern any weak spot, such as it might disclose. But I was highly unsuccessful in this method and I finally

decided I might be able to catch the jailer unawares when he delivered my basket of food for breakfast. I began to watch him more closely, and the more I observed the more

convinced I became tion. The man’s very that Darwin’s theory an abundance of the

that this plan would work to perfecappearance seemed to prove definitely was right, and didn’t seem to possess gray stuff that makes a guy act nor-

mal. So on the following morning after getting wise to this scheme I made a dummy roll out of my blankets, or rather two of them, twisted them in some semblance of a human form, and then covered the dummy with the remaining two blankets.

The cell was rather dark and I was able to conceal myself behind a corner of the bunk. Soon I heard the clank

of a key as it was fitted into the lock outside. A moment later the jailer entered the narrow passageway in front of my cell with the basket of food hung carelessly over one arm, and after straining his optics for several seconds he

apparently decided I was sound asleep. He called my name a few times and receiving no reply, unlocked my cell door and pulled it outward far enough to permit him to set the basket inside. My chance had arrived, and I sprang from behind the bunk and caught him a blow on his chin with my fist that sent him sprawling to the floor in the corridor. The punch didn’t seem to faze him much, for he scrambled like a cat

to his feet and started yelling at the top of his lungs for help. I eased out in the passageway, struck at him again but was

only able to smack him a glancing blow, and in despera-

tion he made a wild grasp for my legs, throwing me to the floor with a terrific thump. Shaken by the fall, I found myself flat on my back, with my mug buried in the rawhide

flesh of the guard who had fallen like an avalanche upon me.

I wanted my freedom bad enough to fight for it, and I

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OVER THE WALL

had no illusions about this struggle. There was a chance to win and a chance to lose, and maybe get killed. Any bozo is deadly with his back against the wall, as was this monkey. He had quit yelling, became a little exultant, and immediately sensing his advantage, rolled his body more squarely on top of me and hooked ten long, powerful fingers around my gullet. I lurched and squirmed with all my strength, managed to break his hold on my neck, and I rolled my head as he pushed down and struck at my mug with punches

that were

like kicks

from

a mule.

His bony

uckles struck and lacerated my lips, leaving them pretty much mangled where they were flattened against my tombstones. Other blows struck the bridge of my nose, causing both glims to puff up untl almost closed. Salty claret was in my mouth and at the taste, I fought like a maniac to get clear. I was no ham amateur in the manly art of rough-andtumble scrapping, as my early career of bumming around the country with Frisco Whitey had taught me things I would never forget, but now every trick in the category was needed. My fists, knuckles raking sideways, slashed up across the bull’s optics and snozzle, leaving a bloody smear in their path that blinded him. He collapsed on me, scrambling convulsively to pull himself up again as my right elbow knocked his supporting arm to the floor. The guy was as strong as a blue-ribbon bull, however, and once more

his curved talons reached up and caught me around the windpipe. I kind of lost confidence then. I was afraid his advantage in weight and those powerful digits would swing the balance against me. And I was tired as hell. My arms and body ached all over, and-my throbbing throat felt like it had been supporting me from the limb of a tree. “So you thought you could get away?” the big bozo leered. “You're

fighting for five bucks a day, Punk,

and I'm

fighting for my freedom,” I bluffed. “You’d better quit.”

OVER THE WALL

173

He replied by bringing his knees up with a vicious swoop that caught me in the groin. I felt paralyzed. I grabbed his arm desperately and held on for all I was worth, drawing his body so close to me that he could only scratch and wiggle—but trying to break away for a knockout. I was stalling and hanging on, waiting or a return of strength. “Better give up,” I jeered. “You're all through.” The guy was undeniably yellow. At my leering words, he quit cold. A slaver of bloody foam bubbled from his lips,

and fear had taken hold of him completely. His heavy keys slipped from his pocket, and this gave me an unexpected opportunity. I made a flying grab for them, and he immediately sensed my intention. For a full minute we just strained with all our strength to reach for the huge keys and the advantage they held for us. I was the fortunate one, and as my right hand swooped them from the floor, I struck him several hard clouts on the head. For the barest of an instant, a mixture of rage and fear crossed his face, then he relaxed, twitched crazily, and lay still. I pulled myself to

my feet and stood there, reeling dizzily for a pause. I looked down at the fallen jailer, with his dome dripping claret, and the full import of future consequences struck me. Maybe I had killed this guy? Lurching drunkenly, I stumbled out

of the wide-open jail and out into the free air. Passing citizens stared at me with protruding eyes when I had gained the street; wondered at my disheveled appearance. I was bareheaded, my face was scratched, pummeled, beaten and bloody, my glims were only a couple of puffed

slits, and my shirt was spattered with drops of blood from collar to belt line. Before long there was a lot of commotion in the direction from which I had emerged. And within ten minutes I could hear cars, a half-dozen of them racing through the streets with accelerators wide-open, and tires screaming. That meant that the unconscious jailer had been found, and that the chase was on. I began picking them up and laying them down; around houses, through backyards,

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leaping over fences with reckless abandon in an effort to

shake my pursuers.

I came to the banks of the winding Rogue River, a beau-

tiful trout stream of national repute, which coursed by at

the very edge of town. I dived in headlong and swam to

the other side. The water was as cold as a policeman’s heart, as melted snow was still feeding rivers from the mountains, but soon I was deluged in a veritable downpour of rain,

and this was just as cold as the Rogue had been.

There

should have been a harrowing fear in me of killing a man as I traveled, but instead there was only a contemptuous indifference. I was a little incredulous when I discovered I didn’t care a damn about the jailer I had bashed over the head when he tried to stop me from freedom. Something hard, bitter and vicious had taken full possession of me. Life it-

self was gall and wormwood. Nobody cared what happened to me. Why in the hell should I care what happened to other people?

My thoughts came yapping and growling around me like a pack of curs as I beat my way through the brush. All morning I travelled hard, alternately walking and running, with little consideration for reserve of stamina. I knew that the strength I was so recklessly burning would demand its

inevitable toll, but I didn’t care. Every step I was taking was carrying me away that much farther from the danger of a long prison sentence, and the Deputy-Warden’s convincing threats. Early afternoon

found me holding a consultation with

myself; trying to decide whether to chance crossing a large, flat clearing, or to skirt around a couple of miles to keep under the protecting cover of some thick foliage and tim-

ber. The

clearing won,

willed against my crossed without a to the bend around bled unexpectedly

when

my

blister-infected dogs

better sense of remaining out of sight. I rank, however, and was keeping close a small river when I inadvertently stumupon a ranchhouse situated on the banks

THE

OVER

175

WALL

of the stream. A gaunt, bewhiskered Honest John had just stooped over a pile of neatly stacked cordwood and started

gathering some in his arms, when I hove in sight. Hearing my footsteps, he raised up as a guy frozen, a baffled, unblinking stare in his faded eyes as I started to pass. I tumbled

instantly that he recognized me as the badly wanted jailbreaker. “Kinda “Howdy, stranger?” he greeted uncertainly. looks like you're scratched up a bit.” “I am that,” 1 answered truthfully. “My car piled in a ditch a ways back.” “Wal now, that’s funny. There ain’t a single road back that a way near’s I can recollect where a car can travel,” he

drawled, with unblinking

eyes narrowing

speculatively.

“Where you headed for now?” I pretended to meditate. “I believe my best bet is to hike into the nearest town where I can get some medical attention, and then hire a car to come back out here and tow me

in.

How far would I have to go?” “Bout

ten

mile

or

so,

I reckon.”

He

spoke

slowly,

thoughtfully. “Better come on inside, though. I can call up on the telephone and tell somebody to come out and get

you, and while you're waiting my wife can tend to your hurts.” Somehow his double-edged words held a suggestion of threat, of challenge, as much as to infer that he had an old double-barreled splatter gun hanging up on a nail somewhere in the house. I couldn’t take a chance like that. “Thanks,” I said, “but I think I'll walk in.”

His grunt was noncommittal, as I deliberately turned my back on him and started off, but I could feel his faded eyes staring after me. As soon as I got under cover, I started running. As I had expected he would, the man called the Sheriff’s office at once, and within two hours the woods were literally filled with members of the blood-hungry posse, all heavily armed. At times they were so close to me I could

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have reached out and touched their legs with my fingers. All of the following four days I beat and pushed my way through the brush, desperately hoping to discourage my pursuers and force them to abandon the hunt. But just when my trail would begin to get cold, some farmer-yokel or mountain hill-billy would seem inevitably to catch a glimpse of me, and then the chase would start all over again. Up to this time I had disregarded all temptation to prowl food from farmhouses, as there was danger of alarm being sent in to the Sheriff’s office disclosing my approximate whereabouts. But the biting and gnawing of hunger became a critical thing and I had to do something. This was anything but a big joke. I had been a fugitive before in my life, but never before had I been up against circumstances like this, a terrible gnawing in my vitals that was quickly reducing me to but a shadow of my former self, stumbling and at moments almost crawling through starless nights that were as black as a mantle of ravens. I had weaved and crashed on and on through those sunless days and black nights. But my forward progress was imperceptible. It was as if I was trotting upon a gymnasium treadmill there in the darkness, trotting on and on, but never getting anywhere. Around and around in an aimless circle, stumbling blindly, unconsciously fearful, and on the verge of madness from the ignorance of the unknown. It was all a part of an incredible nightmare that had encompassed my life for the last few days. A guy goes screwy, completely off

his nut, when he’s up against grim reality like I was then. I was screwy. I couldn’t help but wonder if I might not presently wake

up in a musty,

gloomy

cell, cursing the

evil dream that had hagged my sleep. On that fourth night I determined to have food at all costs. Malnutrition had reduced my strength to such a sorry

state that I was willing to take any kind of chance to satisfy my intense hunger. So for the first time in four days and four nights I came out of the woods and brush, to civ-

OVER

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177

ilization. I waited until complete darkness had swooped down, and I started skirting a muddy, sloppy road, searching for some farmhouse in which to prowl for food. After

an hour or so my efforts were rewarded, when the dim outlines of a neat-looking house sprang up ahead. I could see a lamp burning brightly inside, and a guy seated near by, with his back to me, reading a newspaper, and from the

kitchen I could hear the clatter of dishes which his wife was obviously washing.

There was nothing I could do until the occupants went to bed, and retired for the night. I slipped around the rear

of the house and crouched back of a garage, being careful

lest some dog start barking out my presence to the farmer. It had stopped drizzling that morning

for the first time

since my escape from jail, but now it looked as if it might start again at any moment and this time be accompanied by an electric storm. Great ugly, menacing clouds rolled overhead, and the very atmosphere suggested a violent disturbance of the elements. It was fortunate for me that country people, as a general rule, go to bed early. Within an hour all the lights from the kerosene lamps were whiffed out, and soon everything was

dead silence, except a dreary wind which was whistling through the trees. After waiting a reasonable length of time

for the farmer and his wife to go to sleep, I made my way cautiously ahead and when I tried the kitchen door I found it was unlocked. I felt around the kitchen with infinite care,

being attentive not to upset a chair or table, or to send a pot or pan crashing to the floor from a blunderous contact with my arm or elbow. I found some matches, and while I could make no use of them here, I knew they would come in

handy and were worth taking along.

|

I found an empty flour sack, and began filling this with various articles that I was able to prowl. And then I felt my skin prickling with a strange, excited awe, as a sound struck

my ears from one of the bedrooms beyond—just like some-

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WALL

one had leaped from a bed to the floor with a thudding sound. For a moment I listened intently, and was just about to shake it off as some unworthy suspicion when I heard a man’s muffled voice mumble something unintelligible. The next sound was unmistakable, a woman'’s voice in a terrified whisper. That was sufficient proof that I stood a fair chance

of getting a load of buckshot in my back, and grasping my

sack of stolen articles I made for the door in all possible

haste. I quickly ascertained there were no telephone wires attached to the house anywhere, and then I stumbled out on the muddy road again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I TRAVELLED

about

a mile

down

one side of the

country road when the faint outlines of another farmhouse, a big, hulking building, could be distinguished. After a careful survey I found to my satisfaction that it was an

old ramshackle house, and had probably remained untenanted for a number of years. Inside, I lit several matches, and an old broken table was disclosed, as were several chairs and such, modeled from a period of many past decades, and a soiled and ragged mattress lay on the floor; and then in a far corner I found a candle, which was about one-third

burned. Lighting this, I continued further explorations,

from room to room, and the remnants of an old, discarded whiskey still came to light. So this was the why and the for

of the partly burned candle, I mused. Then I made my way

back into the first room again. Gaunt and unshaven, I sat on the dirty, torn mattress in

the farmhouse as, by the light of the flickering candle, I ravenously examined the proceeds of my haul of food. It was a good haul for my present condition; the inventory included a loaf of bread, some fried ham, a couple of jars of fruit, and a pot of coffee which I had removed from the

stove, with the contents still luke-warm. Then I had pilfered some overalls and an old mackinaw, but both were

several sizes too large, so I hastily discarded them by tossing them in a far corner. After gorging myself to partial contentment, I bit off the end of one of Farmer John’s two-for-a-nickel stogies that I had purloined, and reached for the candle which I used as 179

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a lighter. Drawing a deep, critical puff, I relaxed in a com-

fortable position for the first time in days on the soiled mattress, and gave myself over to twisted, bitter thoughts. Sleep could not be resisted, however, and my weary body and mind gave way to a fantastical slumber. When I awoke the following morning, it was from a blis-

tering crack of lighting. Above the abandoned farmhouse,

the storm which had threatened all night opened its mer-

ciless attack with a tremendous crash of reverberating thunder. I felt relieved that I was under cover, but I was forced

to move my dirty bedding as the roof leaked badly. In the

clamor of the storm, the whistling of the wind and, a few moments later, the violent swish of heavy beating rain, I did not hear the approach of a farm wagon out on the

muddy road. My first warning that my privacy was about

to be invaded came when a man’s voice gruffly commanded his team of horses, “Whoa.” I jerked erect with a sudden start; fearful and panicstricken. My first thought was precipitate flight, but the im-

pulse gave way to nervous indecision. Common sense told me that this could hardly be a member of the posse, fore-

warning me by speaking to a team of horses. So instead of

hastening away from obvious danger, right out into the slashing rain, I rushed out of the room, and into another which had been used as a bedroom when the place had been inhabited, to obtain a clearer view of the road from one of the front windows. : Through a broken pane, the driving rain sprayed over

my dirty unshaven face as I put my eyes close to the open space to peer out. I saw a farmer drive his team of horses,

water literally pouring from their hides, under a ramshackle shed across the road; then he climbed out of the wagon and started for the house in a dogtrot. An impelling force commanding

instant flight seized me,

and

I whirled

around

quickly, dashing back into the old room where I had slept, determined not to pause until I had safely emerged from

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181

the house and into the storm and rain. But when I flung open the old wooden shutters on the window and a savage gust of wind flung a demoralizing sheet of rain over me, soaking me through and through, I was once more uncer-

tain. Why should I be scared? I debated with myself. The chances were this farmer would mistake me for a wandering hobo, but even if he did identify me as the fugitive, he had only two hands and two feet the same as I. My indecision left me. I determined to bluff this thing out. Quickly closing the creaking shutters, I made my way back across the room, and came face up with the farmer.

He was shaking water from himself like a surprised pup emerging unceremoniously from a tub of soapsuds. He was over fifty, a grizzled old-timer. At first sight of me a look of blank amazement spread instantly across his unshaven face. His mouth flew open, gaping crookedly, disclosing tobacco-stained teeth. “So you're the feller that took my wife’s coffeepot from the stove last evening?” It was my turn to become incredulous. Fate had played the strange prank of sending the very farmer down, whom I had stolen from. Denial was useless, as everything lay on * the bedroom floor in plain sight.

“Yes, sir, I'm the man,” I

replied. “I was so damned hungry I just couldn’t resist the temptation of stealing some food.” The farmer’s eyes were quizzical and just a little amused; his smile surprisingly friendly. “I could have filled your hide full of birdshot when you stepped out on my back porch last night, and I came very near doing it. But I kind of figured you were the jail-breaker the Sheriff is looking for, and that you were just about all in.” I started an impulsive reply but repressed myself with a muttered oath as I felt myself go cold. The jig was up. It now meant fight. The man seemed to sense my thoughts. He was laughing quietly, soundlessly, unafraid, with his sharp eyes wrinkled up. “It’s strictly up to you, lad, to admit whether

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you're the man that’s wanted, or whether you ain’t. Personally, I think you are the man, because I saw a picture in

the paper last night that resembled you a hell of a lot. But you can rest your mind on one thing—I'm not aiming to turn you in to the Sheriff.” His tone implied that he was capable of doing it if he so desired, however. “You've got every reason as a citizen to

want to do it,” I said frankly. “I'm asking you why you don’t try it?” He shrugged. “Why should I? You couldn’t get away, anyhow.” He made this statement in such a matter-of-fact tone that I was temporarily upset. “You must have an awful good reason to think that?” He reached for tobacco before replying. His gnarled old fingers twisted a brown paper cigarette, then he handed the tobacco to me. He held a light to his finished product and drew a long pull of smoke into his lungs. “I have. Your only chance would be to travel through the mountains and get through McKenzie Pass to the other side of Eastern Oregon. But that’s practically an impossible stunt to pull,

for the Pass don’t open up ull July. At this time of year there’s still about twenty feet of snow in the Pass. It would take an expert mountain climber to get through, and then

he’d have to be wallowing in luck.” His calmness and positive assurance suddenly made this trek with the law seem less sure of success. He was silent for a moment, then he asked abruptly:

“Why

don’t you

take my advice, and turn yourself in to the Sheriff?” A thought came to me. “Why? Did the jailer die?” He grimaced. “Naw, he’s too lousy to die. But if you give yourself up, the Judge might extend you a little leniency. If you make them catch you, the result will be the best of your life served in the Pen. That’s how strong public sentiment is against you.” A short silence, then he added: “If you'll come up to the house with me, my wife will fix you a nice, warm break-

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183

fast. Then you can double back to town and surrender to the Sheriff. That’s your only possible chance. The timber is

full of posse men, and they’ll never figure on you doubling

back.” “Hell, I broke jail because I wanted out,” I said. “I'm not

going to deliberately crash back in again.” The farmer threw his cigarette stub away, then filled and lighted an old pipe he drew from his pocket. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched it drift up to the damp ceiling.

“All right, then, but you can at least come up with me and get something to eat?” “Yeah. And wouldn’t you be in a nice pickle if some posse man would drop in and find me eating Breakfast with ou?”

y “They won’t catch you in my home. I made whisky for twenty years in this old house, and I haven’t been caught yet.” He compressed his lips into two white lines. “Come on

out and get in the wagon, and I'll pile a bunch

of oats

around you. That’s what I came down here for, anyway.”

“No,” I said. “You go on home alone, and just forget all about ever seeing me.”

He wagged his head stubbornly. “You're a fool, lad. You'll either die of exposure or get caught, or maybe get killed?” “Well, they’ll certainly either have to catch me or kill

me. I don’t propose to go back voluntarily, and plead guilty right into a life sentence. You can give me some tobacco if you want to.” He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew his sack. “You can have all I got.” Then he held out a gnarled hand. “Here's luck to you, boy, and it’s straight from the heart.” A moment later I slipped out the door into the still pour-

ing rain, and once more started for the heavy timber to keep under cover while retracing my steps to the very heart of the posse’s strategic stronghold. All day I skulked furtively through the impenetrable screen of wet foliage, and late

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that evening reached my objective. It was dangerous business coming back to Lakeside. I knew that. And it was a

cinch I could not go down to the apartment house where Helen was staying; the bulls would be keeping a close tab there if they suspected anything at all. I didn’t believe they

knew of any

connections between us, but we had been seen

together often and some hoosier might have pe a couple and a deuce on top of one another and started adding. After the streets had cleared off I sneaked down an alley, kicked in a plate-glass hacksaw frame, some started back to look clothing and money.

door of a locksmith shop, got a rope, blades and a wood chisel, and then for a dump to knock over for some It didn’t take long to find one, and

after I had made my entrance through a skylight, I took unprideful stock of myself in a big mirror. I looked like the wreck of the Hesperus after it had foundered on the rocks,

eyes staring goofily out of sunken, hollow pockets, my pinched cheeks very haggard, and temples and forehead matted with mud-caked hair. I resembled more or less what

I really was—a battered hulk of human flotsam drifting crazily to hell. A couple of hours later I was cleanly shaved, resplendent

in a new outfit, with a little dough in my pocket, and when

I looked in the mirror I saw that my glims were still bloodshot, my cheeks still held their lean, gaunt look, but the reflection did not resemble that of a fugitive. It was more

like that of a guy just raised up from the dead. From the store I went directly to a restaurant, and put in my order for a good thick steak. I had hardly got my knife and fork in action when a man

dressed smartly in a blue uniform,

stepped through the front door, a police badge adorning his left breast. Down he came in slow, measured steps, and seated himself beside me. “A piece of pie and a cup of java,” he told the waiter. When the order was delivered the officer seated himself

comfortably on the stool, and between bites, said: “Going

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to be nice tomorrow. All this storm and rain is over. Summer weather is in the air now. I can feel it.”

“Yeah,” the waiter mumbled absently. “Any news of the jail-breaker yet?” “Nope. Made it clean, I guess.” “Think he got over the Pass, eh?” “Dunno. Might have doubled back to this burg.” For a moment after that comment a turmoil of thoughts rushed through my brain as if some tidal wave had broken upon the beach of reason. My constitution was shattered and it was an easy thing to acquire a mess of nerves at the slightest provocation. A heavy silence ensued until after the wigwag had gulped the last drop of his java. Then he said: “Well, I guess I'll take a stroll around, and see what's

doing.” I took a good deep breath and relaxed. After emerging from such a close shave I felt that nothing could take my freedom from me now. I slept in a lumber yard the rest of the night, and when I awoke the air was filled with the pristine freshness of late spring. The sky was ensaffroned with that indescribable hue that heralds day; the gray air rippled and rang with lark music; and now for the first

time in days I had the feeling of a human being instead of a hunted, skulking animal.

I figured on walking out of the burg; not because I liked it on the heel-and-toe, but because it was too dangerous to steal a car to make my escape as all motor vehicles were being searched in the immediate vicinity, as were the trains. I decided my best bet was to cross the Rogue River at the edge of town, remain in hiding all day, and after recuperat-

ing some strength, travel during the coming night. I would not have to take to the brush this time, however; just stay a hundred yards or so to one side of the highway, then steal a heap in the next burg and drive into the city of Portland. Some time later I had safely crossed a swinging bridge which

hung across the river, and made

my

way to a se-

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cluded spot within a clump of trees, where I lay on a patch of green, luxuriant grass. Piles of golden clouds were just peering above the horizon, then the sky grew brighter with the imminent day. I lay there for hours among the peace, the quietude, and the cool morning air and the pungent

smell of pines rejuvenated me. Life was good. I thought of Helen Taylor, scarcely a couple of miles away. She would probably be lying in her soft bed now, attired only in the flimsiest of negligée, smoking innumerable perfumed

fags,

thinking of Tom Murray in prison, and thinking of me just a couple jumps ahead of a posse. I wondered idly which one of us she was thinking about the most? My thoughts had turned to her many times during the last few days, and

now I began to know that my regard for her had penefrated far deeper than I had ever dared to contemplate beore. The morning droned along peacefully, and as I lay on my back watching the golden clouds floating feathery overhead, I felt a tinge of triumph course through me. Those

torturous days and nights of beating through the wet brush were only a hellish nightmare. Now everything held the tang of summer. It was full of fugitive strains of old songs; the melodies of birds fluting in great trees about me had me in a pleasant mood. Truly, I was blithe with the bliss of

the morning. A rosy-cheeked kid came down the bank of the river, a fishing pole over his shoulder. He halted about fifty yards in front of me, laid down his pole and began digging some worms. Pretty soon he looked up and saw me. “Hello,” he greeted.

“Hello, boy. How’s fishing?” The kid grinned, and came closer. “Good. You live here,

Mister?” “Just visiting.” He sat down, crossed his arms over his knees, and rested

his chin on one forearm. He looked at me intently for a moment. “I think I know you.”

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187

“Yeah?” He nodded. Then he started talking with the invariable enthusiasm of a kid, of the Boy Scouts, his school, dog and a

lot of other stuff that didn’t interest me a whit. As the onesided conversation buzzed along, the time passed so rapidly

that finally he decided it was after his mealtime, and he had to return home minus the fish. After he left I relaxed in a half-doze under the warm rays of the sun, and dismissed

the incident from my mind. Sometime during the middle of the afternoon, I was snapped from my dreamy absorption by what sounded like a twig being broken by a furtive footfall to my left. I peered around and listened intently, and this time there was no mistake. The Sheriff and two of his deputies, one of them the guy who had been trying to give Helen a play,

suddenly sprang into the small clearing, drawn revolvers in their hands. I jerked to my feet, completely dismayed, and

instinctively dived for the trees. Simultaneously with my movement, the air rocked with the report of a gat. A vivid flash of flame darted through the summer air as I tripped and fell, and I could hear a bullet whine.

“Just a warning,” cautioned the Sheriff. “The next one will stop you if you move.”

The sky didn’t seem to be so beautifully blue and flecked with fleecy clouds, as I stood there with my mitts up. In-

stead it was drab and dreary. Everything looked haywire of

a sudden. “Well, how did you manage to find me, Sherlock?” T mocked sarcastically. “I guess a little bird told ou?”

y The Sheriff grinned. “No, a little bird didn’t tell me,” he replied. “But a little kid did.” A crowd of curious gawks waltzed down to give me the once-over after I was sloughed back in the can. I looked them over carefully to see if Helen was in the background, and I was frankly disappointed when I failed to distinguish

her petite form with its blonde top anywhere. The very

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next day after my recapture, a bootlegger named Hudson, serving ten days in jail as trusty, smuggled me in six hacksaw blades, a can of red pepper and a flashlight. His act filled me with everlasting gratitude, but after slipping me

the stuff to effect another getaway, he told a “bootlegger friend” of his, also serving ten days as trusty, of his good Samaritan act, and this yahoo went straight to the Sheriff, and spilled his guts. The Sheriff and his deputies sneaked in that night and caught me cold sawing a bar, and without saying a word gave me a skin frisk, then locked me up in a cell barren of everything except four steel walls and a ceiling. Hudson was also locked up, and was promptly indicted by the Grand Jury to the charge of “aiding a prisoner to escape.” I felt sorry for him, but there was nothing to do but offer him sympathy,

which

he didn’t either need or

want, so I just started worrying about my own plight. At no time was my case fraught with one single interesting possibility, no ramification which could have excited controversy or speculation, except to question how much time

I might draw. It was no case so riddled with details that before a jury it would be a hash of a trial, with the materials very finely ground. It was not a case of where circumstantial evidence had to be relied upon by the District Attorney to bring about a conviction. There were plenty of competent witnesses available and ready to testify against me at a mere pointing of that worthy’s finger. I had escaped jail and had been apprehended near the scene and under circumstances which made my guilt childishly positive. I knew that through friends and attorneys I might win a series of delays as a first result of activity, and might be able through meticulous and cautious work on their part, to squash prosecution proceedings by certain witnesses, and

then dampen some of the gunfire that threatened to burst forth from all directions. The incriminating sigificance of the jailer’s forthcoming evidence, plus the ugly public senti-

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189

ment, could not be assailed, however, and regardless of what

plea for extenuation the defense might prepare for me, an impregnable case with no discrepancies would remain. I decided to enter a plea of guilty, and take a chance on the con-

sequences. For if I stood trial it was a cinch to be nothing more or less than just a formality, a hearing in which the weight of incriminating evidence was so overpowering as to make a reasonable defense impossible. So came the day for a showdown—the day that society

demanded exaction for my crimes. Life is a game and everyone should play. I had played my kind of game and played hard—but had lost. So outwardly I could play the part of a sport in losing just the same as any other game. But inwardly——? It was different. The crowded court room seemed tense. The early afternoon sun was bannered through the grimy windows and billows of pipe and cigarette smoke shrouded the room, as I walked up to take my medicine.

The

judge

was

hard, merciless,

unrelenting

as

stone. When I stood before the bar of justice, he said: “You have played the game of outlaw, and you must realize now that it does not pay. The sentence of thirtyfive years which I pronounce upon you will teach others who seek to take the law into their own hands that decent, law-abiding citizens of this country are going to govern,

and that lawless men like you are going to pay the penalty. Do not leave this court room with the idea that your

thirty-five-year term in the penitentiary will be shortened,

for the present and succeeding Governors will be acquainted with your record and you will be old when you are a free man again. “The only respectable thing which you have done since you entered upon a career of crime has been to plead guilty here this afternoon. Everything else which you have done has shown a total disregard for the law and even for human life. It never has been my practice as judge of this court to make the situation harder for the prisoner at the bar. I real-

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ize that whatever I may say at this time may be lost upon you, for you have shown yourself by every act to be hardened and a stranger to every emotion of tenderness or mercy. “When you get up there in Salem, it will be well for you to prepare yourself for that other trial which you are sure to face. There is a God in this world, Duncan. No sane man

denies that, and your record up above is a mighty bad one. After all, the biggest part of each one of us is our soul. My advice to you is to repent your misdoings and prepare to stand one day before the tribunal of God.” Asked if there was anything I would like to say after passing of sentence, I replied simply. “I will never try to serve that thirty-five-year sentence, Your Honor.” “That is to be expected,” he said. “But rest assured I will

try my utmost to be the means of you serving every day of it.” Hudson then stepped up and pleaded guilty to the indictment of smuggling hacksaws in to me, and was sentenced to five years in prison. The two-hundred-mile ride on my return trip to the prison was a bitter pill to swallow. The golden sunlight of a great day was full in the sky when Hudson and I were taken from the court room to a big sedan

outside,

and

then

our

ankles

and wrists

securely

bound with leg shackles and handcuffs. As we neared the halfway mark, the sky had put on the panoply of evening;

the dying day was beautiful in the tender glow of evening. But I didn’t get much of a kick out of it. I was not despaired because of a lack of guts, or because I couldn’t take the judge’s rap like a man. I prided myself that I could take it, and to hell with the rap, but the circumstances sur-

rounding my advent in prison were a horse of another color. I was not only on my way back to the joint, but I was on my way back to one where most of the officials held an animosity and antagonistic attitude towards me. I was in for one of the bitterest experiences that a guy was ever

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called upon to face, and it wasn’t going to be a short picnic. It was going to be literally for a lifetime.

It wasn’t long before we were at the big prison gate, and a few minutes later inside the Deputy-Warden’s office. 1 didn’t feel like whistling a tune as the Deputy stepped towards me, with a grimace that was supposed to pass for a

smile of recollection. He proffered a limp, clammy hand, as cold as a snake’s back, and said: “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Lee Duncan. Welcome back home again.”

I grasped his paw with a tightening grip and stared at him while he was thinking, patently, of something else. I knew well enough, or at least I thought I knew, what lay in store for me. He stepped quickly to one side and pressed a buzzer on

his desk. A moment later one of the Chapel guards appeared, and the Deputy said slowly, each word varnished

with cold, unconcealed cynicism.

“An old

pal of mine who

likes it so well here, he just had to come back. Take him to

the fish cell and be sure and treat him good.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

/ A Slay on the straw mattress in the fish cell that night, my mind concentrated on just one thought—escape. I determined to keep on trying until that aim materialized into an actuality. And until I finally drifted off into a fitful slumber, tossing restlessly while crazy nightmares engulfed me,

I visioned myself climbing over the walls in a blaze

of searing gunfire.) When I awoke the sunlight was rushing through the barred windows and corridors with every possible phase of violence and splendor. Far to the east, I could look over the walls from my cell, situated high in the building and see

the sun’s golden rays streaming over the huddled hills. Dropping my eyes I could see the hundreds of gray-clad figures in the yard, some standing in little bunches conversing quietly, while others stirred restlessly. Somehow, a heavy oppression seemed to brood in the air. A magnificent morning, yet a feeling of stern, deep, and unredeemable

gloom hung all over the prison with grim intensity. The meaning of the gloom—what was it? My question was soon answered. One of the Chapel guards stepped to the front end of the corridor briskly. “What do you want for breakfast, Mr. Dickson?”

A quivering voice answered. “Just a small piece of but-

tered toast and a half-a-cup of coffee, please.” What the hell! Since when did the screws start inquiring of the convicts what they wished for breakfast and addressing them as “Mister”? Soon my breakfast was delivered, and also on the tray was a single piece of toast and some 192

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coffee—what the man had ordered.

193

I spoke to the guard, a

huge, slick sort of a bozo. “What’s the matter with the guy

who asked for the toast and coffee? Is he sick?” The screw stepped up close, replied in a low tone: “No—

just scared to death. He’s going to swing this morning.” “Han

dd

.

“Yeah. His last meal. His pal’s up in the execution room

ready to go right after him.”

“Where’s the execution room?” I asked. This was a lace I had not heard of during my former incarceration. “A little hole alongside the execution chamber where the

condemned spend their last night.” The guard walked on, with two flunkies at his heels. I turned my attention to the food, then pushed the tin plate to one side. My appetite had suddenly disappeared. (The head tailor passed my cell, with the black, shapeless

death suit hanging over one arm. Then a Catholic Priest, dressed in his long black robe, accompanied by two burly screws and the Warden. Here was an opportunity to come face up with the naked truth of capital punishment as the dismal march of death began. The condemned man stumbled by in front of my cell, between the guards, twisting his hands together nervously. His hair was tousled and disarrayed, his face plainly contorted with fear, a choking sound swelled his throat, and an actual look of terror was in his staring eyes. ) That evening, a Portland paper showed where some re-

porter had written: “Both men went to their death stoically, without a trace of emotion.” Well, he might have been right about the fellow in the execution room, but I know the guy that passed me was scared within an inch of his life. Shortly after the little group had passed, I heard the heavy boom of the scaffold trap as it sent one of its victims hurtling at the end of a rope. One gone to his Maker. A quarter-hour later, the sound was repeated, and the other

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had dropped through the gaping hole and died. Then the hearse rolled up to the Chapel door, attendants placed the

two forms in wicker baskets inside, and then they rolled away for their last ride. Not very long after this, a man sentenced to pay the extreme penalty to the State, on a first degree murder charge, received a commutation virtually at the last minute. We got to be very close friends and one day I asked him his reactions upon being saved from the gallows: “On the morning I was to be hanged,” he said, speaking softly, as men do 1n prisons, “I sat in my cell and looked

down the corridor at the ‘guests.’ They had come to see me hanged by the neck until I was dead. I saw my wife and daughter come in. I told the Warden I couldn’t say ‘Goodbye’ to them. I was all keyed up to be hanged and I couldn’ stand any more. “Finally somebody said everything was ready. The Warden and two guards came for me, with the Chaplain. I walked out between them toward the Chapel, where the

guests were waiting. They were to follow behind me to the scaffold. Then, just twelve minutes before I was to be hanged, the Governor commuted the sentence to life. It was like . . . well, in a way, it was sort of a disappointment.

A sort of collapse of my plans, and it hit me pretty hard.

“You want to know how jt felt when they told me I

wouldn't be hanged:” said the man, stll speaking softly. ell, you can get a faint idea of it. Suppose you were ordered to go to New York and planned to take in the big apple and then, suddenly, just as you were getting on the train, they told you you weren't to go. Something like that. You see, I lived with death and walked with death and

slept with death for nearly a year. And I got to the point where I imagined myself as a sort of explorer, going into a

strange new country. I wondered what I'd see there. . . . “No—I didn’t figure it would hurt much,” in answer to my question. “It’s mstantaneous. They've got it all figured

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195

out to a science. They weigh you and size you up and measure the rope, so that everything is all right.

Sometimes, of

course, a guy comes down in two pieces . . . but not often. As a matter of fact, we're all under sentence of death. You and

me and everybody. Only I knew when I was going to die; you don’t. And I was all ready for the trip. When they told me [ wasn’t to go—it was, well, the only way I can describe it

—was that it was sort of a disappointment.”

After a few days’ seclusion in the fish cell upon my second advent in prison, I was taken directly to the Yard Captain’s office. No formalities were exchanged whatever, and

the Captain began in his usual brusque manner: “How are you going to shake this jolt, Duncan?”

I answered “Then you “I suppose “That’s up

truthfully: “The quickest way I can, Cap.” propose to escape?” that’s the quickest way.” to you. We're not the cause of you being in

here again, but it’s our job to see that you remain in here.

And you can just bet your last bottom dollar that we're going to fulfill the order.” “That’s a part of your job.” He leaned forward, drummed

the fingers of one hand

on the polished table top. “Don’t you know you can’t come into a penitentiary and talk to officials like that? Don’t you place any value on your life whatever?” “I don’t consider my life is worth a plugged nickel, with thirty-five years staring me in the face in this dump.” His mouth twisted into a grim, thoughtful smile, a smile

that was strangely lacking in mirth. For a long moment there was a pause. We sat fencing each other with appraising eyes, both uncomfortable, both on our guard. Then he

rose to his full height, which was six-foot-three. His voice was hard and bright. “Look out there on the curb.” I glanced quickly out of the window, and saw Blackie Willos and Crowbar Kelley standing on a cement curb a few yards distant, apparently waiting for me to come out.

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The Captain walked back over to his chair and sat down. “You're the man that’s got a thirty-five-year sentence ahead of you, and you're the only man that’s got to handle it. There are two different ways. One is to go out of this office, drop that old gang of yours like a hot iron, keep

strictly to yourself and make good.” “They're my friends and I'd go to hell for them.” “That’s probably where you'll go, all right,” the Captain mocked, then went on to explain: “The first way you could probably get sprung in about four or five years. The other way of hooking up again with that gang will stand you a swell shot of getting bumped before another twelve months slip by. Tell me—which proposition sounds the most sensible?” “The first. But listen, Cap, if you could have heard what

the judge said when he sentenced me, you wouldn’t blame me in turning it down. I'm sticking with my friends.” The Captain stood up again. “All right, Duncan, until we find a job for you, you can stray with your pals on the Island. But I warn you—your every move will be watched.” “By myself also,” I returned shortly. After I had rejoined Kelley and Willos, we all went over to the Island to see Murray. His greeting was: “Nice recommendation the judge gave you. I was reading all about it in the papers. You're a cinch to make it in twenty-five or thirty years.” “I'll bet I beat you out,” I bantered. “You'll be just a step ahead of me on the ladder if you do.” Then he turned his head and yelled: “Hey, Oregon.” I whirled and saw the burly Oregon Jones walking across the yard with a heavy length of plumbers’ pipe on one shoulder. When he saw me he hurriedly dropped the pipe, or rather let it slide from his shoulder and rushed over to where we were. I looked at him inquiringly, and held out my hand. “When did you get back?”

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197

“Just beat you in the front gate by a whisker last night. Didn’t you hear the boot and shackles I was wrapped up in rattling?” “No.”

“Boy, the way they had me hog-tired was a crying shame. I ain’t even had a chance to do anything but say ‘Hello’ to the gang. The bulls are sore and started me working right off.” Oregon smiled mirthlessly, brushed back his mop of hair. Sweat dripped from his broad, sunreddened nose. “Say, gang, let’s scatter from this bunch

of finks that’s trying to get an earful, and go over and flop on the grass.”

At Jones's suggestion, we all went over and sprawled down on a patch of luxuriant grass which ran parallel with the power flume. I explained to Murray how my efforts had been frustrated in securing his cache of hidden money, including all the details right up to the disappointing climax of how I He asked “I only “Then

had been caught while Helen was up to visit him. me just one question: “How did you like Helen?” regretted she wasn’t twins.” everything must have been eggs and the coffee.”

“Give us your pedigree, Oregon,” I encouraged.

“All right. After I escaped from here I wandered around quite a bit—through the Middle West and Southern States and as far north as Maine. I went down to Cuba last December. I was arrested twice, once in a hoosier burg out in Nebraska, and once in Cleveland. 1 got spliced while I was

gone, hooked up with a little chorus cutie; then we settled

down and I got a job as truck driver for a firm of interior decorators. One day I took some workmen and a bunch of tools to a big-shot’s home where the guy and dame and another guy were all stiff on gin.

I started looking around,

and pretty soon I saw a scarf pin on the shelf with a nice hunk of glass in it. “The guy told his wife to put it away before someone glommed it. So she just tossed it in a vase. After a while I went back and managed to be the last workman to leave

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the dump. I rifled the vase and got the rock, some dough and a string of beads. The beads didn’t amount to much. A

few days later a Cleveland dick recognized me as Oregon Jones, and he started me down to a precinct station. I of-

fered him the glass and all the money I had, so he turned me loose. I was pretty lucky.

“Now, I want to tell you what my motive was for lamming back out here on the West Coast,” said Jones. Something in Jones's voice made the gang of us sit up straight—as if transfixed. He hesitated a moment, then went on in a low, rapid mumble.

“We're short timers, fellows,

right now. Inside of a week we’re going to beat this damn

joint—and we're going to beat it the tough way. What do you think about that?”

There was a tense electric silence. We eyed the burly prisoner surreptitiously, behind which lurked respect, but we voiced no opinions. Jones’s eyes glinted with quick amusement. He tried to keep the exultation from his voice. “I told the bulls when I came back that I came north as far as Roseburg, and then turned back toward Sacramento,” he said. “That was poppycock. I came right up here to the joint one night, parked my heap out there on the highway, and just sat on the cushions and looked at the lights from the cell blocks. I thought of you poor devils in here,

mostly of Crowbar Kelley, of course, but somehow—I felt good.

I'm telling you I felt good, because I knew I had

the goods right on me to spring the whole bunch of you right out of this rotten dump.” Murray interrupted with a gesture. mean?”

Jones burst out almost brutally.

“What

do

you

“I mean that I had two

gats on me, two forty-five automatics, and loaded to the gunnels.” He paused a moment, then his face relaxed in a

crude smile. “And buddy, I planted ’em—outside the walls— where we can get to ’em.” We all stiffened in violent amazement.

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“Where?” Murray exploded. It was a question and a challenge at once. Jones eyed him shrewdly and smiled. “Under the old ‘Chink’s’ shack, over on the other side of the county road. I put the two rods and fifty rounds of ammunition in an old five-gallon can under the floor of the shack. After I had planted them, I went back to Sacramento, figuring that I would get word to Kelley some way that they were there. Then, he could get some trusty that was right to bring them in and he could blast his way out. “But then in ‘Sac’ I got pinched, and got thirty days in the can. They never printed me, you see, when I got hooked,

so I thought that everything would be all right. But after I had served about two weeks, who come up one day but old man Fisher’s daughter, the Bertillon expert. She lamped my mug right away and I guess it came to her she had seen my picture in the rogues’ gallery some time or other. She left, and right away she came back, and she had a circular in her hand which this joint had out for me. Well, she showed me my picture and said, ‘You're Oregon Jones, aren’t you?’ I said ‘Yeah’ although I hated like hell to admit it. That's all there was to it. Tough

luck, eh?”

We nodded sympathetically. Then Murray’s breath sucked in a little hiss. “But about them rods, Oregon?” Jones face hardened perceptibly. “Oh, yeah, the rods. Well, I can use ’em myself now. Listen, you guys.” He spoke through taut lips. “George Johnson was telling me awhile ago he goes out Wednesday. All right. George is solid. We know that. He’s made a lot of tries to make the joint himself. We'll see him, and ask him to go out to the Chink’s shack on next Wednesday night and get them guns, and transfer them over to the field where Joe Blackwell is working. Joe's good people. He'll bring them in when he comes in at eight o’clock in the evening.” We all nodded with solemn fervor; then Murray said:

“Wait here.

I'll go and get George right now.”

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When Murray had returned with Johnson, Jones began

impressively: “Now, George, you're sitting amongst a bunch of guys that’s got so much time that it just can’t be handled. Unless we escape, it’s just a case of ‘do what you can.” You're the only guy that can save us from that time— that can help us to escape, without implicating yourself in the least. Now, I'm going to ask you to do something for us and I don’t want you to say ‘Yes’ unless you mean it. Are you game?” Johnson

drew back and studied him in astonishment,

then he nodded his head decisively. “If I can help you fellows to get out—then, I'm game.” Jones's face lighted with an approving smile. “That’s all I wanted to know. Here's the plan.” The plan by which Johnson could gather up the guns and transfer them to the field where the trusty was working was outlined minutely to the convict, and at the end, he solemnly shook hands with us five escape plotters and said: “Don’t worry, if the guns are there, I'll get ’em.”

When I went to my new cell that night, I wondered if Oregon Jones had been intelligent and farsighted enough to plan the perfect escape.‘ I wondered if we would not only beat the wall, as I so desperately hoped, but beat it armed;

to fight our way to freedom in the outside world and again take our chosen places in society.) I wondered what new

schemes Tom Murray would add to this sensationally planned jail delivery which would place his name higher than any other as the greatest jail-breaker of all time. I was right on the scene of these potential daring jail-breaks, and I wanted to be in right amongst the fight to free myself to crush the spirit of the judge who had sentenced me to thirty-five years. Johnson was telling the gospel truth. He did get the guns. We next singled out Joe Blackwell, and he also agreed to carry out his part to the letter. He said that he would bring the guns in the prison at eight o'clock the following Satur-

OVER

day evening.

THE

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George Johnson was dressed out promptly

at his scheduled time, the following Wednesday,

his sen-

tence completed. And thereafter, for the next few days, I and the rest of the gang went about the yard tensely alert, strictly avoiding each other which might excite the officials’ suspicion, only shooting triumphant veiled glances at each other. On Sunday morning, Jones and Kelley marched into the prison dining-room, their faces wreathed in smiles. They were secretly rejoicing over a success, a victorious conquest that they did not believe could possibly fail. They had been placed in the same cell in the North Wing of the penitentiary, with a clear view of the front gate. And they had seen Joe Blackwell enter that gate at eight o’clock the eve-

ning before with under his right arm bundle. That was Murray, Willos

some he was a sign and I

twenty-five other trusties—and carrying a small, compact looking he had the guns. were seated in other parts of the

dining-room, and Jones and Kelley shot each of us a broad, expressive wink, signifying that everything was all right,

that two fully loaded forty-five automatics were walls at our command—and that our longed-for was to be had for the taking. But when we interviewed Joe Blackwell in the joyous hopes took a sudden, dismal drop. “No, weren't there,” Joe explained.

inside the freedom yard, our

the guns

Jones’s eyes were suddenly wide and filled with anxiety. “What? You say they weren't there?” he demanded. Joe’s face was white and strained under its tan. He winced

and turned away as Jones's eyes burned into his.

“When

I couldn’t find the guns in the field,” he said, “I thought that

Johnson had forgot all about his promise as soon as he dressed out of the joint. So I took a chance last night went down to the Chink’s shack myself. I found the gallon can all right, but—the guns and ammunition gone,” Joe finished.

was and fivewas

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Less than two weeks

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WALL

after this incident, Tom

Murray

brought down a small clipping which he had taken from one of the Portland newspapers, and he showed it to Jones, Kelley, Willos and myself. The clipping mentioned the fact where one George Johnson had been arrested in a prominent town in the State of Washington, with two Army automatics in his possession. The clipping further stated that Johnson was a former inmate of the Oregon prison and that

he was being held on the charge, “ex-convict carrying concealed weapons” and subject to five years imprisonment. The missing guns incident was fully clarified.

We

had

been double-crossed by one of our own ilk. During Oregon Jones's absence from the prison, the officials had kept their eyes glued on Crowbar Kelley with interest. During those months, Kelley was a model prisoner,

although given to mental lapses and severe brooding on occasional spells. Where before he had always been in a huddle with his pal, everlastingly plotting to beat the walls, he now

spent his leisure hours playing baseball, sparring a few lively rounds with the boxing gloves, or off in a corner somewhere, strumming a popular air on his mandolin.

A model

convict. As soon as Jones returned,

however,

the other side of

Kelley’s dual disposition came to the surface.

His first act

was to request an immediate transfer to the yard, and this

was sanctioned on the very day that I was released from the fish cell. After Johnson had double-crossed us in the gun episode, several things began to work to a head. Oregon

Jones was incarcerated in the bullpen for flatly refusing

to work.

The officials kept Kelley under close observation

after Jones’s advent to the hole, and they became convinced

he was trying his utmost to communicate with his pal in

solitary confinement.

When they discovered two or three

notes in the bullpen yard, written in code, their suspicions

were confirmed, because they had always believed that the men had a code system of communication. These notes

OVER were found wrapped

THE

WALL

inside a yarn ball, which

203 had been

thrown over the wall by Kelley and Murray. It is not necessary to give the contents of the notes to you, either of the cipher or the cipher code; it is really inconsequential to this story, and merely goes to prove how Kelley worshipped his

idol by taking tremendous chances of keeping in constant

communication. Kelley became more sulky with each passing day, and he would betray gloomy anger when any official or convict

would approach him, other than us members of the gang. As time passed, and his companion held his forced fast on the bean and hash diet, his demeanor was one of morose silence, flashing only sudden, sullen temper when

anyone

spoke to him. Then came the day when he deliberately walked up to a screw he didn’t like, and knocked him for a loop with his fist, committing this grave offense just to get in the bullpen with Jones. ____This kind of broke the gang up for the time being, and I began to experience a chronic mess of blues. Thirty-five years of my life inside a stir. Despite everything else I tried to think of, this idea was all-consuming in me for days. I could look around me and see the same old familiar faces, scores of prison-simple men doing the book. But they were

doing it all for murder; I was just starting a virtual lifetime sentence for damn foolishness. It had all happened so sudden, literally speaking, that I was a little dazed about it all. Only a couple of months back, I was free, with a one-hundred-per-cent dame to hold in my arms—but with revenge in my heart. Now, I was back inside— with revenge still in

my heart—but a rather dispirited realization made it seem

a deadened and puny thing.

\

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

OLLOWING close on the heels of my second incarceration in the joint, a number of young guys, most of them

from Portland, were being sent up by various judges, the convicted men’s sentences ranging anywhere from one year to twenty-five years’ imprisonment. Now the peculiar slant is that every single one of them was convicted of hold-up;

hence the obvious unequalization in prison terms given by some of the judges made the criminal statutes seem ludicrous and unfair.

I shall not dwell on all the cases I have in mind,

for such a procedure is not necessary to prove my point. “Laws for punishment of crime shall be founded on the principles of reformation and not of vindictive justice,” reads Section 15, Article 1, of the Constitution of the State of Oregon. To which Section 16 adds: “Cruel and inhuman punishment shall not be inflicted, but all penalties shall be proportioned to the offense.” A certain judge in Portland,

who imposed a twenty-year sentence upon a criminal whose partner received eight years for the identical offense, violated the Oregon Constitution, actuated by vindictive motives. Clarence Darrow, in his Crime; Its Causes and Treatment, writes of judges in these words: But they from they

judges are neither infinitely wise nor infinitely good; come from the ranks of lawyers and for the most part those who have long been defending property rights; are generally conservative; they are not independent of

public opinion, which means the opinion of the public opinion

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205

of the community in which they live. Few of them have much knowledge of biology, of psychology, or sociology or

even of history.

At the time of the sudden influx of convicted heist guys in the pen, which was the aftermath of a sporadic crime wave all over the State, three promoters of a three-quartermillion-dollar bond fraud were exposed by the Better Business Bureau in Portland. By a quirk of Fate, these three “big fellows” were yanked into court the very same afternoon that nine young hold-up men were present to receive their sentences, either upon a plea of guilty or following convictions by a jury trial. First, five of the “little fellows” stepped up before the so-called Bar of Justice. Five short minutes were consumed in sentencing them to the penitentiary, three receiving flat terms of twenty years each, and

the remaining two, twenty-five years each. This for heisting a cab driver, where a few paltry dollars were obtained.

Next came a youth who had held up a druggist and secured $15.50. He was promptly sentenced to twelve years’ imprisonment, and another youth who was shot in an attempted hold-up, to ten years in the stir. The three “big fellows” were then summoned to take their medicine. But they weren't administered the same dose or out of the same spoon. One was fined $500, another Then

came

the two remaining

hold-up men, again we revert back to the “little guys.” They had agreed to the District Attorney’s suggestion to cop a plea on the charge, supposedly to save the county an added expense of a jury trial, and receive a maximum term of ten years. Yet when they stepped before the judge, they were sentenced to fifteen years in the penitentiary. If you will remember, this is the same type of stunt that was pulled on Tom Murray when he went to the stir. A glaring contrast—the leniency shown by the court to the big crooks and its relentlessness to the little ones. The

\.

$250, and the third $50.

/

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bond fraud case was one of the most daring crimes in the

financial history of the Northwest.

Nine youths sentenced

to the penitentiary for robberies, for a grand total of one hundred and sixty-two years.

Yet the arch-conspirator, re-

ported to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, deliberately and with studied ingenuity had already bilked the public out of some three-quarter million dollars, and was on his way toward relieving widows and aged couples of a million more. And then after subjecting the taxpayers

to thousands of dollars’ expense to apprehend him, the court let him off with a fine that probably wouldn’t have bought the postage stamps which Multnomah County used in the case. Whenever and wherever such unequalization of sentence was exposed, and such a flagrant miscarriage of justice was manifested, it always got my goat. And why not? Listen. We all know that fundamentally reformation and rehabilitation of men are the purpose of imprisonment. But a lot of common sense is imperative if prison is to serve the fundamental purpose. If punishment is the only consideration, how much punishment should be imposed? Who is able

to determine how much punishment, or how much reformation, or how much human agony there are in five years, ten years, or twenty years of imprisonment? Who of us can measure mental suffering? Yet the judges most everywhere sit down and casually and perfunctorily and nonchalantly attempt to answer these baffling, even unanswerable, ques-

tions with the utmost assurance, by just glancing at a defendant and then promptly sentencing him to a certain num-

ber of years in a penitentiary. I'm not beefing about myself.

I'll frankly confess that I

was just about as confirmed a criminal as a guy can be and live, that I hated bulls and society with such a fierce intensity that it enveloped my

very soul.

But that doesn’t

mean that every person sent to the stir was as criminally inclined as myself.

Classification of prisoners has been given

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207

intensive study, and figures have been given to show that most of the men received in the prisons throughout the land are first offenders, that the next largest number sent to

prison are occasional offenders, that approximately one-

seventh of the men received are habitual criminals, and that

only a very small percentage of professional criminals ever see the insides of prisons. Most of the first and even casual or occasional offenders, it has been ascertained, are good

prospects for reformation.

But a young guy is not going

to let his mind dwell much on the thought of reformation if he goes up and draws the maximum penalty in a stir for

his very first job. Here’s something that a lot of judges of today don’t stop to consider: That the young men of today were born during war times, with all the tension of family and community

life. They were nurtured in a period of abnormal prosperity, and later hit by a country-wide panic which undermined

family independence and cut off their opportunities. That condition put every guy in young manhood, every sort of boy, exceptional and average, to the job of facing the world with arms outstretched, ready for something, but hell knows for what. One of the most important factors of every home is a sense of security. But with the non-payment of rent, with the constant threat of eviction, controversies with the landlord, and the knowledge of intense hunger replacing the sense of security, it has driven many a young, inherently honest, straight-thinking guy, to thinking thoughts not in

strict accordance with the principles of John Law. Coupled with this, the influence of the political boss in

the big cities, the petty tyranny of the precinct captain, the fact that pull and not merit gets the job, the realization that money counts at the local police stations, the amazing evidence of power and graft, have made the teachings of civics and good government difficult for the youth of today to

understand, and these very existing conditions are leading hordes of them to a life of crime.

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Long hours of intensive research by scanning records within the confines of a prison Bertillon room, and a subsequent investigation of the records of young criminals, have demonstrated that they travel from reformatory to prison, from prison to penitentiary and from penitentiary back to prison. Untrained to begin with, their ideas of the world, of life and of work are all obtained inside the walls

of a prison. When they are released they find open to them only the avenue of crime, and they usually travel it. Most prisons have no adequate means of saving the first offender from the clutches of the vicious “circle system,” which spells his ultimate ruin. In the vast majority of places, there are not the slightest efforts displayed to effect such an important means—to offer some sort of protection to the young individual. However, the police departments all over the country for years, being aware of the tendency of the offender to repeat, have been building up elaborate systems of fingerprints and identification records. These serve as a necessary link in the endless chain “educational” system which is turning out the prison graduate and the postgraduate in crime. No matter what happens, the law must be enforced. If a man is dying—if a baby is born—if there is a wedding or funeral—it makes no difference. The law comes ahead of everything—even to the taking of a life. A great many people in this country believe that law comes before justice. It shouldn’t. Even the most confirmed criminal will openly admit that when justice can be served by laws, then it is all right that they be enforced. But there are times when justice is best served by forgetting the law—temporarily at least. They have made fetish laws, good, bad and indifferent. And its not infrequently that the law book has been expounded too strictly, and a spirit of common sense has been trampled in the mud. I have sort of trekked off the main subject, but it all comes right back to the point where we left off a while back—

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THE

209

to do it, will make him vicious, vindictive and hard-boiled

as hell. For instance: after the two young fellows had been sentenced to fifteen years after being promised ten to cop a plea to heisting, they looked me up in the stir. I didn’t know who they were, but they introduced themselves, ex-

plaining their status thoroughly, and then asked me if I would let them accompany me if I found an out from the joint. I looked them over well, decided they were tightmouthed and solid, and then told them I would think it over. As a matter of fact, for the past several days I had been con-

sidering strongly the idea of breaking away from Murray’s gang. That calls for an explanation. Oregon Jones and Crowbar Kelley were released from the hole, and from that moment I knew instinctively that the officials knew we were planning something, and they began watching us in earnest. We were

all discreet, though, and played our cards very carefully. To all appearances we were doing our time according to Hoyle. But the Warden and his men weren't to be shaken off; everywhere

we

went

we

saw

and felt stoolpigeons

watching our every move. And all this time the five of us were really plotting. We were absorbed heart and soul in concocting a series of poten-

tial escapes where only violence and brute force were tolerated.

We were all gowed up on “merry” constantly,

and escape plot after escape plot was discarded until we had planned an out where bloodshed was imminent. We conversed of murder quite as casually as the ordinary man converses of the price of butter and eggs. Once in a while I couldn’t help but wince perceptibly at the casual remark by either Jones or Murray of “rodding off the guy,” and I noticed that Willos and Kelley would wince too, but controlling our emotions, we would

blithely agree with the

others on every phase—game to go through. For a while. Then I began to get wrapped up in an intensity of reflection; that death march that had passed my

”~

that giving a guy the works just because you’re in a position

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cell a short time back, the fall of the scaffold drop. I was torn between two conflicting emotions. I wanted to escape and was going to escape, but I didn’t want to drop through a trap for it. Maybe I turned chicken? But if I did, I'm glad of it. In any event, there came the day when I made my true feelings known to the gang. “Fellows,” I said, “I hope you won’t hold any hard feelings, but I'm through.

going now.

We'll never make it the way we're

We'll either be bumped outright, or we'll get

our necks snapped at the end of a rope. it clean.”

I'm going to make

For a moment there was a stunned silence, then Jones said:

“Better stick, pal.

There ain’t a clean out in the joint.”

I shook my head. “No, Oregon, I've already made up my mind on what I’m going to do.” Murray relaxed his lean-flanked, wide-shouldered body. He eyed me steadily, his mouth tight, unsmiling. “It all depends on the slant a guy's got,” he said. “I owe you a lot for what you've done for me. More than I could ever pay, and I'm not going to try to become indebted to you further.

You just feel different about it than we do, or than I do, anyway. You want to escape clean—I don’t. Just like I told you a long time ago, I want to spill blood when I leave this

joint next time, and by God I haven’t changed my mind a

bit.”

I went back to the business of figuring my own out in my own sweet way, while the rest of the gang were intent in making preparations for their flight from the prison. First, Blackie Willos approached the Head Chapel Guard, and

requested that he be allowed to change cells, from the South Wing to the North Wing. Willos fabricated a false tale that he was unable to get along with his present uncongenial cell-mate, that he wanted to cell alone in the North Wing,

where he could view a little scenery of the outside world, from the front of the building. The guard listened to the tale of woe, absent-mindedly.

This was not an infrequent incident, of convicts requesting

OVER that they change cells.

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WALL

211

It was an everyday occurrence, so

he sanctioned this swarthy featured inmate’s request immediately, and dismissed the episode from his mind. But when

the guard uttered his consent to this move,

Willos

suddenly felt like emitting a yell of victory. His heavy lids drooped like half-drawn window shades to hide his triumph. For Tom Murray was already celling in the North Wing, with a front view from his drum. The Chapel Guard had also permitted Jones and Kelley to share the same cell in the North Wing, a fact that was unknown to

the Warden or other officials until after a murderous break for freedom had taken place. They were not only permitted to cell together, but were placed in a cell overlooking the Turnkey’s office, where the arsenal was located, and where

they were able to watch the routine of that important place, and outline a plan as to how to capture it at a future date. As I have already told you, the officials had instinctive knowledge that a break was impending, but they were perplexed and bewildered as to how and when the threatening escape plot was to be executed. All they could do was to keep the convicts under strict surveillance. And that included me too, for they had no way of knowing of my

voluntary split from the gang.

Years later I learned from the lips of an official himself,

that they had noticed Tom Murray glance occasionally toward the roof of the North Wing from the yard, and that

he and Jones would make gestures toward it with head or hands, at the same time conversing earnestly in low tones. The officials finally came to the conclusion that we were planning on going over the top of the building someway, but the exact time was a deep problem. After turning the matter over in his mind, the Warden

deduced that during

the ball game on Sunday would be the logical time for us to stage our prison delivery act, as the guards were usually

busy at the ball diamond and several back areas were unguarded for quite a period at a time. With but a vague conception as to how we were to effect

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the escape, they decided to take a chance shot to thwart our apparent efforts, believing that a bad hunch is better than no hunch at all. So with this thought, they stationed three guards, men mentally alert and good shots, in an automobile just in front of the main gate of the prison all day on a certain Sunday, with specific instructions to watch the top and front of the buildings, and be prepared to halt any break that might occur. Nothing occurred that day, however, which differed from the many other monotonous Sundays, and Tom Murray and his gang went serenely about the yard, patiently waiting, watching, plotting. On August 12, 1925, the inmates received their commissary supplies and were permitted to carry them to their cells. These supplies were carried up to the drums in boxes or sacks. A continuous line was up and down the tiers all afternoon, and in this line Kelley and Willos carried a brace and bit which were secreted on their persons. Also in their possession were a large keyhole saw, a hammer and a long rope with a hook attached to one end. During the rush and confusion, they scrambled onto the top of the fourth tier of cells, on the east side of the North Wing Cell Block, and with the brace and bit, they bored about sixty holes in the ceiling and roof. When this part of the ceiling was knocked out, it would leave an opening about two-foot square. After boring the holes, the men left the board intact, however, for the time being. Intense triumph flashed for a moment in the men’s eyes as they gazed at the result of their physical effort. This was but the crude work that a child could do, but to them it was

a masterpiece. It was a hole that was to lead them through the first successful step to freedom—or at least so they thought. Leaving their equipment where they had used it, they dropped back down to the tier, one at a time, and

strolled unconcernedly back in the yard.

They reported back to Murray and Jones that everything was all right, and during the remaining hours before

OVER

THE

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WALL

lock-up, the four grim. lipped convicts manufactured marijuana cigarettes, one right after the other in quick succession, and drew the fumes of that volatile drug deep down into their burning lungs, as if to store up excess vehemence and brutality, which might be unloosed

on their enemies—

guards and officials of a steel-ribbed prison that they detested. At four o'clock in the afternoon, Jones sent word to a

young convict who was employed in the laundry department, that he wanted to see him immediately. The kid, who was well-liked and thoroughly

trusted by Jones, met the

wild-eyed desperado in the yard, a few minutes later. “Gee,

Oregon,

but you're sure gowed

“You'll go broncho

whiffing so much

up,”

he began.

of that damned

merry.” Jones's answer came brutal and cold-blooded.

“That’s

the way I want to get,” he snarled. “It’s going to take guts to finish what I'm starting tonight, and I want to be ready.”

He hesitated for a pause and then his voice changed. “But say, kid, I'll tell you my reason for wanting to see you. Run down to the laundry and get me a whole batch of clean clothes, will you?” The kid nodded dumbly. “I want underwear, shirt, strides and clean-smelling socks,” Jones continued. “And while you're at it, make it

pretty snappy.” ere was some ominous note in Jones’s voice that caused the kid to shiver slightly. He was gripped by a sickening premonition that he could not have explained.

“I'll get em,

and it ain’t none of my business what you want with em, but you're sure acting funny for some reason, and I'd like

to know what’s the matter with you?”

“People in hell want ice water,” Jones snapped, “but I'll

tell you: I might be adorning a marble slab tonight and 1 want to look clean.” At 5:30 P. M. Murray and his fellow-plotters answered

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the check in call and marched to their respective cells. The count call, a chanting, singsong, “kaaount” was given, and

the men placed their hands through the bars of their cell doors to be counted by the cell house guard. But hardly had the guard passed by Jones’s and Kelley’s cell, when the convicts began writing foreboding inscriptions on its walls with a blue pencil. “Tonight at six o'clock, I will leave this place dead or alive,” Jones scrawled hastily. “Give me liberty or give me death,” was the sentiment expressed by his cell-mate, who signed himself in large, glaring letters, “Crowbar Kelley.” Did Oregon Jones have some forewarning premonition

that he would never leave the prison alive that beautiful, warm summer evening? In the face of what he wrote on the walls of his cell, and because of the conversation that took

place with the young convict in the yard, it is my opinion, that he felt a strong anticipation that something unusually evil was about to occur to him. When the dinner gong rang at 6 p. M. instead of marching to the mess-hall, the four desperadoes, their brains seeth-

ing with rebellion from the overdose of marijuana, raced up the tier stairs, quickly scrambled on top of the fourth-

tier tank, and knocked out the opening on the roof. Once

on top of the building, they walked swiftly across the roof of the North Cell Block, Chapel and Women’s Ward, and working with incredible speed, hooked the rope they were

carrying,

fast to the fire wall, directly over the Warden's

office. Jones and Murray went down first, their bodies hurtling at a tremendous speed downward,

and their hands being

badly burned from skimming over the surface of the small manila rope.

It happened that the Warden, who had just

returned to his office to write an important letter, was excited by an unusual commotion outside, and quickly stepping to the window, he was stunned with mixed alarm and amazement when he saw Murray, with a knife in his hand,

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back the Flax Mill Superintendent, who happened to be passing, into the basement. No sooner had Murray’s feet touched the ground than he met the man on the walk out in front of the Warden's office. Murray leaped at him, waving a knife in a fierce gesture towards

his mid-section,

and rasping a furious oath,

said: “Open that gate.” The Superintendent tossed up both hands in a helpless gesture. “I can’t —the tower guard controls the electric button.” Murray’s face became swollen with rage. He was unaware that the gate was electrically controlled, and it was his conviction that the man was lying. He grabbed the of-

ficial forcibly, but with a terrific thrust, the man jerked

away from the savage convict and ran downstairs into the basement. Murray made a wicked lunge with the shiv, then turned with lightning speed and raced up the steps into the Turnkey’s office, but Jones continued after the official, intent on murder and mayhem, for now the marijuana was working in his system full blast.

At the moment Murray entered the Turnkey’s office, there were in the room four guards, all unarmed. One of the bulls, “Slaughterhouse” Harrison, was a man every convict hated intensely, and Murray, bold and fearless, fairly

jumped at the man. Raising his old but wicked-looking joeblade over Harrison’s head, he shouted: “Give me the keys

to the arsenal or I'll cut your heart out.” In answer, Harrison kicked at Murray savagely, one of his big feet smashing into the convict’s stomach, which sent him sprawling across the corridor. Murray landed against the railing of a stairway leading to the basement and nar-

rowly missed toppling over, meanwhile

snarling profane

oaths, and then Harrison, grasping his momentary advan-

tage, raced out of the building with all the speed his legs

were capable of, meeting Jones at the steps as he ran out. Jones darted into the office and he and Murray tackled the

Turnkey, the former barking a savage curse, then quickly

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grasped a heavy cuspidor and slamming it against the guard’s head, knocked him out. One of the other guards, a little guy named Pete White, had in the meantime, escaped from the

office and started on a desperate run towards the front gate. There he met a guard who was apparently trying to get in. The guard called his attention to Willos and Kelley, who

were just coming down the rope, and taking their own sweet time about it. With a rare presence of mind, White turned abruptly, squarely facing the convicts, and commanded the two to stand still and put up their hands. White had no gun and was merely putting over a bluff with a forefinger thrust sharply out of the pocket of his

coat. Kelley’s two hands shot up in the air, but Willos de-

sisted. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, and started away.

“I am Peter White,” the guard said, hurling his words like a fist to Willos’s face. “And the hammer on this gun is

cocked, and my finger is on the trigger. Stick "em up.”

Willos’s face was an inscrutable mask, betraying no sign

of emotion as he waited for a space of a few seconds, and then slowly he raised his hands. Kelley felt his jaw muscles

tense and tighten, and a sickish sensation took him in the pit of the stomach. He turned to White nervously while he was standing there with his hands up. “Gee, Pete, I didn’t think it would be as bad as this.” During the time that Kelley and Willos were standing submissively outside, being held up by a man without a gun,

Murray and Jones were working swiftly taking possession of arms and ammunition. As soon as the Turnkey was out

of commission, Jones smashed the heavy lock on the arsenal

door with a heavy cuspidor, grabbed a rifle, and went hog wild. The prison fairly reverberated with shots, a deadly

crescendo of them, through a window Number One Post, and stepped out on

as he started throwing searing bullets of the Turnkey’s office at the guard of who had heard the commotion outside the platform, facing the arsenal.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T WAS about August 1, 1925, that with Dan Flynn, one of the guys up from Portland, with a fifteen-year sentence, I had made a daring try for a clean escape and failed

miserably in the attempt.

His pal, “Mickey” Murphy, had

reneged, at the last moment so to speak, so Dan and I were

transferred to my old familiar haunt, the bullpen, once more. I felt immeasurably relieved that Pat Shannon was no longer in one of the guard towers, and that I would not have to face him as he came on and off shift. It developed that he

had resigned from the State payroll shortly after my return to stir, and I always had a pretty good hunch that his prin-

cipal reason for leaving was to avoid meeting me. However the case, may God preserve you, Pat, a square guy.

During the years that marked my early return to stir, I can truthfully assure you that the Oregon bullpen was one of the most punishing hells, mentally and physically, of all

the solitary confinements of all the penitentiaries throughout the United States. I cannot tell you it was the worst,

but it was most certainly one of the worst. You know a lot about that medieval-like spot already—how cold and damp and miserable it was in the winter. But now there was no snow or cold to inconvenience us. There was, however, an

intense, insufferable heat to contend with. Especially in the

afternoons the steel walls of the cells would become so blis-

teringly hot that the bare hand could hardly touch them.) There was but one way to serve time under this method of confinement during the hot summer months—keep the body 217

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free from any semblance of clothing, and keep the water

running continually from the faucets to the cement floor.

The scarcity of food remained the real problem, however. We were annoyed with the hungry horrors con-

stantly. There was a total absence of exercise privileges. After a few weeks we organized a daily schedule of veritable do’s and don’t’s. There would be no conversation dur-

ing the day. That rule went/ Nothing but strict silence ensued during the long hours, except that occasionally some incorrigible would pass an uncomplimentary remark or two while eating his half-filled bowl of unseasoned beans, or perhaps there would be muffled curses from the cells in the afternoon from the heat. But every evening about seven o'clock, just as the sun would start sinking over the western

wall of the prison, all of us would suddenly come to life and

begin buzzing like so many bees,/

We had a colored boy with us in the bullpen at that time, a former vaudeville trouper and the possessor of the most marvellous baritone voice I have ever heard. Every evening he would sing, and as his clear voice would float over the wall, even the screws from their quarters could hear him

and often they would line up for hours on the cat-walk, and stand listening to the beautiful strains of such ballads as “Isle of Golden Dreams,” “Meet Me Tonight in Dream-

land,” and “Mother Machree.” This boy was a long ways from Beale Street, the Negro’s Broadway,

his own

home

from down Memphis way. No soul-racked incorrigible convict ever failed to derive considerable satisfaction and

contentment of mind after hearing him lament “The Beale Street Blues” with his own version and a somewhat original variation of a racial moan that could be heard, I suspected, a long ways down broad State Street. The melancholy Negro liked to sing this blue song, throwing

his voice in a free

style, rolling his own words to express his sadness and varying the tune of the dirge according to the depth of his own individual woe.

Somehow it seemed that every evening for a few hours

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219

we would forget our physical and mental misery; even our

bitter hatred and animosity for the society that was permitting such torture as this to exist was momentarily forgotten. After the colored fellow, familiarly known as “The Overland Shine,” would cease his vocal refrains, each of us other incorrigibles would recite such pieces of poetry as are wellknown to every hobo-camp in the country, “The Blue Velvet Band,” “Dangerous Dan McGrew,” and that fantastic composition that bespoke of far-away lands, “The Lure of the Tropics,” etc. Strange as it seems, the same poetry was

repeated night after night, but we never tired of it. This was a serious business with us—something to fill in the gaps and break the irksome monotony, to keep us from popping our bubbles.

Often we would vary the routine by relating some of our life’s experiences, and while a man was telling his narrative, only sacred silence ensued. It was the unpardonable sin to

interrupt while another was doing his utmost to entertain. Always as a grand finale, I would get the call to “cook up

for the gang.” I possessed a natural knack for describing luscious dishes of all kinds, and hungry as I invariably was, I could go through a verbal description of tempting vittles

that could have made any guy’s mouth drool water. It was a queer fact that although our hungers were only intensified a

hundredfold, every man insisted that I continue with this process to painfully revive their memories were missing.

of what they

Day after day the same routine, never varying much ex-

cept when some member of our incorrigible class would

. either slash his wrists, his throat, or tie a strip of blanket

around his throat in an effort towards strangulation. The majority of these cases were merely bluffs toward apparent suicide, the particular inmates trying to gain admittance to the prison hospital to escape the brutal bullpen punishment. Sometimes the attempts were sincere, however, and resulted in death.

Finally came Wednesday, August 12, 1925. To us hand-

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ful of misfits in the hole, the day began and wore on just like the miserable days already passed. All day it had been hot, terrifically so, and the reluctant approach of evening

held out little promise of relief. Those broad, pitiless rays of sun beating down on our cells seemed to lose none of their burning, intense fierceness. The evening whistle blew, the

call for the convicts to line up and march to their cells. I remember quite vividly that evening of torrid heat, as the main line marched to their cells just before marching down to supper. I was seated in my usual posture—on my cell bucket by the barred door, gazing emptily at the grim, unrelenting gray wall just a few yards beyond. I could squint sideways through a bit of clearance between the bars, and. see the faint silhouettes of the other incorrigibles in the remaining seven cells—as their forms were etched in shadows on the cement walk in front. All maintained the same dejected attitude as —seated on their cell buckets—bent over, chin cupped in their palms, staring emptily into space where only dizzy heat waves and monotony existed. Now it was deathly quiet in the bullpen, for it would be

hours before the sun would fade definitely over the western wall and the nightly program would start. There was only the noise of the clanging cell doors and the locking bars in the cell-house above us as the inmates stomped in. Soon everything was

quiet, momentarily,

then

the “kagount.”

The count bell rang. That signified that every single convict was securely locked in his cell, that the evening count

was complete. A moment later the huge steel locking bars were pulled again to release the cell doors, and we could hear the men shuffling along the tiers on their way to the mess hall. Once again everything was quiet for a moment. Then suddenly without warning, hell broke loose. First—

came the deafening roar of a powerful weapon. “Good God!” one of the incorrigibles shouted. “That was a forty-five, wasn't it?”

No one answered. No one had time to answer. The sharp “pling” of a high-powered rifle split the blistering atmos-

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221

phere like something alive, infernal. Immediately following,

came a fusilade of shots so incredibly fast that it was impossible to count them. A slight lull—then a mighty blast from a shotgun. Came the sounds of prolonged piercing, bloodcurdling screams that drifted through the summer evening like a red-hot knife. For a full five minutes that horrible screaming continued, then stopped quickly—to be replaced by a few seconds’ silence that was uncomfortable and ominous. Suddenly there was a new note. A tremendous voice, strangely familiar to my ears, was bellowing orders, frantically, outside somewhere. A half-dozen guards came dash-

ing up the steps leading from the front prison yard into the bullpen tower, while others rushed up from the opposite side to gain the cat-walk on the wall. They never stopped, but

hurried on around the run-way. On each of their faces was the twisted expression of fear—or rather, of mortal terror.

Things calmed down a little. Soon pursuit cars made their way from the prison; sirens blasting shrilly, while we, the bullpen incorrigibles, began to buzz. There would be no program on this night. There were other things to think about besides reciting jailhouse poetry, singing songs and telling lewd jokes. I was intensely wrapped up in my thoughts. I knew it could be no other than Murray and his gang. Were they alive or dead? I had no way of knowing. Buzzing stopped entirely for hours, except once in a while

when a mumbled question was ventured.

Only that inces-

sant, distinct shuffling of feet pacing nervously back and

forth in the narrow confines of the cells on either side. By the time eleven o’clock had rolled around, all the intense curiosity and fear for my friends’ safety that had been gathering like a lump in my throat for hours, broke into a white

flame. I determined to ask the bullpen guard for details; and while I expected to maybe receive a bullet for an answer, I

didn’t care a damn. But to my surprise the man answered me quite civilly, although in a rather quivering tone: “Tom Murray, Oregon Jones, Blackie Willos and Crow-

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bar Kelley made a break a few hours ago. Two guards were

killed, and Oregon Jones was also killed. He’s downtown in

the morgue now alongside the guards, and the other convicts are out in the brush somewhere.” I thanked the man for the information, but lacked the courage to question him further, now that I knew this much. It was evident that he was reluctant to talk, and that he was still suffering from shock and confusion.

To get back outside in the midst of the big break—when Milt Holman, the guard in Number One Tower, stepped out on the platform, gun in hand, with almost one move-

ment, he raised it to fire. Before he could snap the trigger, however, Jones, who

was seeking him, shot through

the

window glass of the Turnkey’s ofhce and hit Holman in the ankle. As the guard was falling, Jones registered another shot, which shattered Holman’s

right arm, just above the

wrist. Guard John Sweeney had in the meantime entered

the post and secured another rifle, with which he apparently was determined to stop the wild break for freedom. Simultaneous with this a guard had raced with all the energy in his command from the officer’s barber shop to the bullpen post, Number Six, and according to his story, armed himself, but either Jones or Murray, shooting from the

Turnkey’s office, drove him to cover where he was unable to do any shooting. His story must be discredited, however, because the actual fact was, that as he was sprinting up the stair steps, a bullet chipped

a piece of brick within

two

inches of his head, and this was enough for him. Thereafter, while the break was in progress, he huddled his body in a

deep crouch in a corner and stayed there, shuddering and whimpering like a frightened child. Kelley and Willos, all this time with their hands up, were

standing outside listening and trembling a little as the summer air was rent with the ominous roars of heavy-caliber guns. First, there was a shot, a single shot, followed a sec-

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WALL

ond later by a crashing volley. They wondered

just what

was happening in there. And then suddenly Jones appeared around the corner of the building, covered Pete White with

a rifle, and said to Willos and Kelley: “Go on into the arsenal and get your guns. It’s open.”

Jones then thrust his gun into White's ribs with a murderous

gesture.

He

stood

there,

swaying

slightly,

face

twisted with a grimace, eyes bloodshot from marijuana and breathing heavily—a menacing figure. He gritted savagely: “Damn you, open that gate.” White never was more unperturbed during this deadly chaos, than at this moment of crisis. He met Jones's glare,

without blinking once, and replied calmly: “How the hell can I, when I'm locked in myself?” Jones stared at him for a pause; then grinned crookedly. “You're a game guy, Pete,” was the convict’s tribute. “I guess you can’t.” In arming themselves for the final dash from the arsenal,

Murray selected a 32-20 Smith & Wesson revolver. Jones took a pump shotgun and a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver; and Kelley and Willos each took a rifle and revolver. They ran toward Post Number One, in line, under cover of a large oak tree, which stood in the front yard near the post. Guard Sweeney started shooting at them, and

burned both Murray and Kelley with close shots. Kelley fell down within a few yards of the Post, and it was believed for a moment he was hit. Almost at the same instant that Kelley fell, Murray turned

in time to see John Sweeney fire. Murray brought his gun up, aimed, fired and killed the guard instantly with a shot from the 32-20. Sweeney was shot through the right eye, the bullet from the revolver striking him while the eyelid was raised, leaving no mark upon his face. When the guard fell, his body crumpled in an inert position, his head under the stove. All four convicts then rushed up the stairs and into the

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post, Kelley and Willos leaving their rifles behind in yard. Instead of going down the stairs through of the tower, the escaping convicts jumped off walk, down onto the driveway, in front of the

the the the big

front floor wall gate

under Post Number One. Lute Savage, guard, was standing in front of the garage, across the road from the post, un-

armed, and the thought instantly entered Tom Murray’s mind that he would make an excellent hostage to accompany them on their flight to protect them from the blazing gunfire of the other guards. “Come on over here, Lute,” Murray called out, “to where

we are. We want you to accompany us on a little trip.” Savage hesitated a moment as though in deep deliberation,

and then suddenly in reply his voice floated over to Murray, clear, decisive. “Go to hell.” Murray’s face darkened, and a terrible oath rasped from

his tight throat. He quickly leveled his newly acquired 32-20 towards the guard, and the keen, deathly whine of a bullet

cut shrilly through the air. Savage uttered a groan of agony from a gaping wound in his abdomen, and slowly sank to

the ground.

“Slaughterhouse” Harrison, in the meantime,

had hidden behind a signboard some fifty yards up the road,

and as soon as Jones showed himself around the corner of

the post, he fired and wounded the escaping convict in the hip. Jones staggered and fell near where Holman was leaning against the wall, bleeding badly from a wound.

As Jones fell, Kelley grabbed the shotgun, and after a hasty inspection of the weapon, turned his attentions again to his companion and pal. Kelley bent forward and peered at his idol intently. Jones opened his eyes wide and stared dazedly about, and then he held out a shaking hand to his partner-in-crime. Kelley grasped it nervously in his. “Good-bye, Crowbar,” Jones mumbled.

“Tell the boys

to play it careful and not make it more than one.”

Kelley dabbed at his lips with a tongue gone sluggish, and then he suddenly twisted viciously erect, his face a brutal,

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225

insane mask, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Jerking the shot-

gun to a sidearm position, he fired. A red blast opened red hell on earth, and the bunched shot almost tore Holman’s

head from his shoulders. There the guard lay in a crimson haze, his body crumpled in a queerly grotesque position. In the intervening time during this grim episode, Murray yelled for the gang to “Come on” and he started on a dead run toward the Asylum, situated north of the prison, some

quarter mile. Willos and Kelley raced after him, and Harrison fired about six times more at the fleeing convicts as they were running parallel with the west wall. The men escaped

without further injury, however, as the rifle he was using had only open sights, and it was a notorious fact that Slaughterhouse could shoot well with peep sights only. Mur-

ray and his gang owed their very lives to these defective

sights.

Sas to who sent a bullet crashing through Oregon Jones’s brain, and killing him, immediately following Murray’s and his companions’ run to the State Hospital, will never be known for a positive fact. Harrison claimed the distinction of having fired the shot that snuffed out the desperado’s life, but some said that the shot came from a revolver, so

Jones may have committed suicide with his .38, which was found under his dead body with one chamber exploded. Itis an interesting fact that a brief disconnected message, scribbled in blue pencil on seven pages of a notebook, was found

on Jones’s body as he lay dead outside the very walls that he had sacrificed his life to escape from, after he had been

wounded by “Slaughterhouse” Harrison at long range. The note read:

I would like to see Dewey (a brother). I love him. I love the Jones, my people. I die game. Oh, how I hurt. I hate to die. I am shot—they will hang me if I don’t. 1 shot myself. OREGON JONES.

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The remaining trio of fugitives continued their run to the

Asylum, going north past the prison barns, through the berry patch and into the Asylum yards near the laundry, with Tom Murray in the lead. A wave of nausea swept over him as he realized the disastrous results of this break. There must be no turning back now. He must continue his murderous flight, sweeping all opposition from his path with

deadly force and bullets. For leaving a bloody trail behind him as he fought his way from the penitentiary, ending a siege and fight such as Salem had never seen, there was no alternative but to continue his murderous onslaught. Disaster was staring him in the face. But having killed one man, he wouldn't hesitate to kill another.

Mrs. Alice Ogberg, employed at the State Hospital, and C. V. lvitts, an attendant, were roughly accosted by Mur-

ray, Kelley and Willos as the convicts reached the Asylum grounds. “Say, lady, we’ve done an awful thing,” Murray blurted. “We've just killed a guy at the pen. Come and show

us the highway. The guards will be right after us and they won’t shoot a woman. Come along or we'll kill both of you. We won't hurt you if you come.” A twinge of fear swept over the woman's face, and then

Murray gruffly told the woman she could go, but jabbing viciously with his revolver, he forced Ivitts ahead of him to a taxicab that was waiting. The charged from the hospital staff he had called the cab to take his fugitives ordered Mr. Zinn, the

attendant had just been disby the Superintendent, and belongings downtown. The taxicab driver, to let them

in the car and they also ordered Ivitts to get in. Under continual threats which flowed like searing acid from Murray’s lips, Zinn was ordered to drive west first, and then the erst-

while convicts changed their course and drove east to a little tank-town called Pratum. That Zinn and Ivitts were not compelled to remain in the

car with the desperadoes all night was probably due to Zinn’s making the men believe that they were shy of gas-

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227

oline. Under their threats he drove them to a schoolhouse, a short distance east of the town, and about nine miles from the stir. Zinn kept telling the fugitives that he was almost out of gasoline, and near the burg, informed them that the engine was about to stop. “Then drive behind that schoolhouse,” Murray ordered curtly. Zinn did so with alacrity, and he and Ivitts were ordered

out of the car. The

convicts changed several articles of

clothing with them, and then tied the two men to a tree and

gagged them, warning them under penalty of death not to disclose where the convicts had left the car. Soon after the

fugitives left, Zinn and Ivitts worked themselves loose from their bonds and returned to Salem in Zinn’s car, which Murray, Willos and Kelley had believed was out of gas. Before

leaving, however, the convicts relieved Ivitts of $450, returning $40 to him, and took several dollars from Zinn. The taxi-driver kept his foot down

on the accelerator all the

way back to the capital, swinging dizzily around curves and city streets, and when the car was stopped at the police station, perspiration trickled in beads from his and his fare’s foreheads.

Zinn related this on his return: “I have seen a good deal of gun play in my time, and riences, but never anything Thus ended the first act with Tom Murray playing

have had like I went of a bloody the leading

some thrilling expethrough tonight.” prison escape drama role, as a killer fugi-

tive from justice. Now back to the prison, a few incidents relative to the break should be mentioned. When the Warden glimpsed Murray, shiv in hand, from his front window, he dashed

through the south end of his office to the corridor leading to the Turnkey’s office where the arsenal was in jeopardy. The first sight that struck his gaze was Murray and Harrison fighting. But instead of jumping into the fray to aid “Slaughterhouse,” he raced out again and hurried to his residence,

228 just beyond the with bird-shot, wall, he opened several hits but escapes.

OVER

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walls, where he secured a shotgun, loaded and when the convicts dropped over the up on them with the splatter gun. He scored the shot was so small it did not deter the

One guard related afterwards that he first heard the dis‘turbance while he was getting a shave in the barber shop, directly under the Warden's office. Springing from the chair, he hurriedly wiped the lather from his face and raced

up the stairs to the hallway leading into the Turnkey’s office, where he met Jones who was just thundering in to aid Murray. He said that he attempted to close and lock the door, but that Jones hit him a terrific blow to the chin which

sent him reeling the full length of the hallway. When

he

staggered up, Jones was inside, and realizing he could be of no assistance in there, he sprinted to Post Number Six, where he knew he could get arms. But still later, the guard admitted under cross-questioning, that he had a revolver fully loaded, in his pocket all the time, and in the tremendous excitement,

he forgot all about it.

A guard went into Post Number One, and carried the injured Holman down to the ground below, then raced to the Asylum, and as he explained later, to warn the insane people that the break had occurred. Another screw, who was at the Guard’s Quarters when the shooting started, was

armed with a heavy-caliber revolver. Yet he too raced to the

Asylum ahead of the escaping convicts and fainted after

arriving there. Guard 22 ran from the Guards’ Quarters, scrambled to

the top of the wall and ran around to Post Number Three, the farthest removed from the scene of the break, where he secured a rifle. He returned to Post Number Four, and see-

ing a guy, Ben Thompson, life-termer, who tended the power flume outside, he immediately opened fire on him.

Thompson instinctively executed a beautiful swan dive into the water to escape the hail of lead that poured toward him,

and he stayed there until the guard had left.

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229

Another bull was eating supper at the Quarters when the

alarm was sounded that the break was on. He made a flying leap through the nearest window and ran down to the street car tracks, about two blocks away, boarded a street car and rode into town, two miles distant, where he borrowed a

rifle from a gun store and then returned to the prison. He returned just a half-hour after the whine of the last bullet was quieted at the prison. After all the prison guards were

incapacitated or had

fled, two life-term convicts seized the keys to the inside gates

and held them until the Warden ventured back inside. One

of the convicts collected all the guns which were lying all over the front yard and the Turnkey’s office, and held them until the main-cheese could make a check. These two men

could have delivered the entire population of the prison, had they so desired, and that without any great hindrance. Oregon Jones apparently lost his nerve at the last min-

ute and wanted to back out of the deal, but Murray told him they had gone too far with their plans to stop. The over-

abundance of marijuana had killed Jones’s jumping nerves but he went crazy when the men entered the Turnkey’s office, and he started firing indiscriminately at everything he saw moving. Murray and Willos said they were afraid of him after

they started, and that they were glad he was stopped as quickly as he was, for he was as “crazy as a loon.” After Crowbar Kelley had left Jones badly wounded, he appar-

ently went raving mad, and Mr. Zinn, the taxicab driver, related that it was Kelley who pleaded with Murray that he be allowed to kill him. “Come on, Tom, let me put a slug in these guys,” Kelley gritted. “Dead men tell no tales.” Murray turned on him snarling. His metallic voice hardly

carried two yards. “Put that damn rod in your pocket.

We've done enough killing for one day.” From a quiet, unaggressive thief, Jones’s unfortunate in-

jury had suddenly transformed Kelley into an insane killer

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and a vicious one at that. So out of the savage and bloody break for freedom, out of all the pandemonium and chaos,

there was one glaring personality that stood out like a beacon light among the convicts. And that was Tom Murray, the real leader of the gang, who had remained cool and heady all the way through. While the body of Guard Sweeney was being removed from the tower, convicts in the North Wing of the prison

staged a demonstration. Shouts of “Murray,” and “Hurray,” were heard, and then catcalls and shrill, hysterical whistles filled the air, while the tumult was increased by loud bang-

ing on the doors of the cells, and the rattling of bars. Downtown, hundreds of persons, many of them women,

viewed the remains of Oregon Jones. The only tribute paid the dead convict, was a floral offering with a card attached, reading: Complimentary. With sincere sympathy Noble Victim of the System.—L. R. GRAVE.

to ye

Brave

and

Mr. Grave was listed in the directory as a Salem Heights fruit-grower.

And then the great manhunt, the greatest in all Northwest history: radio broadcasting stations from one end of the Pacific Slope to the other flashing the three escaped con-

victs’ descriptions out over the air at an interval of every half-hour, telegraph instruments with their clicking keys, telephones, high-powered cars, fleet airplanes—everything was employed that modern science was capable of furnish-

ing to apprehend at all costs the fleeing fugitives. Rolling hills with their vast open spaces, intermittent steep, rugged canyons, and dense patches of heavy-timbered areas were being combed minutely and carefully by literally hundreds of grim-lipped manhunters immediately follow-

ing the escape.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

OMEWHERE—somewhere in those hills, officialdom believed Murray, Kelley and Willos were hiding, but

their desperate, untiring efforts to uncover the slightest clue was of no avail until the forbidding curtain was brushed

aside, and the second act of the drama of a desperate flight for freedom took the stage and thrilled an entire countryside. Quite late on the night of Sunday, August 16, 1925, four nights following the fatal break, four young men, Leo Wilde, Otto Lucht, Lawrence Jacobs and Joseph Leichte,

were seated around a card table in the rear of a poolroom,

in the little town of Monitor, Oregon. A fifth man had just left the interesting card game, and now the four remaining players were intensely absorbed in the pastime. Suddenly someone came behind the partition, covered the men with

a revolver, and introduced himself by saying:

“Now just sit still, boys, keep your hands up in the air and you won’t get hurt.” The men gasped; eyes and mouths widened in astonishment; then quickly eight hands shot to the ceiling. The man who held the revolver with an unwavering grip was a short,

chunky, dark-complexioned man, with a crooked, cynical smile touching his lips, and the four young fellows felt instinctively that his face and features were familiar to them.

Where had they seen that face or that likeness before? These silent questions were answered immediately, and a trickle of agitation, like a faint electric shock, went through them when two more men entered the room. One was a blond231

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haired young fellow, with gray eyes that glittered like cold steel, and the other, a muscular-built man, whose luminous

eyes and sullen and morose expression on bitter features, caused them to realize at once that they were in the very midst of the much-wanted Tom Murray and his gang. Murray seemed to read their thoughts, and he regarded them for a moment, a reassuring smile on his lips. “I guess you fellows know already that we're the escaped cons from the joint,” he said grimly. “We don’t intend to hurt you if you do what you’re told. Stand up. We want to give you a frisk and see if you've got any rods on you.” Kelley and Willos searched the quartet carefully, but they found no weapons. Willos then kept a close watch over the four guys, while his two fugitive companions gathered up a sackful of canned food from the shelves in the front part of the building, took several dollars from the cash register, and leaving several dollars, Murray remarking that “We just want some change.” After making sure that they had overlooked no weapons in the poolroom, they herded the four outside, to where Lawrence Jacobs’ touring car was parked. Murray gruffly ordered the men inside, and they started off down the Pacific Highway, travelling in the direction of Portland. All went well for a while on the way down the road. The fear was blotted out of the young fellows’ eyes when the realization struck them that these three desperados were only human, after all, and were not intent on murder at every

move unless forced into it. One of the captives, who was apparently the village cut-up around his home town of Monitor, regained his poise to the extent of cracking numerous

humorous jokes, and finally he even began kidding the three fugitives about their flight from the posses. This was a little too much for Tom Murray. His physical and mental equipment was strained from the constant vigil of outwitting the manhunters, and his nerves were worn to

a raw edge. Lightning darted from his eyes, and an ugly look gripped his face as he turned to his wise-cracking

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hostage. “Dummy up, you. I'll tell you when to open your damned trap.” The young fellow sobered instantly, and until the car was on the outskirts of Canby, Oregon, there was only ominous silence. Here the car ran out of gasoline, and Murray forced one of the boys to walk to a garage at Canby and get some. When the boy returned with the gasoline and it was poured into the tank, the car wouldn't start immediately. Something had gone wrong with the distributor, but

Murray was unaware of this. All three of the fugitives became very angry, and then Murray, with wrath blazing from his eyes, openly accused one of the boys of tampering

with the car in some way. Finally it got to working, however, and they continued on down the Pacific Highway toward Oregon City. It was five o’clock Monday morning now, and suddenly the jarring thought entered Murray’s mind that it was becoming too light to remain on the much-travelled highway with safety. He ordered the car stopped, and after a short

conference, the fugitives decided to turn off on a side-road near by, which went to New Era, Oregon. A little while after this, they pulled up to Mr. C. L. Newman’s house, which lay off the highway on another side road. The house, a three-room affair, built of rough weather-boarding, and

almost completely surrounded by a thick foliage of trees, attracted Tom Murray's attention immediately. “Say, fellows, there would sure be a swell place to hole up for today,”

he said, directing his gaze to Kelley

and

Willos. “That would give us a chance to get these damn posses off our trail. What do you think of it?” Kelley and Willos gazed hard at the house for a moment in deep deliberation, then they both nodded firm agreement. “Good idea. They would never suspect us being here in a million years,” said Willos, warming to the subject. “But say, Tom,

look—there’s

somebody

sleeping under

that tree over there.” Murray looked and saw a sleeping figure under the trees,

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and then he shrugged. “He won’t be very long,” he said. “Blackie, you stay here in the car and keep a watch on these birds, and Kelley and I will go over and get this yahoo.” The yahoo out under the trees was Leslie Newman, the seventeen-year-old son. The boy didn’t like to sleep under a

roof during the hot summer months, and he had his bed out in the yard, under some trees. It was just about daylight when he was awakened by the noise of an automobile as it came up a hill, near his home. He was still sleepy, however, and did not move until he was rudely shocked from his pleasant coma, when he heard a strange voice say: “Gee,

Kelley, he’s only a kid.” The boy looked up and his heart bounded when he saw a man, whom he later identified as Murray, standing over him with a rifle in his hand. “All right, son,” Murray said,

grinning amiably. “Just stay in bed and don’t move, and we won't hurt you.” Murray then went through a window on the south side

of the house to effect his entry. Kelley took up his post at the west door, and Willos remained in the car, alertly keeping guard over the four youngsters they had kidnapped at

Monitor. After Murray had crawled through a screen window into the house, he found himself in the dining-room. From there, he opened a bedroom door a few inches, and saw Mrs. Isabell Newman asleep in bed. Murray awakened

her by calling out: “I am Tom Murray, lady. Hurry up and get dressed and come out.”

Mrs. Newman

opened her eyes and stared at him, so

frightened she could hardly think coherently. Almost unconsciously, she called to her husband, her voice filled with

incredulity and shock. Murray was unaware of Mr. Newman’s presence in the room, and upon hearing the woman call her husband’s name, he entered and brought them both

out, apologizing to her for his act. Newman’s younger son, Lyle, was asleep in the third room, but the convict did not

look in there until about an hour later. After Murray had

OVER THE WALL ushered Mr. and Mrs. Newman

into the living-room,

235 he

motioned to Kelley, and he yelled to Blackie Willos to bring the four Monitor youths inside the house. Kelley, all this time, had been standing guard at the west door. Willos brought young Leslie Newman inside, along with

the men he had been guarding in the car, and the entire

group was herded together in the living-room, which was also used as the dining-room. Murray then ordered Mrs. Newman to cook some food for the fugitives. The woman,

by this time, had gained control of her swiftly beating pulses, and she went coolly about the task of preparing breakfast. The rest of the family busied themselves around the house, helping her, and two of the fugitives and sometimes all three kept watch over them. This was an unnec-

essary precaution, as the Newman family were quite sensible and sane, and were not contemplating any false moves.

Immediately following breakfast, which had been shared

by everyone, Murray pushed back his chair, and curtly gave the Newman family their instructions. “Go about your work today as you have always done,” he said. “You four men,” gesturing to the Monitor youths, “will remain inside

the house all day. Don’t start moving around or getting rambunctious. The quieter you sit, the better off you'll be. The

rest of you—do what you're supposed to do, but don’t start acting scared or suspicious and you won’t get hurt.” About ten o’clock, Leslie Newman went to get the mail. When the convicts had arrived that morning, they made

the boy back Mr. Newman’s car out of the garage, and drive the hot heap, their own car, in the garage in its place. The

convicts then closed the door so that the missing machine would not be found. So when Leslie took the Newman car to get the mail, he made an irreparable mistake. The box was located at only a five-minute walk from the house—and he

should have walked. For Tom Murray went with him and saw him drive. And then it was that the escaped fugitive decided on taking young Newman

into Portland with him.

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The convicts, as well as the members of the family and the four Monitor youths, ate three times that day. One fugitive would keep guard over everyone in the house while the remaining two would eat with the hostages. Murray and Willos were cool and collected at all times, and often they were actually carefree and jovial in their actions. Blackie Willos performed an amazing array of baffling card tricks during the day for everyone’s amusement, and Murray talked quite freely with Mr. Newman. Murray learned that Newman was a newspaper man, whose home was located in Berkeley, California, and that this was merely his summer retreat in New Era, Oregon. The convict, in turn, gave his unwilling benefactor his version of the thrilling escape, minutely describing every detail, and there were several discrepancies between the of-

ficial version and his own version. He claimed that Kelley and Willos were standing with their hands in the air, under cover of five guards, armed with guns, just outside the iron

fence of the prison, and also covered by a guard in the bullpen tower, when Jones came around the corner and chased them all away. Also that Oregon Jones instead of Kelley picked up the pump shotgun, and sent the load of buck-

shot through Holman’s brain. It is obvious that Murray’s principal reason in citing this last variation, was to protect Crowbar Kelley, to absolve him from all blame during the shooting fray. In contrast with Murray and Willos’s apparent cheerfulness, Kelley was morose and nervous. He was carrying a small quantity of strychnine on his person. Now that Jones, his pal, was dead, he was not taking much interest in the

proceedings, except an intense desire to get away. “Snap out of the gloom, Crowbar,” Murray admonished

him during the day. Exposing the poisonous alkaloid, and fighting desperately to gain control of his twitching, jerking lips, Kelley muttered: “They’ll never take me alive. They got my buddy,

OVER

THE

WALL

237

Oregon, and they’ll have to bump me before I'll go back.” Murray laughed quietly, shrugged his shoulders as if to throw off the weight of his pal’s deprecations. “You ain’t got nothing on me,” he said, drawing a 32-20 bullet from the inner recesses of one pocket. “Here's a slug for me in case I get cornered.” “And here’s one for me,” echoed Blackie Willos, a glint of battle in his veiled glance as he looked up. Murray or Kelley or Willos could not foresee what cruel fate was in store for them. If they had been able to, they would have, in all probability, ended their lives then and

there. Murray informed Mr. Newman confidentially that it was his firm belief that Kelley, in his sullen, morose and dis-

contented frame of mind, would not evince interest in anything ports the newspapers carried whereabouts. Once he lifted his

commit suicide. Kelley did except the many false reconcerning the fugitives’ brows inquiringly at Mur-

ray, who was chuckling, and then he asked:

“What are you grinning about?” Murray opened his mouth and roared mirthlessly. “Grinning at some of the crazy pipe dreams the Portland newspapers are printing about us,” he replied. “Listen to this—it’s

hot.” “Haw, haw, haw,” laughed Kelley and Willos in chorus.

“What does it say, Tom?”

“Why, it says here that [ was badly wounded in the escape from the joint, and that you guys were forced to rod me

off. Just look at that glaring black type. It says that the buzzards were seen flying over my dead body.” “Say, that’s the best joke I ever heard,” he chirped. “Gee,

I wasn’t badly wounded. Just got shot in the arm, but there’s nothing the matter with it.” Suddenly his shoulders straight-

ened. From beneath the lids, his eyes held a glint of steel as he surveyed his companions. “I've got full use of my arm, and if anybody don’t think so, why, just let them try and run up against it.”

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Murray referred to being shot only in the arm, but he had four bullet wounds in his left hand and his chest and stomach were literally peppered with buckshot. He had not even taken the trouble to bandage his hands, which were

badly burned from the slide down the rope. Willos had a bad wound on his left hand where a bullet from one of the

guard’s guns had grazed it. He had it bandaged, as well as the other hand, which had been burned by the escape rope. Kelley was burned slightly across the hand and across his stomach where searing bullets had grazed his skin. “Well, Blackie, old boy,” said Tom Murray to Willos, late during the evening, while the pair were washing dishes for Mrs. Newman, awaiting the next step in their getaway,

which was closely approaching that hour, “I guess we won’t go to heaven, eh?” These two fugitives were in a jovial mood, but as the zero hour drew nearer, their demeanor suddenly changed. Willos, who had been amusing the four Monitor youths all day, if one could call it such, with his entertaining card tricks

and riddles, suddenly sobered. After glancing at the dial of the clock, his swarthy face slowly changed expression. Both he and Tom Murray became what Kelley already was— grim-faced, dangerously alert fugitive murderers from justice. It was about seven o'clock when the convicts picked up their bag, which they put their guns into. They loaded all

their rifles into it. Their revolvers were stuck in their belts. They boasted of having plenty of ammunition, and the lone shell for the last shot. Murray stood up. The boyish look did not seem to be with him any more. His voice was very quiet but like cutting steel as he turned to Newman, his narrowed gray eyes burning into the older man’s. “Mr. Newman, I'm taking your son into Portland with me. I am taking him with no thought of harming him, only as a protection to us.” For a brief moment, Newman was stunned into silence.

OVER THE WALL

239

“You're what?” he exploded suddenly. “You're taking my boy with you?”

Murray disregarded the pleading intonation in the other’s voice. “I am sorry that human instincts are no longer with us,” he said. “But we are fugitives—our very lives are at stake in every move we make. We are going to take your son, and this man,” pointing to Leo Wilde, “into Portland with us. If no alarm is sent in, then your boy and this man

will return alive. But on the other hand, if you choose to double-cross us—then, your boy and this other youth will die. We will have to kill them.”

Newman’s soul was seething with rebellion at this quirk of Fate that had sent these desperados to his home to terrorize him this way. As he considered the hopelessness of it all, a sudden wave of fury came over him. He set up a vigorous

argument but the grim-lipped Murray would not budge from his determination to take the boy away as a hostage for him and his pals. Then Newman tried persuasion and

reasoning, but of no avail. Finally he said: “Will you promise me, Murray, that my son and this other chap will return here in two-and-one-half hours?”

Murray nodded his head in immediate assent. “I'll promise you that they’ll return to you in that time. If they don’t, you can call the authorities.” And then Mr. Newman, an honest, law-abiding citizen,

and Tom

Murray, a desperate fugitive from a prison, sol-

emnly shook hands to acknowledge the agreement. A few moments later, they started down the highway. They approached Oregon City, a bustling little metropolis, over the

hill, and they had a look at the bridge. They were of divided opinion here as to what to do, whether to go over the bridge

there or down the east side. They had heard that a chain had been stretched across the bridge. Kelley’s haggard and melancholy face twisted in a mirthless smile. He rasped harshly: “Let’s make a go of it and

blast it out with the two guards on either side of the chain.

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Let’s shoot our way through.” Kelley was a determined man. After a short, hurried conference, Murray

and Willos

agreed to this, and they ordered the boy to drive down and over the bridge. Taut with an ominous dread that he could hardly control, Leslie did as he was told, and they crossed

and came down on the west side, slipping past heavily armed guards, apparently without the slightest suspicion.

From

there, they travelled over a detour out beyond Sellwood

district and came into the city. Over the entire distance between Oregon City and Portland, they passed safely through a veritable cordon of heav-

ily armed police, and one time they passed directly by four traffic officers. Each time they encountered a traffic officer,

there was a little tension but nothing happened. After they entered the city limits of Portland, they passed swarms of uniformed officers constantly. In the southern part of the city, Leo Wilde was sent into a chain grocery store by Murray to purchase food for the fugitives, and both he and the clerk who waited on him were under the rifles of Kelley and Willos at all times. Murray was riding in the front seat with Leslie, Kelley sat behind him, young Wilde was in the middle, and Willos was behind the boy. He held a sawed-off shotgun in the back of Leslie’s neck all the way into Portland. He did not even take the precaution to cover it up and it was in plain sight of anyone who happened to pass. Murray was directing things, and he instructed young Newman to obey every traffic regulation, to take no chance of being intercepted for

such an offense. He told the boy him circling around the streets realized at once that the fugitive by going around the same block

where to go, and he kept for many minutes. Leslie was trying to get him lost several times. Many times

he saw the same corner and the same officers on it, but he

maintained strict silence, and ventured no interrogatory remarks.

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WALL

241

Murray’s teeth clicked with a curse as he flung the butt of a cigarette in a cascading stream of sparks from the car. “If we can make our getaway from here tonight, in the morning we will be all clear.”

The boy heard that remark, but it didn’t mean much to him. He couldn’t realize the strain that is borne by hunted men. He just kept his eyes glued to the front and drove the little Chevrolet wherever Murray told him to put it. He was

obeying every order.

Finally Murray said: “Take us to

Tenth and Washington Streets, and when you get back home, tell your father you left us there.”

The boy nodded that he understood. The convict then told him where to go, and he went. At the right streets, the

fugitives unloaded, and Leslie drove away.

He was around

the corner and on his way home at forty miles an hour. As soon as he and Wilde were alone in the car, his taut nerves almost broke. Although he consciously willed against it, his body trembled slightly from the experience he had just been through. He pressed his foot down hard on the accel-

erator to obtain the maximum speed of the little car. Some

few miles down the highway, a traffic officer tried to stop

him, but was forced to jump out of the way of the onrushing

machine. For Leslie Newman was frightened, frightened more now than he had ever been when with the convicts. He realized that if he had stopped, as nervous as he was, he might have

reported the whole incident, and those threats might have been carried out. The papers had prominently mentioned throughout their many stories of the escape and flight, that Blackie Willos was the weak sister of the desperate trio.

But Young Newman's definite impression at that time was that he was anything but that. That repulsive shotgun muz-

zle that Willos had kept pressed to the nape of his neck had stamped an indelible remembrance on the boy’s mind, and he claimed that he would have rather met either Murray or

Kelley than this swarthy-faced member.

Mr. Newman's

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opinion varied from that of his son’s, in that he believed that

Murray was the most dangerous of the three fugitives. During a lifetime of meeting people and analyzing them, he had developed the faculty of judging human nature at a glance. He said: “Tom Murray was one of the shrewdest individuals I have ever come across. He was a dangerous chap. In all his story of their flight, not once did he tell of one instance where

Kelley did any shooting. Kelley was always lagging behind —but not Murray. He was the real leader of the trio and he was some

leader, believe me. I wouldn’t

have wanted

to

meet up with him in a tight corner, whether he was armed or not. I would say that he was one of the most dangerous individuals that was ever in this country. He said he didn’t

want to kill anybody, although admitting that he murdered

Sweeney, but he had a killer’s eye, and he would have shot anyone in an instant who tried to thwart his freedom, take it from me.” The Warden of the penitentiary severely criticized Mr. Newman for failing to report the three convicts’ presence immediately to the prison officials. Mr. Newman made the following reply to the Warden: “I could have easily escaped a half-a-dozen times that day. I could have quite easily notified the authorities so that the convicts could have been captured. But those three desperados had my wife and my two sons as hostages, and the first overt act would have meant the instant murder of my family. “My wife and my children mean everything to me. Penitentiary officials had Murray, Willos and Kelley in cells, away from firearms. They let them escape, let them steal guns from the very prison itself, let them slip through a cordon of guards, and let them

come

to my

home

and

terrorize me and my family. I did what I think was right. I don’t care what the Warden or the Deputies of the prison think of my conduct. If they had paid more attention to

OVER their

business,

that

thing

THE

WALL

would

never

243 have

happened.

“I made an agreement with the convicts when they left my place that if my boy and the young fellow from Monitor, who were taken as hostages, were returned to me alive,

within two-and-one-half hours, I would not turn in an alarm until at the end of that time. I kept my word. As

soon as my boy stepped inside the house on his return, word was

dispatched

to the Portland

Police Department,

and

Chief of Police Jenkins was summoned from his bed to or-

ganize his force for a search. I had been protecting my family and I didn’t want my boy shot because I failed to keep my word. Because I kept my agreement, my family has nothing to fear from those desperate men.”

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

VEN the notorious Harry Tracy and his equally notorious pal, Merrill, never showed such bravado as this trio of desperadoes who entered Oregon’s chief city and openly defied Portland. Tom Murray was still wearing his prison garb, with the exception of a blue jumper and a faded blue shirt, with glaring, red numbers plastered all over,

when he left Leslie Newman's car at Tenth and Washington Streets. He even had on his heavy prison shoes, although a light gray cap was tilted at a devil-may-care angle on his head. His nerve was tremendous. He was taking every chance, and was gambling his very life with his utterly reck-

less daring, determined to bluff his way through a veritable swarming beehive of heavily armed officers who were looking for his and his two fugitive companions’ blood.

Chief of Police Jenkins, after being summoned from his bed, rushed to Headquarters, and called out every available

man on the force. Hotels and rooming houses were minutely combed, as well as every place in the city where men could

possibly hide. Sawed-off shotguns, machine guns, rifles and heavy-calibered revolvers were much in evidence as the blue-coated forces were mobilized. But the elusive Tom Murray and his pals continued to evade their feverish pursuers, through

almost uncanny

strategy, and their where-

abouts were just as profound a mystery as before.

The days rolled slowly by, days that were crammed with tremendous excitement as hundreds of so-called red-hot clues poured in, and when run down, only proved to be false and unfounded. 244

OVER THE WALL

245

Then fate took a hand.

Rat-Eye Carson, an ordinary vagrant and police tool, had been arrested in Portland on a vagrancy charge about the time the Murray hunt was at its height, and all of the

posses of manhunters had been centralized in that region. Carson was nothing more than a Police Department stoolpigeon. True, he was a petty criminal whose depredations on society usually consisted of a burglarized room down on the skidroads, a few fictitious checks, or a petit larceny rap, but he was a criminal that the higher type of crooks care-

fully avoided. For he was known as a “cat”—a man who would go to the bulls and betray his associates without batting an eye. He had served several jail sentences in Portland, and this time when he was ushered into the Police Court, Judge Elkwall gave him a sixty-day sentence, but suspended the sentence, however, with the curt dismissal to “Get out of town

and stay out.” He immediately took the judge at his word, and scurrying across the wide Columbia River with all possible haste, he went to Vancouver, Washington. This was on Friday, August 21st, and some time after six o’clock in the evening, he entered the railroad yards of that city in search of an outgoing freight. Vancouver was no place for him, being only two miles across the placid stream from Portland, where he was well-known

by the criminals and

police alike, and thoroughly despised by both. At 6:45 ». Mm. he crawled into a box car of a fast freight, bound for Seattle.

There were some thirty or forty hoboes inside the car, the usual run of wandering, restless vagrants, “moochin

cigarette snipes” and telling each other of the “hot bulls” scattered at the different division points. Suddenly their conversation turned to the current topic of the day, which was on everyone's lips, the topic of Tom Murray and his

desperate flight for freedom.

Everyone was chattering his

personal opinion of the break, seemingly trying to outdo

the others as a conversationalist—all but one.

This fellow,

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a blonde-headed chap, with a haggard and drawn face, who

had been sitting on his haunches over in a dark corner of the car, slowly raised up and came over to where Philip Carson was sitting. “Got a match, buddy?” he asked of Carson, in a casual

tone. Carson nodded and handed his box of matches to the stranger. The fellow struck a match and cupped his hands around the flame in front of his face to light his cigarette. The light brought his worn and hollow-eyed features clearly to view. Carson felt there was something strangely familiar about that drawn face, the set of the well-shaped jaw, the gleam of the hard, gray eyes. “Thanks,” the chap said, and started to walk back to the

corner in the far end of the car. Suddenly Carson’s heart bounded; then almost stood still. He could scarcely believe his eyes. “Wait,” he said in a tense whisper. “I want to see you a minute.” The other turned, his eyes narrowed with instinctive suspicion. “What do you want?” Carson sidled up close. He smiled crookedly. “You're Tom Murray,” he whispered hoarsely. “I know you.” Murray’s eyes, steel-colored and sharp as gimlet points, sized up the man before him. He said nothing, but his right hand made a perceptible movement under his coat. “I'm a friend, Tom,” Carson went on hurriedly, speaking in a low voice, as if he had to save himself with words before

disaster could overtake him. “You don’t have to be suspicious of me. I know just what you've been through, and what you're facing if you get caught. I'm a crook myself, just got run out of Portland today by a Judge, and I want to help you to get away.” Murray’s eyes softened. He turned a weary gaze on Carson.

For some reason, he trusted this rat at once.

“You

really want to help me to get away?” he asked. It is peculiar that Tom Murray would make a remark like that to this man. He was too shrewd an individual

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247

ordinarily to have felt instant confidence in a man of Carson’s type. For Carson’s features betrayed just what he was. Perhaps it was that Murray was so tired, so worn of body and lonesome of soul that he just wanted someone to pour his troubles out to. Why he ever chose to open up his heart to this fink is a deep mystery, but nevertheless, he did just that. He told Carson everything. Murray told Carson that after he, Willos and Kelley had arrived in Portland shortly after ten o'clock, the Monday night previous, they immediately stole an automobile and drove to The Dalles, Oregon.

From there, they then crossed

the Columbia Riverona ferry, over to White Salmon, Wash-

ington, where they had been hiding in the woods and brush. He said that about three o’clock on the afternoon of August 20th, he and Blackie Willos had had a fight. There had been an old baggage car near the station at White Salmon,

and Willos wanted to get into it and try to get some clothing to replace his convict attire. Murray objected vigorously, but Willos, having been a railroad man at one time in his career, climbed inside anyway, and when he emerged from

the car, Murray demanded, “What in the hell did you get in there for?” Willos’s instant reply had been, “None of your damn business. To hell with you!” There had been some more angry words which passed between the men, and then the three agreed to split. Murray was to go east, and Willos and Kelley were to remain at White Salmon for a while, and then hit out by themselves, with Willos as the leader. Instead of going east, Murray,

for some unknown reason, came down the Columbia River

and went to Vancouver, where Carson met him. When the freight arrived at Centralia, Washington, some ninety miles from Vancouver, Carson suggested to Murray that they unload there, as he said that he knew “a swell dump to heist,” which would net them about five hundred dollars.

Murray agreed to this suggestion, and the men further planned to go from Centralia to Tacoma, Washington, and

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stage another hold-up. From Tacoma, they would make their entry into Canada, and thence travel across the Dominion to Toronto, and thence to Buffalo, New York,

back to the States. So thoroughly had this Portland stoolpigeon gained Murray’s confidence, that his every rapid word seemed to breathe new life in the fugitive’s worn body. After a while the grayness left his face. The glitter went out of Murray’s eyes, to be succeeded by tense eagerness and hopefulness.

We must leave Murray and Carson for a while to relate a few facts of another phase of the thrilling climax which was rapidly closing around Murray, to terminate his flight from justice. As was his habit afrer an evening out, Mr. George L. Barner, Mayor of Centralia, stopped at the local Police Station, anxious to share in any of the excitement or

thrills of his police department. About midnight, Police Chief James Compton and Mayor Barner were talking with the desk sergeant, when Patrolman C. D. Pilling entered the station with a small, worried-looking man in his custody. “What have you got there?” the Chief queried jokingly. “Looks like a hype.” “Or a nut,” the patrolman agreed half-jocularly. Suddenly he straightened; his face became serious. guy tells me a queer story.

“Chief, this

I don’t believe it, but I'm going

to pass it on to you.” The Chief grinned amiably.

“Go ahead, Charlie.

I'm

listening.” “I'm standing on a street downtown,” Pilling said, “when a logger approached me and said he had seen a man trying to steal an automobile. As the logger was describing the suspect to me, two other men crossed the street near us, and

the logger said: ‘There’s the man now.’ “I told the logger to wait on the street, and I trailed the pair to a restaurant, the Rialto Café. You know the one I mean, Chief, the small lunch counter, out of the main busi-

ness district.”

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The chief nodded absently. “Yeah, I know. The one with the red-headed fluff serving hamburgers. Go ahead, Charlie.” “Well, one of the men was this little guy here. I observed them until after they had finished eating, and then this fellow

went upstairs to the office of the Savoy Hotel.

The other

man, a husky-built guy, waited across the street, near the café. When this man came down again to the street, he motioned for his companion to join him and they both went back up the stairs. This looked kind of suspicious to me,

Chief, so I entered the hotel and looked at the register, on

which this man had signed the names of John and Billy Williams.

“While I was at the desk conversing with the clerk, this man came out of the room and started down to the street. I guzzled him at the head of the stairs, and as I'm not wear-

ing my uniform tonight, I easily engaged him in a conversation. This guy likes to talk when he gets started, and he inquired right away what I do for a living. I told him I was in town to help decorate the streets for the fair.” (The

Southwest Washington Fair.) The Chief and Mayor Barner both laughed heartily at this last remark. “How’d you ever come to think of telling him that?” Compton asked. The prisoner shifted uneasily on his feet, and cocked a fishy eye on the Chief. Pilling disregarded the interruption and went on with his story. “This guy replied right away that he followed that line also, and he wanted to know if I could get him to help doll up the town. He became so chummy and talked so much that I became more suspicious of him, and convinced that he wasn’t right. I then told him I was an officer, and ordered him to step into the next

doorway to be shook down.

He didn’t have a rod or any-

"thing on him, so I took him up the street to see if the logger

could identify him. “You know Doan, the logger, Chief.

Well, he said this

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was the guy he had seen, so we all started back to the hotel to see if he could identify this man’s partner. This guy gets awful nervous then, when I started questioning him about his pal upstairs. He gets in a high emotional pitch, and in a quaking voice, he asks me if I can get ten or a dozen

men quick. He told me the man upstairs in the Savoy Hotel is Tom Murray.” For a long time there was only absolute silence in the room. The other three officers were staggered at Pilling’s startling information. They could hardly believe the story they had heard. And then— “What's that?” the Chief thundered presently. “This guy must be crazy.”

Officer Pilling shrugged. think he’s a nut,” he said.

“I’ve already told you that I “But just to be one hundred per

cent safe, I brought him down to Headquarters for further questioning.”

‘The Chief’s face hardened perceptibly as he turned to the prisoner. “Well, what's your game? Come on, tell us about it.”

At Compton’s words, a strange canny expression came over the man’s face. He steadied himself with a great effort. “My name is not Williams,” he said. “My name is Philip Carson. I'm an amateur detective from Portland, and I've

been reading about this escaped convict, Tom Murray.

I

saw him once when I was on a visit down to the stir, and

believing him a menace to society, I made up my mind right in Portland that I was going to get him dead or alive.” Chief Compton gave him a puzzled glance. “We're not

interested in in the Savoy The fear his eagerness

you,” he admonished. “Who is this man down Hotel?” in Carson’s eyes was almost blotted out with to tell. Confession trembled on his lips. The

Chief knew that he needed no persuasion; it would come if

he waited. Carson then related how he had met Murray in

the box car at Vancouver, how he had chummed up to him

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to gain his confidence in the car where some other forty knights of the cinder trail were talking of the escape. He told of how Tom Murray, half-conscious from weariness, was completely taken in by him. “At Centralia here, all of the bums unloaded, and me and

Murray quickly separated from the guts with some warm chuck and burg. Our first instinct was to get a small café and escape, but Murray and tired. So we bought a swell feed

rest to fill up our empty generally look over the heap, then stick up some was too sleepy, hungry and I told him to refresh

himself with some sleep while I catalogued the town.

That

was just a part of my game. I left Portland with the intention of capturing Murray, and I've succeeded.”

Carson’s story seemed so unreal and he wore such an habitually insane expression on his countenance,

that the

story was half-believed on that one point. For it is true that miracles do sometimes happen.

The officers decided that

Pilling should return to the rooming

house with Carson,

pose as a crook, get a look at the man in the hotel to ascertain if he really was Tom Murray. If the man was Murray, then the officers would all be ready to go to any means of capturing him. Other night patrolmen were called in off the street by the signal of a street light and several DeputySheriffs were hastily called from Chehalis, three miles away. The plan was for Carson to introduce Officer Pilling to Murray, as “Babe” Foote, a local wrestler, who was in bad with the police department, and with whom he had already pulled a couple of stick-ups. It was further agreed that “Foote” should know of some roadhouse which could be easily held up, that was a cinch to net several hundred dol-

lars in cash. He was to convey this information to the fugitive convict to gain his confidence. Naturally, there would have to be a driver, and Pilling’s alert brain immediately found a solution for this. Why not use Mayor Barner for the taxi-driver? Barner readily agreed to this. He was looking for thrilling

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excitement, and perhaps this coming incident would furnish his adventurous mind all the stimulation he was looking for. Pilling shed his suit, got some old clothes and an old hat, discarded his outside shirt, having on only a heavy undershirt, thus presenting the appearance of just having crawled

out of bed, and the officers and Carson were ready to go. Barner drove to within a few doors of the Savoy Hotel. Carson and Pilling went up into the place, and the informer

gave a knock on the panel of the door. After what seemed to be an interminable period to the officer, the door suddenly swung open—and there stood the much-wanted Murray. Pilling knew in an instant that this really was their man, and in spite of himself, he felt a trickle of cold perspira-

tion on his forehead. His quick eyes noted that the convict’s big revolver lay on a small table near the bed. The men stepped inside, the door was closed, and Carson introduced “Babe Foote” to Murray. Sudden, tense silence ensued while the fugitive surveyed the so-called wrestler from head to foot—painstakingly and thoroughly. Then he nodded agreement that the man was all right. And

Pilling did look all right.

Tall, broad-shouldered

and muscularly built, with a heavy sweat-shirt over his torso, he looked just like what he was posing to be, a seasoned,

heavyweight wrestler... The proposed hold-up of the mythical roadhouse was explained to Murray and he seemed anxious to get going. “It won’t take long to get a taxi-driver that I can depend on,” Pilling suggested. “I know one—a good egg.” Murray nodded approvingly. “You get him,” he rasped. “If he don’t act right, we can bump him off and take his car.” Pilling’s eyes were suddenly narrowed with the force of an illuminating idea. “And I'll get you a new gun, Tom—" Murray's lips twisted with a sudden, savage snarl. “Tom?” he exploded, when a wild suspicion leaped to his mind. “My

name is Billy Williams.”

Pilling gazed confusedly at the convict for a moment, and

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253

then he said steadily, “Pardon me. I thought your name was Tom Williams. Well, as I was saying, I'll get you a new gun and plenty of ammunition. We'll be back in a few minutes.” As soon as Pilling and Carson reached the other officers outside, Pilling whispered sharply: “That’s him.

Oh, that’s

him. There can’t be no mistake.” Carson’s face had gone pasty white and he said in a quaking voice : “For God's sake, don’t mess this thing up, fellows.

Murray would kill me first for the double-cross I gave him.” The officers’ brows corrugated as they gazed at the fearful informer. They nodded understanding. Chief of Police Compton then stationed himself a few feet from the doorway of the hotel, in the darkness, with a drawn revolver in his hand. On the other side of the stairway entrance was a deputy-sheriff. Both were ready if the plan failed to capture Murray without bloodshed.

Patrolman Bob Stratton was

sent around to the rear of the hotel to stand guard there,

lest this might be just a clever scheme on the part of Murray and Carson to procure guns from the officers. They did not trust this informer themselves. An eternal double-cross was imprinted indelibly on his features. They believed it might be his intention to shoot Pilling, and then escape to the rear. Just before they started back upstairs, Carson said: “I'm going to hang back when we come back out. I've got a hunch there might be some shooting.” When the men got back to the room, Pilling had a change of clothing for Tom and a new revolver, fully loaded, which

“Foote” exchanged with him. All this won over the fugitive completely, and it was agreed that Murray was to be the leader when they arrived at the roadhouse. Pilling was making doubly certain, however, that he showed no suspicion

that this man was the escaped convict. He was merely conveying his supposition to Murray, that he believed he was in company with a man from a hot job somewhere, nothing more. It was now after 1 A. M. Murray thrust the revolver

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which Pilling had given him, under his belt, stepped quickly to the door, and opened it. “Well, let’s go and stick up this roadhouse, and get it over with,” he said harshly.

Pilling and Carson followed him out in the hall, and at the head of the stairs, the informer suddenly stopped.

“I've

got to go to the toilet for a minute, Tom,” he said, planning to absent himself from the actual capture. Murray turned on him, a thoughtful, sort of puzzled look on his face, but he said nothing.

He nodded

agreement.

Pilling and Murray then went down to the swinging doors that opened on the sidewalk. There the fugitive stopped for a brief pause, sizing up Barner’s Nash car, with alert, intel-

ligent eyes. After a moment, he turned to Pilling and muttered: “We’ll get rid of him after the stick-up.” They stepped out on the street, and just before Mayor Barner got the door of the car open, Murray, whose arms were hanging loosely at his sides, was seized in a vise-like grip by the husky pseudo-wrestler around the body, just below the elbows. Mayor Barner scrambled from the car, and springing to the convict’s hips, he could feel the large

revolver held in the front of his waist, by his belt. The other officers quickly closed in, and after a short but desperate struggle, Murray announced:

“I guess you guys have got me all right. Let go my neck.” The officers allowed him to straighten up, but they maintained a grip of steel on his arms. His eyes flashed ominously and a bitter laugh welled to his tight lips.

“Well, I'll be

damned,” he gritted. “I have thought of about every way I could be taken in—but this. Pretty clever, boys, pretty clever.” Murray hesitated a moment, his keen gray eyes roving over the group of officers. “There is just one thing I want to know,” he continued. “Did that fellow upstairs have anything to do with this?”

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“Who

is that

fellow with you, anyway?” Tom shrugged his shoulders with a weary gesture. smiled wanly. “Well, that’s for you to find out.”

He

The revolver was removed from his waistband, the cuffs

quickly snapped on his wrists, and then all the officers went down to the station with the seized fugitive, where his suc-

cessful capture had been conspired. Chief Compton immediately wired the Warden of the Salem prison, informing him of Murray’s apprehension, and in less than fifteen min-

utes the calls started pouring in from the Portland newspaper offices for the facts of the capture. Murray did not

appear to be downhearted and agreed with the officials quite obligingly that perhaps it was for the best that the chase was over, but it was easy to distinguish that his true feelings were running in contrast to this statement. They

asked him more questions concerning his com-

panion, but he would freeze up and inform them that he

thought it was their business to find out such things from another source. Tom Murray thought he was being true to a loyal pal, who, he imagined, had escaped from the rear

entrance of the hotel. Murray asked Officer Stratton if he would like to have a souvenir, and Stratton replied that he would. The convict then told him to go back to the hotel, where he had been captured, and get his coat. He explained

that the shells with which he had done the killing were in

one of the pockets.

Stratton got the coat and brought it to the jail. From one of the pockets, he took three shells, one of them being a

30-30 loaded rifle shell.

shells.

The others were 32-20 revolver

Stratton handed the empty shells to Murray, who

gave them back to the officer, saying: “You may have them.

One of them killed Sweeney, and the other wounded Savage.” Murray said that he had five shots in the gun when he started out, and that he didn’t waste any lead. He said he

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got Sweeney with one shell, Savage with another, a third he lost somewhere in the brush and the other two were in

the gun when they took it from him.

It was decided that the best plan would be to take the desperado on to Portland on the 3:45 morning train, rather than to wait later, as it was feared he might possibly have

some friends or admirers who might attempt to wrest him from the officers, should they know of his capture. So Tom Murray was hustled quietly out of Centralia without over half-a-dozen persons being even aware of his seizure before

he left town. Word was wired ahead to the Portland police, however, and when they arrived in that city, early editions

of the various papers had the complete story, and many hundreds of persons were impatiently waiting at the Union Station to get a glimpse of the noted desperado. He had

been furnished a big steak before he had left Centralia, but when the officers arrived at Portland, Tom said he had one request, and that was to be taken into the Depot lunch room

for breakfast. large order of En route to of the papers

This request was granted and he enjoyed a ham and eggs there. Portland, a telegram was received from one to have the party, including Carson, the in-

former, ready for a flashlight picture at Kalama, Washing-

ton. In their conversations over the wires with the reporters

and officers in Oregon, they had given Carson a lion’s share of the credit for what had happened.

Carson, who had been

riding in a coach, directly behind the one where Murray was handcuffed to Pilling, could not resist the lure of getting into the newspaper picture, so at Kalama, he strolled out

on the platform to join the group.

Murray saw him imme-

diately, and he just stared for a moment, hardly believing his eyes. Then the full import of this man’s presence came jarring into his madly racing brain. In a flash the sickly truth struck him that his so-called pal had instigated his

downfall. His slate-gray eyes puckered to steel-colored slits, as he flashed his nemesis a look of deadly hatred. “Well, you dirty, double-crossing son-of-a-bitch,” he

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cried, with curses fairly frothing from his lips. “I may never get you myself, but I have friends that will. I wouldn't trade places with you, damn you, if I was going to be hung tomorrow.” Carson went sick with fear, his face turned a sickly green, and not being the man to stand the furious oaths that were being heaped upon him, he rushed back inside, shivering as

if afflicted with ague, promptly forgetting all about his picture. When the officers were back again in their seats, Mayor Barner asked Tom

what he knew about this fellow, and

Murray stated: “If I were to tell you all I know about him, he would hang, but that is not my code.

You fellows are officers, I

am a crook. If you want to know anything about him, you will be able to find it out for yourself.” Of course, Murray knew nothing about this stoolpigeon. Feeling about him as he would about some curious and repulsive animal, the convict, it seemed, was merely assuming that Carson was a fit subject to be hung. From Portland, the officers took Murray direct to Salem, fifty-

two miles away, being followed closely by literally dozens of cars, filled with police or curious civilians. As the desperado stepped from the car at the prison, he was handcuffed and heavily manacled to J. R. Carey, head Chapel guard, and Felix Herriford, Deputy-Sheriff of Lewis County, Washington. The convict smiled thinly as he was greeted by more than a score of newspaper men, officials and phtographers. Several photographs were taken. For the most part he kept his eyes directed glumly toward the ground, but he raised his head to exchange greetings with one of the female Federal prisoners. “You made a good try anyway, Tom,” the woman said, a sympathetic catch to her voice. A queer grin cracked his lips. “But not good enough,” he replied in a low tone, looking up to her.

The party escorting the prisoner was met at the head

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of the stairs in the administration building by the Warden and taken to the office, which was crowded with waiting

newspaper men. “Do you want to talk to these men?” the Warden asked. “I haven’t anything to say and it wouldn’t do any good, but if they want to talk to me—all right,” Murray replied. No questions were asked and he was led away to his cell, a cell placed in a row reserved for condemned men on the east side of the North Wing cell block, virtually beneath the very hole from which he and his companions had made their escape, and a cell he was never to leave for any length

of time—alive.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

OME fifteen hours after Tom Murray had been placed in a cell in Centralia, his two companions, Crowbar Kelley and Blackie Willos, were surprised and taken with-

out resistance by a posse of Multnomah County officials, ending a ten-day hunt for the fugitives. The two fugitives’ capture was effected largely through the aid of the in-

formant, Philip Carson, who, after having mentally catalogued the information given him by Murray, that Kelley and Willos had been hiding in the woods near White Sal-

mon, Washington, instantly conveyed this knowledge to the officers, and the posses were centered in that district.

Tom Murray had unconsciously been the direct cause of his two pals’ apprehension, through his disclosing of intimate facts to Carson. First, Sheriff Hurlburt, of Multnomah

County, Oregon, had received word that a store had been looted and an automobile stolen at Bingen, Washington, on

the night of August 21st.

Then, coupled right on this re-

port was another one, vastly more important.

It was the

wire telling of Murray’s capture, and the information regarding his two companions’ apparent whereabouts. Sheriff

Hurlburt put two and two together. He had a hunch and decided to put it on trial. He knew that Bingen and White Salmon were approximately neighboring towns in the State

of Washington. While these two towns were not under his jurisdiction, Hurlburt decided to investigate. His hunch resulted in the dispatch of a posse composed of Deputy-Sheriff’s Christopherson, Rexford and Jackson and Constable Gloss, all of 259

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Multnomah County, to that locality, August 22nd. About four o’clock that afternoon, the four officers, while driving along the Yakima-Glendale road, saw where a machine had recently been driven from the road into the brush of a deep canyon. Leaving their own machine, they slipped quietly down the canyon and found two haggard, heavy-eyed men eating lunch, whom they instantly recognized as the escaped convicts. The officers quickly surrounded the men, covered them with rifles, and then called out the usual, ominous re-

quest for instant obedience: “Stick em up. We've got you covered.” Four hands shot up in the air as Kelley and Willos obeyed the command.

For a fraction of a moment, the convicts

glared a little hollowly at each other, looking like two persons standing on the edge of an unseen precipice. Then Willos shrugged his shoulders wearily. “They’ve got us corraled dead to right, Crowbar,”

he muttered

dismally.

He turned slowly, facing his nearest captor. “I suppose you fellows will get a nice little reward out of this?” The officer side-stepped an immediate answer, and then the others closed in, handcuffed the fugitives securely and

placed them in their automobile. The two desperadoes were

tired, dead tired, and looked like anything but man-killing

fugitives from a State prison. They were so sleepy that after Cascade Locks were passed on the ride from Hood River to Portland, Kelley asked permission of Constable Gloss, who

occupied the rear seat with the captives, to recline.

For a few minutes after his head had touched the back cushion, his hands rested limply on his knees, his red-rimmed eyes staring moodily at the ceiling of the car. “Thank God, I'll get a good night’s sleep tonight, anyway,” he remarked faintly. “We've been through hell.” An instant later, he was sleeping soundly. Two indictments charging the recaptured trio of prison breakers with first degree murder were speedily returned by the Marion County Grand Jury shortly before noon,

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261

August 28, 1925, a bare few days after their incarceration

in the gloomy death cells at the penitentiary. One indictment charged that the three convicts murdered Guard Holman with a “gun” while the other indictment accused them of slaying Guard Sweeney with a “revolver.” Tom Murray procured Mr. Will R. King, ex-State Supreme Court Judge, as his chief defense attorney, and on the morning of October 5, 1925, he went on trial for his life, with a jury to decide his fate, composed of nine men and three women.

Judge King was a brilliant lawyer, a man thoroughly

skilled in legal knowledge, and it was virtually his first act

to ask for an order of the court, authorizing the jury to inspect the prison premises. He urged that this inspection be made prior to the opening statements by the attorneys. Special request was made that the jurors be allowed to view the prison bullpen and dungeons. Judge King realized what a hopeless case he had in trying to save his client from the gallows. But he determined to resort to every loophole, to every technicality of law, to the very utmost of his sparkling talent, in a desperate effort to triumph, and he decided to

start right with the bullpen. For his defense was: That the convict acted in fear of his life in escaping, and that his mental condition at that

time should be considered as a mitigating circumstance. That it was Murray’s belief that to remain in prison was to leave his life in jeopardy; that the prison conditions were such as to encourage and excuse an attempted break; and

that he was justified in shooting if necessary to insure his escape from a persecution that threatened his life. Of course, we, the so-called incorrigibles in the bullpen,

knew absolutely nothing of this new development. The officials knew, however, and they countered immediately with a strategic move. Every single one of us was suddenly taken from our respective cells in the bullpen—not released back in the yard—but marched to the rear of the prison .auditorium and back into the stage wings. We were a

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decrepit-looking bunch of men. Every one of us was wearing beards of over four months’ growth; our clothing resembled scraps of cloth which had been rescued from a dung-heap, and we were filthy dirty; exuding foul odors from our unwashed faces and bodies. There was “the Sheik’s” beautiful blue-black beard which extended in rolling, curly waves down to his collar; Snoose had a natural Vandyke, which made him look like a sort of professional vagabond; “Eskimo Red” had bushy whiskers, fiery red in color; Scotty's beard was thin and scraggly; and “Mulatto’s” curly black whiskers gave him the appearance of a murderous brigand. For hours we were kept herded together back of the stage wings like so many sheep. We wondered and whispered at the deep mystery of this unexpected move. Then we were returned to the bullpen just as mysteriously as we had been removed, and our amazement increased at once by leaps and bounds. For the place had been scrubbed until it was virtually spotless. In front of each cell was a new excrement bucket; on the interior of each drum was a soft, thick mattress, clean white sheets; new, all-wool blankets; light

globes had been screwed in the sockets above; popular magazines had been scattered carelessly around; clean bath towels hung near the wash basin, and there was an abun-

dance of sweet-scented soap and toothpaste. We had barely completed our inventory when the locking bar was released, and two guards accompanied by several

flunkies came down and removed everything, leaving us exactly nothing—as before. The officials’ timely strategy had worked to perfection, however.

The jury had entered the

notorious bullpen to conduct a painstaking investigation in order to approve or disapprove the charges of inhuman treatment, as had been brought out by a certain newspaper repeatedly in those last few weeks. Defense-Attorney Will R. King was chagrined, and for one of the few times in his

life found his capable tongue tied from leaden surprise. The officials were guileless. They explained quite casually and

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nonchalantly that at the present, no inmates were confined in the solitary cells, and that as far as brutal treatment being a controversy, for the members of the jury to look for themselves. Needless to say, their victory was overwhelmingly complete. Just before the start of the trial, a psychiatrist made a trip

up to the prison, made a mental examination of the three convict murderers, and accorded Murray the mentality of a person 28.6 years old, Kelley 17 years old, and Willos 12

years old. On the same basis of comparison he declared that Murray’s mentality could be likened with that of Leopold, the notorious Chicago

student-murderer,

still confined

in

Joliet penitentiary with a life sentence. He said: “Murray has an indomitable will, affable disposition and extremely rapid mental responses. Emotional responses were intermittent. On the basis of his answers his reasoning was rated far above the average. In acquired knowledge he was rated above the average high school graduate.” Kelley was described as having slow mental reaction, and the report held

that he would

have made a good stenographer or clerk

because he showed an aptitude for concentration. Emotional responses were deliberate, but active. An amusing incident during the course of Murray's trial came when one of the penitentiary guards got up on the witness stand for the State. He insisted on relating the whole story and in part, said that he rushed to Post Number One,

when the mélée started. There he found one guard wounded and another shooting it out single-handed with the desperadoes. He had neglected to arm himself, but notwithstanding the handicap he hit upon a way immediately to be helpful. He would go for a doctor. There was a telephone at hand, but apparently he thought in his existing state of mind he could run to the State Hospital a half-a-mile away in less time than a telephone message could get over the wire. From his own account to the jury of what happened, one almost must agree with this view: “I heard a bullet whiz past me, and looked back.

Here

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came three of them and I speeded up. They must have fired five or six times at me. I reached the hospital safely and gave the alarm, but was exhausted and had to have the attention of a doctor myself.” The first whiz undoubtedly was made by a bullet when it passed the guard. One must suspect he may have heard a second whiz when he overtook and passed the bullet, like

the colored gentleman in the old story. During the first week of the trial, a convict, “Hype” Murley, was removed from

the bullpen temporarily so that he might be taken downtown and testify for the defense. It developed that Murley had been in the correction cells once before during his early confinement, when Tom Murray had also been incarcerated there following one of his escapes, and that a guard had fired a couple of shots without warning into one of the cells. Murley made an excellent witness. “We were sitting in the bullpen,” he told the jury. “Each was in his own cell—we couldn’t even see each other. We were talking when the guard up and shot at us without cause or warning. He said: ‘Another chirp out of you guys down there, and I will kill every one of you.” The guard was a little hard of hearing and he thought that everyone was cursing him. He is crazy, to the best of my knowledge. He used the excuse for shooting that we were either cursing him or the prison officials. We weren’t.” Questioned further, Murley said that the guard referred

to was extremely nervous. “I term him ‘loco.’ He'll sit in his tower, stroking his gun like it was a dog or cat. He's fidgety and he'll sit there for a while and then jump up and pace around his tower in a rage. He looks at his watch about four times an hour. There's a cat or chicken outside the wall, and he’ll call it up there and then aim his gun down

at it and say, ‘I ought to kill you.” I think he’s crazy—completely off his nut.” For ten days, Murray's trial dragged along, the opposing attorneys bitterly debating pro and con. Throughout the

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trial, the young desperado maintained his deadly calm at-

titude. He almost constantly assumed the same pose in the court room, one elbow resting on the rail of the witness stand, and resting his chin in his hand. At times, he was

slightly agitated, and he nervously fingered his lips and chin; these nervous spells, however, were very few. Whenever

he spoke in the coyrt room, it was in an even tone of voice that could be heard distinctly in all parts of the house.

He

used very good English and invariably showed no signs of excitement. For three solid hours before the case went to the jury,

King reviewed the case before the nine men and three women in a plea for life for the convict slayer.

The entire plea was

directed at instilling in the minds of the jury the existence of mitigating circumstances which would justify them in returning a verdict of guilty of first degree murder, but with recommendation to life imprisonment in lieu of hanging. As one of his closing statements, King said:

“The facts of the case only can determine the sanity of the defendant at the time, and all facts bearing

angle should be considered by the jury. known

that a man

can become

on this

It is generally

paranoiacal,

insane upon

certain subjects. The mania for escaping which developed in Murray was only human nature, and conditions existing at the prison were such as to invite escape, especially to one

of paranoiacal tendencies.” Closing for the State, District Attorney John Carson

demanded of the jury that in justice to the people of the State of Oregon, and in justice to the defendant, Murray, that they return a verdict of guilty of first degree murder without any recommendation for life imprisonment. In a sure, impressive tone, Carson declared:

“It lies with you ladies and gentlemen of the jury, whether the sanction of the law is to be placed upon the commission of such a crime as we have proved this defendant guilty. If you are remiss in your duty, you will be saying to this

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defendant and all the other convicts confined in the Oregon State Penitentiary that they can commit such a crime as

took the life of John Sweeney and suffer no punishment other than be returned to the prison from which they escaped.

“The defense has painted for you a picture of a prison

they declare is living death for those confined in it. Yet counsel for the defense is pleading for you to return this defendant to that living death. If you return this convict to

the prison under life sentence, it will simply be giving him the opportunity to commit the same crime over again.” Tom Murray’s jury filed out. And after five hours’ deliberation, they filed right back in again. The verdict was

reached at nine o’clock on the night of October 15, 1925, after six ballots had been taken.

An oppressive silence spread

over the room as the jury filed into the box. As Judge Kelley received the verdict and glanced over its contents before passing it on to the clerk to read, his head jerked sharply erect in an involuntary motion. “Guilty as charged in the indictment,” the clerk read.

Murray sat silent, staring at his hands for a matter of seconds. Then he raised his head, turned to his attorney and

smiled. He made some remark, not distinguishable in the court room. Judge Kelley dismissed the they slowly filed from the room. As they left, the Warden and two prison guards advanced towards

to others jury and DeputyMurray

with handcuffs. He rose briskly, placed the prison cap upon his head. “I guess they won’t arrest me for putting my cap on in court,” he said with a faint touch of sarcasm. The popular sympathy which had been with the young convict since his capture in Centralia, stayed with him to the last. As he was marched out of the court room on his way back to the prison, several were heard ro remark that while they felt that justice had been done, they “hated to

see the kid go.” There was not one but admitted admira-

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tion for Tom Murray’s nerve and steel-ribbed composure. At ten o'clock on the morning of Monday, August 19th,

he stood before the bar of justice and was sentenced to be hanged. Asked by the court if he had anything to say relative to why he should not be sentenced to pay the extreme penalty, the convict replied: “Yes, I might say something,” and in a clear voice continued: “They have said that I was a killer. In all of my bank jobs I could have killed, but I didn’t. During the time that I have been in the penitentiary, I have been shot at five times without warning. There, they shoot first and talk afterward.

In the break, I could have killed several I didn’t

even shoot at. I had “Slaughterhouse” in my power, and if there ever was a man at the pen that I would have had reason to kill, it would have been him.

But I didn’t.

“While as a fugitive, there were several I could have killed and prevented from disclosing information as to my whereabouts. But I didn’t.” There was a hush over the court room as Murray spoke. As he finished and stood half-facing the court, Judge Kelley said: “The law gives the court no discretion. You are to be delivered to the Warden of the Oregon State Penitentiary within twenty days and on the eighteenth day of December, you are to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy on your soul.” Murray flinched perceptibly for the first time during the course of his trial when sentence was pronounced, but he sat quietly down beside Judge King, his attorney, and quickly maintained the same attitude of cool composure he had shown previously throughout. “Where’s John Carson?” asked a well-known, elderly flower dealer in Salem, the next morning after Murray had been sentenced to hang. The man had just walked into the Prosecutor’s office, loaded down in both arms with enormous

dahlia blooms.

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“I want to put these flowers on his desk. I want him to know how much I think of him for what he did for the citizens and taxpayers of the State of Oregon when he secured a conviction against that man Murray.” Blackie Willos and Crowbar Kelley, went on trial for their lives Thursday afternoon, October 15th, the same day

that Murray’s jury went out. The trials were similar, except that women and girls had made up the greater part of the audience during Murray’s trial, and their sympathies had been visibly with the convict. In Kelley and Willos’s trial, most of the spectators were men and boys. When Murray was on trial, interested audiences came early in the morning and sat throughout the day, some of the women even bringing their babies and lunch. In the later trial, the surging crowd changed rapidly, people going in and out almost constantly. During the course of the trial, Willos and Kelley presented a distinct contrast in their attitudes for the most part. Willos’s usual pose was to sit slumped down in his chair with his legs crossed. He chewed gum continuously. He would glance around the room furtively. His eyes would narrow to slits and a cynical smile would appear on his swarthy face. Often, he would be so absorbed in sketching the likeness of a member of the jury or some other member of the court on a scratch pad, that he betrayed no indication that he was face-to-face with justice, fighting for his e. Kelley, however, presented an entirely different appearance. His face was white and his eyes sunken. He sat hunched in his chair with his coat collar turned up and his eyes downcast. He was very nervous throughout, and responded only half-heartedly to Willos’s whispering comments. The case went to the jury at 12: 19 o'clock, October 24th,

and after casting 37 ballots during its deliberation of more than fifty-two hours, the twelve good members and true

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brought in a verdict of first degree murder at four o’clock on the afternoon of October 26, 1925. On the morning of October 30, 1925, they were sentenced to pay the extreme penalty, the execution to take place on Friday, January 8,

1926. Kelley and Willos were a dejected pair when brought before Judge Kelley. They did not seem nervous, but both

were unshaven and pale.

Willos’s pallor was particularly

noticeable, because normally he was of ruddy complexion.

Kelley was the first to be sentenced. Before Judge Kelley announced the grim words, “You shall be hanged by the

neck until you are dead, and may God have mercy on your soul,” he gave each man an opportunity to speak. Kelley, the condemned, with the morose features and bloodless, tautly pulled lips, arose. His voice was quiet and softspoken, without threat or bluster, as he spoke a few words:

“I want to say that as far as the jury is concerned, I have had as fair a trial as could be expected under the circumstances. I did not kill Holman as the State tried to show, and in time it will be proven that I did not kill him. That's all I have to say.” Kelley then sat down with a long-drawn sigh, and Willos

stood up.

His restless black eyes wandered this way and

that for a moment.

Then he said hoarsely:

“My

trial, I

think, has been fair, but I am not guilty of murder in the first degree. I never harmed a man during the getaway, and never had the least idea of harming anyone. Iam very sorry that anyone was harmed, but it was only through misunder-

standing. In fact, I understood that no one was to be harmed, and I want to say the same thing for Jones, Murray

and

Kelley. I thing Oregon Jones simply went wild and began shooting, making things turn out the way they did. Both Kelley and I came back to the prison without handcuffs. We said we wanted to answer the charge for first degree murder, but we did not think we would have to be hanged

for it.” Willos omitted to mention that there was no necessity of

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handcuffs. A dozen cars were ahead of them and back of them, on the trip from Portland to Salem, crowded with heavily armed officers. As Willos and Kelley left the court room in charge of officers, Willos turned to his companion and complimented him on his speech to the Judge. “It was a fine speech,” he said warmly. “I congratulate you.”

“You made a fine speech yourself,” said Deputy-Sheriff

Sam Burkhart to Willos. The condemned man glanced sharply at the officer, a mocking smile on his lips. “I thank you, sir,” he responded. “That is the first compliment that I have received since the entire proceeding started.” On December 11th, Tom Murray’s case was appealed to the higher court for a re-hearing, and as the weary months passed, he continued to live and smile.

CHAPTER

M

TWENTY

UCH happened around the prison in December of that year. On the fifth day of the month, the Warden was

forced to resign under fire; his successor to be my old friend,

the Deputy-Warden, incumbent. The Warden was charged

with flagrant lack of discipline, friction among employes, allowing card games, immorality and idleness among the

prisoners, and general lack of efficiency among the guards and under officials. On Christmas Day, the new Warden gave us incorrigibles a big surprise by releasing us all from the bullpen. I was handed an unpleasant jolt, however, when I entered the yard; a jolt that was even sufficient to temporarily offset the exultance of getting out of “Siberia,” as the bullpen was popularly called by some of the convicts. There were fifteen of us released from solitary confinement that day, and thirteen of the men were permitted to assume their old places and mingle indiscriminately with the other inmates, imme-

diately after having their six months’ growth of whiskers and hair sheared and shaved from their faces and heads. Dan and I were not so fortunate. A burly guard, who had been duly assigned to the job by my pal the new Warden, accompanied Dan and me from

the barber shop into the bath-house. After we had emerged from the showers, and our filthy clothing had been taken away to be burned, we were kept waiting for an hour as naked as the day we were born, for a new outfit. Neither of us could suppress astonishment when the clothing was 271

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finally delivered, and we saw that it consisted of two suits of stripes. No inmate had been clothed in stripes in the Oregon prison for many years, and we realized at once that we were truly assigned to the incorrigible class—indefinitely The two suits had been specially but most thoroughly. tailored the season before for a comedy scene in one of the periodic prison shows; the coat collars were stiff and tightfitting, a la military style, hooks and eyes took the place of buttons down the breast, and the trousers were so tight that

muscle and determination were the main requisites to fit them on; and then the caps were minus bills, styled similarly to the popular bellboy type, and could be worn on the head only at a jaunty, carefree angle, an attitude that neither of us felt. The suits had been designed to portray convicts from a humorous, though ironical aspect, and Dan and I had been

elected to parade around before the other men and the officials like jackasses suddenly turned to unorthodox, red-

and-black striped zebras. The guard with us wasn’t such a bad sort. He allowed Hobby Hobson, who worked in the laundry, to make us some sizzling hot-cakes, and smuggle them in on a plate with an abundance of real butter and maple syrup. Then “Gold-tooth” Kelley, from the butcher shop, slipped us some nice pork-chops, fried to a golden brown, and “Jew” Swartz, from the tailor shop, made us

a pot of real java, good to the last swallow.

A lot of bulls

wouldn’t have allowed this, but Dan and I found one screw

that had a heart as big as he was. The Warden wasted no time in getting started once I was taken to his office, and neither did he mince his words.

He

concentrated both his attention and questions upon me, disregarding Dan’s presence utterly. “It’s humiliating to be dressed that way, Duncan, but you’ve brought it all on yourself. You came back here with a sentence of thirty-five years, and with a determination to escape, and now you've

got yourself a name as the most dangerous prisoner con-

OVER

fined behind these mania out of your going to keep you “If I stop trying stripes?” I inquired.

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273

walls. And until you get that escape head and stop causing us trouble, I'm dressed in stripes.” to escape, how long will I remain in

“That all depends,” replied the Warden.

“I'm contem-

plating segregation of prisoners into three classes, according to their prison deportment, and the employment in productive industries of only those who prove themselves deserving of privileges and the confidence of the prison officials.” “That let’s me out then.” The Warden nodded.

“For the present, anyway.

Upon

being received at the prison, convicts will be placed in the second, or probation class, where they will remain until they have classified themselves by their behavior and their attitude towards rules and regulations. Those who evince a willingness to abide by the regulations and to do the work assigned to them will be placed in the first class and rewarded with privileges approximating those of trusties, although they will not be allowed outside the walls. Those of the convicts who fail to make good in the probation class and evidence an inclination to be unruly will be relegated to the third class and dressed in stripes. For them and for you will be established a rock pile, located in the center of the prison yard, where they will be employed under constant gun guard.” I couldn’t suppress a laugh—a mirthless laugh though it was.

“Then at the present time, Warden, Dan and I will be

the only men on the rock pile?” “We have no rock pile at the present,” he answered. “But there will be one, and by the time it is organized you will have plenty of help from men dressed in stripes. In the meantime, you will work sawing wood out in the yard, and you will have a guard with you continually. And another thing—I contemplate grouping all of the third-class convicts in certain cells under close guard, and also grouping

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them together where they can be carefully watched in the dining hall. Is that all clear to you?” “Absolutely.” “All right. You will start sawing wood in the yard tomorrow.” The Warden had been right. Within a few weeks a score of convicts had been relegated to the third class, and dressed in stripes. A regular, old-fashioned rock pile was established, and the officials, during their spare time, cleverly originated

several little added tortures and inconveniences to this method of punishment. Often, we incorrigibles in stripes would be compelled to sit on the frozen ground all day, in all kinds of weather, and crush old brick into tiny pieces.

While this crushed brick was never utilized for any purpose, it was merely our job to break it and keep busy. We were under constant surveillance of special guards, who accompanied us to the lavatory, to the bath-house, to our cells, or wherever we went around the prison. In their eyes we were considered the scum of the institution, and

we labored on foul and dirty jobs and under almost impossible conditions. We were all placed in segregation on a single tier of the South Wing Cell Block, ate on a special table in the dining hall, and the guards saw to it that we

enjoyed no such privileges as writing or receiving mail, or having a few edibles to break the monotony of the coarse prison fare. Restrictions became more and more pronounced as time went on. A heavy ball and chain was added to the discomfiture of the “Stripes Gang”; and should one of us so-called incorrigibles commit an infraction of the rules, such as possessing a little sugar or canned milk in our cells, it only assured our having the ball and chain padlocked to our leg for a few days. Return to the dungeon cells on a bread-andwater diet, flogging and nerve-racking punishments were not unusual for a “Stripes” who laughed or had a concealed two-cent postage stamp. Punishment in the Dark Hole was

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administered for trivial as well as serious offenses; not standing at count, speaking to ask for food in the dining hall, laughing in the cell block, making loud popping noises with the mouth, were some of the discipline slips. When the

ball and chain was the punishment, not only were we compelled to lug this heavy, bunglesome weight around all day, but it also remained fastened to the leg at night when we went to bed. We were soon able to effect the abolishment

of this added misery, however, as we would deliberately

make

so much

noise and

disturbance

with

it that other

inmates would constantly be registering complaints. While the Stripes Gang were working hard every day, the vast majority of the other convicts were idle. I believe I mentioned “The Dog-House” in an earlier chapter. It was a very long, low, ugly building, which was originally

constructed as a place for recreation; a place where the men could gather inside to escape from undesirable weather.

But

as time wore gradually on, this place had been converted into a veritable gambling establishment, and the inmates had

established about every vice and air of human degeneracy possible. I want to digress long enough to tell you that it is utterly impossible for anyone to expect convicts to lead normal lives under abnormal conditions—which all means when they are confined in these great wildernesses of iron and stone that constitute the modern prison. The present penal system maintains a strict segregation of sexes. This robs the prisoner of all social life and it is one of the biggest

factors conducive to the prison riots which have startled the nation in recent years. When a convict endangers his life to escape from prison, he is looking for contact with women every bit as much as he is looking for his freedom. If you were to ask a normal prisoner which he desired most—free-

dom or association with the opposite sex—he couldn’t anSWer you. So when you take normal sexual relations away from a

person—be it male or female—that person is going to re-

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vert back to the ages, and is going to practice degeneracy to gratify his sexual impulses with some other member of the same sex. That doesn’t sound nice, but just you ask any smart prison official what his greatest job and worry is, and he will immediately answer that it is holding degeneracy down to a minimum—to keep the sex-starved prisoner from preying on other prisoners, to satisfy his lust and hunger. So that was the situation, or at least one of the worst situations

in the Dog-House, the wholesale degeneracy among the convicts. A handful of the shrewder convicts virtually gained control of the Dog-House, while the remaining men of lesser prison knowledge and dominating characteristics catered to them and spent their money with them. About thirty gambling tables graced the interior of the building, and games of chance, ranging from blackjack, dice and poker,

to fan-tan, chuck-a-luck and roulette, were constantly being played. Vicious quarrels were common in the card games, and bloody knife fights were almost a daily occurrence. Prison experts the world over are of the unanimous opinion that idleness inside a penitentiary will do more to contribute to, and breed, vice and loose morals than anything else in the world. Where idleness exists, a postgraduate course in crime most certainly also exists. It was no fault of the convicts for the most part that this terrible state of idleness predominated; rather it was through the glaring weakness and utter lack of efficiency of the prison officials. The new Warden had told me how he was contemplating a new rule of segregation of convicts into three classes, and

this was subsequently accomplished. But he accorded far too much partiality to the prisoners with money and friends for this plan to be a success. For those without money, friends or influence, he attempted to exert an iron hand in an obvious effort to instill fear into the greater population of the penitentiary, but men

do not respond with their best

efforts through a reign of fear.

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277

If the Warden would have temporarily forgotten his policy of segregation, and made his very first act to abolish and burn to the ground the Dog-House—breeder of trouble and discontent within the gray walls—his ultimate success might have been assured to a degree. But there was an absolute lack of either system or semblance of fairness in his new proposals. He permitted his favorites to work as tattoo artists in the building; a lifer with political influence ran a

barber shop; others had eating concessions; and there was even a little room enclosed over in one corner, painted a vivid blue inside and decorated with rayon curtains, where the “fairies,” “pansies,” and “queers” conducted their lewd

practices. We incorrigibles in the glaring red-and-black, hideouslooking stripes, were not allowed to gamble or smoke marijuana, or even set foot on the entrance of the ribald madhouse. We were doing more actual labor than any other hundred convicts combined, but we were by far the most

fortunate inmates in the institution by being barred from the foul-mouthed enclosure of the Dog-House, even if we were

sadly unaware of the fact at that particular time. A person with a shrewd insight into prison efficiency would have instantly realized how inevitable was a bloody climax to this sort of environment. He could have seen and felt instinctively that amid this ribald atmosphere was tense unrest seething and boiling with an unhealthful and relentless exactitude. But neither the past Warden nor the new Warden were endowed with such remarkable insight and discernment. The new Warden never once ventured out into the yard or into the Dog-House,

among

the gloomy

and threatening element, in an attempt to discern that all was

not as it should have been. His presence was never noted inside the dining hall when the prisoners were eating, or in the Chapel when the convicts were marching through on their way to their cells. It seemed that a sort of a tradition surrounded the Warden’s job—that for years the prison ad-

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ministrative head had been considered more or less a distinguished individual—and it was against the traditional

policy: to indiscriminately display his person conspicuously so that the inmates could view him and find him available for an interview.

For a long time the various administrations had been fortunate to a certain degree. A combination of circumstances had conspired that Tom Murray and his desperate fellows

were able to make a deadly thrust for the walls to cause murder and bloodshed, but the inefficient officials could not foresee that further events were closing in with a ravishing

climax.

There had been looseness and inefficiency, but for-

tunately further uprisings had been held in check. But like a giant held in bonds, the convicts had lain dormant in ignorance of their own strength. The new officials were not versed enough in prison ways to appreciate their good for-

tune, or to dread the day the giant stirred. The day came.

Tense planning broke out and flourished, which plainly indicated premeditated violence. The more cunning and

adept convicts waxed defiant with open taunts and arrogance. The weaker and less “prison-smart” majority defied and flaunted itself before the officials’ trusted underlings with an assurance that betokened a new and dangerous

strength. The majority had just discovered the secret of organization. It was learning the power of brains. Behind its sudden rise there was a keen and sinister intelligence of

the shrewd and cunning few.

The prison was menaced by

a swiftly closing plot for revolt—a small empire of riot and

agony and death. And right here I want to tell you that it is impossible to assign any one definite controlling factor as the cause for outbreaks in prison.

For the most part, prison riots are due

to a small coterie of desperate and determined criminals who

force others to take part in the disturbances. The ordinary prisoner is more afraid of such criminals than he is of the

OVER

authorities.

THE

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WALL

And so it was in this case.

On the evening of

February 14, 1926, came the last straw—figuratively speaking—and

with

it came

the unified

determination

of the

hundreds of convicts to promote an open rebellion against the officials who constituted authority. On that evening, a little freshly printed book of rules was

tossed inside each convict’s cell.

Many scornful laughs of

derision were uttered that night as the little books were read and then tossed back out in the corridor. For the next three

days the silent system was to be introduced—silence in the cells, in the dining hall, on the tiers, at work—silence everywhere. Now that was a laugh in itself! For hadn’t the con-

victs been indulging in just as much conversation and raising just as much hell as they wished for years and years? The book went on to say that every inmate would line up at each whistle, fold his arms across his breast, and march in

correct step through position.

the Chapel

and to his cell in that

Did the main-cheese really believe he could get away with that?

Hadn't the convicts been racing up to the Chapel

at whistle time like a bunch of screwy kids, laughing and chattering as they walked through the place, cigarettes in hand and sacks of tobacco across their shoulders? Then, no talking to a guard without saluting him first, and every man must stand at attention and assume a military attitude when conversing with guards and officials, and address them as “Sir.” So the Warden was going to rule with an iron hand? Well The following day, hundreds of convicts squeezed and

packed their bodies into the Dog-House. Their thoughts were on the same subject. The very air, poisoned by marijuana fumes, seethed and bristled with open insurrection and unlawful resistance. Scores of inmates steered clear of

“Monte Carlo” that day. They did not want the riot to go through—but those tyrannically-minded convicts were able, through their arrogant bluster, to predominate over most of

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the men until there was almost a solid unity of promised revolt. That poisonous and insidious propaganda was kept circulating by cunning methods, through the day and up to

the evening whistle on February 16, 1926. An uneasy hush gripped the vast dining hall that evening —an awful hush harboring the premonition of violence and gun-smoke. The air was filled with a stark, eerie silence

only punctuated by the shuffling of heavy shoes on the floor. Only a green “fish” would have missed the threat hanging

like a pall over the tense faces and alert bodies of the oldtimers. Precursors of death, men’s eyes, darting restlessly, stabbed at the loaded aisles of discontented humanity across

from them. Would this silent throng of men suddenly change into a crowd of savage maniacs—a revolution of Every man’s riot between the wards and their keepers? Law against order, each ears were straining for sounds. grim and unrelenting, stalking each other like beasts of the night.

Big “Scarface” Dick Springer was standing before his plate, close to the Stripes’ table and almost beside me. His leering, snarling face was a venomous mask, and his hands— great muscular hands—were knotted over the tops of two

heavy cups. “I'm going to split a dirty rat’s skull wide-open, and spill his brains all over the floor if this thing goes tonight, Lee,” ps.

he hissed to me from the side of his tight, grimacing

I mumbled some crazy reply just as a sound came to break the silence, a loud, clanging sound, the bell to be seated. Then it happened . . . the thing that the majority

of the men secretly dreaded—and prayed would never happen. Someone in the front of the packed mess-hall shouted shrilly, almost hysterically: “Let’s tear this dump up, fel-

lows.”

Just a split second following this cry . . . a venge-

ful hell broke loose in all its fury.

In the space of a bare moment there was chaos.

Tables

were upturned, and just as I went under one I saw “Scar-

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281

face” Dick heave the cups one right after the other with terrific force, and with the unerring accuracy of Lefty Grove,

and “The Galloping Goose,” a stoolpigeon, gave a single yelp of mixed terror and pain before he went down with a bloodgushing temple. Dishes were already flying everywhere in space as I untangled myself from the debris. The crash of breaking glass mingled with the frenzied yells of a thousand prisoners gone berserk. Pans of stew were hurled through the air. Molasses jugs aimed at the big light globes in the ceiling, spilled their contents over the heads of the mob. The lights exploded like pistol shots. The bedlam grew louder. Men were roaring, bellowing, in fearful intensity as they smashed at the tables and benches, converting them into weapons by which they might effect further damage. The dining hall Guards sped frantically toward the barred door leading into the Chapel . . . racin before a volley of heavy cups which were falling all about them. The Yard Captain warded off the missiles with a chair as he ran down the steps, gained his objective all intact, and

locked the heavy iron door behind him. The other guards finally ran to the kitchen and gained the safety of a halfdozen empty pickle barrels. The storm attained greater fury. Feet trampled men as the maddened crowd surged back and forth . . . their minds bent on absolute destruction of anything and everything that stood in their paths. Convicts wrenched the legs from splintered tables to wreak vengeance on the heads of stoolpigeons. One fink screamed as two inches of cold steel was sunk between his ribs at the hand of an enemy. A howl cut through the tumult as someone was scalded by a pitcherful of boiling coffee. The place was a veritable maelstrom. Men cursed, cried, yelled to identify themselves. It was impossible to tell friend from foe, as the lights had all been completely smashed at the beginning of the riot. Incorrigibles dressed in stripes were conspicuously absent in the main dining hall, having secreted themselves in va-

OVER

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rious places as they realized that were the National Guard or State Police, or other reinforcements, to burst into the

place armed with machine guns, they would certainly be

I had been searching for Dan all this the first victims. time, taking no active part in the riot, but busy as hell

dodging missiles to keep from getting my head knocked

off.

Finally I found him—back in the kitchen—pleasantly

engaged in the pastime of removing hot, freshly baked loaves of bread from the electric range, and hurling them against the walls, ceiling, or curling them around the bars on the windows. “Come on, Screw-loose,” I yelled, grabbing him by the

arm.

“There's going to be so many guns in here pretty

soon, you'll think you're in the Argonne. able to get away during all this excitement.”

We

might be

“Wonder I didn’t think of that already,” he bragged.

“Let’s get going—I'm with you all the time.” We made our way to the elevator, finally managed to get it started, and as soon as we landed on the basement floor, we realized at once that we were the only men who had

reached that section of the building as yet, because the irongrilled door at the bottom of the lift was untampered with

and intact.

We were securely caged for the moment, as

we could not get the elevator started back up, neither could

we get out through the grillwork.

Finally we wrested an

iron brace from the back wall of the elevator cage, and applying this with all our strength as a pry, we managed

to force the lock on It was pitch dark matches as an aid in with which we could door which was the

the high iron grill. down there and we started striking search of some sort of battering ram crash through the first heavy wooden initial barrier blocking our path into

the Dress-out Clothing Room. By sheer luck we were fortunate enough to discover an old single-bitted axe, which a semi-trusty working in the commissary department had been using to split wood, and within the space of a couple

OVER THE WALL

283

of minutes we were inside a large room used for storing

sugar, candy, coffee, tobacco, and all sorts of commissary supplies.

We stood still for a minute listening to the rever-

beration of the riot far above our heads; it was like standing way out in a wilderness somewhere alone, and hearing the

fearful roaring of a cataract as it spilled and tumbled its terrific impact of water on the rocks and boulders hundreds of feet below.

Finally we grabbed a carton of cigarettes and a few boxes of matches, which we tucked inside our shirts, then we tackled the next door. This one presented a more serious

problem than the wooden door had; it being constructed of steel strips in enlarged lattice formation, but by a combina-

tion of persevering labor and badly lacerated arms, we smashed the two huge padlocks on the other side. We traversed about seventy-five feet of musty, seldomused corridors, and then we came to the door of the Dress-

out room.

Of the traditional residence type, it was a sim-

le expedient to crash through this one, and once we were inside we began to move swiftly, sorting out different sizes

of wearing apparel. kind, we heard:

Then without a hint of warning of any

“Stick ’em up.”

Dan instinctively made a flying tackle in the darkness; I

heard the man go down and I went into action. [I wrestled a weapon from the Guard’s hand, bashed him over the head with the butt-end, and examined it under the beam of a

flashlight Dan had relieved him of.

The gun was a .45

Army automatic, and not a single shell was in the magazine. Before we could explore further, we heard the lock on the steel door inside the Chapel, directly above us, snap open and a voice bellowed: “Where the hell did Daly go?” Then

several pairs of footsteps began to troop down the stairs into the basement. “Oh, my gosh, we just hung a kayo on Hard-boiled Daly,” Dan wailed mockingly, as he threw the forty-five

over in a basket of clothes.

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“We'd better duck,” I hissed. “Those guys coming down are armed with rifles.” We slipped quietly out of the Dress-out room, and began to retrace our steps to the head end of the basement. Already a hundred or so of men were milling around in that part of the building when we arrived. And just at that particular moment the firing of the guards began . . . shooting from the walls, the department buildings in the yard, from the windows of the library,

and from the tiers of the cell-blocks. The basement looked like it might become a slaughter pen, so Dan and I ducked back upstairs. Back in the main dining hall, one convict stood behind a concrete pillar gulping down a dish of macaroni he had salvaged. Others made swift dives for places of safety. One man pulled back a big bread-case, but the space behind it was jammed by others before he had a chance to move. Dan and I removed a cake of ice from an ice-box in order to fill up the cavity, but we couldn’t make the grade.

We searched desperately for another place to get down and get under, but there wasn’t any. Rifles cracked incessantly; machine guns clattered, and occasionally there could be distinguished the cough of a revolver. Angry yells rocketed over the firing. Weapons were running crimson streams . muzzle flames were painting the darkness like fireflies . . . the four brick walls threw back the thunder of the shots . . . and like spokes of a giant hub, the gun-fire was

running deadly streaks of yellow and red into the room. Bullets seethed from everywhere, and the powder smoke was suffocating. Then came the screams of the wounded . . . peal after peal of excruciating pain done up with curses against the inflicters. Chunks of lead thudded into the ceiling, spattered against the brick walls and snicked into the floor. A man lay groaning inside the wash room, while another

lay huddled in the entrance of the dining ball. Blood streamed down another’s cheek, but this did not prevent him

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from swishing the heavy cups through the acrid air.

285

One

convict, in his terror, leaped down the elevator shaft, break-

ing his leg in two places. Another did something neither Dan nor I were able to—snap a huge lock from the pantry and crawl inside, whimpering like a beaten pup. And still another, a little, wizened fellow, dragged his body under

the dish-washing sink to partially protect himself from the merciless hail of lead. A burly, two-hundred pound Negro immediately grasped him roughly about both ankles, and with a Gargantuan jerk, pulled him out.

The little convict’s face was contorted with blazing rage. “You big black bastard,” he cursed, “if I had a pistol I'd shoot you myself.” The Jig’s usual ebony of a midnight hue was now a mixture of chalk-white and sickly yellow. He said in a terrified voice: “Save yo’ cusses, pa’dnah. Evah man fer hissef in a case ob dis kin.” And then he occupied the space with his own huge body, squirming spasmodically to pull himself inside. A 110-pound, pockmarked Greaser, in his frightened desperation, somehow managed to raise up one end of the heavy Guards’ platform and get underneath. He was found there hours later when his cries aroused the attention of anxious screws who were looking for him. While glass cascaded and plaster splattered all over the floor under a hail of lead, a few of the convicts had either

such remarkable courage or so little regard for their own lives as to sit quietly over in a corner somewhere and eat their supper, from such food as was not entirely damaged. A man standing behind a massive copper coffee urn suddenly threw up both his hands before his abdomen where a slug had ripped his guts loose. For the briefest instant he stood there in a half-crouch, with the blood oozing from

his belly; then another bullet pierced his brain to drop him to the floor . . . dead. As I lay on the floor and watched this bit of death drama, I wondered why Fate decreed to

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direct two of the bullets straight to this fellow. Fate is cruel sometimes. For the ironical touch of this man’s death was

that he had consistently put up some stanch arguments

against the riot and he had turned nary a hand in its execu-

tion. Through curling gun-smoke, under the dim lights from the cell-blocks, convicts looked patiently at the dead man, his mouth a pitiful gash, his eyes unseeing pools of the

hell still blazing around him.

Some devilish destiny surely

seemed to have doomed him to be killed.

A man was just in the act of touching a light to a cigarette,

when one side of his head was badly creased with a bullet. He wavered, then gave a nervous little dab of his left hand to clear his eyes of the blood dripping from the ugly sear along his scalp, and then he toppled over . . . a critical case

for the hospital. What

price riot?

ministration?

But what price inefficient prison ad-

If they had known their business this would

not have occurred. Cries of pain, of agony everywhere, as the blistering gashes of the rifle and machine gun fire continued to leap in like hungry flames. Would this bloody massacre never stop? That's what I and every other man were asking ourselves. Every man with an instinct of selfpreservation was now hugging the floor in an effort to save

his life.

Then suddenly—a

score of uniformed guards

stepped inside the room from the front end—each of them

tightly grasping a sub-machine gun.

“Now—will you bastards stop?” came a metallic voice from the semi-darkness. “Have you got enough?”

The succeeding silence was breathless as the shooting stopped as quickly as it had started. The room vibrated with awed whispers. Then someone bellowed out a full-

mouthed oath: “Yes—you damned black-hearted murderers. You've got us whipped. We've got enough.” Varied uniforms of the prison screws, police and National Guard literally crammed the room after this dramatic announcement. Flashlights spread their brilliant beams every-

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287

Convicts were lined up; heavy boots clumped an parade as every prisoner except the dead and

wounded and the greaser under the guards’ stand, marched to their respective cells to be counted. The riot was over. Just before I slammed my cell door shut, Dan sidled up and whispered in my ear: “Old ‘Slaughterhouse’ will be

good for another fifty years after tonight’s orgy of legalized murder.” My answer was equivalent phrase, “And how.”

to the modern-day

slang-

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BREAKFAST was late the next morning—hours late. Only a single tier of men, consisting of about sixty’ wild-eyed individuals, were able to be seated at one time. It had taken the dining hall employes all night and part of the morning to clean up the inch-deep sea of food and coffee that covered the floor, and carpenters had been able

to construct only a few benches and tables by ten o’clock. As the grim-faced convicts marched through the Chapel, they were faced on either side by a score of scowling guards. Seated in the steel cage high up in the dining hall were several more guards, tensely alert, with rifles, shotguns and

sub-machine guns laid across their knees for instant use. The bill-of-fare didn’t amount to much that morning— black, tongue-biting stuff called coffee, and soggy bread. That was all. Every man had his arms folded, and there was strict silence at all times in the dining room, in the

Chapel and on the tiers. The Warden had won his battle— but at what a tremendous cost! The riot had been costly in human life to maintain discipline; it had been planned and was subsequently perpe-

trated by the convicts only through complete ignorance of their welfare and good, yet the officials were one hundred per cent to blame for the thing ever being able to take root in the first place.

results began to bear out.

But now that it was all over, good

The publicity from that open in-

surrection, coupled with the fairly recent Murray

break,

brought with startling suddenness to the eyes of the people 288

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289

of the State of Oregon the sorry state of affairs at the penitentiary. The taxpayers aroused themselves from a mental lethargy, long lain dormant, so to speak; still remembering that the Murray break had cost the people something over $21,000, exclusive of the expenses of the posses and the trials at which the men were convicted of first degree murder. That $21,000 was just rewards for the capture of the convicts and for the relief of the two widows of the slain guards. “The riot stood to cost them more money, and already they had been spending hundreds of thousands of dollars for the upkeep of the penitentiary. The people countered quickly when their minds were refreshed, to the tremendous outlay of expense—a needless expense that they were compelled to shoulder merely because inefficient prison administrations were permitting such things to happen. Then to make things just a little bit more humiliating for the Warden, many of his favorite trusties began to get sick of his “Square Deal” regime, and started galloping over

the Western hills like so many scared jackrabbits. Here is what one newspaper man wrote about the A.W.O.L. convicts, titled: “Where Are They?” “Warden, where is Jefferson Werder? A stiff-necked fellow he is and bold; Whom Durkin used to keep in darkness, And also strafed with water cold. They tell me he boards with us no longer;

Where has he gone?

Why isn’t he here?”

“Governor, how do I know?” said the Warden. “Where are the flowers of yesteryear?”

“Bennett Johnson, a man of mettle, Also gone, so the papers say; ‘Threatens to bump the District Attorney— I fear there’ll be mischief to pay.

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And Freddie Farmer, what's his address now?” “Please don’t be angry, Governor, dear, Because I can’t tell you where they have gone to; Where are the flowers of yesteryear?”

“Flowers be damned,” said the Governor sternly. “Tis no faded posies that I seek; Don’t talk to me of bloomin’ blossoms,

But give me the convicts of yesterweek. Even my trusted trusties missing; Give them back to me, do you hear?” Nothing could the Warden say but stammer, “Where are the flowers of yesteryear?”

L’ENVOI Warden, listen, and give attention;

Pause a moment and lend your ear. Cannot you hear a still voice question, “Where are the WARDENS of yesteryear?”

The excitement following the riot died down inside the walls; winter melted away, and soon it was springtime in

prison again. And in early May, when one could look over the walls to the distant hills from the department buildings, and see everything clothed in their green habiliments of Nature, I was released from stripes and allowed to mingle with the other inmates again. Almost immediately, Dan was placed in the boiler room as fireman, and I was given

employment in the butcher shop. This was to keep us separated from one another, but finally I was in a place

where

the work

was congenial, and where

I could get a

decent meal occasionally. The Warden warned me to dismiss further thoughts of escape from

my

mind,

but my

thirty-five-year sentence

could not be forgotten with a flippant gesture, and I was quite as determined to get away as ever before. I was able to see and talk to Tom Murray, Kelley and Willos al-

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most daily as they walked to and fro in the corridor facing their death cells. Every afternoon they were permitted to exercise in the narrow corridor, one at a time, for an hour or so. Quite often while delivering meat to some depart: ment, I was able to stand out on the cement walk in

front

of the Cell Block, and chat with them for a few minutes. The change in Murray was ghastly. He seemed but a skeleton of his former husky, athletic self. The lines of

suffering in his face were deep and his eyes were full of the ache that undoubtedly was in his heart. But he always tried to appear unconcerned, even nonchalant about his fate.

During the afternoon of May 9, 1926, the following conversation took place. “You're looking like a million, Tom,” I lied. “How do ou feel?” “If I felt better I couldn’t stand it,” he replied, laughing easily. “Send me up a tender and juicy steak for my supper, will you?”

“Just gave the Chef a nice tenderloin for you, Tom.

The

best we had in the shop.” “That’s fine.” Suddenly Murray’s voice changed. Somehow, it seemed there was a faint harsh note in his next words. “Say, Kid, you're getting over now. Don’t ever get screwed up like I am. Hang on to yourself, whatever you do.” There fell a brief, uncomfortable silence. Then Murray’s face was once more wreathed in smiles, and he appeared to possess never a care or worry in the world. He seemed

actually happy.

But that very night, he took his own life

in his death cell. Hopeless, apparently, that further efforts in the courts could save him from the gallows, Murray, the notorious Oregon desperado, and Murray, the man, had squeezed the

last breath from his body sometime between the hours of 9 and 11 P.M. virtually under the very eyes of the deathwatch, who was seated squarely in front of his cell. As an improvised rope with which to perform the grim deed, he

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cwisted up a bed sheet, reinforcing the noose with his shoe aces. In a written message which he left for the prison officials,

there was a flash of his characteristic sarcasm and cynicism toward authority. The message, written with crayon on the back of a large picture, was found lying on his bunk after his death. It was written in a neat, round hand, and

read: Before going South with what money I have on the books,

please pay the paper man (D. S.) what I owe him.

Mail the

two letters if you want to—one to the folks, the other to At1 killed Sweeney. torney Robinson, of the Portland News. Jones killed Holman. Kelley and Willos shot no one, or even

at anyone. y

T. M.

The first sentence of the message was a fling at the prison officials. “Going South” in convict language means “sticking the money in your pocket.” The initials (D.S.) were those of Dave Smith

(who later also committed suicide),

a convict serving a life sentence for murder. He had the newspaper route in the prison. The two letters mentioned by Murray were never found. In the latter part of the message, referring to the killing, Murray underscored the pronoun “I” and the name “Jones.” That Murray killed Sweeney was clearly proved at the trial, but officials knew for a positive fact that Holman was killed by Kelley. As he did in the trial, Murray, in his suicide message, attempted

to shield Kelley and Willos. The most pathetic sight I believe I have ever seen, or ever hope to see, was on the following day when the aged parents of the dead convict came up to the prison to accompany his body down to the Mortuary—and thence to their home in Winslow, Washington, where he was to be laid away in his last resting place on earth.

Old and feeble, care-

worn and sad, the parents crept slowly out of the building

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203

where their son who ight have been a support and joy to them now lay cold in death on an undertaker’s slab with a plain white sheet over him as a shroud. I felt just as bad about his death as if it had been my own brother’s, and

when the Warden agreed to let me take a last look at him before he was removed forever—and as I stared down at his lacerated throat, where the knot had bit in deep, at his

purple face, at his torn and bloody fingers where the nails had been jerked off on the steel walls while he was clutching at them in the throes of an agonizing death, I had to turn

away in tears. Maybe you'll say that he had led a careless and reckless life—that his life had been too slow for him and he speeded it up with several bank robberies and later on with a prison break in which he deliberately shot and killed a guard—and that he did a noble thing by ending his ignoble career? Maybe. But while Tom Murray lived in infamy, he was never a blackguard. In July, 1926, I made another attempt to escape, and while I again failed to get away, it is written in the annals

of the prison’s history as one of the most daring attempts ever perpetrated. (And so time went on and another summer passed in the bullpen—another summer where there was not the faintest suggestion of a breeze stirring anywhere during the wretched days.

Close, stagnant, motionless, the

hot air blanketed the earth in stifling folds, pressing downward as with a tangible weight. The heat from the cell walls parched our mouths and throats and our very beings to an almost intolerable dryness, seared our lungs with the scorching breath as from a blast furnace. To breathe it was almost like breathing liquid fire. Then came fall, and then winter, and the elements sud-

denly brought about their stern reversal. It brought the same wind-driven rains to beat down steadily on our cell roofs—the same intense cold and snow and misery.

In fact,

everything was the same; the bullpen never changed. Only the incorrigible occupants—ourselves—changed. No longer

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were the nightly programs held regularly among us inmates in an effort to smile away the long hours. Our conversation became desultory. The shadowy and chilling sentiments of the Warden and some of the other officials unaccountably crept over us; the subtle emanation of their open malevolence seemed to dull us into depressive spirits and brooding. At the end of six months, a big ex-wrestler named Spike and I emerged from the bullpen. We were unshaven and haggard. Hollow spots were in our cheeks, and our eyes spoke of physical hunger. We were two ill-clad, ill-fed

specimens of the prison system. I had the satisfaction of a good, rib-tickling laugh despite my own ridiculous appearance.

Having remained unshaven for six months, Spike was

sprouting a tremendous crop of whiskers.

They stuck out

from his face like so many thousand bristles, and were black

as tar.

He looked distinctly “Bolsheviki,” an exact picture

such as the cartoonists portray, and one almost expected him

to have a knife between his teeth and a bomb in either hand. I was issued clean stripes immediately, and Spike was given the same

punishment.

On

January

6, 1927, the

Warden requested permission of the Governor to dress all convicts within the walls in stripes, and also have a rule adopted whereby all prisoners would have their hair cropped close to their heads. This request was subsequently roti ed, the Governor explaining that only the men in the incorrigible class should be kept in that attire. One evening I went to my cell, tired and thoroughly disgusted. During the course of the evening I happened to glance carelessly through the pages of a certain popular detective story magazine which a non-stripe prisoner had smuggled to me. Unable to settle my mind on reading, I started to toss the book to one side, when a list of missing

persons’ names which were printed on the dentally came to view. I leaned forward on I saw my own name printed on the page. I interest—age, probable description, and “any

last page accimy stool when read with avid news concern-

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ing his present whereabouts will be kindly appreciated.” Printed at the bottom was a name and address I didn’t recognize, but I knew instinctively that it belonged to my oldest sister who had married during my absence from home.

Memory got busy at my heart, and on this night I was in no mood to reminisce sanely.

I suddenly remembered that

over nine years had slipped by since I had been home— and for five years I had failed to write. All at once it struck me what my mother’s reactions would be were she to I was doomed to thirty-five years in prison?—the mother who had thought at one time I would grow be a big butter-and-egg man or perhaps a United States

know same up to Sena-

tor. ‘My thoughts bunched in clamoring confusion as the swelling tide of memory dug deeper in the inner recesses of my mind.

There are blues and blues, but none can com-

pare with a healthy mess of prison blues.

In my dejected

frame of mind, I began to varnish myself with pity}.

I as-

sured myself over and over that I had done what I could. Somehow I felt that the task was beyond my poor powers

to stay away from trouble and compromising situations. There was no use in trying to combat a natural force that had me bested before I even began to fight.

It came to

me that the officials were not treating me as a normal human being; the wearing of stripes and having a ball and chain

around my ankle were in themselves a reflection of a mental condition.

It was apparent that they felt that I was

either unsafe or unqualified to be among other inmates.

My

heart sank at childish insistence on that point. More bitterly than ever before, I cringed from an imaginary affliction that was purely mental, firmly believing that it was obvious that I could not be dealt with like a sane and selfsufficient man.

I took over a faralistic point of view.

My life was fast

rounding into tragedy and disappointment, but I could not see where I had been entirely to blame for all the unhap-

piness that had come to me.

I would not let myself be-

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lieve that the tragic result could have been avoided. 1 felt as if there was some kind of inevitability about circumstances that made me, individually, helpless to change events.

I felt

quite positive that I was a helpless victim of certain events, that I could not control my life, that I could only fold my arms and accept the course of life meekly and sadly. became a victim of endlessly shifting moods, moods of

malicious reaction and vindictive recoil.

I wondered why

Fate had thrust that particular magazine in my cell for me to brood over its contents. Men in stripes weren't allowed to write or receive mail. I had no way of knowing whether my mother and father were living or dead. As the succeeding days passed slowly by, the wheel of my thoughts turned in the same desolate groove. My frame and mind alike became unstrung and listless, and I shuffled around with a

fatigued, faded, lusterless air, as of the caged creature I really

was. I was merely walking somewhat unsteadily like a blind man feeling his way. Why prolong life with the vol-

canic upheavings of imprisoned passions? Why drag life on, which was like a heavy chain lengthening behind with many a link of agonizing pain? | When

it seemed there wasa

glint nowhere,

when

the

prison days and nights were long and shadowed, days and nights of fantastic melancholy, I was suddenly given a new lease on life. The Warden and his under-officials got kicked out on the charge of gross negligence and incompetence, and on April 1, 1927, a brand-new administration

stepped into the Oregon State Penitentiary to assume charge. And right at that moment, I had enough prussic acid secreted in my cell to kill fifty persons. Suicide had been on my mind for weeks, and I kept putting it off day after day, to destroy myself. I was too cowardly to inflict the fatal dose—cowardly because I didn’t want to prove myself a coward by quitting. The new administration consisted of a newly established post of Superintendent of Industries, Warden and Deputy-

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During the first week all was hustle-bustle, the

old regime packing up and getting out, the new one moving with unprecedented haste and precision in instituting entirely new, but radically different, methods of conducting business at the old Manor House on the end of State Street. On the seventh day of April, the new Warden and his Deputy appeared before the bars of my cell. “This is the man I want,” I heard the Warden say, as he peered at my name-plate and number above the steel drum. He just stared at me for a long moment before he spoke. Then: “Young fellow, you've got the reputation as the rogghest incorrigible in this institution.” His words completely chilled any original enthusiasm I might have had; made me believe that all prison Wardens were alike, after all. That all bulls were alike—that most

of the good ones were pushing daisies. stant hate too long.)

I had lived in con-

But then I looked at the man closer.

He was of medium height, slightly stooped, and his steely

blue eyes, despite little wrinkles of kindness that marked their corners, looked right at you when he talked and plainly showed his ability and mastery over men. He had grayish hair, a gentle mouth that showed humor, and long, slow-moving hands. “How tough do I look?” I asked. He didn’t answer my question directly.

“Tom Murray

didn’t look tough either,” he remarked, then spoke more briskly, with an undertone of authority to which I was slow

to respond. “You don’t look tough, Duncan, but your prison record does.” I nodded sullenly. Iwas not polite, and made no travesty of trying to be polite. The Warden’s kind face hardened. His eyes took on the cold, impersonal gleam of steel.

dressed out of stripes?” whip.

“Do you want to be

His voice came like the crack of a

“Yes, sir, I do,” I responded civilly.

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“I’m going to take you out of stripes—all of you boys out those monkey-suits. I don’t like them, and I'm going to abolish them.”

“Thank you, sir.” He stood very still.

His face was now expressionless, yet

gave forth a strange impression of patience. “I think you're roud of your suit of stripes?” I laughed grimly.

“Take them away from me, and see

if it makes me mad.” “You realize that you're looked up to with envy by other

inmates of this institution, don’t you?” think you're absolutely off your nut, Warden,” I said

otly. He smiled.

“But I'm not.

I was working in prison before

you were born, Duncan, and I know something about psychology of prisons. Stripes are dangerous because they’re a deterrent to discipline. Any number of men in here would deliberately commit infractions of rules to be dressed

in stripes merely to be classed as a ‘hard-boiled character.’ ” I held my tongue, but I felt instinctively that this new Warden knew his business.

“All yard privileges will be restored to you,” he went on. “Your past record will be completely forgotten. You are having the opportunity to start anew. And here is some-

thing particularly important, Duncan.

From outward ap-

pearances, you seem to be pretty well disgusted with every-

thing.

But you're just a young man.

Practically your best

life is ahead of you—your whole constructive life, in fact.

You can start right in from now on and make good, if you're man enough to fight.

Ill pull for you.

And if you don’t

pull for yourself—you aren’t worth much.” The Warden’s voice carried an inspiring ring to it—a ring all the more inspiring because the force and power it connoted were muted and not too evident on the surface. In his voice was a sort of passionate plea for understanding.

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209

For the first time, as I looked at him, I saw him with eyes

from which the webs of illusion had dropped. Encouragement is fine psychology. I didn’t feel tough or disillusioned now. I was stricken with the sudden rush of an awakened mind. That moment marked an epoch.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

HE new Superintendent of Industries had for many years been the head of a big department store, a digni-

fied gentleman of a somewhat stiff demeanor, and that aruficial stand-offishnesss which is observable among most men of money. It was a very noticeable trait upon his advent in prison, as though he had to protect himself day and night against a throng of favor-greedy convicts and keep up a continual stateliness of behavior to throw off the menace of being constantly surrounded with bent backs and outstretched hands. Accordingly, he had always a certain faint air of ‘grandezza’

which

seemed

ludicrous

to those

who

saw

through his human insignificance and privately sneered at the thought that he kept up his pompous appearance even when he was alone—yes, even when he was asleep. He had a suspicious eye, the look of those who are accustomed to being assailed by people of cringing demeanor with pleas for help. When he knew he was in no danger of this he was a civil, affable man, somewhat laconic, whereby he gave the

impression that he had to weigh his words in the balance. There could hardly be a greater contrast in two men’s temperaments than that between the Warden’s and the Superintendent’s.

The Warden, as a preparation for his post,

had strolled along the highway of understanding, on which he had experienced himself, a man with other men working

together intellectually, all of which as a matter of course was invaluable. He was extremely capable—backed by a virtual lifetime of experience in handling criminals. He was a man 300

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of quiet demeanor, but firm; and it is such characters who are clean, square and kind, but with a quiet firmness that commands obedience and brings a cheerful response to the discipline necessary at all times.

One of his first official acts after becoming organized was to discharge “Slaughterhouse”, the guard who had wounded

Jones in the break, and who had killed two convicts in the Oregon prison on separate occasions, one of the prisoners

being shot down in cold blood in the bullpen without having a chance. He had also shot and killed two inmates in Walla Walla, Washington, and one in Monroe Reformatory,

hence the name “Slaughterhouse.” words as he left the penitentiary: me out.

No hard feelings.

Here were his parting “Yes, the Warden let

I've worked in this place for

seven years under several different wardens, and I never once took my finger off the trigger while on duty.” The Warden’s terse explanation was: “For the good of the institution.”

This is a long introduction to the Warden's short creed: “Treat them white and train them to go back to society better men than when they came in.” What began to happen

in the prison is best shown in a conversation that occurred a few days after “Slaughterhouse” had left.

A man called

on the Warden, asking for the discharged guard’s job. He explained that he was a dead shot, an experienced prison guard, and added, “They’ll never get away from me.” The Warden heard him through and said:

“I don’t want dead

shots—I want good white men and not good gunmen.” A certain element of innovation entered into the Ward-

en’s declaration of policies, any suggested by any other stitution. He believed one a little pep into the convicts

as they differed distinctly from Head who had been at that inof the first things was to inject themselves, and by proper treat-

ment improve their physical and mental condition until they would have the right viewpoint of life. As long as the morale of an institution like this was low, it made it diffi-

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cult to do much with the men, but when the morale was

up and the men got the idea that it was worth while to put their best side forward, then he would see a big change in the conduct of the men. Much depended on the viewpoint of the men themselves. After the dining-room riot had been staged in the prison, and the public press and the people of the State had been subsequently aroused to the extent that they demanded that work be found for the prisoners, the flax mill was started, as well as various gangs, but still there were several hundred convicts that were unemployed within the walls. Unlike his many predecessors, the new Warden believed that

the employment situation could be solved without the necessity of drastic legislative action which contemplated a huge expenditure of money. He determined to discover healthful work for every man that was able to work. He believed that a large percentage of men could have the reformatory problem solved for them by the doctrine of hard work, but

also by applying the doctrine of making the employment fit the man. “I am going to fit the men physically to do a day’s work, and fit them mentally to be willing to do that work when they are released from the institution,” he said. “When a man sleeps out his time in prison he leaves here neither physically able to work nor mentally willing to work. I think I can explain myself best by saying that as a youngster when I was a bank clerk, I was equipped to meet the exigencies of the situation. That was forty years ago. If I were to return now I would find my fingers had lost their cunning and my mind its alertness for that class of work. The fellow in the next cage who had been on the job for a few years would outstrip me in a minute. Not many men serve forty years in prison, but it serves as an explanation.”

The Warden went on to explain: “But the very same holds true with the convict—whether it is one year or forty years. He comes in here generally used to some form of

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Unless he continues to work, when he gets out, his

hand has lost its cunning and his mind has lost its willingness to push him ahead, and if he tries the old work he can’t keep up with the man alongside of him.” The Warden didn’t hesitate. He started in trying to fit men to meet those conditions. He placed capable men on the job to study the individual characteristics of every man who entered the prison with a sentence hanging over his head. It was their business to ascertain what each man was best fitted for, and then they put him on that particular work

and he remained there. Such were the new policies that started materializing into actualities in the Oregon prison, and they still exist today, on a much more efficient basis, of course.

The Warden maintained that work could be found for the men.

He found it.

Convicts were placed on the near-

by farms during the day under gun guard, and hundreds of acres were cultivated that summer.

During the summer

months the men were required to work eight hours per day. After that, they were allowed recreation. As the summer advanced, they were through earlier and earlier in the afternoon, and thus were given daylight recreation in the sun and air, rather than being compelled to spend their time off in the evil-smelling cells.

of them worked.

When

the men worked, all

There were no sports during working

hours. When the work was over, they played or rested in the sunshine. Don’t be deceived into the misinterpretation that the

prison was quickly converted into a sort of summer and winter playground for its men and women. Discipline was maintained to a marked degree. But it was a kind of discipline that was fair and square and where no petty partiality entered the scheme of things. It was an interesting study in psychology to see how quickly the inmates responded to the square deal. The moment I or any of the other prisoners entered the Chapel, any of the department

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buildings, or the yard, we could sense the difference in our fellows’ dispositions and in the very atmosphere. Before— when the old administration had been in charge—most all of us wore sullen or furtive looks, and a veiled air of hostility was everywhere. Now, men were going around with their shirts off, their torsos tanned to a healthy brown, steps elastic and springy, and they were whistling, singing and smiling once in a while. There are people who are always ready to laugh at “color psychology,” but not the Warden.

From years of accumu-

lated experience in handling prisoners and testing this psychology, one of his first acts was to have the institution buildings scraped of its ugly gray coating, and have it replaced on the outside and inside by a warm buff, a buff and

green.

The buff gave to the walls of the buildings at once

a tone of sunlight on the most cheerless days; the negative

cooling green, a quieting influence.

To this was added

pots of ferns, hanging baskets from which vines trailed, and everywhere, not just in front for benefit of visitors, but

everywhere, a gay profusion of flowers. There was a distinct noticeable difference in the men when this color scheme began to be used. A new feeling radiated among us all and we all began to take pride in the buildings and in our individual cells.

I heard a big-shot up from Portland,

remark in regard to the flowers, etc., that it was disgraceful coddling to the prisoners. If creating a personal pride could be called coddling, it could also be defined as helping a man on his first step back to self-respect and personal re-

sponsibility. As time went on and the new policies were entrenched

on a more efficient foundation, an appropriation of $85,000 was fixed by the State Legislature for the construction of a new modern cell block.

In addition to this, other appro-

priations were made as follows: $55,000 for the construction of a new fireproof administration building, and women’s ward, combined.

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$10,000 for the construction of a modern Trusties’ quarters, outside the walls. (Up to this time all trusties had been

compelled to sleep inside the penitentiary in old, foul-smelling cells.) $75,000 for remodeling the old prison buildings, especially

the old cell block wings;

to remove

the wooden

roofs,

wooden tiers and wood window facings, and replace these with concrete.

$10,000 for a new sprinkling system. Several thousand dollars was also appropriated for building a prison farm annex, southeast of the city, where about sixty trusted prisoners would remain at all times, to work

up a thousand acres of prison farm land, run the prison dairy, chicken ranch, turkey ranch, hog ranch and slaughterhouse.

“This is a fine thing,” the Warden said, when the appropriations were fixed.

“We are responsible for the lives

of these men in here, and the first thing we should do is to remove the fire hazard.

It is a wonder that a terrible holo-

caust hasn’t already occurred.

Most of the violators in here

are not real criminals at all, or violators of the so-called natural law. There are any number whose incarceration is for

violation of mala probibita, offenses not in themselves, but

because prohibited by statute.

The dry laws are responsible

for many of these prisoners, and if these laws were reasonably modified, as advocated by innumerable experts, so that

petty violations would not be classed as felonies, it would automatically relieve the pressure on our prisons. Under

the existing system it merely tends to make confirmed crim-

inals out of youths not inherently criminal.

That is, wh

we must get rid of this 60-year-old fire-trap.

With all the

absurd mala probibita offenses on our statute books, it is not fair to the men to keep them caged up without adequate protection.”

The difference in the old administrative policies, and the new ones simmered down to this:

The old Warden pos-

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sessed certain qualities that would have proved valuable and in good stead to him in certain lines; but his dictatorial makeup in a prison, in the high capacity of Prison Head, made

him highly unsuccessful, a bull in a china shop, so to speak. The new Warden was neither a business man nor a politician; he excelled in leadership, not by dictation, but by

exceptionally wise persuasive and administrative abilities. He was a genuine psychologist and knew by experience that both encouraging and discouraging remarks caused the

convicts to do better, judging the particular individual, of

course, according to his temperament, surrounding circumstances, etc. However, encouragement nearly always got better results, and he applied the measure whenever possible.

When nothing at all was said to the convicts, they did

their worst, invariably lapsing into sullen, surly attitudes of dejection. A man in prison wants his keeper to tell him something—either good or bad. But on no occasion does he want to be ignored. And come to think of it, I believe that rule holds pretty true with all of us. When we don’t know what people think, it takes the wind out of us.

The Warden was nothing less than a genius for his work. He rarely rested. Next to sham, he regretted indolence. He excelled, and was never satisfied with mediocrity. He could be a severe critic, but his criticism was designed to improve and not to inflict. There are practical men and there are idealists. He was both. He shunned praise, and his lifetime Salem associates applauded him. He was a builder, not of railroads, boats, bridges and mills, but a builder of men

out of tarnished, fast-deteriorating material. He began building a reformatory out of a cathedral of ruination. He began

building

honest

labor

for convicts,

but

not with

money from the pockets of taxpayers. The same penitentiary that the Press had been finding such a perfect target to aim their critical shafts at all these past years, was translated into a place of rehabilitation of youth, of character,

of morals; and long-winded editors began to comment on

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the penal metamorphosis with columns of well-deserved praise. His empty industrial buildings became halls of labor inside the walls; new projects became bristling capitols of con-

struction where men thronged at whistle time. The erstwhile prison of human degeneration became a forced refuge, a livable dwelling for society’s outcasts of the storm, a shadow in the heat. As the old regime fell, new men arose from weary bodies and civilization in place of medieval treatment began to march on. Kelley and Willos had remained in their condemned cells all this while—as their cases were dragged tediously through the courts of the land for long weeks, and for long months— until thirty-three of them had passed. Every loophole and every legal technicality had been worn threadbare by the men’s defense attorneys, until it seemed that no hope remained. Then in desperation, Kelley’s chief counsel charged an allegation of error to go before the Supreme Court, in

which he attacked the constitutionality of the hanging law of Oregon as contravening the Federal Constitution. The main portion of his allegation of error was merely a revamping of an old charge he had made previously in that what Kelley did, he did in self-preservation and self-defense. He also alleged that the court did not have any jurisdiction in the case of Kelley in that he was a convict in the prison with a prison term to serve out, and that he could not be hanged until after that term had expired. The contention was similar to one raised in the case of the notorious Gerald Chapman,

Eastern bandit, who,

ecuted in spite of this plea.

however,

was finally ex-

This new plea of Kelley's de-

fense was also turned down, and both he and Willos were

remanded to court to be resentenced to be hanged. The new execution date was set at April 6, 1928. Many tongues and pens took action at once in behalf of the convicted murderers—for even Willos was a murderer in the eyes of the law; being just as guilty as though it had

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ch whi r gge tri the d sse pre t tha r nge efi for own his n bee snuffed out John Sweeney's life. They had been given that trial which the law entitles every man, and they had been

sentenced according to the findings of the jurors, to hang by the neck until dead. When they were remanded to court to be resentenced for the last time, they quitted the prisoners’ dock as men already finished with life—as dead men walking laggardly to their doom. Yet between them and that doom had suddenly arisen, even while the gallows awaited them, such a plea for clemency as had never been heard

before on the Pacific Coast. The Governor began to consider commutation.

At such

a time I imagine the Governor was to be pitied, and that men

should have spoken softly in his presence—for by a device of the law he was made the overlord of life and death, and

the gravity of his problem could give him no rest. Should the prisoners live? The voice of mercy pleads not unreasonably for any Governor in such a situation. Should the prisoners die? Their life to be forfeit? And the Governor could look for life where there was little, while for counsel

he had only controversy. He could ask no man what he should do, for the choice and responsibility were his own. He could only place the future in the balance even as he considered the past. He was without guidance of friendship, at the time of choosing. . . . Finally the Governor made his decision. He issued another reprieve of one week to the men. But on April 13th, they did not hang. Another week’s reprieve was issued. And then on the early morning of April 20, 1928, the Governor proclaimed that the men should die. I talked to Blackie Willos on the morning of the nineteenth, the day before he was to hang. He and I were seated on a window sill in the prison hospital —with a death watch standing near by. We could look away for many miles, and the low hills on the horizon wore a haze of living blue. The notorious so-called murderer sat with his dreamy black eyes fixed

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through the patch of barred window, and talked about the beginning of life—and the end. “You take your first breath . . . it hurts. . . you've started with life. You take your last breath . . . it hurts . . . you're through with life. And what comes after? I don’t know. Nothing—I guess.” He had on a neat-fitting white shirt, open at the throat,

and his muscular, nimble fingers moved restlessly up and down its row of tiny pearl buttons. His hand curled and his strong chin trembled a little. He looked at the sky again and sighed. “But God, Kid, I'm glad it’s almost over. These last thirty-three months have been hell for me and Crowbar.

We've had a dozen reprieves, and it’s been the same

story every time.

One hour from the gallows . . . minutes

crawling, creeping, dragging.

It’s not so much that a guy

has got to die to satisfy society. It’s the awful hours of waiting in the condemned cell . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . and then . . . reprieve.” There was a silence. A person’s mind will entertain some strange thoughts in a circumstance like this. Here was a man who, in all probability, would be dead within twenty-

four hours; yet he wasn’t whimpering or cringing or crying about what an unjust fate had brought him. He was not nervous. He even seemed restless and anxious for the business to be over. I was the one that was nervous. Why did I have to think of all the beauty of life just at that moment of unutterable mental depression?>—of a lake where wood ducks were swimming, fretting the surface with circles of silver. Of a fish rising and returning. The sound softly metallic. Musical. And all along the pebbled shore, between clover and water, plover duck—searching. A gull glistening as it swerved. Spreading maples standing lonely in a field of blue camass and looking to the lake and sweetbriar. Just above me was the sound of birds stirring musically in the eaves. There was a freighter shouting on the broad Willamette; far out on the highway were beautiful

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high-powered cars hurrying through the morning. Blackie Willos was leaving this beauty of life. It was a life far removed from convicts—but one that might be enjoyed in some distant future. He started speaking again. “You'll be the only one left. Tom and Oregon are gone. This time tomorrow, Kelley and I will be gone. Almost like a jinx to you?” Isighed. A sigh unheard. “Kid,” he said, placing one hand on my

shoulder, “the

old game doesn’t pay very good—does it? I'm going to be hanged—and I'm not losing my nerve because of it—but you can see where this stuff will get you—can’t you?” I nodded slowly. He got off the window sill—stood up straight—smiled. He held out his right hand. I grasped it in my own firmly. “My barber is waiting to give me a shave,” he said very softly. “This is good-bye—forever.” My lips were trembling a little.

“Yes, Blackie—forever.”

I turned abruptly. My eyes stung, and my throat tasted salty as I reeled through the Chapel, and out into the open air. The screws looked at me queerly. They did not understand. Out in the prison yard the next morning the warm air was seemingly surcharged with a dismal, melancholy tension. Hundreds of restless convicts moved around dispiritedly, intermittently gathering in little cheerless knots, and then moving silently away to themselves again in grim absorption. More guards began to make their appearance in each of the towers on the four walls. Each tower was doubled up, as this is an age-old custom during executions. The two condemned men, with only an hour to live, ate heartily of breakfast, consisting of fried eggs, buttered toast, fruit and coffee. Immediately following their meal, Kelley dressed himself in a neat-fitting gray suit with blue-line stripes, and a natty blue-and-red tie. He was cleanly shaven, his eyes were clear, and he seemed to be in perfect control of himself.

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Willos, too, was well-dressed in a brown suit with line

stripes of darker brown, but his dark face showed a lack of proper sleep. Both men insisted that they be well-dressed when they made their appearance on the gallows. Kelley was the first to enter the grim walls of the death chamber. He walked with a firm tread up the thirteen steps by the side of a Chaplain, unassisted. Two guards followed. He maintained his composure, but his mouth tightened to a thin, straight line, and he gripped the leather strap on his hands tightly as the black cap was thrown over his head and the ugly noose adjusted. He dropped through the trap at 8:31 o'clock, and was pronounced dead twelve minutes later. His fellow-conspirator, Willos, assumed a nonchalant air

and mounted the thirteen steps with a cigarette in his mouth. For a fleet instant as he stood there on the scaffold, his heavy eyelids flickered as he glanced quietly over the audience, ap-

parently looking for faces he might recognize. From the open window, the full splendor of the morning sunshine was evident as the golden rays came pouring into the room.

He

closed his eyes against all this outside beauty for a second. Then he grinned wickedly.

Just before the black hood was

placed over his head, he spat out the cigarette viciously,

surveyed the seventy-five white faces staring up at him and said dramatically:

“Well, I hope you will all be satisfied.”

At 8:53 he dropped through the trap to his doom.

Fora

few moments his body jerked convulsively, then slowly be-

came limp and swayed grimly back and forth like some hideous pendulum. At 9:05 he was pronounced dead, his body was cut down and placed in the wicker basket at the bottom of the scaffold. Thus ended one of the bloodiest chapters in the annals of Oregon’s prison history, a chapter that was replete with thrills and dramatic incidents all the way through. And now here is a horrifying and scandalous fact: a number of women—ye gods and little fishes! —sent pleading requests for souvenir pieces of the rope! Had these women heard, as I did, what the Warden and his Deputy said of

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them, they would have hung their heads in shame and for-

ever afterward felt the lash of conscience on hearing the word “rope.” One of the Warden's assistants took the two ropes immediately after the executions and burned them. There were no souvenirs. Perhaps the women would have been just as well satisfied with one of the ears of the doomed men, or a finger, or a toe, or a tooth, or perhaps their scalps,

intact to wear as ornaments on their dress fronts. We emerged but yesterday from the Dark Ages. No one will ever know except the Warden and his closest confidants, who pulled the levers which sprung the death traps for Willos and Kelley. Of these levers there are three, one of which is the key to the trap. Three guards pull the levers, set side by side, at the same moment, and they cannot discover the fatal one. This is a scaffold trick, used for obvious reasons.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

AME the time when all of the new buildings were completed, and finally moving day rolled around—the day when the stupendous task of transferring hundreds of convicts to different parts of the institution was started and finished. Two hundred trusties were placed in their new quarters outside the walls, and approximately four hundred men were moved from their dingy cells in the old North and South Penitentiary Wings, into new, almost luxurious quarters in the modern cell-house. The Warden was a happy, smiling man that day, for another burden had been

removed from his hands. No longer would he be compelled to keep two prisoners in one cell in the old building. Regardless of how good an executive personnel may be in charge of a prison, just as long as there are two or more convicts in a single cell there is sure to be a low moral plane for the inmates. No situation is more desperate in any penal institution in so far as corrective values are concerned than the housing of two prisoners in one cell. Sixty of the most thoroughly trusted prisoners who had been placed at work outside the walls were transferred to the “Prison Annex” six miles southeast of the city. Here they were accorded extraordinary privileges, and a few weeks after their removal from the penitentiary it was discovered that they were enjoying some privileges that weren't in strict harmony with the Warden’s ideals or policies. It was found that nine trusties had been enjoying regular Sunday afternoon parties with women friends at a secluded rendezvous near the prison farm annex, and as a result, they

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placed back in durance vile by the Warden,

their

privileges removed because of the clandestine meetings. Not only had the trusties been meeting women friends in this heavily screened sylvan retreat, but they had built up an “underground” system of sending letters and messages in and out of the prison which the Warden pronounced “potentially dangerous.” The practice originated when a married trusty, allowed to go fishing, ventured “out of bounds” along the wide stream which crossed the farm, and met his young wife. The young couple, co-operating, increased the number attending these

Sunday meetings until finally nine trusties were known to have established trysting places to which they took themselves each Sabbath to meet a charming member of the opposite sex. The parties terminated somewhat abruptly when a letter from outside the prison was received through routine channels, when it was supposed and intended to go otherwise. Finding the letter led to a careful investigation that eventually traced it as having been directed to a certain prisoner at the prison farm annex. Thus ended a temporary heaven for the convicts. I might digress long enough to tell you of an amusing incident, or escapade rather, which occurred inside the walls

just prior to the big moving day. Bill Tanner, a strapping big guy of six feet or so, blond, blue-eyed and handsome as the devil, was working out his fifteen-year sentence in the prison kitchen, and one day he decided it should be enlivened by feminine companionship. The kitchen was remote from the women’s quarters, but Convict Tanner evolved the brilliant idea of going up in the dumb waiter to the Bertillon room, which, incidentally, was a part of

the execution room and also was next to the women’s department, separated from it by a brick wall. Here he removed a section of the baseboard (about eight inches high) that ran around the bottom of the Bertillon room, and dug out the

thick bricks behind so as to provide a passage through the wall. It was a neat scheme.

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Every day he made his journey in the dumb waiter and slipped through the hole like a burglar going under a maid’s bed, concealing it after him by pulling into place the loose section of the baseboard. On the other side of the wall he held pleasant téte-a-tétes over afternoon teacups with those feminine prisoners who were part of the conspiracy. How long this would have continued undiscovered by the officials, had it not been for Tanner’s ultimate mistake,

is a question that can never be answered. But one day Bill became so engrossed with the entertainment the women offered him that he completely lost track of time, and became aware of the late hour only when the male convicts had been taken back to their cells and had been counted. There was only one thing to do, and that was to stay where he was. His inamorata, Hazel Gleason, one of the women prisoners, was quite agreeable and managed to conceal him

in a closet. Meanwhile the manhunt was on. Guards searched every portion of the prison where he might have hidden. But not finding him and not dreaming that he might be in the women’s quarters, they came to the conclusion that somehow he had escaped. Notices to that effect were sent all over the country, and posses investigated report after re-

port from mistaken people who declared they had seen him. This went on for a week. Bill grew increasingly bored with sitting in the dark corner of the closet. It was obvious that he could not go back to the kitchen, and being just a young man, it was equally evident he couldn't live out his span of years where he was. The upshot was that he and Hazel conspired to overpower the matron and use her keys to effect their escape. But just then Tanner’s luck changed. A Negro woman who was not aware of the business, saw him and yelled out of a window to a passing guard: “Heah’s Tanner. Heah’s Tanner.” Which, of course, was just too bad for Tanner.

To get back to the natural sequence of the story: Inside

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the new, modern administration building were placed many interesting and intensely important innovations. On the main floor was situated the prison arsenal, protected by heavy, bullet-proof glass and armor-plate. Contained in it were modern arms of every description—sub-machine guns, high-powered rifles, sawed-off shotguns, riot guns, tear gas, smoke bombs and revolvers. On the same floor was placed the Superintendent’s office and the Warden's office, Parole Board's room, flax department’s accounting office and vari-

ous bookkeeping offices. On the second and third floors Work shops were were the modern women’s quarters. placed there where the female prisoners could make shirts, socks and caps.

This was a merciful innovation for them,

for it afforded them something to keep them busy on a con-

structive line, and kept their minds off their sentences.

One of the most interesting innovations of all was the new Oregon Identification Bureau, which was placed on the basement floor. This Bureau was also made the headquarters for the Oregon State Police Identification records. The Bertillon Bureau was equipped with moneys appropriated by the State Legislature for the prison and the State Police Department, while the photograph division was equipped with prison funds. The identification system suddenly underwent a startling evolution. There was a time in the early history of the institution when the photographs of all new arrivals at the prison were made by Salem commercial photographers. Whenever a new prisoner arrived, the Warden summoned a photographer from downtown,

who was always glad to

make the picture for the fee allowed by the State.

These

curious old pictures, hundreds of them which are still on

file in the prison record rooms, are all of the regulation “cabinet size,” more convenient for installation in the family

photograph album than in the Rogues’ Gallery. Occasionally the prison management still receives requests from persons for pictures or records of relatives or acquaintances who served time in the prison years ago.

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But the time came when the State made its own pictures. Even then it had been fairly well-equipped for the purpose,

but the establishment of the new identification bureau had almost perfected the matter of prison photography. The new room prepared for this work is so equipped with lights that photographs can be made day or night, and in a very short time. The fingerprint system was established in the prison about 1910, and has been perfected by Mr. Joseph

Murray, who has been employed in the prison since 1911. In building up its records in the new bureau, the State was given a start of 2 §,000 records furnished by the Sacramento, California, bureau. Others were added constantly. Two thousand records were received in one day on one occasion, and others were furnished from Seattle, Spokane, Portland, Tacoma, San Francisco, the Washington State Bureau at Walla Walla, the prisons at Folsom and San Quentin and

from numerous other sources. At the present time the Bureau is the most complete in the West, with over 150,000 fingerprint records on hand. The new bureau is in charge of Mr. Murray. Probably the most important innovation of all was the decree by the Warden that the old nationally known bullpen was to be torn down, and be replaced by new cells for the incorrigibles in the basement of the recently constructed cell-block. The new cells would be politely called “corrective and meditation cells.” With one exception they were to be equipped

with plumbing,

and aside from

solitude,

would not be distressing to inmates. For prisoners who insisted upon violence, a‘small cell, bare of bed or furniture would be constructed. Despite all these innovations, splendid discipline and humanitarian methods, a certain outfit from Portland decided

to institute a so-called “prison investigation.” This was to be headed by a young but brilliant criminal attorney. They immediately placed their plan into action by going to the Governor's office, and requesting that an investigation of the prison be made on the grounds that they had heard

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cruelty and unusual punishment were resorted to quite frequently by the Warden; that the food was scarce and of a very inferior quality, and that the inmates were treated more as beasts than as men. The Governor realized that these men were laboring under false illusions, palpably implanted in their minds by some insidious source of reformers not acquainted with actual facts, and to still any further criticism that might occur, he sanctioned the in-

vestigation at once. On the day the investigation was held, I talked with my old friend Robertson, the wise old newspaper reporter, out in the prison yard. I had made his acquaintance on my first day of incarceration in the institution, he was familiar with my record, and he had always displayed an apparently deep, friendly interest in my case and my obviously new intentions to make good. “I came down to Salem from Portland to conduct some personal business,” he began, “but I have decided to stay

over for this investigation. This is everybody’s business, you know.” “I guess it is,” I replied. “Sure itis.” His voice tremoloed into a flutey uptake, and his hands fought a three-round draw when he talked. “Now,

when they told me there was to be a prison investigation, I had to smile. Iknow about this prison under many administrations. I knew it when it had a population of less than three hundred, and I know it now when it has a population of over a thousand. I've covered this stuff for years for my sheet. I knew it when it was a stench in the nostrils, figuratively and literally. So did you.” I smiled. “You can tell the world about that, Pal.” “The trouble with this investigation,” he went on, with

his staccato-like way of talking, “hearing, free-for-all or what have you, is that it has no beginning, but a more tragic

conclusion. The real trouble lies in the investigators—not that they aren’t honest, not that they aren’t well-meaning—

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but they started on the wrong floor. Never investigate from the attic to the cellar. When you buy a house, if you ever do, start with the cellar and work up. Look at the foundation first. Anyone can tell you how the roof looks from

the outside.

Is that clear to you?”

“Perfectly.”

He paused for a moment and looked at the ground. “Kid,” he said, “you’ve been hard in your day, I guess. And there are a lot more like you in this dump that have been hard in their day. But you are known as a square-shooter—and

others are square-shooters. That’s an enviable reputation on the inside—a square guy.

If you fellows have no other

epitaph when you die but square guy, it seems to me that the Great Warden himself will remember the sins of your youth with compassion.” I smiled uncertainly. “You've got me reeling, old man. What has ‘square guy’ got to do with this investigation?” “I'll tell you,” he answered quickly. “Kid—how’s the hash?”

I looked at him puzzled, and he looked me through and through.

“Good,” I said finally.

He shrugged.

“That's all I wanted to know.

reason I came to a square guy.

That's the

I wanted to know how the

hash was. I'm going to talk to some more square guys before

I go home.” I was silent for a moment. “What's the hash got to do with this?” “Listen to what I tell you,” he said. “You're prison smart. You'll understand. The hash is good. The beds are clean. The linen is clean.” I nodded. “If you do your work, you're in clover; if you get tough,

you end up in solitary confinement. No work—eat bread and water—that’s not a bad idea. Lots of guys on the outside don’t even get bread and water.” “I suppose so.”

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“You don’t know the half of it. Whenever you read of prison riots, you find that they start nine times out of ten in the dining-room—rarely out in the yard.” “I was in one once.” He smiled. “That’s right. And I'll bet a dollar that rotten chuck had something to do with it. A riot like that really isn’t a riot—it’s a revolt. When the food is poor—when the plates before the men stink of smelly eats—when the meat is putrid, the bread filthy and undigestible, when there is not

enough to hold body and frame together—when the beds are filthy, when you hear the ominous growl, and the word from mouth to mouth, “The hash is sour'—when you hear that, Kid, look out.”

“And how!” “But,” and he looked me right in the eye, “when the men

are well fed, as you men are; when I can hear from your own lips the food is the best in years; when I can see clean sheets and the floors are spotless; when you fellows go to

work without being herded to work—then this talk of evil conditions is foolish.” I agreed with him, for every word he had uttered had been true logic. Then he smiled again, and abruptly changed the subject—to football, the new cell building, Bobby Jones’s golf, and a lot of other things far removed from the investigation. Then he held out his hand. “Well, it’s all cut and dried as far as I'm concerned. How about you?”

“My sentiments exactly. As far as I'm concerned, the investigation is over.” The investigation didn’t consume much time. It couldn’t. Prison conditions were too much on the even keel under the guiding hand of its great disciplinarian. The hearing was nothing more than an idealist meeting a pragmatist— a fine young fellow with his head in the clouds meeting a fine old gentleman with his feet planted solidly on the earth. All through the investigation a bitter feeling between the young attorney who demanded the hearing and the Warden

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It was apparent in a continual

cross-fire of remarks. Several times, the Governor with a smile, cautioned: “Boys, boys, the referee doesn’t like this;

get back into your corners.” Then it came. The Attorney

had rested his case, when

the Warden

refused to read a statement for the record. The Attorney objected, but the investigating Board overruled him. The statement the Warden did read made every man in the room gasp. Couched in no uncertain terms, with no uncertain phrases, he flayed the method of prison investigation. Then turning to his Deputy-Warden, he said: “Open that drawer and show these men all of the things that we have taken in the last few weeks from a few of the more dangerous prisoners.”

Out of the drawer

came

home-made

knives,

ludgeons, saps, every one of which was a lethal weapon.

“Gentlemen,” he said softly, “two of these knives were

made for me.” Had

he stopped there, there would

have been enough

drama for one day’s hearing. As all of this transpired, time had resumed its inexorable way, and finally four years had passed by since the day that the new Warden had released me from stripes. During all this period I was a model prisoner, and I reached the point where I was thoroughly trusted by the officials. I remained in full charge of the prison butcher department for all of the four years, become a very capable worker in that trade, and slowly but surely my privileges increased until finally I was allowed to remain out of my cell until eight o’clock every evening. During the long winter months, it was always more or less foggy at night. At times one could not distinguish the lights on the walls from the yard. It would have been a fairly easy matter to escape. But now I was living in constant hope of being released legitimately, and I did not

wish to jeopardize that chance. I became an avid reader and in time became so versed

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in history and such, that I could have told you why Mark Antony clung to the shores of Egypt and the warm arms of Cleopatra. I understood the Doric style of Greek architecture, as well as the cultures which made it possible. I could explain the difference between a Rembrandt and a Rubens,

a Stoic and an Epicurean, a sonnet and an elegy.

I could

speak some French and a little Spanish, and knew the sociological factors involved in war, and could name the

Justices of the United States Supreme Court Bench—a feat, which I have been told, that not more than one out of a

thousand could perform. What good did it do me? I'm going to explain to you about “convict-ology.” The long-term inmate gets so he looks forward to informative reading material—the World Almanac, a world atlas and innumerable newspapers from

all over the globe. A convict learns to be a student to pass away his miserable hours. He learns to digest what he reads, merely for the fact that what he reads will make good topics of conversation with the other inmates out in the yard. After a prisoner has served several years, he has already gone over every incident in his past life a few hundred times, and the

only way of finding new fields of interesting and intelligent conversation is through newspaper comments, remarks on the books he has read, etc.

Such conversations vary from boxing to horse-racing, to the latest political feud in Mexico, to a diamond mine discovered in New Zealand, and when a convict reads a news-

paper, he usually reads it from cover to cover, often even the want-ad section. The average long-term convict gets to be a fairly well-read individual, qualified to converse intelligently on most any subject, but his greatest disadvantage 1s an absolute lack of personal contact with outside elements. I purchased a complete set of law books in the prison, and the very first time I picked one up, the legal language to me seemed about the utmost in verbosity, and studying

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it at the time appeared to be a bore rather than a pleasure. But after a few weeks, I became intensely interested of a sudden, and discovered that actually a good many interest-

ing things could be found in the volumes—things that had to do with real everyday occurrences and not altogether technical fine points of legal hair-splitting, by any means. Reading a law book from cover to cover would give anyone a pretty fair education if he could manage to penetrate the “whereases” and “herebys” and “provideds,” and get down to the basis of contemporary history from which the laws are made. For my

recreation during these last four years, I had

played on the prison baseball nine during the summer months, learned to smack a tennis ball with some semblance of skill, rehearsed for shows, and had even tried my hand

at riding wild bronchos occasionally with some regularly on all of the the proverbial pink all

which were brought inside the walls visiting rodeo outfit. Then I fought prison smokers, thereby keeping in the time. I had written to my sister

as soon as I was released from stripes, and now I was corre-

sponding regularly with my people. They were brokenhearted at first, but eventually they adjusted themselves to the situation and began looking toward the future when I might again have my freedom. My sister’s letters were a pleasure and I looked forward to them constantly. They never contained any pessimism or sadness, but were always peppy and optimistic from start to finish. Then one night the Warden handed me a letter from her, and it was wonderful news—she and her husband

and their three children were coming to visit me on the Monday of the following week. They were making a twothousand-mile drive just to see me. All at once I felt happier than I had for many years. As it happened I was training hard for my biggest fight inside the walls at the moment, and it was to take place also on the following Monday. I asked the Warden if it wouldn't be possible for my sister

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and her husband and children to come inside and see me do battle. He agreed that it would be perfectly all right for them to stand on the wall and watch the fight. I never trained harder than I did the rest of that week. I wanted to knock my opponent out as a new introduction to my sister, who would be practically a stranger to me. Finally came Monday—and the world crashed down on my head. There never was a melodrama filmed in the old nickelodeon days that had a more suspenseful plot than the agonizing situation pounded on my soul by Fate that day just as I went into the ring. The gloves had been tied on my hands and I was anxiously scanning the faces of the visitors on the wall, when a clerk from the front office walked down

to the ringside and handed a telegram to my seconds, saying: “That’s for Duncan.”

“Go ahead and read it, Blackie,” I said to my chief second.

He tore it open, read the contents quickly, then looked at me queerly, and started to stick the yellow-backed envelope in his pocket. They were calling us out for instructions, but I disregarded them and grasped the telegram with a gloved hand. As I glanced at the pasted strips of type on the paper, here is what met my gaze: Clarice was shot and killed accidentally this morning. Stop. We were enroute by automobile to visit you. Stop. Full details later. HARry.

I can remember standing there a moment on the canvas, with everyone staring at my white face. I guess I was trembling and just let the paper fall out of my hands, before walking over to the center of the ring to get the instructions. I remember the monotonous mumbling of the referee, my return to the corner, the faint clanging of the bell, and the first impact of fighting gloves on flesh. After that, everything is still hazy. Round after round I fought in a daze;

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my mind wasn’t on my opponent, it was wondering why that thing had happened. People were yelling and screaming and booing for me to snap out of my trance, but I just kept plunging stubbornly and desperately into a swarm of fearful punishment. No top-notcher or ham-and-egger ever took more punishment than I did that day. I do not know how many times I was knocked to the canvas, only to get back up without a count, and weave back drunkenly into the fray. I was cut, bleeding, bruised and thoroughly beaten,

and everyone was imploring the referee to “Stop it.” And

so in the middle of the eighth round, I think it was, he walked

over, took me by the arm and led me back to my corner. “You're through,” was all he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

N the early fall of 1931, a certain new convict was dressed

in the prison and he came to me with the news that Helen Taylor had ended her own life. After Murray had come to his tragic end, Helen had gone to the dogs; she became careless in her attire and general appearance, drank habitually, and became just a common woman of the streets, ready to sell the use of her beautiful body, indiscriminately, and for a song. She became a little balmy in the head, the man informed me, even addicted herself to drugs, and finally one night she climbed to a dizzy height on one of Portland’s many bridges, and leaped down into the tumbling currents of Columbia River. When I pressed the man with questions to bear out the authenticity of her complete deterioration, he said simply: “I'm giving you the straight dope, guy; I lived with the ane.” On September

17, 1931, the Governor created a tem-

porary State Board of Pardons to be composed of seven members, whose duties were to act in an advisory capacity to himself.

The seven members included:

the Prison Chap-

lain, the Secretary to the Governor, and a local business man, all members of the State Parole Board; and two Salem

Chaplains, a Portland business maff? and the Warden of the

prison. The newly organized Board met for the first time in October, and began consideration of fifteen applications for pardon. Rules that applied to application for parole also governed the pardon applications. Arguments for and against grant326

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ing of a pardon had to be made to the Board in writing, and attorneys were not allowed to argue the case, as before a jury. According to the Governor, each application would be decided on its own merits, and the manner of conducting the inquiry would be according to the exigencies of each case. The general procedure was to interview only the inmate concerned, and friends and relatives were not permitted to appear before the Board, but had to submit their

pleas in writing. The most important factor in considering applications were recommendations and affidavits of the presiding judge, the District Attorney and jurors in the trial

of the prisoner, as to his innocence or guilt of the crime for which he was convicted, or the severity of the sentence imposed upon him. The Governor’s purpose in creating the Board of Pardons was fine. But two things occurred in November that completely disarranged his plans and designs. First: he lost out on the Governorship for the succeeding four years, his opponent winning the chair by one of the most overwhelming majorities in the State’s history. Second: virtually the first convict he released after creation of his new Board,

should sider. served one of

have been the very last for any executive to conFor the man was a life-termer with only a few years inside the walls, and he was a “sadist” convicted of the most dastardly and inhuman crimes on record.

The newspapers set up a terrific clamor, and rightly so,

for his having released this degenerate back to society. The pardoned convict’s relatives were intensely wealthy, and because of this fact, the Governor was publicly accused of everything—dishonesty,

corruption,

thievery,

graft

and

founded, but whether they were or not, the damage

had

dramatic plea in my behalf, as did the Prison Chaplain.

And

falseness to the people. hese charges might have been unalready been inflicted. Every convict felt that his application for pardon would be rejected. In December, I was placed before the Board of Pardons. The Warden made a

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subsequently, I successfully passed the Board for a conditional pardon. Then it was that an unexpected opportunity took shape for the Governor. Less than a month remained for him as Chief Executive of the State. But a new job suddenly thrust itself on the horizon of things—that of Ambassador to The Hague. The Governor remembered back to the recent hue and cry of the press. I had a bad record—any number of people would oppose my release—even the Judge, District Attorney and Sheriff of the county from which I was convicted, were opposing it. After all, he was a politician.

He lived politically. Why bassador just to release me, take the responsibility at a day of January of the new

jeopardize his chances as an Amwhen some other Governor could later time? And so on the twelfth year, before the eyes of the Prison

Warden and the Prison Chaplain, the outgoing Governor

tore my conditional pardon to a hundred shreds. I had forewarned myself not to be shocked if I were not released through the legitimate channels of the Governor’s signature on a pardon. I had assured myself that I should regard the matter with an unrelenting self-command—and with a sort of indulgence and indifference until the new Governor could do something. But when the actual showdown came, and the real truth imprinted itself indelibly on

my mind, the disappointment was too great to be cast aside with a calm patience. What if the new Governor would not sanction my release? That would mean four more years wasted. Sn Once more the escape mania returned to me.

It was not

just a mere impulse or whim to avenge an obvious wrong, but unconsciously I had been planning and hoping and dreaming of a legitimate release for weeks and weeks, and

now that I could not have my freedom in the proper way, I determined to have it through another method. I would go over the wall, or I would get rodded off in trying. I secured employment at once as a fireman in the boiler room, with

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privileges to remain out in the yard until seven o’clock every evening, as I considered this the most logical department from which to perpetrate a successful escape. Right away, I spotted Dan stoking boilers. “How you coming, Dan?” I asked abruptly. “Your fifteen years still hanging tough?” “Still tough, and four yet to go.” “How would you like to take a mope, or have you got that stuff out of your bean?” He looked at me and his eyes laughed. The expression in his eyes had changed remarkably in the last few years. They were not carefree now—they had been plated over by too many of life’s disappointments, and narrowed with too much squinting through close-set bars. “I've been expecting that crack from you,” he said. “The Governor pulled a phony, didn’t he?” “Yeah.”

“I don’t blame you for feeling tough. And now you want to escape.

Well, I'm ready any time, any way.”

And so we shook hands, and started searching at once for a potential weak spot in the wall guards’ routine—just like Murray’s gang and I had done, years before.

Already two-

thirds of the month of January had passed when we started in earnest, and we were both aware that but a comparatively short while remained in which to perfect an escape plan, as

it was imperative that we make our thrust for freedom during a fog. Without such protection to blanket us, we would be shot and killed before we covered twenty feet of ground. Finally we determined to make a headlong dash for the South Wall on the next foggy night. We assumed the most logical place to go over would be the exact center where the wall towered thirty feet above the power flume. We were a little too conscientious in watching this particular spot, however, and our actions came under the alert ob-

servations of a well-known fat who acted as janitor in the

boiler room. Right after this we found that we were under

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strict surveillance, and that three guards were placed in the

prison yard at night instead of the customary one. Something puzzled us. Granting that the officials did know that we were planning to escape, why did they let us

remain on our jobs? This question remained unanswered for some time. A few evenings later, Dan and I had just been relieved from duty at 5:30 P. M. and we were standing outside the boiler room wiping the grimy sweat from our torsos and getting a breath of fresh air. Dan suddenly hissed: “Psst—look down at that ball diamond tower. The screw is leaving.” I turned my head and my eyes followed his curious glance towards Number Three Tower. Sure enough, the guard had picked up his rifle and overcoat, and was leaving the Post. “What's so funny about that?” I asked—then a thought struck me. “Did a relief guard enter that tower?” Dan laughed. “I’ve had my glims pasted on that Post for five minutes—and nobody entered that tower. It’s empty as hell right now.” “Are you sure?” “Say—I'm positive.” Just then, through a haze we saw another guard standing on the cat-walk about thirty yards above the tower.

he added weakly.

Dan looked crestfallen.

‘“No—I'm not,”

But I had an idea. “Say, listen to me, Mug.

If that screw

makes it a habit of his to stand out there on the cat-walk every night for fresh air, we might be able to cop a sneak right through his tower.” Dan nodded gingerly. “It’s a dangerous go, old man, but I'm crazy enough to try it.” On the morning of January 29th, the fog began to blow in. Thicker and thicker it came, and soon the hazy atmosphere had obscured the department buildings to dim, in-

distinct lines. Every convict was marched to his cell, with the exception of a handful of men who remained in their departments to carry on certain necessary work. The boiler room men belonged in this category. All day the fog re-

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mained, alternately clearing up somewhat and then reverting back to a dense grayness, and Dan and I kept eternally stoking at the boilers. At five o’clock in the afternoon, all prison lights were almost indiscernible. We were due off shift at 5:30 and we began to move fast. At 5:15, I said to Dan: “Dash off shift now and take your shower. Be all ready to

go when I come off.”

He shook his head. “It’ll look too suspicious.”

“To hell with the suspicions. Two screws will be down here at 5:30 to make a check on us. We've got to get a move on.”

He shrugged. “All right, just as you say.” When I was relieved at the boilers Dan was finished with

his shower, and already had several packages of cigarettes and some matches on his person. Two screws came in and when they saw me under the shower and Dan apparently absorbed in a newspaper, they left immediately. Two minutes later we were ready to go. We were forced to make our exit through the rear of the building in plain view of the

other employes. Some of them looked at us suspiciously as we came down. “Fellows,” I began, in as casual a tone as I could muster, “Dan and I are going to make a stab at the wall. In the meantime, until we get out of here, just keep your minds on

your own time and forget about us.” A moment later we emerged from the boiler room into a

large sawdust bin, and we scrambled quickly to the top of the building, where we began crawling cautiously over the top of a tremendous flax blower. This was slow work as the contrivance was made of heavy tin, and we had to exercise

wary vigilance lest one of the tower bulls situated near by should hear our movements. But this was our home, the only home we had known in years, and now, with the in-

stinct of blind men, we moved unerringly along. Finally we gained our objective, and made our entry into the flax mill through the opening of one of the gaping skylights. In a few seconds we were on the floor.

No sooner had

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our feet touched concrete than we rushed over to where a heavy ladder was chained to a huge supporting column. We found a heavy pinch-bar in a mechanic’s locker, and by pointing the sharp end of this implement into the loop of the lock, I managed to spring it open without much

diff-

culty. The ladder was fully forty feet long, and resembled the type which is generally a part of fire department equipment, even being equipped with ponderous steel hooks on

one end. Dan and I felt we would encounter no little difficulty in placing the ladder against the wall, but this was a case where there was no alternative. We couldn’t jump over the wall— that was certain. We each grasped an end and then trotted to the front end of the mill with it. And when we boldly swung open the front door to dash out into the dense fog, our faces paled at what we saw. For now there was no dense fog—just a slight haze. Some whim of the uncertain elements had decided to double-cross us at a desperately crucial moment. We could plainly distinguish the guard seated in his tower a few yards away, with his eyes to all intents glued on the mill. The screw on the ball diamond tower could not be distinguished, and we had no way of knowing whether he was on the inside or out on the cat-walk, which

was obscured from our view. We closed the door. To step out there would be rank suicide. The man in front of us was armed with a Thompson sub-machine gun, and we knew that we would be cut to ribbons from its staccato-like blaze of bullets before we could race twenty-five feet with the heavy ladder. Now—we

had

to go

on, however.

The

three

night

screws would detect our absence from the department at any moment, and the inevitable search would be on.

We

couldn’t go back. And we couldn’t remain in the flax mill five minutes longer. For the night shift of the mill were due to appear promptly at 6:00 o'clock, accompanied

by two

guards, and when Dan glanced at his cheap watch, it was

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just five minutes until six. We were frantic now. As a last desperate measure we decided to turn the lights out in front of the mill. “No—no—that

won’t work

either,” Dan

barked.

He

tightened his lips and dug his nails in his palms. “The minute that cluster of lights goes out, the tower guard will point his Tommy this way. That would be suicide.” I broke into a torrent of curses. “Well—what are we going to do? We've got just two minutes to make up our minds.” The muscles in Dan’s face was twitching, and there was

a savage gleam in his eyes. “God—I don’t know. We're supposed to be a couple of tough guys, and here we are—as helpless as a couple of punks.” “We can’t control the elements,” 1 said helplessly. I risked a quick look out of a crack in the door and stood listening for a few seconds, and the sound of voices and footsteps coming up the street made me go cold with excitement. “Here they come,” I hissed. “The night crew and a bunch of bulls.” Dan’s jaw dropped and his blue eyes opened wider. He stared glumly ahead of him. For a few seconds—seconds that seemed an age—I stood there motionless, all power of movement gone from me, perspiration pouring from my ice-cold forehead, my hands shaking as if in ague, but then with all

the effort I could command, I pulled myself together. This was no time to lose my head—and delay would certainly be fatal. “How about it, Dan?” I whispered. “Turn them damn lights out,” he snarled, raising one end

of the ladder from the floor. “Snap ‘em off, and let’s start running. If we get bumped, we just get bumped, that’s all.” Right at that instant we executed a clever bit of strategy that neither of us had contemplated. For when I pressed the switch, snapping out the cluster of lights, the tower

guard whirled his body sideways to grasp the telephone to turn in the alarm, and as he did so his eyes were completely

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averted from us. Dan and I realized immediately we had unconsciously performed a strategic move when we heard his frantic voice on the phone. We picked up the heavy ladder from the floor and started racing across the ball diamond, and fortunately, were able to get into step from

the very start. After we had reached the base of the tower, we were forced to stand directly under the glare of a powerful electric light while we tussled with the long ladder to place it up before the window. It took considerable time to complete this work as we had to exercise extreme caution lest the heavy hooks scrape against the armor plate on the tower window.

All this time, the guard who was supposed to be

inside watching back and forth, caping virtually Within a few

his post, was just a few yards distant pacing wholly unaware that two convicts were esunder his very eyes. moments after we had dropped to freedom

on the other side of the wall, there came what we had been

expecting; unearthly sounding sirens screeched and shrilled, and the singing of tires on pavements became clearly distinct as powerful prison motor cars tore through the evening's stillness. The manhunt was on. “Think we can make a car?” Dan asked. I listened as the manhunt gained momentum. “I don’t believe we can,” I answered. “Inside of five minutes, the highways will be blocked solid and a hundred cops will be shaking down every heap that comes along.” Dan muttered a surly growl. “That’s about the size of it. But we've got to move away from here.” Soon we struck the outskirts of town, and when we passed

in back of a residence, a big airedale began a barking and

yelping that was a masterpiece. A woman opened the back door, and glimpsing our two forms skulking across the premises she slammed the door shut with a resounding crash,

and rushed through the kitchen to the front of the house. We surmised correctly that she was on her way to the tele-

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phone. We had just crossed a street a few blocks farther down, when two motor cars came speeding down the pavement, and with suddenly applied brakes slid to a stop a hundred feet or so ahead of us. We held our breaths as we crouched low beside a house, and we thought for a moment we had been seen in crossing, but it became evident we had not when the cars were started

up and continued on their way. Once more we crept ahead,

and once more a neighborhood dog began a frightful series of barking and growling. I felt my blood run a little cold

when the same two cars returned and several prison guards scrambled from their seats. Dan swore roughly under his breath.

“I never heard so

many watch dogs in my life. They've ranked us, and we've got to plant—uy pronto.” Several other cars stopped on the street below us, and after a hurried consultation, the guards apparently decided

that some of the civilian cars should keep circling slowly around the block, while they, themselves, should start a search of the grounds. We came abreast of a large residence,

and made entry through a door leading into the basement.

A moment later we were huddled behind some convenient

barrels, and for a brief period there was nothing but eerie silence in the room. Suddenly the voice of a man intruded on my thoughts. “We’d better look in this basement, fellows.”

“We haven’t time,” some one answered gruffly. “There’s a thousand basements around here. Let’s search this row of garages.”

For a long time we lay hunched down, keeping our faces pressed on the concrete floor, and after a while everything became quiet outside. We raised up slowly, stretched our cramped muscles and decided to emerge out in the air once more.

The evening had become more blind with fog, and

only a murmur of indulgent feminine laughter reached us to penetrate the stillness. A radio was turned on in another

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house, and the music blared forth a stammering, lascivious

jazz. Then a man’s lifted to tenor out “I OFFER YOU “Oh yeah,” Dan

voice rose with his spirits until his voice the words: CONGRATULATIONS.” remarked ironically. “Well, we need

em.”

I pressed his arm. “We'd better prowl a house around here and get some clothing.” We were in a bad spot. The entire town was aware that there had been a prison break, and the majority of the citizens were on the lookout for us. Still attired in prison clothing, it would be a simple expedient for anyone to recognize us as the escapes. We could not venture out on any of the highways without taking the chance of running through a gantlet of red-hot lead from the posses’ guns. It was imperative that we steal some clothing, and after prowling around a bit we came to a large house which was completely darkened and from past experience in the art of burglary,

this fact led me to the belief no one was home. We gained entrance without difficulty and hardly had we stepped on the threshold, when we heard blaring forth from

a radio loudspeaker an announcer’s voice carrying to the world at large the news of our escape. After listening a while, Dan asked: “Wonder if anybody’s home?” “I don’t think so. Probably just left the dial turned on when they left. Let’s investigate.” We carefully inspected the room in which the radio was going full blast, and our investigation revealed that apparently we were the only persons in the house—at least, on the lower floor. We didn’t go upstairs. In another room I found a coat that, although it was a size or two too small, served the purpose excellently for the time being. I also found a cap; Dan took possession of an overcoat and a hat.

We rolled our convict coats and caps in a tight bundle, placed them back of an old garage 3nd just as we stepped from behind this building we noticed a shiny sedan drive up

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337

within a few yards, and a big, portly guy stepped out to unlock the garage door. “Our chance to grab a heap,” Dan hissed. “And that bozo looks like dough, too.” “We can’t get away in an automobile,” I said, “so just forget it. We've got to leave this burg on foot.” “On foot?” “Yeah. It’s our only chance.” To get started on our way out of town we had to cross a street on our right, and it was necessary to pass by the very house that we had prowled for clothing. We were halfway across the lawn when a sharp, swift command stopped us in our tracks. Turning quickly, we were confronted by a husky looking individual, dressed only in trousers, underwear and house slippers, and he was plainly nervous and upset.

“You fellows just broke into my house,” he assured us in an excited voice. “And you're wearing my clothing.” We listened to the outburst bleakly. Then as if it had been but the snapping of a mongrel dog we had heard, Dan mumbled in a brief, harsh command:

: “Scram.” Standing close to the man I could see that his face was a little pale, and his eyes seemed to pop out further than ever.

“Police,” he shrilled. “Escaped convicts.” Dan’s face blackened, and an oath rasped from his tight throat. With a sudden movement, I brought my right fist up,

lunged in with all my power, and smashed the man full in the mouth.

He was knocked across the lawn a few feet, and lay

there. As we started racing across the street to escape detection from the numerous citizens standing in their front doors, we were able to distinguish only a startled squeal from the stricken man. All that night we travelled, through a night of fathomless blackness. Over high mountains we tramped on foot, down through the impenetrable foliage in deep gulleys below, and through forests of great trees where only intense darkness

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prevailed. And finally a new dawn had broken. Day stood distinct in the sky, but it was a day blind with fog, and the atmosphere was dull and brooding. We were a couple of hunted guys broken with weariness, bruised and wet and torn, and drowsiness coiled insidiously about us. “We've got to hide somewhere today,” I said hoarsely, as we stood on top of a great, towering hill. My body was a mass of aches and throbbing muscles. “Have you any ideas to offer, Dan?”

He stared at me. His eyes were a little queer. “No. How could I—after being hopelessly lost all night like we were? What direction are we from Salem?” “I think we’re south?” “Oh—you just think?” He spoke with an effort, through lips that had apparently gone dry and stiff. “I thought I saw the beacon lights from the Salem airport when it was still dark. I don’t know whether I did or not. Maybe I'm going screwy: Hey—can a guy see them lights through a heavy 0

?”

I nodded dully. “Sure—they’re fog lights. I thought I saw the same thing you did, but I wasn’t sure, so I kept still. But if we really did see those lights, that means we're southeast of Salem, down close to the Santiam River some

place.”

Dan’s face was drawn and anxious. “And a hell of a spot to be at, if you ask me. But let’s find a log somewhere to hide alongside of for today.” We stumbled forward. The gloom of winter dwelt on everything, the leaden atmosphere rested heavily downward and the very earth looked dispoiled. Finally we entered a small clearing away from the thick foliage and huge trees, and a large, decayed log lay sprawled on the wet ground. “Here, you take this heavy overcoat of mine, and lie down and get some sleep,” Dan said. “T’ll keep watch for a couple of hours, and then we'll change off. The ground is pretty wet, but we can’t get soaked any worse than we already are.”

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I regarded him closely for a moment. “You sleep first, and I'll keep watch.” He drew a deep breath and shivered slightly. “Let’s don’t argue about it like a couple of brats. I want to stay up and smoke a fag, anyway.” We exchanged coats, and somehow I managed to drift off into fitful sleep. 1 was awakened suddenly. Dan was laughing crazily, a cold, blood-chilling laugh. “What's the matter?” I asked dazedly. “Did you blow

your top?” “No—I was just thinking about the joint. We sure beat ’em slick, didn’t we?

You know, I'm hungry today.

Yes,

sir, downright hungry. Think I'll start out with a shrimp cocktail and then right into a big steak.

Yeah, that was a

good mope we made. How did you like that Steve Brodie I took off the cat-walk? Too bad that screw on the wall couldn’t see me. He shoots a mean machine gun.” “Now I know you’re nuts,” I said.

Once again he laughed, a harsh laugh with no merriment in it. It was a flout at the silence. As it died away I saw him cock his head to one side in an attitude of listening. He lifted a warning hand. “Ssh. Do you hear that?” I raised up—listened intently. “There is nothing. It’s this silence. It’s got hold of your nerves.” He did not move. Neither did he lower his head. “But there is something. Listen again.” I listened once again. This time I heard it. It was like the droning of a single note on some musical instrument, in the far distance—like a bow being drawn’ across the strings of a bass viol, to hold the same pitch. I turned my head sideways, listened with mounting interest and quickening breath. The droning note in the distance was now pitched to a higher key. It sounded like the prison whistle in the distance—but wasn’t. “It’s getting nearer,” Dan said. Then the sound came unmistabably. For a full minute we heard the rise and fall of a churning motor—remote, soft,

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yet unmistakably. “They're looking for us,” Dan hissed. I lifted my head. The sound vanished, came back again— a waspish drone somewhere in the sky. Our eyes tried to penetrate the fog towards the heavens. Then we saw it simultaneously—a cruising monoplane as it ducked under the fog, close to the ground. The ship enlarged. It was incredibly close to us. “We're in a hell of a place,” Dan mumbled. “That lucky stiff can hardly help but spot us.” Scarcely breathing, we pressed our bodies against the wet log. The pilot began to wiggle his wings and circle. In a shambling slip he dropped towards the ground, then raised the nose of the ship abruptly in the air, and sped away. “He might have spotted us,” I said. “Maybe we’d better get away from here.” Once again we plodded on. Our assurance had departed completely.

We were in a state of consternation, half bereft

of our senses, unable to think or act sanely. Once we came to the rise of a rather barren hill when suddenly the sound of many feet, apparently human, was heard scrambling fran-

tically up on the other side. Dan and I quickly sped over to some thin saplings in an effort to derive some partial protection, and only with difficulty were we able to calm our

jangling nerves and frightened brains. As feet sent loose gravel clattering downward in their wake, a flock of sheep emerged over the top to send the gloomy stillness resounding with their cries: “Baaa—aaa . . . Baaaaa—aaaa.” My laugh was short and weary. “You can tell your grandchildren about the time when you ran from a bunch of sheep, Dan.”

But even this failed to bring a smile to his mud-caked countenance. His voice was sleepy. “Boy—I'd give ten years of my life to have a gallon of steaming, black java right now.” As we shambled unsteadily through the brush we were

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possessed with a feeling of haunted fear. Virtually every step had to be cautiously weighed lest we bump unexpectedly onto one or several of the manhunters. For a while in the afternoon, it seemed that the fog would break.

Gleams of

sunlight, bewildered like ourselves, struggled, surprised, through the mist’and disappeared. Then the gloom of the afternoon deepened definitely, and all at once, it seemed, the

leaden darkness of another night rested heavily on the earth. We were scratched and cut by briars, white with fatigue— but we were not too weary to be bothered by a mess of nerves, not too weary to be touched by coming events of the night and the knowledge that the future looked more precarious than the past. We had been lost in the fog all through the previous night,

but on this night we became even more hoplessly lost—if such a thing were possible. Over mountains, through deep forests, we cursed hoarsely as we stumbled and fell through the Stygianlike air. Hours passed—and all sound of life and civilization vanished completely. All the unknown of the night and of the universe was pressing upon us, and we became afflicted with the exaggerations of morbid hallucina-

tions. We were in a quandary just what to do. “I wish I could hear the sound of a heap,” I said. “Being lost in this fog, and this silence, is driving me screwy.” Dan stood silent and rather abstracted.

When he spoke,

his voice was dead. “We ought to give ourselves up.” “You mean turn ourselves in to the bulls?” “Yeah—but of course we’re not going to. We couldn’t find our way back to the pen to save our lives. I've got an idea, though.” I was silent, wondering what in the hell was going through his crazy bean. I could see the red end of his cigarette as he puffed furiously for a moment. “We might hang a sign on our backs, and tell ’em to come and get us. They might even run on to us, you know.”

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“We haven’t any pencil,” I said. “And besides, this is no

time for wise-cracking or bum jokes.” Dan found a stump, sat down with a whistling sigh. “Naw—I guess not. We're big enough jokes the way it is. But sit down on your fanny and rest awhile.” I got a cigarette burning and paced back and forth for a moment, and suddenly I stopped in my tracks. The solemn, damnable silence was broken by only the faintest echo of an automobile horn. Faint as the sound was, it came unmistakably, however. “Hear that?” I whispered sharply.

Dan jumped to his feet. “The highway—that means it’s over there.” “Wait.”

He gripped my arm and stood for a pause listening. “There it is again. Let’s go over there.” For another hour we wrestled ourselves through the brush and fog and then an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the

heart overwhelmed us completely. For faint sounds of an automobile horn floated from the very direction we had just travelled from. An air of stern, deep, and unredeemable

gloom hung over and pervaded us as we dully realized that what we had first heard was only an echo resounding from the canyons. After an eternity of resolutions, doubts and indecisions we decided there was no alternative but to turn around and fight our way blindly in the other direction. After a couple of hours that seemed like days, we were able to distinguish the murky lights of a passing car ahead of us, and as we came closer, we could discern the indistinct ribbon

that marked the highway.

Now we were exhausted, mentally and physically.

The

menacing shadow of want was claiming its inexorable toll. We knew that to venture out on the highway, dark and fogbound as it was, would be inviting disaster. We would have to skirt the smooth stretch of concrete, and continue to skulk through the brush bordering on one side of it. We were aghast at our own helplessness, and as we came in back

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of a shadowy farmhouse, we decided to rest for a while and try to get our sluggish thoughts straightened out. A fence ran parallel with the house, and somehow I was unable to keep my heavy eyes from this. I thought I saw one of the fence posts move, and I was

gripped with a sickening premonition that I could not have defined. I felt positive that I was suffering from one of my recent hallucinations, but yet one little point in my halfcrazed brain seemed to keep alive. It registered and per-

petuated one thought—of watching that unstable fence post. The post moved again—even more definitely than before. Surely I was crazy as a loon. Hysterical laughter rose to my lips. I choked it back. I must not let my lunatic pal know my own insane condition. I felt a weird agitation coursing through me like a faint

electric shock as the animated post mover a full foot. The shock increased—gripped me harder—almost paralyzed me. I waited uncertainly—eyes and ears suddenly alert, and then the goofy post started moving fast. I could hardly believe it. My heart bounded—stood still—began to hammer under my soaking shirt. For the post was climbing over another post. I was watching it all with abstract bewilderment, then my body and mind became alive. I jumped up, pulling Dan with me. “Come on, Dan—quick. Here comes a guy—a posse man. He’s after us.” Dan paused. His words echoed hollowly about him. “You're nuts. You've popped your bubble. What the hell’s the matter with you?” I started running, and Dan followed reluctantly. We could hear heavy footsteps clumping behind us—then the explosion of a high-powered rifle reverberated through the foggy air. Another shot, then another and another, and all

was mysterious silence as Dan and I both dropped in a clump of brush, completely exhausted, and breathing through our

nostrils like spent horses. A new sense of fear ran through

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my nerves like the chill of an icy wind when the dull beam from a flashlight began to explore over the ground. Our minds were filled with a formless dread as the light came nearer and nearer, the holder patiently seeking what he firmly expected to find. Then the light began to move away, and we were soon lost in the darkness. Everything became deathly quiet once more. “That guy’s a rotten shot,” Dan commented softly.

“Maybe not,” I replied. “You were just born with a horse-

shoe around your scrawny neck, that’s all.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FIVE

D AN and I eventually reached a small town about three o'clock in the morning, and we took refuge in a large high school building.

Because the new day was Saturday,

the place was empty and we easily hid there decided to prowl some store that night needed clothing and food. At nine p. M. on a high tier of baled hay inside a rambling looking barn—a structure surrounded on

all the day, and to obtain some we were seated old, dilapidated three sides by

small residences, with the swift-flowing Santiam River to the

rear. Our eyes were peering out of a window with several squares of panes broken, and we were absorbed in the activities inside a general merchandise store up the street a ways. Traffic was heavy for a night so foggy, and in a town so

small. But all the traffic was concentrated to and fro past the store which was on both the Pacific Highway and the main street of the town. We could see the automobiles hastening by on the highway, and out of the milk-white fog we could hear distinctly the quick low groans of brakes as they were suddenly applied on each and every car. After a momentary pause—the motors would pick up, gears would be shifted, and the cars

would resume their way. We knew just what that meant. For an hour earlier in the evening Dan had stood in the rear of the barn watching every automobile going south being stopped and searched thoroughly, and he returned with the report that “Bill Luckinbill, Tex Moore and Shorty Edwards are down there stopping and shaking down all heaps,

and they are armed to the teeth.” 345

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We agreed that to harbor further thoughts of continuing on our way south would be but a waste of time. Such a route was now impossible. Our best chance now was to prowl the general merchandise store, shave and clean ourselves up, dress in new suits and clothing, then steal a car and double

right back to Salem and on to Portland. At ten o’clock the lights were turned out inside the store, and a few moments later we could see the clerks as they emerged on the darkened street with another man, apparently the owner, who

stopped and locked the door.

We found a pinch bar in

the barn which we took with us when we left, as well as a

long rope which was hanging from a hook on the wall. Within fifteen minutes I was on top of the building, and removed a square of skylight glass without difficulty. Then after effecting an easy entry I let Dan in from the rear door, which we locked after him. “I'll sort out the necessary duds,” I said, “while you keep

watch. What size kicks do you wear?” “Seven. And remember—none of that silk underwear for me.

I want the heaviest stuff in stock, and fleece-lined.

I'm

going primitive.” To prove his versatility, Dan mixed his assignment of watchdog with a little prowling of his own. His explorations led first to the discovery of a flashlight of powerful voltage, which he tossed over to me, and which came in right smart

handy, by jiggers. Slowly but surely I was building a pile of the best clothing from the store’s stock of merchandise on the long counter in front of me, and I started from socks,

underwear and shoes, right on up. Dan brought me over enough marshmallows for an elephant; then began a series of trips bringing bananas, cheese, candy, peanuts and everything that had the appearance of edibility. Finally I had chosen the last two articles of raiment—our overcoats. “Well, I've got everything we need,” I remarked. “Let’s slip off our rags and get into some warm and decent clothing.”

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“You haven't got anything,” Dan snorted. “Look.” He borrowed my fiashlight, and bending over low under protection of the counter he held the beam of rays on the shining surface of a nickel-plated revolver. It was an ancient-looking weapon, to say the least—but it was a gun. At that moment the revolver was what chiefly interested us. We were fair judges of fire arms, and we realized it was very old and

unreliable,

and

that no real crook

would

have

viewed it with anything but intense scorn. “But it’s something that will serve the purpose,” Dan commented. “We can stick a guy up with it.” After a moment of desperate pantomime, he proceeded to examine the newly acquired weapon more closely. Breaking the cylinder we discovered that, of the four shells, one of them had already been fired. The remaining three cartridges had turned gray with corrosion. The trigger guard was bound with wire to hold it securely in place. The revolver had not been fired, to all outward appearances, for a long time—probably for several years. Snapping shut the cylinder, he placed the gun carelessly in his pocket, and we

transferred our interest to the articles of clothing which I had sorted out. Within a half-hour we had dressed, and not

only did we regain some semblance of real humans instead of ragged apparitions, but we felt immeasurably better. We carefully hid the other clothing beneath a huge platform with several tons of flour on top, and then we started search-

ing for a razor and other necessary articles to remove the stubble from our faces. After leaving the store with a sack of food with us, we soon found a car which, termed in stir parlance, was red-

hot. A man drove up in front of a house in a large sedan, jumped out, and left the motor running and the lights on. “Better let me drive,” Dan suggested. “You’ve been in the stir longer than I, and you haven’t twisted a wheel for ages. Shall I give her the gas?” “Sure—step on it.”

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And he did step on it—let the clutch out, and began shift-

ing gears with an inexpertness that was a menace to life and property, as the car straightened out with a roar. He had assigned himself to drive the machine, and he was driving it. We went skittering around a corner with two outer wheels whirling and rising higher and higher until it seemed we were certain to overturn in a ditch to the right of us. Then straightening out again, he sent the vehicle of steel literally flying down the fog-bound street with his foot bearing hard on the accelerator.

I read the numbers—60—70—80—on

the speedometer and groaned inwardly. Seated beside this crazy companion of mine, I was trying to keep firm seating in the swaying, bounding machine, and ever trying desperately to close the door of the sedan. Apparently something had broken in the lock and it would not remain closed. “Ease up a little,” I admonished. “We're going to turn a flip-flop if you don’t.” He gave no indication he heard me—driving onward like a demon unleashed, and taking the turns with caution flung to the winds. Then, unfortunately, he turned into a blind street, and we realized instantly that only a miracle could save us from a complete smash-up. With a reckless, hopeless gesture, he whirled the wheel abruptly to make a right turn to roar between two enormous gas reservoirs, and in a flash a connecting pipe-line loomed up ahead.

The car, rocking

and jouncing, fighting the wheel, struck with a mighty crash. Dan was benumbed into helplessness for the moment by being thrown heavily against the steering wheel, result of the terrific impact of steel against steel. The open door had prevented me from being thrown headlong through the glass windshield, and a slighdy wrenched shoulder was my only inconvenience from where I had been hurled against the door edge. Before the quivering motor was hardly still, I had jumped out and saw the full damage. Then Dan tumbled out, and for a moment we stared blankly at the car. After a pause our eyes slowly left the wreck and stole towards each other’s faces.

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Dan mumbled a hoarse curse. “Well—we had a good ride for a minute anyway. What can we do now?” “I don’t know. But it’s certain that this car is missed by now, and within fifteen minutes the highway between here and Salem will be lousy with bulls. We can’t go south over the bridge either.” He stared at me from deeply circled eyes. He was still suffering from nausea by being thrown against the wheel. “They’ll find that the store was prowled within a short time. I think we had better head for the brush.” “The bloodhounds?” “Hounds can’t smell a guy in the fog.” “Another thing—we’re right in a triangle here. We've got to cross the river to get out of it. If you'll tell me how to reach the other side, I'll go into the brush with you.” He considered for a while, then shrugged. “There is no ‘way. We can’t swim it. Let’s go back to the schoolhouse and figure this thing out.” I agreed to this move, and soon we were back in temporary hiding. “Dan,” I said, “I think I’ve got an idea.

about two o’clock Sunday morning now, isn’t it?” He nodded. “Something like that.’ “All right. That means no school here today.

It’s

I'm in

favor of staying here all day, and then planting in some

church tonight after the services are over. We got enough food to last us for a week and if we lay low long enough, they're going to call this manhunt off.” “Sounds

good,” he said.

“Well, we'd better get some

rest today then.” We resumed investigation from where we had left off before, and in the extreme rear of the immense basement, a

large pile of wood containing many cords was stacked up neatly, and we considered this as the most logical and the safest place to clamber in for the rest of the day. We removed innumerable lengths of wood, sinking a cavity in the very center, and after this work was finished we climbed inside and lay down. Soon a restless, disturbed sleep enveloped

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us. When we awoke, a dull, gray light hovered in the basement, and when Dan looked at his watch he saw that it was ten o'clock. Although he had slept, his eyes were weary;

his face was haggard, lined and grimy with dirt from the

wood. He turned over and said in a tired, drowsy voice: “Well, I guess we've got them beat. We can pull that church gag tonight.” For a moment I lay turning things silently over in my mind. Then I raised unsteadily on one elbow and cocked my head to one side. It seemed that I had heard something —Ilike a muffled step feeling its way on the floor above. I shook my head to make sure my ears were operating properly, then shrugged off my discomfiture of mind as a foolish figment of imagination. Deep silence fell. Through that

silence a muffled cough echoed from another part of the

basement—an

ominous

sound.

I stiffened.

Instincuvely,

my hand slid along to the pocket of my coat, to which I had transferred the revolver after Dan had handed it to me in the car. Again that muffled cough. We crouched in bewilderment. We didn’t know just what was happening. We were too weary to try to understand it. Cold sweat burst from us as we tumbled out to investigate. Dan reached one of the basement windows first. He stopped in his tracks. All at once a remarkable change came over his face, a combination of rage, amazement and blank incredulity. He looked like a man that had just received a shock that made him doubt the evidence of his own senses. “What the hell?” I hissed. He tossed up his hands in a helpless gesture—panic gleamed from his eyes. “We're sunk. The place is completely surrounded.” “What?” I felt my jaw muscles tighten, and a sickish sensation took me in the pit of the stomach. “Look,” he whispered. I looked out, and then my eyes became fixed upon some-

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351

thing which momentarily shocked me into immobility. For through the dense fog I could distinguish the figure of a prison guard standing with a submachine gun held in the crook of his arm. And at an interval of every few yards were other men, all heavily armed with weapons of some

death-dealing sort. “We couldn’t fight our way out of here and through that mess of bulls if we had Big Bertha,” Dan shrugged resignedly. “Better throw that rod away.” I nodded assent—tossed the revolver in the woodpile. The stern significance of that scene outside raced through my mind with lightning swiftness. I remained as if paralyzed, utterly unable to move, stunned with the realization of all that must have happened while we were asleep. But then I was spurred into a sudden frenzy of action—foolish action. Our presence in the schoolhouse was known now, the place was surrounded, and there was, therefore, not the

slightest need for silence or care. “We can at least try to hide somewhere, Dan. Come on.” We both turned and started scrambling for the woodpile once more, when the sharp cry of “Stop where you are” was given from behind. Then: “Toss em up, boys. You haven't got a chance. The place has been surrounded for an hour.” I know that it is an unnecessary procedure to give you all the details of our ride back through the fog to the penitentiary, of the thoughts and emotions we experienced. But when a gang of newspaper men grouped themselves around us in the Chapel, and pressed us for answers to their questions, Dan cut the main interrogator off with:

“That’s too long a story to start telling now, Buddy.

And

say, anyway, guy, don’t you know we're tireder'n hell? Personally, I'm going to sound my A and sing myself to

sleep around the clock.” He stretched his arms and continued with a yawn: “I'll bet the big birds running this bastile will be plenty rough on us two guys from now on.

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Well, the fun is all over and I guess it can’t be helped.

A

policeman is a policeman until you cut his head off. See us in the morning and we’ll spill the whole works.” The Warden and his Deputy questioned Dan and me down in the solitary row the next morning, and I interrupted with a query of my own: “Warden, how in the hell did you ople find out we were in that schoolhouse?” “You fellows were snoring,” he answered promptly. “The janitor happened to go down to the woodpile to get some kindling for the furnace, and he said he thought there was a bumblebee’s nest around somewhere until he investigated and found it was a couple of escaped cons making all the racket.

He slipped out and notified the town marshal,

who then notified me at the prison.” “I want to ask you to answer this, Warden: are you sore at us for Jamming?” “Why no. Why do you think I should be?” “Well—you’ve treated us both pretty white—took us out of stripes, gave a chance to make good, and all that stuff.”

He regarded me for a moment. “You never did sign a voucher that you were going to stay with me, did you?” “Not when I was awake.” “Then I can’t feel vengeful for your act in escaping. As long as convicts beat us fair and square,

and slip right

through our net when we know for a positive fact they are contemplating a change of scenery, then we can only take

the result from a sporting attitude and shrug it off as one of those things. You men were on the alert; some of us were lax in our watchfulness.” The same old Warden—competent, level and poised, and he then told us with frankness, but also with a faint trace of

kindness, of the preparations he and his Deputy had made in an effort to frustrate our escape. “But at that I'm glad you men didn’t attempt to go over that flume,” he said. “For it would have automatically obliterated your hopes and ambitions for a long life.”

OVER THE WALL Then man,

the Deputy,

spoke

up:

“We

353

a tall, heavy-shouldered, don’t

get peeved

when

keen-eyed a prisoner

beats the walls without harming anyone; if he can get past the Tommies without a dose of lead poisoning, he deserves

credit. Only when an inmate signs a trusty slip signifying that he will not run away, and then does just that as soon as the gate slams behind him—is when we can get mad and stay mad.” Dan and I had been locked up in solitary confinement for about three months when late one misty afternoon, many

pairs of feet began to descend into the corridor of the new building. I was lying in a semicircle position on my bunk,

and when I peered through the barred door I distinguished several young Priests, attired in their black hats and robes. They were accompanied by Father Keenan, head of the prison ecclesiastical organization, and also a member of the prison Parole Board.

“I want to talk to Lee Duncan,” I heard him say. “Number Two Cell, sir,” the guard informed him. Father Keenan walked down and stood before my door. I scrambled off my bunk and stepped up before the bars. “Thought I'd have a talk with you while I'm down here,” he greeted, reaching inside to grip my hand. “How are you

getting along?” “Getting fat and lazy, Father.” He was a heavy-shouldered, lean-hipped man, and looked more like a healthy athlete than a priest. His brown eyes knitted closer as he looked me over. “You're an impulsive fellow, aren’t you? What ever put the idea into your head to escape?”

“I might be assuming a one-sided point of view,” I explained, “but in my position I can only look at the practical

side.

I’ve still got thirty-five years, and it looks as if I must

resort to drastic measures to secure my freedom.”

His eyes flickered a little. “Are you still prepared to go to that length for your liberty?”

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I nodded emphatically. “I would most certainly take advantage of an opportunity to escape this very day if I could get over the wall without harming anyone.” “You're foolish to even contemplate such a thing. Tell me, what pleasure could you ever derive out of such a kind

of freedom, if you did escape? Heretofore I have believed you sufficiently intelligent to realize yourself the inevitable consequences of your present thoughts—to defeat your prison sentence through force. You don’t want to get out ike Tom Murray did, do you?” I gestured impatience. “That’s not a fair comparison. There’s as much difference between my methods and Tom Murray's as there is between daylight and dark.” “But either method simmers down to the same tragic conclusion,”

he assured me in a positive tone, and then

glanced impatiently over his shoulder when he saw that the other priests had completed their survey of the premises and were waiting for him. “You men step up in the Chapel, please. I'll be up presently.” He turned and gave me his undivided attention. “Now, let’s discuss this thing sensibly, Duncan. First: I'm going to ask you to forget all about this escape business. The odds would be millions to one that you couldn’t protect your freedom once you emerged over the walls, and for the comparatively short time you were free, you would be haunted constantly by a fear of recapture, additional punishment and everything that goes with it. I'll concede with reluctance that this last escape of yours did you immeasurably more good than it did harm, merely through the fact that it tended to bring your case, and the obvious injustice accorded you by the last Governor, before every citizen in

Oregon, but all this happened only because of a miraculously clean getaway, and the fact that a goodly portion of public sentiment has been swayed in your favor. Understand, I'm not applauding you for your act. Personally, I'm

one hundred per cent against it, and can only say that the good Fates must have been at your side every minute.

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355

“Second: we've still got our Pardon Board here until some new law can be enacted, and just recently the new Governor appointed me Chairman of the Board. In spite of everything you've done, I still believe you've got some good stuff in you that only awaits the opportunity to be properly developed.

The Warden feels the same way about it.

Now,

we're both ready to help you to the extent that your name will be heading the Pardon Board list on the fifteenth day of next month, and all we ask of you in return is this: discard absolutely every vestige of vengeful thought that Jo may have acquired in this solitary cell, further hopes of escape, imaginary retaliation of injustice and so on. Convince yourself that the Warden and I, and others almost as influential with the new Governor, are going to get you out of

this solitary confinement, out of the penitentiary, and that ‘we're going to keep you out. Understand?” I nodded that I understood perfectly just what his straightforward talk implied. “Just one thing I don’t understand though, Father: will I be taken direct from solitary confine-

ment to appear before the members of the Pardon Board?” He studied me under meditative brows. “Most assuredly.

I suppose such a thing will set a precedent around here, but

after all, it shouldn’t make any difference where an inmate is incarcerated when the time comes for his case to appear before a supposedly competent body of persons.” My mind swirled in retrospect of all that had happened during the last few months. And I knew just exactly the wonderful break this man was giving me. “You're a brick, Father; that’s all I can say. And I hope that I'll never live to disillusion your confidence in me.” “I stand ready to assume full responsibility for all future consequences in regard to your conduct,” he said, grasping my hand through the bars. “So long, Lee—keep a smile on your face and a stiff upper lip until we meet again.” I did appear before the Pardon Board members at the next meeting, and which later proved to be the last meeting.

I

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will not go into details concerning my personal appearance at the Board on that momentous day. Just three months and twenty days after I had escaped over the wall, my case was up before the Governor of the State for Executive clemency while I was still incarcerated in solitary confinement. No other man in the history of the institution, before or

since, has ever been accorded that unusual privilege. Deep in every man’s heart lies the seed of hope, ready to spring into growth, and as I sat at the Board, one after another of the prison officials and the members of the Pardon Board told the Governor, himself, of their faith in me and earnestly asked that I be given a chance to make good on the outside. There is something inside of a prison that, when others treat him white and try to help him, swells up and seems to choke him. That gives you a faint idea of the way I felt. Dan and I were released from solitary row a few days after my appearance before the members of the Pardon Board—just prior to the first pitched ball of a Saturday afternoon game, and by scrambling like quick-change artists we managed to fit ourselves into uniforms and engage in some of the fun. Down at the game I met Dutch Bannister, Doc Brake, Tommy

Gargotta and Pug Milo, all long-termers

who had also gone up to the Board; and we enlivened things considerably by kidding each other on our respective chances of passing, etc., and to hear them rave one would

have thought that my jolt would be an ultimate repetition of old Dan Judy's. The leaves of time drop stealthily, and the morning came when a Portland paper was slipped through the bars of my cell, and from my bunk I could see the glaring headlines, THIRTEEN CONVICTS RECEIVE PARDONS AND COMMUTATIONS. 1 stared at the paper until my eyes blurred and then I tumbled from the bed. I hurriedly reached for the Oregonian and resolutely straightened out the brittle sheets. Ilacked the necessary courage to look further for the moment, and had to laugh at my own ner-

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vousness and indecision. But then as I flattened the paper out, there it was, all done up in black and white: “Heading

the list of those to whom executive clemency was handed out Tuesday is Lee Duncan, under a sentence of thirty-five years. ...” That was enough. I didn’t read any further. Out in the yard that day I was congratulated by hundreds of convicts, the officials, and then my old friend Robertson, the news hound, came up and patted me on the back and pumped my hand vigorously, and exclaimed: “Atta boy, Kid, I knew it

all the time.” The Judge who sentenced me said:

Duncan is an incorrigible and should be kept tentiary under the closest of surveillance.

in the peni-

The District Attorney who prosecuted me, said: The man is a confirmed criminal, and it is a mistake to again turn him loose to prey on society.

The Sheriff who arrested me said:

I strongly opposed clemency for that man, Duncan, for he is a menace to society. A certain well-known newspaper said, in the way of a

stinging comeback:

We put our foot into it last week, we erred most grievously, we sinned almost unpardonably, we committed a horrible “faux

pas’—to make it brief, we designated a certain editorial shaft recently direct to the State Pardon Board at Salem, mildly suggesting that Lee Duncan be kept behind bars and walls for a few years more—and the State Pardon Board promptly “got us told” about it. We humbly acknowledge the seriousness of the mistake and ask the Pardon Board’s pardon. Somehow it seems there is always some little belittling of our earnest en-

deavor to keep this particular convict inside. But may the Good Lord—likewise the sentimental Pardon Board members—find no evil intent this time and forbid a repetition of such a ghastly blunder henceforth and forevermore. Nore: However this may be, we still maintain that convict

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Lee Duncan is a very remarkable young man—he escaped over a penitentiary wall, was recaptured and brought back, sent to solitary confinement for punishment, was let out, learned a

trade and received a commutation

of sentence—all

in four

months.

I did not worry my head or lose a single wink of sleep over the knocks, sarcasm, criticism or what have you. For I knew that out of the long years in prison, in the midst of a

great deal of indignation, vast confusion, and a little too much injustice, I had found new beacon rays of hope for the future—a hope—it was not yet too late to gain the summit of human attainment.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AYBE you'll wonder what my reactions were upon being released back to society after more than nine years inside of jails and a State penitentiary. What were my sensations? Not by the wildest of imagination could I have dreamed what vast differences could have been made in me through my associations on the inside. It was like being suddenly transplanted to another planet. In the first place I discovered to my dismay that I didn’t even know how to act once I was on the outside again. People themselves don’t change much, but customs do.

That alone made everything tremendously different. The newer-designed automobiles looked strange; buildings, clothing, everything did. Women and young girls were now strolling down the avenue, riding in motor cars, trains and street cars attired in nothing more than sheer silken pajamas, with fags drooping from painted lips. Two-piece bathing suits were as scarce as horseflies in Spitzbergen. Thrown of a sudden in this teeming maelstrom of humanity, I felt as unprotected as a young child. I was frankly bewildered. I was even afraid to cross crowded streets at busy intersections without pausing for minutes at a time to gather sufficient courage to risk life and limb. Don’t laugh, my sophisticated friend. It is so. Inside of me I wanted to laugh—and couldn’t. For I was a man who had laughed at death and played with it as a kid does with a toy, but now I was afraid. I who had deliberately thrown my life in the balance by scrambling over the top of a penitentiary wall in face of deadly machine guns to recover a freedom that had 359

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been taken from me—was now scared out of my wits at freedom, now that it was all mine.

I found almost at once that I was terribly self-conscious of practically everything I did. I imagined that every person was watching my every move and was pitying me. It was not just a feeling of unsophistication—it was something deeper. I had dreamed and planned, joshed and laughed about the day when I could step back out and take my place again in society. That day had arrived, and now I wanted to be alone. All the little things that every passing person was accustomed to doing unconsciously were now something to be mulled over by me before I could put them into execution. Never before did I realize just how much a long penitentiary sentence can sap out of a man.

Just what does it do,

anyway? What thing, or number of things, is responsible for it? Is it the mental strain one goes through constantly without knowing it? Or is it the long years of submission, forced unnatural discipline, or what?

With my scattered education and penitentiary training of monotonous

hours, erratic work

and eternal discipline

which had kept under suppression all of my natural desires and emotions, I was unable to reconcile myself to hours of pleasure, traffic efforts and hustle-bustle of life that spun

always around me in this new freedom wherever I went. The nine-and-a-half years just past were proving more of a headache to me now than ever before. Yet I knew my only hope was to steer clear of the road to the old system which had sent me into ruins in my past life, I can say without reservation that a comeback is strictly up to the man himself. It is up to him to drop in discard all criminal associates

and stay forever away from a criminal environment. It is not a revolution of his change in life, but an evolution. 1 could never expect any radical changes in the police system as a whole to help towards an ex-convict’s rehabilitation. Neither could I expect society in general to elect a perma-

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nent policy of extending a helping hand to an ex-convict who

is trying to shed his old skin and evolutionize himself towards honesty. It is human nature to remain skeptical and even neutral until rehabilitation is absolutely complete. I have told you how I felt just after my release—how

everything was so changed.

And I especially felt it on my

long train ride to Chicago from Portland. limited,

I almost

felt like an

outcast.

Every

On the fine person

all

around me on the cushions and lounges, of the new, swifter

generation spoke a different language from that which I was accustomed to.

The train ride was not a happy one for me

—my courage and initiative had been too far sapped.

Many

a night as I lay on my bunk in the prison I had dreamed of speeding through the ozone on a swell passenger; and now I was speeding through on one and was experiencing a sort of unrelenting terror meanwhile. Everywhere I moved about on the train, the diner, smoker, lounge and observation car,

only helped to build up my inferiority complex. The passing scenery helped to comfort me. We glided

serpent-like, with two puffing engines, through the Oregon,

Washington and Montana high-country. The light air was thin and heady, causing me a slight giddiness from my unaccustomed travel on trains. For many years my sole mode of transportation was on my two feet, no cars or what-not,

and all this was strange to me. Transcontinental trains are the mountain-country’s principal relief from the bleak, slate-gray monotony. Situated near boulder cliffs, cabins were tender tugs of domestic comfort and I, suppose, considerable effort. Porches were slabs of broken rock. Heavily pebbled walks were tumbling with an intaglio of sagebrush. In backyards were old brokendown corrals and sinewy-looking horses. Bald-faced,

scrubby cattle stood dumbly near the almost dry water holes of the ravines. Lean, leather-faced men idled about the station platforms with a traditional immobility. One

thing stood out from this bleakness: the civilizing influence

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of the “talkies” had apparently tended to flower the chic among all the mountain maids. In Minneapolis, I stopped over for a couple of days to visit some friends of mine whom I had not seen for ten years or better. They were very surprised; in fact, they never recognized me until I disclosed my identity, and then told them I had been in Shanghai, China, for the past decade. Like good fellows, they staged a party that night, or rather,

they carted me off to a night club where a professional stunt party was in progress. And what a stunt party it was! There were roughneck guards dressed in blue uniforms, who ap-

peared right off the reel, yanked everyone up before the bar and mugged and fingerprinted them. There were bars, stripes, prisoner songs, saws, and cap pistols which tended to supply a county jail atmosphere to the party. They made us eat from tin plates, and drink our coffee from tin cups, in true jail style.

Crudely lettered signs adorned the walls,

announcing: “TIN SPOONS TAKEN AT YOUR OWN RISK; BATHS; SHOWERS ARE FREE; TUB 2¢; TAX 1¢; MEALS o¢; PLEASE PARK ALL HACKSAWS AND SOAP OUTSIDE.” Food was brought in by “trusties” and while eating was in progress, a couple of guys wearing prison stripes and convict skull caps came in and sat down beside the big-shot who was throwing the party, and the spectators cheered.

A policeman appeared and arrested the two jailbirds and threw them behind bars, fixed in a doorway through which

the prisoners looked into the room where we were still eating and made faces of hunger. The pair produced a saw, severed the bars, and broke

through, amid a volley of cap-pistol fire from the hallway. A big guy then sang a parody

to “The

King’s Horses,”

entitled “Sullivan’s Jailbirds.” Sullivan was the fellow who

was staging the party. The theme of the song told of jailbirds who go into their cells and march right out again. Then a rasping orchestra played “The Prisoner’s Song” in

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singsong fashion. One gal was threatened with punishment because she timidly asked for a second helping of ice cream. Altogether everything went over pretty well, but I was thinking hard all through the entertainment and wondering desperately whether my story of China, had gone over or whether this was just a premediated plot on my friends’ part. I do not know about that to this day. In Chicago, a good fellowship pervaded me as I walked along and inspected the miles of exhibits and concessions at the World’s Fair. There was graphic education to be had from the specious chambers and wings of the Hall of Science,

in viewing the hundreds of exhibits. The Fair was virtually a university to me. Everybody’s question betokened everybody’s interest, and judicial response to that question interested everybody. A man could stand in what they called “The Great Hall” of the Hall of Science and get an education in spite of himself, so vivid and animated were the mechanisms and so sedulous the lecturers and guides. The Century of Progress was a combination of an epic of science and industry with a street carnival and circus. In spots it was grossly gaudy as sideshows and as shrill as shoot-the-chutes; in other spots it was Babylonian in its enormous masses. As I was becoming somewhat accustomed to the new world, thousands of visitors fought and elbowed their way about in a sort of amiable violence inside the Fair grounds,

and the general atmosphere ized brawl and the spirit Trolley cars laden to the with strident clangor; the overnight fortune;

took on the aspect of an organof carnival in its highest fling. gunwales sped down the streets parking privileges ran into an

the coppers

blew whistles; the hotel

keepers literally threw up their hands to high heaven with the prayer that the crowd would take their feet out of the lobby and go off somewhere in the public parks, where organized idling is an art: Nobody apparently knew any-

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body—and yet all were strangely kin.

It was an absolute

delirium, a mad, distracted jumble and jangle, with neither

sense nor order nor apparent object. Chicago is a great old town and I liked it tremendously. Its Champs Elysées, Michigan Avenue, was a thing to marvel at whenever I strolled beside the skyscrapers, with the

aquamarine sparkle of the Lake at its feet. Small wonder it is called one of the beautiful boulevards of the world. There were the diners always to be seen through the windows of the unbelievably large Stevens, Blackstone and Con-

gress. Traffic was ever rolling, a thick purr of glittering limousines; smartly dressed, ultra-sophisticated women were patrolling the wide pavements, and Boul’ Mich, as much as

its Parisian namesake, was dotted with accomplished saunterers, who never seemed to be headed anywhere in particular. Bluff heartiness of the frontier peeped through, despite

the mass formation of skyscrapers and towers, built out from the Lake boulevards, and the sparkle of the smart Michigan Avenue shops. Of all the bigger cites it had preserved its rugged individuality the most, and although I had been in Chicago several times before, I had never felt it and loved it as I did now. I wanted to remain forever. But the day came when I had to go home—for the first time in over fifteen years. It was just breaking dawn when I stepped off the train in my home town and hailed a taxi for transportation. My people were living in a different section of the country now than when I had been home last, so I gave the driver the name of the street and residence number and settled back in my seat. When we arrived at the destination I dismissed the driver, then walked up to the front door and knocked. After an interminable delay, my mother opened the door. Apparently everyone was still in bed, for she had a dressing gown wrapped around her. I saw at a glance that she had aged greatly since I had seen her

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last—too much—her hair was now a snow-white, and her

face was pinched and thin. She looked at me for a pause and then said uncertainly: “Good morning.” “Good morning,” I greeted in return. Followed an uncomfortable pause, then she looked at me

closer, and suddenly exclaimed: “Lee—is that you, Lee?” “It’s me, Mother.” We embraced each other, then I went into the house, and

soon my father and the rest of the family were up to greet me. And here was even a bigger surprise waiting for me— something

I should

have

contemplated

upon,

but hadn’t.

There were three brothers who when I had left home were five, seven and nine years old respectively. Now they were twenty, twenty-two and twenty-four, and two of them were

big, husky six-footers. And there was a sister who was just learning to walk when I had left home so many years before; and now she was in young womanhood and already engaged to be married within the next few months. My father looked very old and worn—worry and care and circumstances that I knew nothing about as yet had taken a terrific toll. That evening, in compliance with story-book stuff, should

have been the happiest of my life. But it was not happy or triumphant—it was wretched.

The family was courteous

and polite, but there was an undercurrent that indicated it

to be an unnatural pose.

not harmonious.

Everything was constrained and

That night it seemed that I had never

slept in such a perfect bed, between such sweet linen. But there was something radically wrong with me. I knew that I had no business here—knew that I was out of my own

element. And even while the material things were soothing my body, my heart and soul were in conflict with myself. I was too accustomed to a different world, and realized in-

stinctively that I could never make it here. I discovered that I had entered the midst of an environment that should have

been familiar to me and made me happy, but I was ill-

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prepared and ill at ease. I was in an environment with which was unfitted to cope. I found that I had such a small measure of knowledge. I wondered what Fate had in store. But who was I to question Fate—I who had deliberately played with it? Again in my life, stark reality faced me with all its overwhelming and sinister force. From over the rolling plains of Texas, the winking lights of the capital of the Panhandle bobbed into view, and the more vivid flood lights of the

innumerable oil wells came into sight. All at once I wanted to jump on a train, to rush to the farthest blue of the horizon. Some irresistible urge seemed compelling me to be up and on my way. I wanted to keep on walking, to stretch my arms and my lungs up to the free blue sky, to feel the freedom of the old days that seemed to be gone forever. The next day I informed my father and mother that I wanted to start for the spot where my sister was buried. They accompanied me on the drive and it was a long one. As we drove by the portals of the cemetery gateway, this legend neatly chiseled in marble seemed to beckon and call wistfully: “DO NOT FORGET US; WE ARE SO LONELY; COME IN.” We had a hard time finding the grave, for there was no marking to distinguish it from thousands of others, and as I stood at the spot finally, beneath a venerable red-haw tree, a feeling of uncontrollable emotion surged up in my throat. I had played a reckless, discordant tune upon the strings of life, and this practically unmarked grave of my dead sister’s was one of the answers brought out of the past. Beneath the ancient oaks, the wind crooning in the pine tops, and the breath of balsam scenting the air, there is ordinarily peace, comfort and healing for the

troubled mind—but it did not affect me.

There were red-bud trees here and there, and under the

dying glory of their mantles of pink I could see where planted flowers had bloomed on hundreds of other graves. All the other mounds were carpeted with luxuriant green ?

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grass, but not this one with no headstone except a tiny wooden slab numbered with designated lot to correspond with cemetery records. I wondered why, but I did not press questions. The day was waning, and the trees in the old burying ground were casting long shadows on the ground when I left. Mother and Father with me were wondering at my quietness, I know. But I was thinking hard. I was thinking of the things I was finding out each passing day that I couldn’t have believed possible..

I have been out slowly but surely forever lost to me a girl who knows it—all of it. And

of prison for a year and a half now—and a few of the things I first thought to be have returned in a measure. I have met my past. It is better that she does know on one of these days very soon I hope

that we will go before the preacher man, and then settle

down and live as life should be lived. We cannot live on just affection, we know, but her companionship is going to be a wonderful incentive to me. She is willing to take the necessary step to say love, honor and obey, and it’s a cinch that I am. Even at that, though, I am a little scared. For as much as I try to prevent it, my mind drifts back to days gone by, and memories paint vivid pictures of startling recollections before my eyes—like ugly, menacing clouds floating overhead before an impending storm: of stick-up days and stick-up nights with Frisco Whitey—he’s dead; of prison days and prison nights with Murray, Jones, Kelley and

Willos—they’re dead; of clandestine days and clandestine nights with Helen—she’s dead. They're all dead. And then when my futile mind tries to penetrate the uncertain future, those subtle words of Blackie Willos’s pop up: “You'll be the only one left, Kid. Almost like a jinx to you.” I wonder. Not long ago I received a letter from the Warden. I hear from him quite frequently. He said:

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There is no reason why you should not be a success in your

new undertaking. [Guess what.] You have had more and varied experiences during the past few years than the average person has during a lifetime, and you have the ability to capital1ze this experience as you are now doing. You are able to make much more money in this manner than you ever could in the old way. Iam indeed glad that you are determined to do this

and have the will power to back up this determination.

Many men leave here with a determination to live within the law, but the most of them do not have sufficient will power to

back them up when they are sorely tempted.

You naturally

have more obstacles to overcome than the person who has never been in trouble, and when you make a success of your

undertakings you deserve much more credit for it than the person who has managed to remain out of the clutches of the law.

There is a skyline in the lives of men, as there is in a city. There are the men whose keen foresight is able to pierce the haze of the present, enabling them to see the possibilities of the future, and whose zeal for the improvement and better-

ment of their fellow-men makes them fight to convert these possibilities into realities. The good that some men have done me will never end until the day I die. Especially Warden Lewis. The silhouette of his life and his achievements of principle will ever cast its shadow across my life. I hope that Fate will not get anxious about my longevity before some lasting bit of improvement and beautification in my life has been made. THE

END