Dead Men and Dollar Bills: When the Dalton Brothers Rode in Kansas

By Nick Vulich

"There was no pain, just numbness." Bullets popped and whizzed around him, but none of it registered. Emmett Dalton clambered up on his horse. He saw Dick Broadwell mounted on his horse. Behind him—Bob, Grat, and Bill Power lay on the ground—for all he knew, they were dead. 

The clatter of guns seemed to grow louder.

Emmett began to ride away. He looked back, and, "saw Bob leaning up against a rock. All thought of money—of my own life or escape vanished. I only knew that I had to reach Bob."

For a second time, Emmett Dalton rode back into the inferno to save one of his own. He rode through the crash of bullets, the splinters of wood flying from the store buildings. He rode up to Bob and leaned over in his saddle to pull him up.

He heard a loud explosion, and a great sleepiness came over him. 

Emmett would not know it until much later, but Carey Seaman had unloaded two barrels of buckshot into his back. Altogether he took two bullets, and twenty-one rounds of buckshot.

"The Dalton Gang was no more."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Vulich
• Release date: Aug 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386442455

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Dead Men and Dollar Bills

When the Dalton Brothers Rode in Kansas

Copyright © 2016 / 2023 Nick Vulich

Table of Contents

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Table of Contents

A Bit of Silliness

Introduction

On the Fast Road to Hell

Assembling the Gang

The Trade of Train Robbery

Alila Train Robbery

Wharton Train Robbery

Laelietta Train Robbery

Red Rock Train Robbery

Adair Train Robbery

Coffeyville, Final Stop on the Road to Hell

The Long Ride In

Inside the C. M. Condon and Co Bank

Inside the First National Bank

Dead Men and Dollar Bills

What Emmett Dalton Saw

John J. Kloehr – His Rifle Took Down Three of the Gang Members

Aftermath

Revenge of the Daltons

About This Book

Bonus Excerpt

Bibliography

Footnotes

A Bit of Silliness

CAPTAIN KINNEY AND his crew

Coming north on Number Two

When they heard a horrible noise

And found it was the Dalton boys

They got out to run their bluff

But the Dalton boys were after stuff.

Kinney’s crew soon got enough

For the Dalton gang were all dead tough

Then J. J. Kinney and LeFlore

Got their heads inside the door

And laid down on the floor

For the Dalton, boys were after gore

Captain Kinney was so brave

That’s why the people rave;

But the Dalton boys made him cave

And he did run his life to save

Then he never moved a hand

To catch the fearless band,

Because he was so short of sand,

For the finest detectives in the land

The Jackson Gang and Big Jim Gosage

Out with a link of bologna sausage

Looking for the Dalton gang

Whom they say they’ll hang

O, me! How the wind does blow,

So, the Jackson’s don’t you know,

And you can bet they have gone south

To catch the Dalton gang with their mouth

They never bag their game

Just like Chinamen all the same.

Get all they want in about a week,

And the Daltons will drown them at Pryor Creek.

(SATIRICAL POEM PUBLISHED shortly after the Adair station train robbery. All we know is that it was written by a man in Parsons, Kansas.)[1]

Introduction

ACCORDING TO EMMETT Dalton, a simple twist of fate led him down the outlaw trail.

One day, when I was about eighteen years old, he said, I was with my brother Bob. He was the United States Deputy Marshal. He started to make an arrest. The men resisted. Bob drew as they did and told me to git. I was just that young to not have sense enough to run, so I drew my six-shooter and got into the game. We arrested the men and put them in jail.

He finished by saying, It’s funny how small things change the entire course of a fellow’s life, isn’t it? If I had run that day with Bob, the chances are that the Coffeyville raid would have been pulled off, and I would never have asked to be one of the gangs. But that performance in sticking to my brother seemed to make a great impression on him. Did you ever have a brother you simply idolized! That was the way I looked upon my brother Bob. In fact, to my eyes, he was my hero.[2]

And that is the story of Emmett Dalton. He worshiped his brother Bob. Would follow him anywhere. One thing led to another. And he found himself on a fast ride to hell in no time.

On the Fast Road to Hell

THEY HAD A GOOD UPBRINGING, but the devil prodded them with his fork, and they started hopping all over the Southwest, murdering and robbing their way to early ends.

Littleton Dalton[3]

IN THE BEGINNING, THE Daltons were lawmen.

Brother Frank joined the marshal’s service in 1884. He rode as a United States Deputy Marshal for Hanging Judge Isaac Parker’s court out of Fort Smith, Arkansas.

In late November of 1887, the marshal’s service received a tip that whiskey peddler David Smith was holed up somewhere deep within the Cherokee Nation. Deputies Frank Dalton and James Cole set out after him, wielding an arrest warrant signed by Judge Parker.

The deputies discovered a tent hidden across the Arkansas River from Fort Smith. Dalton approached the tent from one side, Cole from the other. Frank Dalton was the first man to reach the doorway. Smith rushed out—pistol in hand. Bang! Bang! Bang! Went his gun. Dalton staggered backward, then fell to the ground. A bullet smacked him in the chest before he could raise his Winchester.

James Cole dashed for cover. He got off a shot that killed Baldy Smith. A woman rushed out of the tent and grabbed the muzzle of his gun. A desperate struggle took place as she attempted to grab his rifle. Cole heard an explosion, felt the kick of his gun, and watched in horror as the woman—Mrs. Dixon collapsed in a heap on the ground—dead. Leander Dixon raced out of the tent with his Winchester at the ready. Cole shot Dixon in the shoulder, then sought cover behind a tree. When it was said and done, Cole took seven bullets through his clothes, a shot through the chest, and another slug in his arm. Then, supposing that Dalton was dead, Cole crawled away and hid in the brush, biding time to make his getaway.[4]

From his hideaway, James Cole watched as William Trawley charged out of the tent and stuck the muzzle of his rifle in Dalton’s mouth. Then, he brutally murdered his partner while [he was] begging piteously for his life.[5] Finally, Trawley finished his deadly work, firing several more bullets into Frank’s head and chest.

Frank Dalton’s death underscored the dangers men faced in the marshal’s service. From 1875 to 1899, more than 100 deputy marshals were gunned down in Indian Territory—75 in Judge Parker’s district alone.

In 1889, the Indian Chieftain mistakenly reported Bob Dalton got shot down while attempting to arrest Lee West, an outlaw and moonshiner. The incident supposedly happened near the Arkansas River and the border of the Osage Reservation. The paper lamented what a dangerous job it was. By their count, Bob Dalton was the third United States deputy marshal killed in the last two weeks.[6]

Marshaling was a thankless job, fraught with danger. A marshal’s compensation amounted to a meager fee based on the number of men the deputy brought in. The men advanced their expenses and would often wait six months, a year, or more to get reimbursed—if they did get reimbursed at all. Things could, and usually did, go wrong. Paperwork would get lost, signatures would go missing, or someone might forget to sign off on an expense voucher. Undoubtedly, the system was impossible and a constant source of frustration for deputy marshals.

A United States Marshal earned $90 per month, plus 35 percent of each deputy’s earnings. From that, he was expected to cover his expenses, including office space and renting jail space from the local sheriff. The situation was especially grim for deputy marshals. They got paid based on the results. A deputy received $2.00 for each summons he delivered or prisoner he brought in. The deputy marshal also drew six cents for each mile he traveled—if he lived long enough to collect it. If the deputy brought in a desperate prisoner, he could keep any state or territorial rewards offered. However, he was not allowed to draw federal bonuses because he was a federal employee. Possemen received $3.00 per day but nothing to cover their expenses.[7]

As with everything else, Judge Parker’s court operated a little differently. The Judge expected his men to bring in live prisoners, not dead ones. One consequence was if a deputy brought in a dead prisoner and no family member claimed the body, the Judge deducted the cost of the desperadoes’ funeral from the deputy’s earnings. My guess is smart lawmen buried their dead somewhere along the trail or let the body lay where it fell. Not many deputies could afford the cost of a