bloodied handkerchief with the laundry mark “F.X.0.7.”
A century later, the DNA in the blood might have enabled Hume to identify his man, but in 1883, something much less scientific caught his attention—the laundry mark. In those days, many men had at most only two shirts or handkerchiefs, and few workingmen could afford to send them out to a laundry to be cleaned. Certainly, few common stagecoach bandits sent their shirts out to be laundered. Clearly Black Bart was not the type of holdup man Hume had imagined him to be. From that clue, Hume deduced that Black Bart was living in a big city, and the only big city within walking distance was San Francisco.
Harry Morse’s men began visiting each of the more than ninety laundries in San Francisco, trying to associate “F.X.0.7” with a specific person. It took more than a week, but eventuallyThomas Ware, the proprietor of the California Laundry on Stevenson Street, only a few blocks from the Wells Fargo office, identified the laundry mark. The handkerchief belonged to one of his better customers, he said, a Mr. Charles E. Bolton, the mining engineer who lived at the Webb House, a hotel on Second Street.
When Morse investigated further, he found that people spoke highly of this Charles Bolton. He was “an ideal tenant,” his landlady explained, “so quiet, so respectable and punctual with his room rent.” He was a fine fellow, others said.
Morse assigned several detectives to stake out the hotel. About a week later his men spotted the nattily dressed Mr. Bolton emerging from his rooms. They noted that he appeared to have a wound on his hand. Morse took charge: One afternoon, as his suspect sauntered down the street carrying a fancy cane, Morse successfully made his acquaintance. He had been told that Bolton was a mining engineer, he explained, then asked for his assistance. He had in his possession several pieces of ore that needed to be identified. Perhaps Mr. Bolton would be so kind as to do so?
Remembering this event years later, the detective Morse wrote, “One would have taken him for a gentleman who had made a fortune and was enjoying it. He looked anything but a robber.”
Perhaps sensing a business opportunity, Bowles agreed and walked with Morse to the nearby Wells Fargo office, completely unaware that the man who had spent the past eight and a half years trying to capture him was waiting there. It was there that James Hume introduced himself to Charles Bowles and arrested him for the robberies committed by the bandit Black Bart. Bowles by this time had perfected his acting skills and appeared genuinely surprised by the accusation, continuing to insist that a mistake had been made, that he was a fifty-six-year-old mining engineer named Charles Bolton. The handkerchief? Perhaps he’d dropped it and the real Black Bart had picked it up. But any doubt that another mistake had been made was erased after Morse searched his rooms. There he found letters written in the same hand as the two poems left by Black Bart, as well as several shirts bearing the laundry mark “F.X.0.7.”
Bowles was taken to Stockton and arraigned. Although he continued to maintain his innocence, at one point he did ask if a man who confessed to a robbery and returned all the proceeds might avoid going to prison. That wouldn’t be possible, he was informed, but it was probable that a judge would look kindly upon a man who confessed to his robberies and had never hurt a soul. Finally Bowles/Bolton/Black Bart confessed—to the final robbery. He took authorities to the top of Funk Hill and handed over all the loot.
His arrest took place while San Francisco’s newspapers were fighting for circulation, andthey all wanted Black Bart’s story. Late one night, Examiner reporter Josiah Ward got into Bowles’s cell. He watched as Bowles entertained a series of visitors, including his landlady, who dabbed the prisoner’s eyes as he cried. Eventually Bowles agreed to be interviewed.
A century later, the DNA in the blood might have enabled Hume to identify his man, but in 1883, something much less scientific caught his attention—the laundry mark. In those days, many men had at most only two shirts or handkerchiefs, and few workingmen could afford to send them out to a laundry to be cleaned. Certainly, few common stagecoach bandits sent their shirts out to be laundered. Clearly Black Bart was not the type of holdup man Hume had imagined him to be. From that clue, Hume deduced that Black Bart was living in a big city, and the only big city within walking distance was San Francisco.
Harry Morse’s men began visiting each of the more than ninety laundries in San Francisco, trying to associate “F.X.0.7” with a specific person. It took more than a week, but eventuallyThomas Ware, the proprietor of the California Laundry on Stevenson Street, only a few blocks from the Wells Fargo office, identified the laundry mark. The handkerchief belonged to one of his better customers, he said, a Mr. Charles E. Bolton, the mining engineer who lived at the Webb House, a hotel on Second Street.
When Morse investigated further, he found that people spoke highly of this Charles Bolton. He was “an ideal tenant,” his landlady explained, “so quiet, so respectable and punctual with his room rent.” He was a fine fellow, others said.
Morse assigned several detectives to stake out the hotel. About a week later his men spotted the nattily dressed Mr. Bolton emerging from his rooms. They noted that he appeared to have a wound on his hand. Morse took charge: One afternoon, as his suspect sauntered down the street carrying a fancy cane, Morse successfully made his acquaintance. He had been told that Bolton was a mining engineer, he explained, then asked for his assistance. He had in his possession several pieces of ore that needed to be identified. Perhaps Mr. Bolton would be so kind as to do so?
Remembering this event years later, the detective Morse wrote, “One would have taken him for a gentleman who had made a fortune and was enjoying it. He looked anything but a robber.”
Perhaps sensing a business opportunity, Bowles agreed and walked with Morse to the nearby Wells Fargo office, completely unaware that the man who had spent the past eight and a half years trying to capture him was waiting there. It was there that James Hume introduced himself to Charles Bowles and arrested him for the robberies committed by the bandit Black Bart. Bowles by this time had perfected his acting skills and appeared genuinely surprised by the accusation, continuing to insist that a mistake had been made, that he was a fifty-six-year-old mining engineer named Charles Bolton. The handkerchief? Perhaps he’d dropped it and the real Black Bart had picked it up. But any doubt that another mistake had been made was erased after Morse searched his rooms. There he found letters written in the same hand as the two poems left by Black Bart, as well as several shirts bearing the laundry mark “F.X.0.7.”
Bowles was taken to Stockton and arraigned. Although he continued to maintain his innocence, at one point he did ask if a man who confessed to a robbery and returned all the proceeds might avoid going to prison. That wouldn’t be possible, he was informed, but it was probable that a judge would look kindly upon a man who confessed to his robberies and had never hurt a soul. Finally Bowles/Bolton/Black Bart confessed—to the final robbery. He took authorities to the top of Funk Hill and handed over all the loot.
His arrest took place while San Francisco’s newspapers were fighting for circulation, andthey all wanted Black Bart’s story. Late one night, Examiner reporter Josiah Ward got into Bowles’s cell. He watched as Bowles entertained a series of visitors, including his landlady, who dabbed the prisoner’s eyes as he cried. Eventually Bowles agreed to be interviewed.
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