KILLED HIS SWEETHEART
BY MISTAKE
Last week in a little country churchyard in Cloud
County, Western Kansas, old Jack Williams was buried – “Laughin Jack” he was called, though never within the memory
of the younger generation had a smile been seen upon his face.
In 1867 Jack Williams appeared in the town of Clyde.
Soon after reaching Clyde he opened a livery stable and commenced trading horses and freighting.
He was a jolly fellow, always joking and nearly
always laughing. His laugh was worth coming miles to hear. It had a volume like the roar of a cataract.
The claim adjoining Jack’s was held by a German
whose family consisted of his wife and a daughter. The girl was about 22 or 23 years old. She was fairly good looking
and did a full man’s work on the farm.
“Laughin’ Jack” used to curse the “Dutch outfit”
for what he termed their harsh treatment of the girl. He was so bitter that it finally dawned upon the rough fellows
of the place that he had more of an interest in the girl than he really ever cared to admit.
Her parents knew nothing of these facts. Her marriage
meant the loss of a man on the farm, and it was taken for granted that they would oppose it. So the couple intended
to get married on the quiet.
Late one afternoon in the winter of ’69 there came
up a terrible blizzard – suddenly as they always come.
That afternoon a cow had escaped from the Dutchman’s
corral, and it fell to the lot of the girl to find the animal. When the storm burst the German and his wife sat
by the fire, reasoning that the girl would come out all right.
That evening Jack went to his shack to spend the
night, getting there for the worst of the storm. He was preparing to go to bed when his attention was attracted
by the actions of his dog. The beast had risen to his feet and appeared to be listening.
There came a lull in the storm, the dog gave a
yelp and bounding to the door, commenced scratching at it. Jack opened the door and the dog dashed out.
The moon was making a feeble attempt to cast light
through the clouds, but as nothing could be made out Jack was on the point of closing the door when again the yelp
of the hound rang out. Grasping his rifle Jack advanced a few paces from the door. Now he could dimly see on the
edge of a ravine near the shack a grayish body moving slowly in the gloom.
That it was a coyote there could be no doubt, and
throwing up his gun Jack fired. No sound followed the crack of the rifle, but the object disappeared.
When jack started for town next morning he walked
to the ravine to see how his aim had been. An awful sight met his gaze.
Just below the edge of the bank, with pure white
snow all about her, ice incrusted in her hair, was the body of the girl he had intended to make his wife – shot
through the brain by the rifle which in his hands had a record of seldom missing its mark.
The man was nearly crazed with grief and horror,
yet he could not be blamed.
The girl, numbed by exposure was endeavoring to
make her way to his place of shelter, guided by the light in his widow. Under the circumstances it was small cuase
for wonder that he was frantic with grief.
The father considered that he had a grievance and
the day following the funeral he appeared at Jack’s stable. He walked over to where Jack was disconsolately sitting
on a goods box, and said that as his daughter had been a great help to him, and as Jack had been the cause of her
death, he thought that something should be done to make it right, and suggested that if Jack would surrender his
land to him he would call it square.
For a minute Jack did not speak, while the loafers
in the barn waited with hushed breath.
Pale and trembling Jack rose from his seat. Pulling
a six-shooter he leveled it at the farmer and in a voice that began with a choke he said:
“See here, Dutch! Climb right into that wagon and
hit the trail for home, and if you ever mention this matter to me again I swear to God I’ll fill your carcass so
full of lead that you can’t be lifted.”
What “Laughin Jack” said went; the old man turned
and left the place.
Jack was never the same after that. He seemed to
have lost interest in life, and from that time the old laugh was never heard again. (The Philadelphia Inquirer,
December 31, 1899)
The Bogus Check Artists
Sent Up
The Register, yesterday morning, narrated the manner
in which Louis Finch, of Kansas, had been fleeced of $35 by the bogus check racket and also mentioned the arrest
of a fellow named Webb, who was at once identified by Finch as a man who had talked to him at the depot, Monday,
before he was robbed. Yesterday Officer Moran, who had a close description of the man who actually got the money
from Finch, arrested a man named Frederick Fleck, at Carter's saloon, on Twentieth street, and took the prisoner
to the office of Justice Davis, where Webb had also been taken. There Finch positively identified both men, and
pointed out Fleck as the man who got his money. Finch said he was first met by Webb at the "Pewiky" depot
and was followed to the B. & O. Then Webb came up to him and asked him a good many questions as to who he was,
where he lived, where he was going, etc. Webb then left Finch, and the latter says he afterwards say Webb talking
to Fleck, but even when the latter came up and wrung his hand, called him by name asked after the folks in Cloud
county, etc., Finch thought nothing of the conversation held under his nose. Fleck then gave Finch the story about
the machinery, substantially as stated in yesterday morning's Register, and the matter ended up with the walk to
the Reilly building and the transfer of the $35 from the pockets of Finch to that of Fleck.
Of course, both Fleck and Webb denied ever having
seen Finch before, but they admitted they knew each other. Fleck said he had been in Wheeling about three months,
and during that time he had worked at tending bar about three weeks; he had been sleeping at Carter's saloon, letters
found on him showed he has a sister living in Pittsburg, from whom he has been securing money. He has a wife and
family in Pittsburg also. He is wanted it is said, at Mannington, Marion county. Both men were held in $1,000 for
the grand jury and in default were committed to jail. (Wheeling Sunday Register, August 14, 1890)
