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Trigger Marshal: The Story of Chris Madsen
Trigger Marshal: The Story of Chris Madsen
Trigger Marshal: The Story of Chris Madsen
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Trigger Marshal: The Story of Chris Madsen

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"'Chris Madsen was a greater peace officer than Wyatt Earp - greater by far.' With these fighting words, Homer Croy launches into a fascinating story that has never before been told, the story of a great peace officer of the West who came to America from Denmark as a youth to fight Indians."
LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 9, 2020
ISBN9781839746291
Trigger Marshal: The Story of Chris Madsen

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    Trigger Marshal - Homer Croy

    © Barakaldo Books 2020, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

    Publisher’s Note

    Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

    We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

    TRIGGER MARSHALL

    THE STORY OF CHRIS MADSEN

    BY

    HOMER CROY

    TABLE OF CONTENTS

    Contents

    TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

    Illustrations 5

    Foreword 6

    CHAPTER 1—A Danish Boy Arrives in America to Fight Indians. He Gets to Fight ‘em. Sees Buffalo Bill Kill Yellow Hand. 7

    CHAPTER 2—Chris Gets All the Indian Fighting He Wants. His Troop Is Sent Back to Fort Riley, Kansas, Where Chris Becomes a Dancing Master and Meets Maggie Morris. Ah! 16

    CHAPTER 3—Chris Pins on His Silver Star 26

    CHAPTER 4—Chris’s First Assignment as a Peace Officer. Chris Meets the Dutchman. 33

    CHAPTER 5—The Law Comes to No-Man’s Land. A Whiff of the Bone-Hauler. 38

    CHAPTER 6—The Outlaw Situation Grows Worse. The Story of Peter Schneider, Who Played the Rollicking Tunes. The Fight of the Luxuriant Whiskers. 54

    CHAPTER 7—The Story of the Outlaw Who Turned Peace Officer. Prisoners Didn’t Linger Long in Jails; They Escaped. 60

    CHAPTER 8—The Story of Zip Wyatt from Cowboy Flat 64

    CHAPTER 9—Chris and Some Indians—White Buffalo and Chief Whirlwind 70

    CHAPTER 10—The Story of the Fascinating Three-Finger Roberts. How Chris Trailed Outlaws. 74

    CHAPTER 11—Chris Teaches Respect for the Law. Could Frontier Marshals Outshoot Today’s Police Officers? 77

    CHAPTER 12—How Chris Used Informers 80

    CHAPTER 13—How Chris Moved Prisoners 83

    CHAPTER 14—The Picturesque Courts of Oklahoma 90

    CHAPTER 15—The Beanblossom Murder 93

    CHAPTER 16—The Story of the Bad Poe Brothers 101

    CHAPTER 17—Chris Goes Alone to Arrest Red Odem, Who Has Killed Fifteen Men 105

    CHAPTER 18—Chris Meets the Daltons 108

    CHAPTER 19—Chris Tries to Capture the Doolin Gang, a Man-Sized Job 115

    CHAPTER 20—The Dover Train Robbery. The End Comes to Bitter Creek. 120

    CHAPTER 21—One by One They Are Brought in. The Dugout of Death. 129

    CHAPTER 22—The End Comes to Bill Doolin 134

    CHAPTER 23—This Happened to Dynamite Dick, and This to Arkansas Tom 138

    CHAPTER 24—Those Rank Amateurs—The Jennings Gang 142

    CHAPTER 25—Maggie’s Death. Chris Joins Teddy’s Rough Riders 146

    CHAPTER 26—The Story of Ben Cravens, Bad Man 150

    CHAPTER 27—The Last Days of the Great Oklahoma Peace Officers. The End Comes to Chris. 155

    TIME CLOCK 162

    SOURCES 164

    CHAPTER 1 164

    CHAPTER 2 165

    CHAPTER 3 166

    CHAPTER 4 167

    CHAPTER 5 168

    CHAPTER 6 169

    CHAPTER 7 170

    CHAPTER 8 171

    CHAPTER 9 172

    CHAPTER 10 173

    CHAPTER 11 174

    CHAPTER 12 175

    CHAPTER 13 176

    CHAPTER 14 177

    CHAPTER 15 178

    CHAPTER 16 179

    CHAPTER 17 180

    CHAPTER 18 181

    CHAPTER 19 182

    CHAPTER 20 183

    CHAPTER 21 186

    CHAPTER 22 187

    CHAPTER 23 188

    CHAPTER 24 189

    CHAPTER 25 190

    CHAPTER 26 191

    CHAPTER 27 192

    REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 193

    Illustrations

    Chris Madsen in 1891

    A Prairie Saloon

    The Lindel Hotel in Guthrie

    Chris Often Stopped Just Such Men...

    The Club Theater in Guthrie

    Chief Whirlwind

    Chris’s Badges and Medals

    Cowboys at Dinner

    A Saloon in Ponca City

    Bill Tilghman

    Red Buck

    Chris Chases the Daltons

    Heck Thomas

    Chris and White Buffalo

    Chris in His Later Days

    Foreword

    CHRIS MADSEN was a greater peace officer than Wyatt Earp. As a matter of fact, Wyatt Earp spent more years gambling than he did bringing peace to the land. And his part in the O. K. Corral fight, under the cold inspection of history, does not show up very well. The men he helped kill that dark day had better reputations than the Earps had; besides, the victims were unarmed and had their hands in the air. The affair was a feud between the two groups, starting over mule stealing, and was not at all the matter of bringing law to a wild land. Wyatt Earp is a great hero and will go galloping along for years to come, but that is because he played in luck. He teamed up with Doc Holliday and Doc helped immortalize him.

    Chris Madsen had no such luck. If he’d had a Doc Holliday to help him out, and a bit of luck in a few other places, he would be as great a hero in the public mind as Wyatt Berry Stapp Earp.

    Chris brought in far more bad men than Wyatt Earp ever did. He brought them in from hay crossings and outlaw dugouts in Oklahoma instead of from publicized Dodge City, Ellsworth, and Tombstone. And now I expect all the Earp fans will want to bring me in.

    It would seem that Wyatt Earp, as a peace officer, served six years and three months, or seven years, if one counts his deputy United States marshalship in Tombstone, of which there is no record. Chris Madsen, as peace officer, served twenty-five years.

    Chris’s story has never been told, that is, except in the newspapers. This is the first book that has attempted to set it down. I had the good fortune to meet up with Chris’s son Reno, and he began to tell me about his father. He hauled out an ancient, brass-bound trunk—it was full of doubloons. Chris had written his life story, and there was the manuscript smiling up at us. And he’d written many pieces for the Oklahoma papers about his adventures—and there they were, too, beaming at us. And there was a whole armload of papers. Seemingly the man never threw away anything—thank goodness! I itched to get my hands on them and when I did I was as happy as a boy in a watermelon patch.

    I want to thank Reno Madsen for his great help. Half the time he thought I was crazy—he might have a point there—so many questions and demands for verification did I throw at him. He grumbled but he came through. And here it is, in your hand.

    I think of the story as bigger than one man. I think of it as the history of an era—the Outlaw Era—in a section of Indian Territory that was trying very hard to grow up into a state.

    I am glad to pass on to those interested in Americana this story of the making of one corner of America.

    —THE AUTHOR

    CHAPTER 1—A Danish Boy Arrives in America to Fight Indians. He Gets to Fight ‘em. Sees Buffalo Bill Kill Yellow Hand.

    NOT TOO LONG ago a Danish youth named Chris Madsen landed in New York to fight Indians. At this time, in Denmark, the favorite reading for young people was about Indian fighting in the Wild West. One way and another Chris saved up enough money to come to America to help kill the bloodthirsty Indians who were scalping and murdering innocent white people. That is the way he thought of the Indians—bloodthirsty; for that matter, that was the way almost everybody thought of them—downright savages; the sooner they were killed the better.

    Chris arrived in New York in January 1876—the year of the Battle of the Little Big Horn. He was a short, stocky lad with a barrel chest, hands as big as snowshoes, and an accent as thick as a coffeecake. And blue eyes.

    He didn’t know it, but he had come at exactly the right time and to the right place. The great Indian campaigns were on and they were not doing well. So greatly did the United States Army need recruits that it was signing them up in New York. Sergeants walked the streets; when they saw a young man who might develop into a fine Indian fighter they would go up to him and tell him about the glories of Indian fighting. The last thing they would mention was the rate of pay—fifteen dollars a month. Nor did they mention the chance of being scalped. But the young men of New York thought for themselves and said, in effect, that they didn’t want to kill Indians, however much the Indians deserved to be killed.

    This was where young Christian Madsen came in. The books and magazines he had read in Denmark made him eager to help the West get rid of the painted devils. He met a sergeant and said, Where is eet peoples sign oop to kill Indians?

    What did you say? asked the sergeant, so thick was Chris’s accent.

    Chris repeated what he had said.

    The sergeant smiled. You come with me, he said with great cordiality. I think we’ve still got a few places open.

    Chris marched off happily.

    The two arrived at a rough, crude office at the top of a wooden stair. Three or four dejected creatures were sitting in the room—evidently the bottom of the man barrel. Sit there and wait your turn, said the sergeant, then went out in search of other Indian fighters. One by one the men were called, and they shuffled into a back room. After a while they reappeared, but left by a side door; whether they had been rejected or had signed up, Chris didn’t know.

    At this time a person didn’t have to have a passport to come into the United States. He got off the boat and he was in the United States. Nor did a person have to be a citizen to be enrolled into the Army. The Civil War had been over ten years; the people knew the grim realities of war and wanted none of it. It was hard scratching for the Army to get recruits; it took what it could get—especially for the western campaigns. And here was young Chris Madsen pining to sign up.

    A man poked out his head and called, Next.

    It was Chris’s turn and he got up joyfully. His first step to become an Indian fighter! He was shown into a side room. Take off your clothes, said an orderly.

    Chris got out of his clothes. In a few minutes a doctor came.

    How old are you?

    Chris told him.

    What do you do?

    I am a surveyor. I can survey.

    This was noted.

    Bend forward and touch your fingers to the floor without bending your knees. Bend backward. Now pretend you are running, but stand in the same place. Chris ran delightedly, standing in one place. The doctor put a stethoscope to his chest and listened. Everything was ticking right. Now hop from one foot to the other.

    Chris obliged.

    The doctor looked closely. You’ve got a wound on your left ankle.

    Yes, sir.

    Did you get it from the police?

    I got it at the Battle of Sedan.

    Where? said the astonished doctor. Where do you claim you got it?

    At the Battle of Sedan in France.

    When was the Battle of Sedan? asked the doctor cleverly.

    Chris told him.

    The doctor went behind a partition and talked in a low voice to some other person, then came back. Who was in command of the French forces?

    Marshal MacMahon.

    The doctor studied Chris again, looking at him even more closely. Are you a Frenchman?

    It is I am a Dane. I was borned in Schleswig-Holstein.

    Where did you learn English?

    I have studied in school a leetle.

    Chris told how he had fought in the Danish Army, when he was fourteen, against the Germans, and how the Danes had lost. Then how he had joined the French Foreign Legion and been assigned to the Chasseurs d’Afrique and sent to Algeria. He had been serving with his unit, in the province of Oran, when the Franco-Prussian War broke out, and he had returned with his outfit and fought the Germans at the Battle of Sedan. Things had gone a little wrong he had been wounded, captured, and put in prison. But not for too long. He had escaped and returned to France where he had fought with the guerrillas and other irregulars. Then out of a clear sky the war was over and Chris had been sent back to Algeria where he had completed his five-year enlistment in the French Foreign Legion.

    Good land! said the astonished doctor when Chris finished. Didn’t you fight any other place?

    No, sir, said Chris apologetically. I fight in only t’ree countries.

    You were really a member of the French Foreign Legion, then?

    It ees zo.

    It was a pretty tough bunch of men, wasn’t it?

    But goot soldiers. I was mustered oudt an’ I come to Amerika an’ now I want to fight Indians.

    The examining doctor made some notes. Did you know, when you came in, that we were enrolling men to join General Custer?

    General Custer! Chris’s face glowed. No, sir, I do not know eet. I have a goot piece of luck, is it not zo?

    The doctor said it was zo. He made some more notes, then said, I think we want you. You will not have to be trained. We are enrolling men now for the Seventh Cavalry, and we can start you out West at once.

    Dot is goot. I am pleased, said Chris, delighted with his fine luck.

    There was a wait of three days and then the men who had been enrolled were put on a train. Chris was told by the recruiting officer that ninety men had come up for examination and that he, Chris, was the only one to be accepted. But Chris now was on the train and speeding across the country. On the train, however, new orders were received. Instead of being whisked out West to General Custer, one hundred of the men were transferred to the Fifth Cavalry, Chris among them.

    The men were taken to Fort Hays, Kansas, to drill. The first day Chris got there he heard two men talking. One said something about Boot Hill.

    Where is eet, dis boots hill? Chris said.

    The men glanced at each other and smiled. North of town. Go out there and you’ll find it.

    Chris walked out by himself, looking for what he thought must be old army boots piled up to make a hill. At last he came back and said, I don’t see any boots. The men had a laugh and Chris learned his first bit of western talk.

    From his reading in Denmark, Chris had thought that, in America, Indians were as thick as cloves on a ham, but here he was in the middle of America—and not an Indian. It was plumb discouraging. What had happened was this: there had been Indians around Fort Hays, but the government had moved them further west. On the other hand, there were buffaloes. If he got on his horse and rode out into the country he could see buffaloes. What a strange and complex country he’d got into!

    One day good news came through. The company was to mount. Young Chris was tremendously excited. He would not only see an Indian, but he’d slay him. Then came a more detailed report. The soldiers were to chase horse thieves in Texas. Up until 1879 the United States Army could be used as a posse to help civil authorities run down horse thieves and organized lawbreakers. It was Boots and Saddles—away to catch a pack of low-down horse thieves. The soldiers rode here and they rode there, and at last rounded up twenty sorry-looking human beings who were accused of lifting horses and turned over to the civil authorities. Then the soldiers rode back to camp. Nary an Indian.

    The days moved along. Then came exciting news. The troop was to be sent to Wyoming where Sitting Bull was making a nuisance of himself. Chris was thrilled. On June 5, 1876, the men were put on a train and the train started west. Chris’s heart pounded like a broken wheel. The train went less than fifty miles, then stopped for supper. The men piled out, hunted up firewood, and started to cook outdoors, real soldiers now. Just at this unhappy moment a Kansas cyclone came roaring along, knocked over tents, pots, equipment, food, men, everything. The men picked themselves up, but no sooner had they done so than the whistle tooted and back into the cars the men had to go, hungry as coyotes and using language this writer will not shock his readers with.

    The train rolled on, arriving finally at Fort D. A. Russell. Here indeed were preparations for an Indian campaign; excitement was in the air. There was to be a battle, the soldiers said. They would cover themselves with glory. They would twist Sitting Bull’s tail. They would make him paw dirt.

    That afternoon Chris saw something on the company street that made him blink. There came swinging toward him the most gorgeous human being he had ever seen. He wore black velvet trousers with a lacework of gold strings, a belt with enough silver ornaments to fill a store window, a hat that looked like something used by the freshman class in a high-school play, and hair to his shoulders. The extraordinary gentleman marched on by, his chin in the air, speaking to no one. After the apparition had gone by, Chris edged over to one of the men and said, Who vas that?

    That was Buffalo Bill.

    What does he do? asked the puzzled Chris.

    He’s an actor, but now he is going to be our scout.

    And that was the way Chris got his first glimpse of the immortal boy from Iowa. Buffalo Bill’s dress was not completely absurd. He was appearing in Wilmington, Delaware, in a play called Scouts of the Plains. Besides, the costume had been designed by his wife, who was artistic. He was in his fancy costume, dressed to make an entrance, when a telegram was handed him from General Phil Sheridan asking him to come to Wyoming and act as chief of scouts for the Fifth Cavalry Regiment. Without changing his clothes, he rushed to the railroad station and was soon speeding West, braid, hair, and all. And here he was now, walking down the company street, dressed in his stage costume.

    The troop Chris was with was moved here and there, getting ready for a big battle, where and when no one knew. Finally the troop got to Fort Laramie, Wyoming, and there Chris saw his first Indian—Spotted Tail, a chief. He looked the part of a great warrior, and Chris was thrilled. When Chris found that Spotted Tail didn’t believe in fighting, Chris was disappointed. He’d come across the ocean and waited all these days, and the only Indian he’d seen wouldn’t harm a fly.

    One morning the trumpet blew and orders were read. The Fifth Cavalry (to which Chris had been assigned) was to prepare for active duty. That was more like it. Then Chris found that the cavalry was merely to chase reservation Indians back on their land. What a letdown! But bad luck can’t dog a person forever. He was assigned to work with the scouts. And the chief scout was Buffalo Bill. The two sized each other up. Chris knew nothing about scouting, but he felt that Buffalo Bill knew his business and was favorably impressed by him.

    Chris was told to learn the wigwag system, and set to work with great enthusiasm. He was to accompany the advance scouts and wigwag messages back to headquarters. And so, with Buffalo Bill leading the party, Chris set out on the trail of the damned Indians.

    Then came news about General Crook. He had met Crazy Horse in what became known as the Battle of the Rosebud, and Crazy Horse had made a monkey of him. It was not long before even worse news arrived. General Custer had been killed, and with him every man in his command. It shook Chris. What were these Indians, anyway?

    But the Fifth must chase Indians. That was the order. The Indians had retreated to the northwestern corner of Nebraska, near a place now known as Montrose, Sioux County. The country was as barren and worthless as any that could be conjured up, but the Indians had to be taught a lesson.

    On July 15, a little after midday, the column started out to find the Indians and deal with them. The march became famous in military history as a fast one over impossible terrain. On the evening of July 16 the column reached War Bonnet Creek, (Note: Chris, in talking of the place, always called it Hat Creek, but the location has gone down in history as War Bonnet Creek.) Shortly before daybreak next morning, Buffalo Bill took Chris with him and went to what was described as a little conical mound at the edge of a series of flatlands. Nearby was War Bonnet Creek, a thin trickle of water in this sandy good-for-nothing soil. From the crest of the little hill Buffalo Bill, Chris, and two or three others in the scouting party could look down on what was going on below. Chris was left on the little hill with his wigwag lags to send messages, when the time came, to the officers. Two couriers were sent on horseback from Fort D. A. Russell to take the news to General Merritt. Seven Indians were moving silently along a dry wash when they saw the two couriers. Ah! they would gobble them up. To do this, the Indians would have to pass the hill where Buffalo Bill, Chris, and the others were waiting. A new element entered. The men looking from the hill saw a lone Indian leading the other Indians, with mischief in his manner. The Indian saw Buffalo Bill coming, rode toward him, and the two faced each other. The moment had come. The two fired almost simultaneously. Buffalo Bill’s bullet went through the Indian’s leg and into the Indian’s horse, killing the animal and throwing the Indian to the ground. Buffalo Bill’s horse stepped into a prairie-dog hole and Buffalo Bill found himself on the ground, fifty feet from the Indian, his rifle flung from his hands. The Indian had not lost his rifle and, as he was taking aim for a second shot, Buffalo Bill got in some of the quickest work of his life. He snatched up his own rifle, knelt, took careful aim, and fired, killing the Indian. And then Buffalo Bill darted forward, whipped out his knife, and scalped the Indian then and there. Picking up the Indian’s elaborate headdress of feathers and quills, he waved it and shouted words that have become famous in the history of the West: The first scalp for Custer!

    No one knew who the Indian was, but they soon found out. He was Yellow Hand, a Cheyenne now known by name to all who read Western history. In later years Chris repeatedly had to tell the story of the encounter. One part he had to scotch was that there had been a duel and that Buffalo Bill and the Indian had fought each other with knives. Chris always said the meeting between the two had been accidental. Chris, on the hill, witnessed the scalping. This became important later when certain people tried to discredit Buffalo Bill.

    Today, in

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