George Ives, whose name is already familiarized to the readers of this history, by the prominent part he acted in the robberies of the coach, and the contemplated attack upon Hauser and the writer, was at the time regarded as the most formidable robber of the band with which he was connected. The boldness of his acts, and his bolder enunciation of them, left no doubt in the public mind as to his guilt. But the people were not yet ripe for action; and, while Ives and his comrades in crime were yet free to prosecute their plans for murder and robbery, the miners and traders were content, if let alone, to pursue their several occupations. The condition of society was terrible. Not a day passed unmarked by crimes of greater or lesser enormity. The crisis was seemingly as distant as ever. Men hesitated to pass between the towns on the gulch after nightfall, nor even in mid-day did they dare to carry upon their persons any larger amounts in gold dust than were necessary for current purposes. If a miner happened to leave the town to visit a neighboring claim, he was fortunate to escape robbery on the way. And if the amount he had was small, he was told that he would be killed unless he brought more the next time. Often wayfarers were shot at, sometimes killed, and sometimes wounded.

During this period, it was a custom with George Ives, when in need of money, to mount his horse, and, pistol in hand, ride into a store or saloon, toss his buckskin purse upon the counter, and request the proprietor or clerk to put one or more ounces of gold dust in it “as a loan.” The man thus addressed dare not refuse. Often, while the person was weighing the levy, the daring shoplifter would amuse himself by firing his revolver at the lamps and such other articles of furniture as would make a crash. This was frequently done for amusement. It became so common that it attracted little or no attention, and people submitted to it, under the conviction that there was no remedy.

Anton M. Holter, owner of a train of wagons, while on the route from Salt Lake City to Virginia City with a large party of emigrants, was overtaken by a fierce mountain snowstorm, during the last days of November, on Black Tail Deer Creek. Fearing that the road would be blocked, he and a Mr. Evanson pushed on as rapidly as possible to the Pas-sam-a-ri, crossing the stream with their teams with great difficulty, the water reaching midway up the sides of the wagon-boxes. Once over, they made a camp near by, to await the abatement of the storm. A Mr. Hughes who had been travelling in company with them, came up with his wagon at a late hour in the evening to the cabin at the crossing, at the door of which he was met by “Dutch John,” its only occupant. John, at his request, went in search of Evanson, who came and assisted in getting the horses and wagons across the river. The night was half spent before the object was accomplished. During all this time, John, in pursuance of Plummer’s general instructions for obtaining information, plied Evanson with questions about Holter’s property and ready means in gold,—possessing himself of all the information that an unsuspicious man would be likely to communicate.

A few days later, Holter moved on with his train to Ramshorn Creek, and after making camp, went to Virginia City with two yokes of oxen for sale. On his way he passed Ives and Carter, who, he observed, eyed him suspiciously. Failing to sell his cattle, he left on his return to camp the next day, intending to spend the night at Mr. Norris’s ranche. He had gone well down into the valley, and it was nearly sundown, when he saw Ives, accompanied by one Irving, approaching on horseback. Holter did not know Ives, and had no real fear of an attack; but with that instinctive feeling which regards every stranger with suspicion in a country infested with robbers, he immediately drew and examined his pistol. It was so badly rusted that he could not make it revolve. He replaced it, and, remembering that he had no money, felt equally satisfied to escape or to hazard an adventure. Ives and Irving rode up in front of him, and Ives, impudently, as Holter thought, inquired,

“Where are you going?”

“Down to Norris’s place,” replied Holter. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes, I know well enough,” answered the highwayman, and drawing closer to him he asked, “Have you got any money?”

Holter drew back in surprise, but answered immediately, “No, I’m dead broke.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Ives, drawing and cocking his revolver.

“You can see for yourself,” said Holter, drawing forth a memorandum book.

“Hand it over here,” said Ives, reaching and taking it. He then proceeded to examine it with some care, but finding nothing in it, with an expression of disgust he threw it away. Turning to Holter, and levelling his pistol full upon him, he continued,

“You’ve got money, and I know it. Hand it over, or I’ll shoot you.”

“You’re surely mistaken,” replied Holter. “I left what I had at the camp, and had to borrow ten dollars in town.”

“I tell you, you have got money,” was the savage rejoinder. “Turn your pockets inside out—and be quick about it, too.”

Holter complied, and found a few greenbacks, which, as they were not in use, he had forgotten.

“Hand ’em over here,” said Ives, and cramming them hurriedly into his pocket, he said,

“Now, turn your cattle out of the road, and don’t follow our tracks; and when you come this way again, bring more money with you.”

As Holter turned his cattle to obey, he glanced furtively over his shoulder, and saw Ives in the very act of firing at him. Dodging instinctively, the ball passed through his hat, ploughing a furrow down to the scalp, which it grazed, through his heavy hair. Stunned by the shot, Holter staggered and almost fell, just as Ives aimed and pulled the trigger again. Fortunately, the cap snapped; and Holter, now sufficiently recovered, started on a run, and took refuge in an old beaver-dam. Ives followed him closely for another shot, but a teamster with a load of poles at this moment appeared upon the road, which circumstance deterred Ives from firing, and probably saved Holter’s life.

During this same season, a man who had been whipped for larceny at Nevada, under some modification of his punishment, agreed to disclose certain transactions of the robbers. Ives heard of it, and watching his opportunity, met the poor fellow on the road between Virginia City and Dempsey’s. Riding up to him, he deliberately fired at him with his gun charged with buckshot. From some cause the shot failed of effect. Ives immediately drew his revolver, and while loading him with oaths and execrations, shot him through the head. The man fell dead from his horse, which Ives took by the bridle and led off to the hills. This cold-blooded murder was committed in open day on the most populous thoroughfare in the country, in plain view of two ranches, and while several teams were in sight. Travellers who arrived at the spot half an hour after its occurrence, aided by the neighboring ranchemen, paid the last sad offices to the still warm but lifeless body. Ives sought concealment in the wakiup of George Hilderman, where he remained until satisfied that no public action would be taken to avenge the crime.

He then again sallied forth to watch for fresh opportunities for plunder and bloodshed. His name had become the terror of the country. No man felt safe with such a monster at large, and yet no one was ready to initiate a plan for his destruction. His malevolence was only equalled by his audacity,—and this was, if possible, surpassed by his gasconade. The dark features of his character were unrelieved by a single generous or manly quality. Avarice, and a natural thirst for bloody adventures, controlled his life.

About this time, a young German, by the name of Nicholas Tiebalt, who was in the employ of Messrs. Burtchy and Clark, sold to them a fine span of mules which were in charge of the herders at Dempsey’s ranche. They had advanced the money for the purchase, and sent Tiebalt after the mules. As several days elapsed without his return, they concluded that he had swindled them out of the money, and left the country with the mules; a conclusion all the more regretted by them, from the fact that he had won their confidence by his fidelity and sobriety.

Nine days after Tiebalt had left Nevada, Mr. William Palmer, while hunting in the Pas-sam-a-ri Valley, shot a grouse, and on going to the place where it fell, found it, dead, upon the frozen corpse of Tiebalt. He immediately went to the wakiup occupied by John Franck—better known as “Long John”—and George Hilderman, a quarter of a mile below, to obtain their assistance in lifting the body into the wagon.

“I will take the body to town,” said he, “and see if it cannot be identified.”

“We’ll have nothing to do with it,” said Long John. “Dead bodies are common enough in this country. They, kill people every day in Virginia City, and nobody speaks of it, nobody cares. Why should we trouble ourselves who this man is, after he’s dead?”

Shocked at this brutality, Palmer returned to the corpse, which he contrived to place in his wagon, and drove on to Nevada. The body was exposed for half a day in the wagon, and was visited by hundreds of people from Nevada, Virginia City, and the other towns in the gulch.

In reply to the question, “How did you find it?” Palmer answered,

“It was providential. The Almighty pointed the way, or it would never have been found. I had my gun in my hand, and was looking carefully about for game, when a grouse rose suddenly at my approach. I had little thought of killing it when I fired, as the shot was a chance one. The bird flew some distance before it fell, but seeing that I had wounded it, I ran as rapidly as I could, and went directly to it, and found it on the breast of the murdered man. The body was lying in a clump of heavy sage brush, completely concealed,—away from the road, where no one would ever have gone except by chance,—and but for the fact that it was frozen hard, would long before this time have been devoured by the coyotes.”

The body of Tiebalt bore the marks of a small lariat about the throat, which had been used to drag him, while still living, to the place of concealment. The hands were filled with fragments of sage brush, torn off in the agony of that terrible process; and the bullet wound over the left eye showed how the murder had been accomplished.

These appalling witnesses to the cruelty and fiendishness of the perpetrator of this bloody deed roused the indignation of the people to a fearful pitch. They went to work to avenge the crime with an alacrity sharpened by the consciousness of that long and criminal neglect on their part, but for which it might have been averted. They felt themselves to be, in some degree, participants in the diabolical tragedy. In the presence of that dead body the reaction commenced, which knew no abatement until the country was entirely freed of its bloodthirsty persecutors. That same evening, twenty-five citizens of Nevada subscribed an obligation of mutual support and protection, mounted their horses, and, under the leadership of a competent man, at ten o’clock started in pursuit of the murderer. Obtaining an accession of one good man on their route, and avoiding Dempsey’s by a hill trail, they rode six miles beyond it to a cabin, and with the aid of its proprietor found their way to the point of destination. At an early hour in the morning, they crossed Wisconsin Creek, breaking through the frozen surface, and emerging from it with clothing perfectly rigid from frost and wet. A mile beyond this they were ordered to alight and stand by their horses until daybreak. An hour or more passed, when they remounted and rode quietly on, until in sight of Long John’s wakiup. A dog was heard to bark; and in anticipation of the alarm it might occasion, they dashed forward at full speed, surrounding the wakiup, each man halting with his gun bearing upon it. Jumping from his horse, the leader discovered eight or ten men wrapped in their blankets, sleeping in front of the entrance. Raising his voice, he exclaimed,

“The first man that rises will get a quart of buckshot in him before he can say ‘Jack Robinson.’”

It was too dark to distinguish the sleepers. With half of his company at his back, the leader strode on to the entrance. Peering into the darkness, he asked,

“Is Long John here?”

“I’m here,” responded a voice, instantly recognized to be that of the person addressed. “What do you want?”

“I want you,” was the rejoinder. “Come out here.”

“Well,” said John, “I guess I know what you want me for.”

“Probably,” replied the leader. “But hurry up. We’ve no time to lose.”

“One moment. I’ll be with you as soon as I can get on my moccasins,” said John.

“Be quick about it,” shouted the leader.

Long John was taken in charge by the company, and as soon as it was light enough to enable them to see distinctly, the leader, with four men, escorted him to the spot where Tiebalt was found. The remainder of the company kept guard over the men found sleeping near the wakiup. When they arrived upon the ground, the leader said to him,

“Long John, we have arrested you for the murder of Nicholas Tiebalt. We believe you to be guilty, and have brought you up here to the spot where his body was found to hear what you have to say.”

Palmer, who was one of the company, then proceeded to explain all the circumstances connected with the discovery, the position of the body, and the conversation he held with Long John when he applied to him for assistance.

“Boys,” said John, in a serious tone, “I did not do it. As God shall judge me, I did not.”

One man, more excited than the rest, now began handling his pistol, saying to John, meanwhile,

“Long John, you had better prepare for another world.” What more he might have said, or what done, it is easy to conceive, had he not been interrupted by the leader, who, stepping forward, remarked,

“This won’t do. If there is anything to be done, let us all be together.”

Long John was then taken aside by three of the company, who sat down in the faint morning light to examine him. Just as they were seated, they saw through the haze at no great distance, “Black Bess,” the mule which Tiebalt rode from Nevada when he started for Dempsey’s. She seemed to be there at this opportune moment as a dumb witness to the assassination of her master. Pointing to the animal, one of the men inquired,

“John, whose mule is that?”

“That’s the mule that Tiebalt rode down here,” he answered.

“John,” was the reply, “you know whose mule that is. Things look dark for you. You had better be thinking of your condition now.”

“I am innocent,” murmured John.

The mule was caught and led up to him. “Where are the other two mules?” was the next inquiry.

“I do not know,” he replied.

“John,” said his interrogator, “you had better be looking forward to another world. You are ‘played out’ in this one, sure.”

“I did not commit that crime,” was his reply, “and if you’ll give me a chance, I’ll clear myself.”

The leader now said to him, “John, you can never do it, for you knew of a man lying dead here, close to your home, for nine days, and never reported his murder. You deserve hanging for that alone. Why didn’t you come and tell the people of Virginia City?”

“I was afraid,” said John. “It would have been as much as my life was worth to have done it. I dared not.”

“Afraid? Of whom?” inquired the leader.

“I was afraid of the men around here,” he answered.

“What men? Who are they?” persisted the leader.

“I dare not tell who they are,” said John, in a frightened tone: “there’s one of them around here.”

“But you must tell, if you would save yourself. Where is the one you speak of?”

“There’s one at the wakiup,—the one that killed Nick Tiebalt.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?”

“George Ives,” said John, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Is he down at the wakiup?”

“Yes. I left him there when I came out.”

“Men,” said the leader, addressing them, “stay here and keep watch over John, while I go down and arrest Ives.”

Selecting from the number at the wakiup a person answering the description of Ives, he asked his name, which was very promptly given.

“I want you,” said the leader.

“What do you want me for?” inquired Ives.

“To go to Virginia City,” rejoined the leader.

“All right,” said Ives: “I expect I’ll have to go.” He was immediately taken in charge by the guard.

“Old Tex” was standing near by at the time, and the leader turning to him, said,

“I believe we shall want you, too.” The ruffian made an impudent reply, to which the leader simply rejoined,

“You must consider yourself under arrest,”—words whose fearful import he understood too well to disobey.

The other men now emerged from their blankets. They were Alex Carter, Bob Zachary, Whiskey Bill, and Johnny Cooper, and two inoffensive persons who had fallen in with them the evening before, and craved permission to pass the night under their protection. Fortunately, these confiding persons had no money, and escaped assassination; but when told of the character of their entertainers, one of them, pointing to Carter, remarked,

“There’s one good man, anyhow. I knew him on the other side of the mountains, where he was a packer, and there was no better man on the Pacific slope.”

Just at this moment, the leader saw some movement which indicated to him that a rescue of the three prisoners would be attempted by their comrades, and in a loud tone of command, said,

“Every man take his gun and keep it.”

Five men were ordered to search the wakiup, and the others, meanwhile, to keep off intruders. The searchers soon came out with seven dragoon and navy revolvers, nine shotguns, and thirteen rifles, as the fruit of their spoil. Among other weapons was the pistol taken from Leroy Southmayd at the time of the coach robbery described in a previous chapter. Having completed the search and broken up the nest of the marauders, the scouting party started with their prisoners on the return to Nevada. At Dempsey’s they found George Hilderman, who, after offering various excuses, consented, under the mild persuasion of a revolver, to accompany them. The prisoners were disarmed but not bound, nor prevented from riding at pleasure among their captors. A stranger, on seeing or joining with the cavalcade while in motion, would never have supposed that it was an escort with four murderers in charge; nor, from the merry, jovial conversation and song singing of the company, as it rode gayly and rapidly onward, have distinguished the accusers from the accused. Whenever the subject of his offence was mentioned, Ives asserted his innocence, and declared that he would be only too happy to have an opportunity to prove it. With a fair trial by civil authority in Virginia City, he had no fear of the result; but as he once had the misfortune to kill a favorite dog in Nevada, he felt that he would have the prejudices of the people against him if put upon trial there. This idea was elaborated, because if adopted, Plummer, being sheriff, would have the selection of the men from whom the jury would be impanelled. Ives affected great amiability and a ready compliance with every order and request made by his captors. One subject suggested another, and many of the rough and pleasant phases of mountain life passed in review, until that of racing, and the comparative speed of their horses, was introduced. On this theme Ives was specially eloquent, and being mounted on his own pony, which had some local popularity as a racer, he ventured finally to propose a trial of speed with several of the guard, and even challenged them to race with him. After one or two short scrub races, in which he suffered himself to be beaten, the spirit of the race-course seemed suddenly to animate the company, and, one after another, all were soon engaged in the exciting sport. It increased in interest and excitement for several miles, and until within a short distance of Daly’s ranche. At this point, Ives’s horse, which had been kept under before, was now pressed to his utmost speed; and when the party were least prepared for it, they saw him not only as the winner in the race, but leading the cavalcade, and bearing his master away at a fearfully rapid rate over the level stretch towards Daly’s. Instantly, every horse was urged into the pursuit. On rode the desperado, and on followed the now broken column of scouts, two of whom pressed him so closely that he could not stop long enough at the ranche to exchange his pony for his favorite horse, which, by order of some of his friends who had pushed on from the wakiup in advance of the scouts, had been saddled and was standing ready for his use. His pursuers, more fortunate, found a fresh horse and mule standing there, which had come down from Virginia City. These they mounted, and resuming the pursuit, when three miles away from the main road near the Bivans Gulch mountains, they saw the hotly pressed fugitive jump from his exhausted pony, and take refuge among the rocks of an adjacent ravine. Quicker than it can be told, they alighted, and, fresher on foot than the jaded steeds, they were soon standing on the edge of the sheltering hollow. Ives was nowhere visible. Certain that he was near, Burtchy and Jack Wilson plunged into the ravine, and commenced a separate search among the rocks. It was of brief duration, for Burtchy soon discovered him, crouching behind a large bowlder, and directed him to come out and surrender himself.

Ives laughingly obeyed, and in a wheedling manner was approaching Burtchy, who was separated from his comrade, evidently with the purpose of wresting his gun from him. Burtchy understood the movement, and with his eye still coursing the barrel, now but a few feet from the heart it would have been emptied into in a moment more, he said,

“That is far enough, Mr. Ives. Now stand fast, or I shall spill your precious life-blood very quick.”

Wilson, who had been searching in a different direction, now came up and aided in securing the prisoner, with whom they soon rejoined the rest of the company. The two hours which had elapsed between the escape and recapture, were pregnant with wisdom for the almost disheartened scouts.

“Let us raise a pole and hang him at once,” said one of them, as the captors rode up with their prisoner.

Several voices raised in approval of this recommendation, were at once silenced by a very decided negative from the remainder of the company. Ives, meantime, commenced chatting gayly with the crowd, and treated them to a “drink all round.” The cavalcade, formed in a hollow square, with their prisoner in the centre, then rode quietly on to Nevada, arriving soon after sunset.