Bloody Bill Anderson Read online

“The train! The train! Yonder comes the train!”

  To the east a black plume of smoke appeared above the bend, growing larger as it moved toward Centralia. Wild excitement swept the drunken bushwhackers gathered around the depot. Some grabbed rails and ties to throw on the track, most ran to their horses. Among the latter were the men who had held up the stagecoach. Why bother looking through luggage when there were whole carloads of people who could be robbed? Realizing that he had gotten a reprieve, if only temporary, Congressman James Rollins sought what he hoped would be a good hiding place. Thanks to Thomas Sneed, proprietor of the Boone House, one of Centralia’s two hotels, he found it in the maid’s room on the second floor.1

  The train rumbled down the far grade, then dipped into the valley of Young’s Creek. It came at full speed, as if intending to race through Centralia. Bushwhackers piled more rails and ties on the track. Then the train began slowing . . . slowing . . . slowing. Finally, although the drive wheels of the engine still revolved, iron screeching against iron, the train stopped. It was beside the depot but short of the obstructions across the track.

  Goodman saw them through the window: long-haired, wild-looking young men in uniforms identical to his own, astride horses and waving revolvers. Suddenly they opened fire on the cars. Glass shards and wood splinters rained down on the passengers who huddled in terror on the floor. The screams of women and children provided a shrill counterpoint to the roar of gunfire.2

  Lying on the floor on the engine cab, James Clark regretted that his attempt to run through Centralia had failed. Reaching up, he closed the throttle; the groaning wheels grew silent. Clark then found himself staring into the muzzles of a half-dozen big revolvers.

  “For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” cried the fireman, who lay on the floor next to Clark.

  “Get down from there!” commanded one of the gunmen.

  Clark and the fireman obeyed. Practiced hands quickly relieved them of their money and timepieces. Either by intent or accident, one of the bushwhackers shot the fireman in the chest, inflicting a nasty, but as it turned out, not serious, wound.

  Money and watches, though, were not all the guerrillas wanted. “Take down those flags, you son of a bitch,” they growled at Clark, waving their pistols at the two United States flags attached to poles on each side of the locomotive’s headlamp.

  Clark climbed up the engine front and tore away the flags. Although he moved as fast as he could, it seemed to him that his feet were caught in quicksand, and he expected to be shot when he completed the task. Instead, much to his relief, the bushwhackers holstered their revolvers and headed for the express car. Before leaving, one of them tossed the reins of his mount to the fireman. “If you let my horse get away,” he warned, “I’ll blow your damn head off.”3

  Once the wheels of the engine stopped turning, and having met no resistance, the guerrillas ceased firing, dismounted, and boarded the train. In the express car, the agent, faced with enough pistols literally to blow him apart, promptly surrendered the key to the safe. Anderson himself opened it and pulled out $3,000, which he pocketed. In the baggage car Frank James and Peyton Long found a valise. “Good God! Here’s thousands of greenbacks!” James yelled. “Run here, quick!” Seconds later, more than a dozen men crammed the baggage car, tearing frenziedly at luggage, trunks, and boxes.

  Other bushwhackers led by Archie Clements entered the passenger cars, where they promptly relieved men, women, and even children of money, jewelry, watches, and anything else that struck their fancy. Noting that the raiders refrained from searching the clothes of females, some of the male passengers hastily slipped money and rings to women standing next to them. All the while the guerrillas fired bullets into the ceilings of the coaches and shouted obscenities, eliciting in turn sobs and screams from terrified women and children.4

  “Are there soldiers on the train?” a voice, probably Clements’s, demanded. Passengers answered that they were, adding that the soldiers were not armed. Seconds later the door to the coach carrying Tom Goodman burst open, and the bushwhackers rushed in, revolvers in hand, shouting “Surrender! Surrender!” Then, seeing the soldiers grouped and standing in the aisle as if prepared to resist, they hesitated and one of them said: “Surrender quietly and you shall be treated as prisoners of war.”

  “We can only surrender,” a soldier replied, “as we are totally unarmed.”

  At once the guerrillas’ caution gave way to angry growls and threats as they stuck pistols into the soldiers’ faces and proceeded to rob them. In addition to money, three troopers of the First Iowa handed over their revolvers. They had not attempted to use them, knowing that it would be useless and only lead to terrible retaliation.5

  Anderson, now mounted, rode alongside the train, telling his men to leave the women alone. Some of the bushwhackers, drunk as they were, had “taken liberties.” He then ordered all passengers out of the train and onto the platform—except, that is, the soldiers; they were to go to the other side. Goodman and his comrades felt that there was something ominous about being separated from the civilians. As they stepped down into a waiting circle of guerrillas, terror clutched their hearts. Never had they seen such faces: young, cruel, scornful, and full of hate.

  “Take off your uniforms! Strip!” cursed the bushwhackers. The soldiers began unbuttoning their jackets, removing shoes or boots, pulling off pants. Someone had to help Bill Barnum—a member of the Twenty-third Iowa Infantry and like Goodman from Page County, Iowa—because of his crutches.

  On the other side of the train, Anderson watched the civilians filing out of the coaches. With a wave of his pistol, he motioned the men to one side. The bushwhackers then did a more thorough and systematic job of robbing them than had been possible amidst the noise and confusion on the train. A wealthy sutler surrendered $1,600 in currency and a $400 gold watch. Another man, whose attire suggested affluence, turned over only a few dollars. Disappointed and suspicious, his robber asked his if that was all he had. The man replied that it was. Staring into his eyes, Anderson warned him that he would be searched, and if anything was found hidden. . . . The man quickly tugged off a boot and pulled out $100. A sharp explosion shattered the air, and in a blue cloud of smoke the victim tumbled to the track. His mother, with whom he had been traveling, screamed, then broke into sobs. Many of the other women also began wailing and screaming, as did their children.

  One of the guerrillas spotted a man who had once testified against him and almost got him hung. The bushwhacker raised his revolver and fired. The bullet missed and the man ducked into the crowd. Other guerrillas pulled him out, and the next bullets hit their target, dropping him by the track, where he lay moaning and writhing in agony.

  Anderson next ordered that the depot, a warehouse, and some boxcars sitting on a siding be set afire. That done, he rode away; he had other business to attend to.6

  Tom Goodman and his companions stood helpless under the bright sun, clad only in their underwear or in some instances nothing at all. Altogether they numbered twenty-four. One of them, though, was actually a civilian who had been wearing a blue blouse. He tried to explain that he was not a soldier, but he also was a German whose English was so poor that he could not make himself understood. It would have made no difference if he had; the bushwhackers hated “Dutchmen” only slightly less than they did Federal troops and Kansas jayhawkers.

  Anderson rode up and ordered the soldiers to form a line across the street next to the store. They now realized that they were going to be killed. Some accepted their fate stoically, and if they prayed, they did so silently. Others sobbed and begged for mercy, only to be cursed by the guerrillas, who herded them over to the store with shoves and vicious kicks. Barnum hobbled along on his crutches. Two soldiers hung back and called on the others to do the same. Anderson immediately shot them. Their corpses tumbled between two of the cars.

  Once the line was formed, Little Archie Clements turned to Anderson and asked, “What are we going to do with these fellows?”


  “Parole them, of course.”

  “I thought so,” Little Archie laughed. “You might pick out two or three, though, and exchange them for Cave.” He referred to Cave Wyatt, the bushwhacker “sergeant” who had been wounded and captured by a detachment of the Ninth Missouri Militia four days earlier.

  Anderson pondered the matter. The odds against being able to arrange a prisoner exchange were great. But it was worth a try.

  “One will be enough,” he said as he rode over to where the soldiers stood. For a while he sat in his saddle, silently staring at them. Finally he spoke:

  “Boys, have you a sergeant in your ranks?”

  A cold shiver ran through Goodman. Why? he asked himself. For what purpose?

  “Have you a sergeant in your ranks?” Anderson repeated in a louder voice. “If there be one, let him step aside.”

  Goodman remained frozen in the line. He dared not move. A sergeant was being selected for some terrible fate, he was sure, and to step forward was to commit suicide. Then, to his horror, he saw the bushwhacker who had taken his jacket with its sergeant chevrons approach Anderson. In fact, there were several sergeants among the prisoners, but he would be the one picked. It would be better to. . . . Suddenly he found himself standing alone in front of the line.

  Anderson, his eyes and face expressionless, gazed at the stalwart man in his underwear for a moment. Then he ordered two of his followers to take the prisoner away and keep a close watch over him. As he marched off with his guards, Goodman wondered what fate Anderson had in store for him. Whatever it was, it would be something special. And awful.

  Anderson turned once more to the line of soldiers.

  “You Federals have just killed six of my soldiers, scalped them, and left them on the prairie. I am too honorable a man to permit any man to be scalped, but I will show you that I can kill men with as much skill and rapidity as anybody. From this time forward I ask no quarter and give none. Every Federal soldier on whom I put my finger shall die like a dog. If I get into your clutches, I expect death. You all are to be killed and sent to hell. That is the way every damned soldier shall be served who falls into my hands.”

  Some of the soldiers begged for mercy, declaring that they were from Sherman’s army in Georgia and had nothing to do with killing and scalping Anderson’s men.

  “I treat you all as one!” Anderson shouted back. “You are Federals, and Federals scalped my men and carry their scalps at their saddle bows.”

  He then raised his revolvers, cocking them. The other bushwhackers did the same. Some of the soldiers turned away, their eyes closed, waiting for the cruel jolt of pain to come. Others fell to their knees, crying, “No! No!” and, “O God, have mercy!” Those who looked into the faces of their executioners saw only hatred staring back.

  The roar of revolver fire shattered the air, followed by wild yells from the guerrillas and moans and cries from their victims. Most of the soldiers lay on the ground, dead or dying. A few still staggered about in the swirling gun smoke but soon went down as more bullets tore into them. All except Val Peters. His giant, naked body streaming blood, he rushed toward his assailants, knocked down several of them with his fists, then ducked under the train and slid beneath the platform.

  The bushwhackers gave chase and quickly surrounded the depot, waiting for the flames that engulfed it to force the big Yankee out into the open. They did not have to wait long. Bolting from the rear of the station and brandishing a piece of firewood, Peters again charged his attackers, clubbing down two of them and forcing others to back off. But the bullets kept coming. Struck again and again, he finally teetered for a moment and then, like a great oak chopped off at the base, crashed to the ground. With his last remnant of strength, he raised himself with an elbow and lifted a huge fist to heaven.

  “My Lord . . .,” he cried out.

  Riddled by twenty bullets, Valentine Peters at last dropped to earth.7

  Back in front of the store, the bushwhackers strode among the bodies, sometimes kicking them. If there a groan was emitted, a shot in the head would follow. One victim lay unconscious with a bullet above the eye, another in the face, and a third in the chest. Even so, his heel continued to dig at the ground, back and forth. Watching him, Clements remarked, with characteristic humor, “He’s marking time.” The guerrillas finished off two other soldiers by crushing their skills with rifle butts and another by stabbing him in the throat. Anderson’s words to the contrary, two soldiers had their scalps hacked off.8

  From his hiding place in the hotel Rollins watched all of this with mounting horror. Now all he could do was hope and pray that no one in Centralia had recognized him and told the guerrillas about him. But someone had—and told Anderson, who resolved to hunt Rollins down. That should be easy enough in a hamlet of no more than a couple dozen buildings. Moreover, a congressman would make a far better hostage than a mere sergeant. But then Anderson changed his mind. Maybe he decided that it wasn’t worth the bother. Or maybe it was the whiskey. For whatever reason, instead of conducting a search for Rollins, he sent several bushwhackers to find the train’s engineer, tell him what he was to do, and make sure he did it.9

  When they reached the locomotive, they found the wounded fireman, still holding the horse, but not James Clark. “Where’s your boss?” they asked.

  Pointing, the fireman answered, “There he is, getting over the fence.”

  The guerrillas caught Clark straddling the fence and brought him back to his train. Once he was in the cab, they ordered him to tie the whistle down, open the throttle, and then jump out when they gave the signal.

  Meanwhile, other bushwhackers set fire to the express and baggage cars. On seeing this, Thomas Sneed, who had provided Rollins with a hiding place in his hotel, ran frantically through the coaches, searching for anyone still in them—and still alive. He discovered a mother and her three children cringing beneath a seat and paralyzed with fear. Only by repeatedly telling them that they would burn to death if they remained did he persuade them to leave.

  Other townsmen, on orders from the guerrillas, cleared away the pile of rails and ties on the track. Clark then set the locomotive in motion. With riders on both sides yelling “Give ’er hell!” he took the train from the blazing station out onto the prairie. Satisfied that the engine was on its own, the bushwhackers shouted at Clark to jump, which he did. The flaming train, its whistle screaming, went hurtling up the track toward Sturgeon.

  Anderson felt pleased, and with good cause. He had come to Centralia to obtain word about Price, which he had done from newspapers found on the train. But he had done a hell of a lot more than that. He had revenged four times over his murdered and scalped men. Plus, he and his followers had acquired plenty of money, jewelry, and sundry other loot, not to mention burning a depot and a warehouse and torching the train—now hurtling toward destruction. Only Lawrence and, in its way, Baxter Springs topped what had been done there in Centralia that day.

  But now it was time to leave. At Anderson’s command, the guerrillas mounted up and formed into a column. While they did so, Anderson rode over to the passengers, assessed the trembling group for a moment, then asked, “Anyone care for a drink?” A nervous man stepped forward—he realized that he was as likely to receive a bullet as a drink—and Anderson handed him a bottle. He took a quick swig and handed it back. After warning that the bodies of the soldiers were not to be moved or any fires extinguished, Anderson started to turn his horse around.

  “Can we go on with our trip?” a woman asked.

  “Go on to hell, for all I care,” Anderson answered.10

  Seconds later he led his band, some of whom had whiskey-filled boots hanging from both sides of their saddles, south out of Centralia. With them, still clad in his underwear and riding atop a mule, was Tom Goodman. From the stable where his two guards had taken him, he had watched the butchery of his fellow soldiers and Val Peters’s titanic struggle to escape death. He himself had come close to suffering the same fate. Drunk
en bushwhackers had surrounded him, taunting and threatening him: “Hellfire is too good for you, you son of a bitch!” “Kill the damn yankee!” Several attempted to do just that, pointing their pistols at him. Only the efforts of his guards and their threat to call Anderson saved him from being shot, if not torn to shreds. He owed his life to them, yet knew that at a mere nod from Anderson they would deprive him of it. Why was he being spared? Was it for some slow, special torture? If so, he wished he was already dead.11

  Hardly had the bushwhackers left Centralia than they heard a familiar sound. Looking off to the east, they saw a construction train approaching the village. Anderson and the main body continued on toward their camp, but a large group broke away from the column. It halted the train just short of the burning depot—why its engineer had not stopped and reversed on spotting the flames and smoke is beyond fathoming—and proceeded to rob the crew and workmen. That done, the guerrillas placed a soldier’s corpse across the track, then ordered the engineer to move the train up to the station. Horrified, he protested and pleaded, only to be greeted with howls of laughter and the brandishing of pistols. Easing back on the throttle, the engineer inched his train forward until, with a sickening crunch, the locomotive rolled over the body and sheared off the legs at the knees. The bump caused the front wheels to jump the track, thereby preventing more such acts and also demonstrating that in all probability Clark’s attempt to ram through the obstructions on the track would have ended in disaster had there been enough speed to try. After setting fire to the tender and caboose, the bushwhackers rode off to rejoin the main body while the crew and workers began trudging back toward Mexico.12

  Many of the passengers also set out for Mexico, some walking, others in buggies and wagons, and a few on a handcar. Most of them, though, followed Clark as he set out on foot toward Sturgeon. Three miles along they came upon the smoldering remains of the train’s cars. Climbing into the cab of the still intact locomotive, Clark carefully fed wood from the tender, which also was little damaged, into the firebox until he raised a head of steam. Then, with dozens of people clinging to its sides, the engine started rolling westward.