As part of the coverage of the execution of Frank Rumberger and Henry Rumberger for the murder of Daniel Troutman, the Harrisburg Telegraph on 27 January 1882 published the interview they did with Frank Rumberger in which he gave a “narrative” of his “career” in crime. The text of that interview, as published, is presented here in its entirety.
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FRANK RUMBERGER
THE NARRATIVE OF HIS CAREER IN CRIME
As Burglar, Pickpocket and Murderer – From Lykens to Galveston, Texas – The Wanderings of a Desperado – The End of a Murderer – A Strange Story of Depravity
A TELEGRAPH reporter had an interview with Frank Rumberger this morning, the result of which is given below in Frank’s own language:
Reporter – Frank, you are a young man, and I have heard, have led a reckless life to some extent? Is this true?
Frank – I have, but I have been accused of many crimes of which I was not guilty. As a warning to young men and boys from six years old to manhood, I would say beware and shun evil companions of both men and women. I owe my unfortunate situation today to evil-minded women. My first theft was when I was six years old. I stole a lot of toys in my grandmother’s house belonging to my aunt. When I was eight years old a companion and myself were throwing ice balls and one of us hit a woman in the eye, Mrs. Rabnox, the effect of which was to weaken its sight. This cost my father eighty dollars – the other boy’s father having to pay the same. I was then living in Wiconisco. I committed many a petty theft – but at last these were too small for me, and I went for larger prizes.
My first large theft was the safe of the Summit Branch Railroad at Williamstown. I did this job myself between 8 and 9 p.m. I was not fourteen years old when I did this. I did this because the railroad company had suspended me and would not give me the wages I wanted. I was examined three times on this charge, escaping each time. The second time I was examined I had all I had taken out of the safe on my person, but was not searched. I spent this money, a very large sum, with confectionery, dram shops and presents to women I took a revolver out of the safe. I got the idea of becoming a burglar and a highwayman from reading dime novels. I hid the money in a chicken’s nest in the locomotive house, and staid around the scene of the crime, as a great crowd was talking about it, doing my share of the talk. I took the team that morning and went to Lykens. On the following Monday I was taken on suspicion, searched but no money found on me. Three days after I was again taken, when I had all the money on my person, but they did not search me. About three weeks afterwards I was again taken and again let go, after which I was not disturbed. I took this money and hid it under the roof of father’s stable, where I left it for two months, when I took twenty dollars out of it; the balance I carried, with the revolver, and hid it in the rocks in the mountain, where I left it until spring; and when I got back to it, the mice had eaten a large portion of it and made a nest in it. I took what was left. The centers were eaten out of five, ten and twenty dollar bills, some of which I gave away to parties, who fixed them up, selling them at a large discount.
I then became acquainted with Hampton Miller, who shot his stepfather, and was tried here for murder and acquitted. He told me he could buy a good revolver in Pittsburg for ten dollars. I gave him twenty dollars to send for two, he promising to pay me back the ten dollars, but never did. We had the revolvers and used them to shoot mark. In the meantime I was still watched by the railroad company, whose safe I cracked, but the detectives were never smart enough to get a hold on me. I had $40 in bills, the revolver I had stolen in the safe, and the new one which I bought – all of which I placed in a tin box and then buried that near our stable, an operation which Hampton Miller witnessed; after which he and Oscar Cook stole it. Miller and I quarreled about this affair. For a long time Miller and I laid in wait for each other, he firing at me as I passed between my home in Lykens, in the dark – I had no pistol to return his shots. If I had my pistol, which Miller stole, I would have given a return fire every time.
During this summer (1873) I had a difference with my father. We could not agree. I do not know who was wrong – I will not blame him, for I love him, as God knows. All of this time of which I now speak I was working in the mines. I was persuaded by Luke Mack, of Williamstown, to take a trip to the West. I drew my back time, got an order for the money, but father suspecting something was wrong, notified the cashier not to cash the order, which, when I presented, he kept, and handed to my father. I then took the remainder of the money I stole from the safe, went home to mother, told her my trouble, when she gave me two shirts, a good-bye, thinking never to see her reckless son again.
I went to Millersburg, took a freight, rode to Selinsgrove bridge, crossed it, and was three days walking from that point to Lewistown, on the Pennsylvania Railroad. Luke Mack was with me, and we quarreled on the way. We took freight at Lewistown, and rode within a few miles of Altoona, where we stopped at a small town the name of which I cannot recall. Luke here discovered I had some money, which he wanted to beat me out of, when I left him and took a passenger train for Pittsburg. I laid in Pittsburg with prostitutes and squandered nearly all my ill-gotten gains, when I thought of home, my mother and my father, and longed to return to them, which I did.
I was only absent about five weeks, and when I got back I was warmly welcomed – and I had fifteen cents left out of the large sum I took out of the Williamstown safe. I went to my boss, who thought a great deal of me, asked for a job and got it. I remained in the mines at work from 1873 to 1876, and was married on the 23d of January, 1876. During all this time I was an honest man, earning all I spent by fair labor, and doing wrong to no man. I was only a few months older than seventeen years when I married, an act which was a sorrowful one to me.
In October, 1876, I attended a shooting match at Williamstown, at which, with a partner, I won $50. On the Monday after the match I went again to work in the mine; the place where I was engaged caved in, which threw about forty men out of a job. I went home, asked my wife to move with me to Williamstown, telling her that I could get no work where we were unless I lived in the town. She refused, because she could not leave her mother and live in a town among strange people fearing that we would live more unhappily there than we did where we were. I then began to lead a reckless life. I was discontented and very unhappy, staying away from my home and spending my time in saloons, playing cards and enjoying the company of dissolute people.
This went on until January, 1877, when my father started a saloon in Lykens. It was then, owing to lack of work, that I became poor. Father told me to move into the Mechanics’ Hall, which I did in opposition to my wife’s wish. We lived very unhappily in the hall. I was cutting wood for the mines, timber for the props in the mines, for which I got no pay. This bad luck weighed very heavy on me, and made me very discontented, and to relieve my wants I robbed my father’s money drawer one night, getting about $17.00 and a watch. This was on the 9th of April, 1877. This same night a house next door to the hall was robbed, for which I was blamed, but I am innocent of that. I know who did it, but I will not expose him. After the robbery I went to my wife’s room, and told her I intended to leave – “I cannot please you in anything, and it is best I should go away.” I asked her to grant me one request, which she refused. I then asked her to kiss me good bye, but she said, no, never. I asked her to kiss our baby Johnny, but she threw herself on the child, and tried to prevent me from kissing it, but I succeeded in doing it before I left.
At 3 a.m. I started to walk for Millersburg, and got there about seven; went to a restaurant and ate a meal, from which I went to the ferry, crossed the river and walked to Newport, Perry County. I took a train that night, at 11 o’clock for Pittsburg, which I reached at 7 a.m. next day. I at once went to one of my old haunts, where I had made acquaintances at my first visit. After I reached this house I wrote to my father, asking his forgiveness for what I had done before I left and telling him I was on my way to Texas. I left Pittsburg that night. Before I left the house at which In had been stopping I played a little game on a man who was there, by which I relieved him of several dollars – about thirty dollars, after which I struck for Birmingham, where I took freight and rode about five miles to a small village, where I stopped at a boarding house for the night.
The next morning after breakfast paid my bill, went to the depot, took a train for Alliance, Ohio, where I got out, went to drug store and got four ounces of muriatic acid, and a dozen of half-ounce bottles; proceeding from this place to a tinsmith shop, I bought a pound of soldering and a few small pieces of zinc. I used this material to mend tin ware, without tools, and then went to work, mending tin ware for such people as employed me in that town, and also selling the stuff for twenty-five cents a bottle. My object was as I entered a house to sell my material or mend tin ware, to steal whatever I could hide, when a servant went to see if the lady of the house needed my services, &c. I did not see anything in this town worth taking.
I next visited Marsillon, Ohio, where I bought cheap jewelry, with which I imposed on the charitable to aid me, in buying a ring which I wore and which I represented as having been given to me by my mother, saying that she paid a large price for it, and I was on my way home to meet her. I succeeded very well in this business in Massillon, from which I went to Fort Wayne, Indian. Before I left Massillon, I was accused of burglarizing a clothing and jewelry store, of which I was innocent, and was not detained.
I got to Fort Wayne about 10 o’clock at night, went to a shooting gallery and lost part of the money I made in Alliance and Pittsburg. Before I left the gallery I was ahead several dollars. I did no wrong in Fort Wayne. At this town I took a freight on the Michigan Central Road and rode to Richmond, Michigan, where I joined the Murphy Temperance Society and again began to sell soldering material. I made money in this trade in Richmond, which I left the next day, visiting a number of towns in Indiana and Michigan, and at last reaching Chicago, where I arrived on Sunday night, a week after I left home.
When I reached Chicago I had on a good suit of clothes, and could make a respectable appearance. I asked a policeman to direct me to a lodging house, which he did, and to my sorrow, for I ruined my suit of clothes by coming into contact with all kinds of vermin. I left this house the next day and went to Madison Street and attended police court as a spectator. I next visited a gambling house on State Street, where I lost five dollars before I left. I made the acquaintance of a gang of burglars, all of whom were clumsy workmen in the business. The gang told me where I could crack a safe, and got about $180. I gave the man who was on guard outside a five-dollar bill wrapped on a stick, which he thought was a roll, and told him to go, which he did very quickly, and I had the balance of the plunder. This whole transaction did not occupy ten minutes. I at once took a car on State Street and went to the Union Stock Yard, where I entered a clothing store and bought an entire new suit, leaving the old clothes behind, after which I went to a hotel.
The next morning I went to a depot, took a train and went to Galesburg, Illinois. While in this city I met a courtesan whom I beat out of her watch and a plain gold ring, she all the while trying to beat me. I also got about forty dollars of her money. I left this new acquaintance, went to the depot and took a train to Burlington, Iowa.
When I got to Burlington I stopped at a restaurant, handing a $10 bill to pay for what I had got, and received in change scrip issued by that city. I did not want to take this, and had some words with the man who gave it to me, but I got square with him that night, as I entered his place, and when he went to get me a glass of ale I tapped his till, getting nearly eighteen dollars, all city scrip, which I got exchanged in the post office.
I left Burlington and returned to Galesburg, having only been a day in the former place. From Galesburg, I went to Quincy, Illinois, where I met a prostitute, with whom I went on an excursion up the Mississippi River to Keokuk. This woman tried to rob me, but did not succeed. I returned to Quincy with the bawd, and before I left her she was minus her purse.
I left Quincy and went to Hannibal, Missouri, thence on to a town called Mobela, thence to Bedalis, thence to Parsons, in Kansas, thence to Fort Scott, on to McCallister’s, Indian Territory, and then to Dennison, Texas, from there to Sherman, Dallas, Houston, Fort Worth, Galveston, stopping at all these places, my money being sufficient to pay my expenses. Every man was armed in these places, which did not suit my idea of business, and therefore I went from Galveston back to Dennison, where I made the acquaintance of a drover. He bought eight car loads of stock to bring to Chicago. He hired me as a helper on the train. When we got to Parsons, Kansas, we went to a house of ill fame, and while there I robbed the drover of $125, which he never missed. I went to Mabelo with the drover, when he took four carloads of his stock to St. Louis, leaving me with the other four for Chicago, which I took to that city and delivered to the stock yard. While I was on this trip to Chicago, I met another drover named W. H. Wynkoop. He was so kind to me that I made no effort to do him a wrong, although I could have taken $4,000 of his had I been so minded.
This was about June 3, 1877. I remained in Chicago until I was entirely broke, when I began to have thoughts of coming home to Dauphin County. I got to Pittsburg on the 10th of June, remained until the evening, when I left for Harrisburg, but only got as far as Greensburg, where I got out on a freight train of the Baltimore and Ohio Road. I wanted to ride on the Pennsylvania Road. I stopped about a quarter of a mile from the town, where I tried to get on a train but was put off every time. I lay there until the next day, when I started to walk to Latrobe. Before I got there another man who was with me and myself were arrested and taken to an alderman’s office in Latrobe, searched, they taking from me two suits of new clothing which I had on and what little money I had and a nickle watch chain. I had bought the clothes at Chicago. We were charged with car robbery, tried and convicted of larceny, of all of which I was as innocent as a babe unborn. This was on the 11th of June, 1877. I lay in Westmoreland County Jail from that date until August 25th, and on the 28th I was tried, convicted and sentenced on the 30th, by Judge Logan, to eleven months in the Allegheny County work house. My partner got clear. I was discharged before my sentence expired, for good behavior, and given ten dollars by the superintendent, J. L. Kinney, this with the money I had earned as overwork, amounted to twenty-two dollars, as I left jail. While I was in the work house I got a letter every month from home. When I got out of the work house I went to Pittsburg, squandered my twenty dollars, and went home to Lykens without a cent in my pocket, having handled from the day I left, 9th of April, 1877, to the 2nd of August, 1878, from $1,000 to $1,500.
When I reached home I was received as the prodigal son; my wife came to my father’s house to meet me; my father and mother gave me a loving welcome, and all my friends in Lykens cordially received me. On Tuesday after my return I was arrested by Joseph Calsenberger for larceny, on suspicion of having robbed his house the night I left. I had a hearing, was put under $500 to answer at court; when the bill was brought before the grand jury it was ignored.
After this affair was over I returned home from Harrisburg to Lykens, where I attended bar in my father’s saloon until December 1, 1878. Before I got home my father’s mother died, on whom he had an insurance of $5,000, which he received after I got back from the West. He told me he would go to Delaware and buy a farm. He and I left Lykens on the 1st of December, and went to Kent County, Delaware, where he bought a farm of forty-five acres, of which there were twenty-acres under cultivation. It was a truck farm, and father returned to Pennsylvania. Coming to Delaware in January following with my wife and one child, when I took possession of the farm. But being fond of gunning, I neglected the farm; my home became unpleasant to me on account of the desire of my wife to get back to Dauphin County. She gave me no peace, but cried at all times to get back to Lykens, which drove me out of the house, and was the cause of many little quarrels, until we actually disliked each other.
While in Delaware my wife gave birth to a second child – a boy. The child was born in July, and in October following my wife, and my brother, with the two children, and my father, returned to Dauphin County. I remained in Delaware until March of 1880, when father came down and sold the stock, and rented the farm on shares. I visited Philadelphia after the sale of the stock, father returning home.
I again went to Delaware in a few days after and hired to work with a man named C. K. Snyder, with whom I remained until the 24th of July, when I went to Philadelphia, and from that city I came home, getting to Lykens on the 28th of July, 1880. As soon as I got home I had a severe attack of malaria, which confined me in the house until September 7, when I again began to work in the mines, in which I did not lose a shift until my second arrest for the crime of which I have been found guilty and must suffer.
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Reporter – Now Frank give me your true connection with the Troutman murder.
Frank – I do not care to go over the story which Henry has so often told. I want to tell the facts as I know them, and what I tell you will be well substantiated and well supported by part of his own confession and of the witnesses. Mr. Reporter, it is not necessary for me to repeat the fats of my meeting Henry at the Odd Fellows’ Hall and in the saloon there on Saturday, November 13, 1880, only to say that Henry’s aunt, Ann Feeger, supplied the weapons to his need and which were used at Troutman’s and that she knew the use to which the revolvers were to be put. Henry, in answer to my question, who gave you’re the money to pay for the carriage, said my mother gave me two dollars.
On Sunday evening, November 14, 1880, about 4:40, I was walking up Main Street, and in front of Hiram Bueck’s, Henry, who was in a carriage, driving toward me, turned to the gutter and told me to walk down toward the bridge. I then went into an alley leading to another alley, down which I walked to the foot of the town, where I again got on the road, when a woman stepped out into the road, and I passed her, but I did not know her. When I reached the little bridge, opposite John Shively’s house, Henry came up with the carriage and stopped. I walked around in front of the horse; got into the carriage on the side of the street fronting Shively’s house. Henry then drove on, passed Frances Rumberger, Sallie Arrison and her sister. Frances Rumberger could not have seen Henry in the carriage, because I stood in front of him in such a manner as to prevent her seeing him. We then got to the white bridge, where we passed a man, and as we did so I asked Henry who he was, when he said, “He is a friend of mine.” We then drove on, passed Jacob Redinger and a number of others between George Phillips, and John Wallace’s farm. At Shadel’s Tavern, we passed another carriage, and two miles below Lykens we passed Henry Snyder, who had his wife with him in his carriage, but it was impossible for him to see either one of us. A short distance from there we passed Johnny Deitrich and a man named Loupole. Deitrich could not have seen me in the carriage, for the reason that my back was to hm as I passed. Henry Snyder said in his testimony at the alderman’s office that it was 5 p.m. when we passed, and he was correct, and the reason he gave for this was that when he got to Lykens his brother told him it was 5:30. We drove on until we got to Charles Youghey’s house, where gray mare Henry was driving turned in toward the fence, when Youghey saw us both, but did not know me. From Youghey to Loyalton, it is only about half a mile, at which point we turned toward Uniontown and before we got to Romberger’s farm we passed Solomon Hess driving at a rapid rate, and we passed on until we got to a bridge, and crossing that we passed a saw mill, when we got to which it was about dark. We passed a number of men standing at a stable, near the saw mill. Driving onward we passed a house, when Henry said: “Here comes a son of the man we are going to rob.” Passing this house we drove on until Henry pointed out another house on the left standing in from the road, in which he said: “There is money there too.” I asked him the name of the man who lived there, when he replied, Lebo. Passing this house, we went on until we got to Shipley’s Road, where another carriage drove ahead of us with two men in it. I told him not to drive so close to that carriage, but he persisted in driving up as close as possible to it. When we reached the outskirts of Uniontown the carriage ahead of us turned to the left we, turning to the right, driving onward until we got beyond the Mahontonga Bridge, when we passed a house in which Henry said there was money, and the name of the man, Henry said, was Squire Hoffman. From this point we drove onward, and coming down a hill we saw a man standing on a porch (it was clear moonlight) who swore he seen us but I think he was mistaken. Driving onward we passed a house standing in on the right. Here again Henry told me there was money in the house. I do not know the name of this man. Beyond this point we passed a school house, when Henry wanted to get out to ascertain if the Troutman children were there but I advised him not to do so, and he did not. After passing the school house we reached the woods, where we stopped. Henry got out, walked up the hill and opened the bars, returned and let the horse up, I remaining in the carriage. He tied the horse to the rear of the bars. I got out and gathered some corn fodder and gave it to the horse to eat. We walked down hill together and passed over a foot bridge which crosses the creek at that point. Here we examined the sand to see if the children had gone to singing school, the tracks showing that they had done so. We then went to Troutman’s stable where Henry asked me for a knife, and I told him I had none, and asked him what he wanted with a knife? He said, to cut a rope or line to the old man. I told him that would not do, as it was not the way to carry it out.
We then went to the house, stopped at the wood pile, where I asked Henry to give me an idea of the inside of the house. He tried to explain, but I could not understand him, and we went to the door, when he gave me a description of the interior of the house. I told him to stay where he was then standing, when he said, “Wait until I put on my mask.” I tied it on for him. I told him that I would “sneak the house.” Henry said, “No, you can’t find the money.” I became impatient, and told him to manage the job his own way. He then called out “Dan” several times but no answer. I then shoved the door open, and led on by Henry, got to the middle door and as I got up to that door it opened at my touch. This put us into the room where Troutman and his wife were sleeping in the same bed.
We both went to the bed, the light from the moon shining in from the window, while a large wood stove in which there was fire helped to light the room. I stood at the head of the bed, Henry by my side, when I discovered that Mrs. Troutman was awake. Henry said, “Frank, call him.” I said I did not know his name. Henry said “Dan,” when I called “Dan” in a loud voice. The old man made no reply, when Mrs. T. hunched him, saying: “Dan, somebody is calling you.” She spoke in German. At this point Henry slapped Mr. T. on the hip, which awoke him and he got up, saying: “What do you want?” We both replied: “Want your money,” each of us with a revolver pointed at his breast. The old man arose very suddenly and jumped to the floor, when I put my hand on his breast, and said “Stop.” He said to me “Let me out.” I replied, “We want your money,” and he said, “I have none.” To which Henry answered, “Yes you have, and of other peoples, and we must have it tonight.” Troutman said to this: “I have a few dollars, but I won’t give it to you.” After this he said “I want you to go out.” We would not let him go out, and he went to the window to obey a call of nature, and as he did this I held up the window for him. After the old man got out of bed I put my pistol in my pocket, my intention being to knock the old man down with my fist, but as I looked into his face, full of alarm and terror in all its lines, I pitied him, and therefore did not strike him. I never struck an old man in my life.
Troutman then went back to the bed, Mrs. Troutman in the meantime dressing herself behind the bed, while Henry watched her. When the old man got to the bed he jumped on it and grasped a gun which hung above it. I had my left hand on his right arm as he did this, endeavoring to prevent his taking hold of his gun; but he got it, nevertheless. Just then I suddenly reached his taking hold of his gun; but he got it, nevertheless. Just then I suddenly reached for my revolver, thinking if I got a load off, it would panicize the old man and he would surrender. I did not fire at him, but at the wall, where the ball must be now sticking, or it went out the window.
The report of my pistol scared the old lady, who began to scream, when the old man jumped from the bed, gun in hand, saying in German, “Now, damn you, get out!” I said to Henry, “Now get!” and as I said this I grabbed the gun in Troutman’s hand, holding it up so that he could not shoot me. He was a small man, who I could easily handle. I shoved Henry out of both doors as I held Troutman’s gun out of my left hand. As Henry got out he turned to the left, and as I was passing out I leaned against the frame of the door and jerked the old man in such a manner as to throw him out ahead of me, and I reached the right corner of the house before he recovered from the reel. I could not get away from the corner of the house without being shot by the old man. At this point the old lady came out of the door into the yard and said, “There stands one at that corner.” The old man then went to the left, following Henry. The old lady ran back again into the house. At this moment I did not see Henry, and I followed after the old man, my intention being to get out of the yard the way I got in, as I did not know the premises. Then I saw the old man walking cautiously along the lower corner of the house, when, as he passed around the corner, I lost sight of him. At this instant, I heard the report of a gun, and immediately thereafter, the sound of a shot from a pistol. The old man then came reeling around from the corner of the house where he had passed from my view a moment before, and I stood watching him as he turned quickly several times around, still holding on his gun, the muzzle of which struck the garden fence, and he fell. Henry at the same time running from the same direction fell over the fence into the wood pile.
As soon as the old man fell I ran to him and asked what was wrong? He said, “I am shot. I asked, “Who shot you?” He could not speak. I then turned him on his back, threw the gun over the fence, got on my knees to him and said to him in German, “Do you know me?” He said, “No; you are a stranger.” I then asked him, “Do you know the other man?” He could not answer for the blood in his throat. Mrs. Troutman then came out of the house, when I said to Henry, who was standing near the fence. “There she is, we must follow.” When I said this I stood up,. Scarcely knowing what I was saying, and the old lady began to scream at the top of her voice. I called to Henry: “Pal, come here and help me raise the old man.” He refused to come, and I turned the old man over on his breast, which caused him to spit out blood. I again spoke to him, asking him to forgive me. He said, “yes.” At this point I heard the old lady at the other house, and I again asked the old man, “Do you know the other man?” He said, “Yes, I do.”
Hearing the people coming from the other house, I told Henry we must go. I jumped over the fence to Henry, and we both left, jumping over another fence, and when I got near the stable I stopped until Henry came up. I asked him why he was so slow – couldn’t you run faster? To which he replied, “No, I am too weak.” I replied, “Yes; I would be too weak to run had I done what you did.” We then passed on to the stable, where I pushed him ahead of men, and we soon got to the hill where the carriage was. As he came up to me, he lagged behind. I asked him, “Henry, did you load?” (meaning did he reload his revolver). He said “yes.” He went and brought the carriage , where I was standing, when I got in, and we drove off as fast as the horse could travel. After we were in the carriage, I put up the curtains and asked him, “Who shot the old man?” He replied, “You did.” I said to him, “If I shot him, he is wounded in the right breast.” To this he mane no reply. Before we got to Lykens, he said, “Frank give me the cartridges I gave to you.” I returned him four. He said, “ must have one more to make me ten.” I then asked to see his pistol. He handed it to me and I loaded it, taking two cartridges out of my pistol to do it, which made him ten loose cartridges and five in his revolver. I had three in mine. He then told me he would give his revolver to his aunt Ann Feezer the next morning. We drove to the railroad crossing at Lykens, where we separated, when I said to him, “Remember, keep this mum, for is you don’t, and I am arrested, and I get a smack at you, I will use you the same as you did old Troutman.” He said he did not shoot Troutman. I replied, “You shot at him.” To which he replied, “Yes, but I missed him.” I said, “Don’t call me a liar. If you do, I’ll shoot you, and if any one is arrested, it will be you;” and I added, “Keep your mouth shut. Your mother and aunt are as guilty as we are.” He quickly answered, “No, they are not, for they were not along.” Henry then drove off, and I went to my home.
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This closed Frank’s statement to the reporter. He spoke all the time in a calm and collected manner, with great deliberation, often stopping to think, and declaring that he wanted to get the facts in a regular order. He showed no feeling against Henry whatever – and was solemn, even affected as he described the old man Troutman lying on the ground bleeding to death. If he shot Troutman in the house he never could have walked to the yard and lived. Frank is now anxious to have the truth and only the truth known.
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Obtained through Newspapers.com.
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