If we go back a few years from the previous post, Hunting Outlaws in 1896, it was mentioned that Hi Rapelje had hunted outlaws. Here is the story about it in some pretty flowery reporting from 1893. Sergneri
Sacramento Daily Union, 13 June 1893
SONTAG CAPTURED.
The Tulare Bandits Finally Run Down by a Marshal’s Posse.
FIERCE BATTLE WITH THE ROBBERS IN THE MOUNTAINS.
Sontag Mortally Wounded and Taken
Prisoner—Evans also Believed to
Have Been Shot, Though He Escaped
Capture—One of the Posse Shot Through
the Ankle, Necessitating Amputation.Special to the Record-Union.
Visalia, June 12.—The posse which left here last evening arrived at 10:25 this morning from the scene of last night’s encounter with the notorious train robbers, Chris Evans and John Sontag.
At daybreak it was discovered that the man that had been shot by the officers last night was John Sontag instead of Chris Evans, as was first reported.
Sontag is believed to be mortally wounded, having been shot in the abdomen. Sontag was brought here by the posse. Chris Evans escaped into the mountains. Sontag was shot in the right shoulder, as well as in the abdomen. Evans started for the hills, and blood was on the ground where he stopped. His two guns were left lying there and his hat, which were all covered with blood.
Jontag (sic) lay behind a small stack of hay all night, and the posse who went this morning found him there.
Gard and his party were camped off on the side of the hill, waiting daylight and to see if the desperadoes made any move, or if gone, to follow their tracks. Marshal Gard thinks he fired the shot that hit Sontag.
Sontag says he spit blood all night. There is a glancing wound along his forehead and one on each side of his nose. It is claimed he shot himself, but this he denies.
Evans’ tracks showed that he started toward Visalia, and his house will be watched day and night. Being without arms or ammunition, and undoubtedly wounded, and his partner in crime captured, he must give up pretty soon.
Sontag talks freely, saying that the jig is up and he cares not for the future. It is possible Sontag will recover from his wounds, the doctor thinks, though expresses no decided opinion.
Sontag denies that he and Evans were at Visalia one week ago last Wednesday. He says they were here two weeks. He admits they shot Black at Camp Badger and says that when shot last night he thought he was mortally wounded and asked Evans to shoot him and make his escape.
When Sontag was found this morning he was covered with straw from the stack he had pulled out and his beard was matted with blood and dirt. The reporter asked him if he had a word to send to his friends. He replied: “I have no friends; no place.”
In the sack the desperadoes had with them were bread and jerked meat.
Mrs. Evans and her daughter Eva called at the jail one hour after Sontag was brought in. Eva cried bitterly, but Mrs. Evans looked determined and composed.
Fred E. Jackson, the man shot by Evans or Sontag last night, is likely to lose his left leg. He was shot just above the ankle and both bones of his leg broken.
Sontag has been under the influence of opiates most of the afternoon, though he talked some to Mrs. Evans and her daughter. His statements are very contradictory. To the officers he said he tried to shoot himself, but he told Eva Evans that he did not do so. Sontag has numerous acquaintances here. Several called on him to-day, but he said little to them.
SONTAG TALKS FREELY.
Coming down from the scene of the affair last night Sontag talked to the officers freely. He said that he and Evans had not had a cent of money for a month, but they did not intend to hold-up any train. They would have left the mountains, only they had no money and no clothes.
“When I was shot last night,” he said, “I asked Chris to shoot me, but he would not. We had two Winchesters, two shotguns and two six-shooters. Chris carried away a Winchester, and had plenty of ammunition. Evans has often said he was sorry he shot Whitly. He thought he was Will Smith. We would have shot Detectives Hume, Smith or Thacker, though, but besides these we were only after blood-money men. We did not always stay together, but never separated longer than four hours. We could not have been convicted of train robbery, as we had no hand in it. The Southern Pacific did me a hard turn. When I was hurt in their employ they would not give me an easy job; so when Smith tried to arrest me last summer I determined not to be taken by a Southern Pacific officer. That’s why I resisted. I have no kick coming, only that I did not succeed better in attempting to kill myself.”
Sontag talked calmly and coolly. He refused to state what he and Evans had in contemplation. He seemed confident that Evans would never be captured alive. His show of nerve during the conversation was remarked by all present.
SCENE OF THE CONFLICT.
The scene of the conflict last night was near the mouth of Wilcox Canyon, though a mile and a half out on the plains. The officers had been hovering around there about eight days, lying in ambush during the day along the trails and on the hills where they had a good view of the roads leading that way. One man was always on guard during the day, while the others slept.
Marshal Gard said to-day that things were just reversed from what they were at Young’s cabin. There the desperadoes had the drop on the officers, while at Bacon cabin the officers had the drop.
EVANS FIRES THE FIRST SHOT.
The first shot fired last night was by Evans. Deputy Sheriff Rapelje of Fresno was out of the cabin just at sundown, and he spied two men coming toward the cabin. He went inside to wake up the posse sleeping there, and thinks that in doing so he made a noise on the loose floor that the bandits heard, as they changed their course immediately. Jackson went to the door and saw the men were the ones wanted. The officers went out of the cabin, and as one of them was looking around the corner Evans fired. Then the fusillade commenced.
Luke Hall, who lives near the scene, says the fighting lasted two hours, and he stood in his door until quiet reigned. Next morning at daylight he went to the cabin to see what had been done, and the posse from Visalia, having just arrived, thought Hall was one of the bandits, and commenced searching for their cartridges to commence a fight. Then all the posse started to the straw pile and there found Sontag.
Marshal Gard lay out all night within fifty yards of the cabin, with Tom Burns. At 4 o’clock this morning he sent Burns to a house a mile away for water. One of the first things Gard found was a fine pair of field glasses, the bandits had been using. The firearms were captured and then someone said, supposing it was Evans under the straw pile, “Chris, where is John?” when a voice from under the straw pile said, “I am John.”
All the officers came into town with the prisoner, as Evans had too much start to follow with any hope of capturing him. Deputy Sheriff Rapelje, who followed Evans as he left, thinks there is no doubt the bandit was wounded, and the fact that he left his gun and hat leads to this conclusion.
Shortly after noon the officers started after Evans, and the pursuit will be continued till he is captured or out of the country. The citizens of this county are willing that Fresno County should have Sontag tor trial, as the train-robbery and two of the murders occurred there.
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY SHOTS.
Marshal Gard, in an interview, says he had a warrant for the arrest of Evans and Sontag for destroying a mail car. He states that at least one hundred and thirty shots were fired, and the fight lasted one hour. His posse lived all the time in the mountains on crackers, sardines and water. When the firing commenced, the posse fought like demons. He gives great praise to his men.
Jackson’s leg was amputated this afternoon.
The Evans house is guarded to-night. Sontag says that in the fight at Young’s cabin he and Evans were both wounded. The latter was grazed on the temple by a ball, and Sontag was shot in the arm.Visalia, June 12.—At 10 o’clock tonight a thorough search of the Evans place was made, but the bandit was not there. Half an hour later news was received by courier that Evans was located in Wilcox Canyon. Two posses left for there, one at 11 o’clock and another just going.
EVANS STILL AT LARGE.
Sontag’s condition is much worse tonight. His lungs are filling rapidly, and the bandit is in great pain, necessitating occasional doses of morphine. His physician at 11 o’clock says it is possible he may live a day or two, and may die tonight or to-morrow. Sontag says he wants to die.
San Francisco Call, 14 June 1893
EVANS CAPTURED.
Both the Bandits Now in Custody.
AND GRIEVOUSLY WOUNDED.
Chris Found With Both
Arms Broken.
A BALL LODGED IN HIS EYE.
The Outlaw’s Narrative of His
Crimes and Trials— Jealousy Over
the Capture of the Robber.Special to The Morning Call.
Visalia, June 3.— Ten months and ten days after Chris Evans and John Sontag stopped the Southern Pacific train at Collis and robbed the Wells-Fargo express-car the bandits were lodged in jail at Visalia, in sight of their home and by citizens with whom they had associated and who had held them in high esteem before that memorable morning of August 3, 1892. The ten long months have been spent by the outlaws in almost continual warfare with pursuers. They have endured hardships innumerable, and now, with the lives of three men, and it may be
four, at their door and the wounding of a half score of men, one of whom has lost his leg, John Sontag lies In jail mortally wounded, and across the corridor from him lies Chris blinded in one eye and probably a cripple for life.
All the robbers netted out of their desperate deed, the murders and ten months of wandering, hunted from crag to canyon and canyon to cave, was $126. It has cost the State, the railroad and the express company upward of $10,000 to capture the outlaws, outside of the rewards that must be paid.
What will become of Evans and Sontag should both get well is as yet but a conjecture, but certain it is that the lives of not only the families whose husbands and fathers the bandits slew but their own families as well are forever clouded. Desperate men they were, but they have paid even now a fearful price for their greed of gold.
At 11:45 o’clock Monday night E. H. Perkins, a schoolteacher, who lives with a brother and a widowed mother on a ranch about twenty miles from Visalia, rode up to the Sheriff’s office here in Visalia, and asked for Sheriff Kay. Deputy Sheriff William Hall told Perkins that Kay was in San Francisco, and asked him what he could do for him.
“Chris Evans,” said the schoolteacher, “is at our house, blind in one eye and wounded in both arms. I don’t need anybody but yourself to take him; but come quick.” Hall told Perkins to wait a minute and sent for George Witty and Joe P. Carroll, The Call, correspondent, who has been constantly in the field with the officers and had rendered efficient service. Upon the arrival of Witty and Carroll Hall, with Perkins and the two men, jumped into a two-seated vehicle that happened to be hitched near the Jail and started the horses on a gallop for the Perkins ranch.
Hall had a posse watching Evans’ home, because about sunset Mrs. Evans had sent for a doctor and later on sent for a lunch to be sent to her, and, while not suspicious of Perkins, Hall proposed to leave no place unguarded. While he needed more men than himself, Carroll and Witt, he was afraid to take any from the posse at the bandit’s house, and bitter experience had taught him the danger of making public the news he had received by going down into the town for men.
As it was the fact that Evans was at the Perkins ranch got abroad and a strong body of officers, headed by Sheriff Scott of Fresno County and Hi Rapelje, started for the place. Hall drove on a run, and he and his men arrived at the Perkins ranch at 1:45 o’clock, having driven twenty odd miles in less than two hours.
Hitching their horses, Perkins led the way to the house, the officers following close behind him. When the door was reached Eli Perkins, a young brother of the schoolteacher, opened it and said : “He is up there in bed.” Hall ordered the boy Eli to go upstairs and tell Evans the officers were there. This the boy did and then came to the stairway and called his brother.
E. H. Perkins went upstairs and a second later called out to Hall: “Come up; it’s all right.”
Hall, Witty and Carroll were heavily armed and went up the stairway prepared for a fight. In a small room at the head of the stairs they saw Evans lying in bed with Perkins holding his right hand. The officers surrounded the bed and Hall asked, “Have you got a pistol?”
“Yes,” said Evans, “it is under my head. But you needn’t worry, I can’t use it. My left arm is gone and Perkins has my right hand, and I am blind in my left eye. Billy, I’m all shot— shot to pieces.”
The wounded outlaw seemed utterly disheartened.
While the officers were looking for the pistol Evans said: “Have you got Sontag?” He was told that his partner was in jail. “Poor old pardy,” he said. “Is he badly hurt?”
When told that Sontag’s wounds were probably fatal, Evans said :
“This is a bad business, boys, a bad business.”
The pistol, in a scabbard, with a belt full of cartridges, was found under the bedclothes near Evans’ right hand, but he made no attempt to use it.
When the weapon had been found Hall said: “Chris, I am sorry to disturb you, hurt as you are, but I must take you in. “All right, Billy,” answered Evans.
The wounded man lay on the bed with his shirt and overalls on. He had taken off his shoes and socks, and while E. H. Perkins had gone to town Mrs. Perkins and the boy, Eli, had bound up as best they could the wounds in his arms, but had not touched the eye, which was swollen and shut. The bullet entered right at the corner of the eye, but certainly had not penetrated the brain.
While Witty and the elder Perkins were getting a wagon ready to take Evans into town Hall and Carroll stayed in the room, and Carroll interviewed Evans. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Carroll said: “Chris, who fired the first shot In Sunday’s battle?”
Instead of answering, Evans said: “Is Sontag dying?” and when told that he was he muttered: ‘”l expected it; I expected it.” Then, answering – Carroll’s question, he said: “I don’t know who fired the first shot, because they were all strangers, but some one in the posse did. John and I were on our way to Visalia and we came around back of the hill to Billy Bacon’s old cabin. The door was open and we thought nobody’ was in it, but to make sure we started toward the straw pile to watch a while. The first thing I knew I received two shots, one in my eye and the other across my back, just creasing it. I fell backward, and John said: ‘My God, Chris, are you hurt?’ at the same time dropping down behind the straw, I said ‘Not much,’ but I was badly rattled.
“John was shooting all the time. Finally I got so I could shoot and helped him, but my eye spoiled mv aim. We had been shooting ten or fifteen minutes, when John gave a groan and said he was hit in the right side. You know John’s heart is on the right side— it was shifted in that railroad accident. Pretty soon John got faint, and I said: ‘Are you hurt bad?’ ‘Pretty bad.’ he said; ‘I want water.’ But there was no time for anything but shooting.
“The battle began about 8 o’clock Sunday night and lasted till about dark. We had been fighting almost an hour. Then I moved around so as to help John, when I received my third shot. It was a glancing one, and hit the in the right arm above the wrist and came out near the elbow. It did not cripple me much, because I am right and left handed and shoot with one hand as well as with the other. I dropped down again, and John quit shooting and lay down in the straw. ‘I’m done for, Chris,’ he said. I tried to move over to him and just then a man over by the fence shot me, breaking my left wrist. “It was dark by this time, and I said to John that if he could walk we might get away, but he could not stand up. He said to me: “Kill me, old pard, and save yourself.’
“I wouldn’t do it, and he again begged me to kill him. ‘Do, old partner, do,’ he said; It’s the best thing you can do for me. I can’t live anyway.’ I draped John over into the straw and covered him up as well as I could, and then said good-by to him. I started to crawl out through the woods, dragging my Winchester, but the man by the fence saw me and started shooting. John shouted, ‘Go, Chris, go,’ and I dropped my gun and ran, the man by the fence chasing me for 100 yards and shooting at me all the time. I ran a little ways and then fell down. I guess I fainted, for I was weak from the loss of blood. I managed to walk and got here about daylight this Monday morning.”
While Evans was talking to Carroll the Scott-Rapelje posse drew up, and hitching their horses got behind some trees and hailed the house.. Witty, who had returned from the barn, raised the window of the room Evans was in and called out, “Come on, it’s all right.”
Rapelje and party came upstairs and Rapelje said to Under Sheriff Hall: “Here is the man I am after.”
“Well, I’ve got him,” replied Hall. “But he belongs to us. We made the fight.” retorted Rapelje, “and I am a Deputy United States Marshal and my authority exceeds that of any Sheriff or Constable.”
“Well,” said Hall, “I’ve got the man and I am going to take him in.” It looked for a second or two as if the officers would have a fight as to who should take the wounded robber to jail. Rapelje finally said: “This is Fresno County, ain’t It?”
“Not much,” said Hall. “It’s Tulare County and I represent a man who has spent hundreds of dollars to your cents chasing this man.”
“If it was Fresno County I would take him.” said Rapelje. “Would you!” retorted Hall. And then Rapelje and his party left and drove off.
During the controversy Evans did not speak a word, but he once smiled as much as to say, “I may get out of this yet if they kill each other off.” When quiet was restored Carroll resumed his interview.
“Tell me, Chris, about the train robbery.”
“Jo, I never committed any train robbery. If Witty and Smith had told me that day they had come to my house for George Sontag’s trunk they could have had it. If they had stood their ground there would have been none of this trouble. “l am sorry about shooting you,” said Evans, addressing Witty, “but I thought you were Will Smith and he insulted my daughter. I used to know him at Modesto and I didn’t like him then. But I didn’t shoot you with a shotgun. Sontag must have done that.”
Witty said nothing in reply and in answer to Carroll’s question Evans continued : “After the fight with Witty and Smith we hid, of course, and came back that night and the next night Oscar Beaver was killed.
“When we left the house that night we saw most of the posse, but they were our friends, and we did not wish to injure them. Some one sang out to us, ‘Who is there?’ and then a number of shots were fired at us. We returned the fire, and Beaver was shot. I thought it was Tom Cunningham. We went to the hills and camped in Dark Canyon several days. ‘”In the fight at Young’s cabin we were there getting dinner. Mainwarren came in, surprised to see us. He told us a party was coming down the hill. He was looking out of the door. There was only one mode of egress from the cabin, and it was a case of either surrender or fight, and we fought. When the firing commenced Burke jumped over a fence and fired two shots and ran down the hill. Smith put spurs to his horse and lost his arms in the attempt to escape. Warren Hill jumped off his horse and made for the brush. McGinnis and Wilson fought bravely, and I am sorry the former was killed, as we were acquaintances in Modesto.”
Evans said further that the Indians did all the fighting and that Sontag was wounded in the arm and laid up for six weeks. They went up Dry Creek Canyon and rested while Sontag was getting well, their camp being about three-quarters of a mile from Billy Hammond’s cabin.
“I was not coming to the plains Sunday,” the stricken man continued, “to rob a train, but just to see my family and get some clothes. I needed them, didn’t I? People living in Visalia cannot believe, knowing me as they have nearly twenty years, that I would rob a train. I have ever lived an upright life and never thought once of robbing railroad trains.
“We lived like bachelors all the time, doing our own cooking, because it was cheaper that way. We killed deer and other wild animals for food, and generally
had a supply of venison ‘jerky.’ This, with flour and coffee, constituted our larder. Yes, sometimes we were a little short.
“We have made our camps most of the time in the mountains at Dark and Redwood canyons and on the Dry Creek mountains, not often at Sampson Flat, but occasionally. We traveled back and forth to the places mentioned to vary the monotony.”
Then he gave this bit of autobiography in reply to a question:
“I was born in Vermont, but my parents removed to Canada when I was very young. l am forty-six years old. I worked for the railroad company for years, overseeing Chinamen. The railroad never harmed me. My work was in the Alameda hills. They paid me $75 per month. I lived in Visalia at the time of the Mussel Slough troubles, but I knew little about that matter and was too busy earning bread for my family to pay any attention to it.”
ln November last, in going over a trail, Evans slipped and fell twelve feet, spraining his ankle badly, and on that account both he and Sontag came near being captured. ‘”But the officers were even too slow for me, lame as I was,” he added.
“Why didn’t you leave the country, Evans?”
“We could have left at any time, but John didn’t want to go. The time I sprained my ankle I was laid up three weeks, and when Black was shot I was not with Sontag. We were sometimes apart, but never for more than a day. Last winter we visited Visalia four different times and we drove through the streets to the depot one night about 12 o’clock. We saw lots of people we knew but they didn’t know us. We were not afraid to go to Visalia. My health has been good, but the worry and watching has reduced me about forty pounds.”
Then for the first time Evans asked about his family, and, when told all were well, said, “That’s some comfort.”
“Come, Chris, the wagon is ready,” said Hall at this juncture, and then added, “I want to tell you that you need have no fear about going into town. The town is quiet and there will be no trouble.”
“I don’t care a ______ if there is,” responded Evans; “they can do what they please with me. The quicker they hang or kill me the quicker I will be out of my misery.” This one oath was the only time Evans uttered a curse or harsh word.
The outlaw was helped out of bed, but wag able to standalone. He walked downstairs and even climbed into the back of the spring wagon, using his wounded right arm to pull himself into the wagon bed.
The vehicle was a light spring conveyance and in the bottom of the bed a quantity of straw had been placed and over this
a blanket. Before getting into the wagon Hall pinned a blanket around Evans, and after the latter had lain down in the straw another blanket was thrown over him. Hall and Witty rode in the wagon, Carroll following close behind with the carriage in which the party drove out. The ride to the jail was devoid of incident, Evans at no time complaning, though once asking for a drink of water. As they neared Visalia Evans lilted his head and looked around him and then lay down again without a word.
The jail was reached at 5:30 o’clock, and a crowd of people were even then in waiting. Evans was taken to a cell in the second story of the jail, just across the corridor from where Sontag lay. Dr. Mathewson was waiting, and the wounded man was at once stripped, washed and his wounds dressed. Just how bad the wound in the eye is cannot now be told, for the eye is so badly swollen that it prevents an examination.
It is thought, however, that the bullet struck the bone just over the eye and either imbedded itself or glanced off. The left arm was found to be badly injured, both bones being shattered at the wrist. It may have to be amputated, owing to the length of time elapsing between the time of the shooting and the arrival at the jail. The injury to the right arm is only a flesh wound, painful but not severe.
Shortly after Evans had been landed in jail his wife, and daughter called on him, but were refused admittance. Sheriff Kay telling them to call at 9 o’clock. At that hour Mrs. Evans called alone. She was admitted to the cell and rushed over to the iron cot, kneeling beside it and burst into tears.
“Chris, Chris, oh. my God!” she said. “Howdy do, Mollie,” was Evans’ exclamation, and then he said “There, there, now, don’t cry, don’t cry.”
In a second or two Mrs. Evans regained her composure and asked if she could remain with her husband. The doctor strongly advised her remaining and the Sheriff consented. Mrs. Evans seemed to become almost cheerful and at once busied herself making her husband comfortable.
About 9:30 o’clock the daughter, Eva, called and went to the cell. She was remarkably self-possessed, at first kissing her father and asking him how he was feeling. Then she lifted the bandage from the wounded eye. The sight was too much for her and the girl broke down and cried until she had to be led from the cell. The doctor ordered that no more visitors be, allowed, and gave Evans a heavy opiate which soon put him to sleep.
This afternoon a CALL representative had an interview with E. H. Perkins, the man who gave Evans up to Under Sheriff Hall. Perkins said:
“Monday morning about daylight, Evans arrived at my mother’s place, which is about three and a half miles from the stone corral. He went to the pump and washed himself, using a towel hanging near by. The pump handle and towel were bloody when seen by the folks when they got up. After washing Evans walked into the house and went upstairs to bed. No one knew who it was, but when breakfast was ready a boy was sent up to tell whoever it was to come down and eat. The boy came back and said it was Chris Evans and that he was badly wounded. Mother sent for me. I live about a quarter of a mile from my mother’s place.
“When I went up to the room I saw Evans lying on the bed. He was a horrible sight. Blood was all over him, and the shot in the eye gave him a ghastly appearance. I said, ‘Chris, you are in a pretty bad fix.’ ‘Yes,’ he responded: ‘I want you to dress my wounds.’ “I made, a splint and put it on his left arm, washed his eye and dressed his other wounds as best I could. He said that when he left the stone corral he went to the cottonwoods to get some water, but the creek was dry. It is only three and a half miles to mother’s place from the stone corral, but the way he came he must have traveled six or seven miles.
“I told him that he was too badly shot to make any further resistance; that it would be impossible for him to get away, and that he could not remain at our house, for we could not afford to harbor him. I advised him to give himself up, and told him it would be better for him, his family, and for all concerned.
“He would not consent, and said he would be all right in a week. I asked him if I should go for his wife to take care, of him, and he said ‘Yes.’ at first, and then, ‘No; it would not do for her to come. She would be followed by the officers if she left town. I then wanted to bring him to his home, but he said ‘no.’
“I told him I did not understand why he’ wanted to make any further resistance, as he was shot to pieces. He answered that it was no use to borrow trouble; that he would soon be all right. I concluded then that the only thing for me to do was to come to Visalia and notify the officers, and I I did so. I think I did right.” Sheriff Scott of Fresno has served Grand Jury warrants on both the men for train robbery and the killing of McGinnis and Wilson. They will be taken to Fresno as soon as they are able to travel, Marshal Gard having consented to lay his Government warrant aside for the time being. Frank Byrd, brother-in-law of Evans, says that Chris sent Perkins to town with the understanding that Mrs. Evans should have the reward if he surrendered. This does not tally with Perkins’ statement. The reward question is likely to be productive of numerous lawsuits from the present mutterings. There is no question but what on Sunday night John Sontag made a confession to Under Sheriff Hall. From his confession it was learned that all Evans and Sontag netted out of the robbery at Collis was $126. The balance ot the money stolen, in all less than $3000, was recovered from Evans’ yard by the Wells-Fargo detectives. It is also understood that Sontag confessed that a San Francisco paper had made him and Evans a proposition to the effect that if the outlaws would surrender to representatives of that paper the reward would be used in paying their lawyers and in otherwise making their defense. The bandits declined the offer, preferring to take their chances with rifle and shotgun to trusting themselves to a newspaper that would make such a proposition.
Sheriff Kay has acted very peculiarly since his return from San Francisco Monday night. The public seem to think that it was a good thing that Kay was away from here when the news of Evans’ whereabouts was received, as heretofore he has personally distinguished himself by making such plans for their capture as resulted in their escape.
That there is a strong undercurrent of sympathy for the robbers here cannot be denied. All day long your correspondent has listened in vain to bear one man or woman say he or she was glad that Evans and Sontag had been captured. Instead you hear such expressions as these: “Oh, I hope Evans won’t lose his eye.” “I think it was cowardly to inform on a man all shot to pieces,” and so forth.
The sentimental young ladles have blossomed out in profusion. Sontag, who is a single man, has had bouquets of flowers sent him from “Georgia, an unknown friend,” and others of that ilk.
A Call reporter saw Mrs. Evans tonight. She had just come out of the jail and was looking haggard and careworn. “I haven’t slept for three days and two nights,” she said, “and I am worn out. Oh, it is awful. If they are going to hang Chris or send him to prison for life I wish they had brought him home dead. I don’t know what to- say to you. What would you say if your dearest and best friend on earth stood in the shadow of a gallows? I’m doing my best to keep up, but only God knows the end.
The doctor gave Mrs. Evans an opiate and sent her home to bed.
At this hour both Evans and Sontag are resting easily. Sontag has a fever tonight, which is a bad sign. Evans is simply weak from the shock and loss of blood.
The town is quiet. It has been learned that an arrangement was entered into between Evans and Sontag to the effect that in case either was killed the surviving one was to blame everything on the dead man. This accounts for some of Evans’ statements made when he thought Sontag was dying, and which he now retracts. It is probable that both men will live to be tried.