A Yankee desperado’s career in WA
Adapted from The Sunday Times (Perth), 31st January, 1909
You have heard of Jim Connolly. He was a great bushman and a fine prospector, and could fire two revolvers at once. The left hand was as deadly as the right, and either was certain death if Jim had any interest in terminating your existence. He was a curious mixture, this man; for he could be generous and genial so long as he was “flush”, and because of his masterful good-fellowship he was popular with the boys outback.
At the same time, he had no more compunction in taking a life than he had in killing a boodie rat. He was reckless, yet a coward. He was brave behind a six- shooter, but it is certain that he feared the hangman’s death trap, and by a strange piece of business, he escaped it.
Connolly was fairly well-known among the pioneer brigade who cut the tracks through the Mulgaland north of Kalgoorlie from 1893 to 1896. He was unerring in direction, and locality and had an instinct for bushcraft. If he had had a year with blacks he would have beaten them at their own game. Bushmen are born, not made, and that’s the way it was with Connolly. The prospectors admired this uncanny mastery of unfriendly nature as they were astounded at his manipulation of his revolvers. To demonstrate his deadly precision, he had been known to put a circle of bullet holes around the lock of a door, and finish up by lodging a leaden pellet in the brass door- knob, and he could do that with either hand. If he stayed at one camp for any time, the spot would be marked with hundreds of empty cartridge cases where he had been practising. Revolver practice to Connolly was like piano practice to Paderewski – it was an obsession.
But at heart he was a cur – a vindictive, heartless cur. Big and athletic, and not ill-looking, he was also a favourite with a certain class of women who are fascinated by a spurious personality. This is the type of female who likes the male to be aggressive and garish. Jim Connolly’s history with these will never be fully told now, but he knew two at Menzies when that centre was a mere iron and hessian camp, and both of them died violent deaths. One was barmaid at a primitive pub; the other was cook or housemaid at the same place. Connolly was very friendly with the saloon Hebe, but a coolness arose between them, and one day the girl was found with her head in a tank of water – dead. I don’t suggest anything, nevertheless let us look at the sequel.
Above: Shenton Street, Menzies, in the late 1890s
In 1897 Connolly had been in Coolgardie for some time, after a knock-
about up north, where he had been mining and prospecting, and had made a bit of a rise. He was an American and a Pacific Slope gambler (Editor’s note: The Pacific Slope describes geographic regions in North American, Central American, and South American countries that are west of the continental divide and slope down to the Pacific Ocean) and the Old Camp 12 years ago afforded plenty of scope for speculation at poker or two-up, or any other variety of backing chance. A few weeks of this, and a fair consumption of alcohol at a bob a nobbler (Editor’s note: a shilling for roughly a double-shot of whisky) had not improved his bank balance, so one day he hired a sulky, and taking a New Zealander named Robert Reid with him, they started off along the dusty old Ninety- Mile track. It was a heavy trail cut in soft red loam, that came up in a cloud with the revolving wheels.
Just six miles out there was a wayside shanty kept by a woman, who came out in answer to a call from Connolly. What passed is unknown now, but the woman was heard to say “I’ll report you” and the next moment she was staggering back to her hut, with a bullet through her. That was the end of the second woman from the Menzies pub, shot dead by the admirer of her barmaid “mate” who was strangely drowned in a small corrugated iron tank. Dead women tell no tales. The sulky with its murderer and miscreant dashed away, and there were plenty more “thrills” to be experienced within the next few hours.
A couple of miles along, a camel train in the charge of an Afghan obstructed the trail. Connolly ordered the descendant of Mahomet to get to Hades, at the same time sending a bullet through his turban and into the hump of the leading camel. Mahomet fled while the camel collapsed with a broken back, cracking one of its legs in falling.
A little further on there was another hessian shanty standing close under Mt Burgess, that one insistent landmark of the Coolgardie goldfields. It was kept by a man who looked like a derelict as he came shuffling out to Connolly’s summons. “Down on your knees and say what you’ve got to say, because you’re going to die,” Connolly said, pointing a revolver at him. “Get down quick,” he reiterated, as the confused derelict hesitated. “Look here,” stuttered the trembling wretch, “Have pity on me. I’ve got a wife and children.” “I don’t care what you’ve got. You are going to die now. Down on your knees.” Whether Connolly really intended to shoot the man or was just having some sadistic fun with him we will never know. “Don’t shoot him, Jim,” pleaded Reid, “he’s a friend of mine.” Connolly glanced quickly at Reid, to see if he was joking or not. “It’s all right, Jim. I really do know him.” The woman-slayer relaxed. “Very well,” he said. “I intended to perforate him, but as he’s a friend of yours, well, he can go.” The reprieved man, shivering and shuffling, supplied the two desperadoes with a drink, and they drove off. No more adventure was encountered until they swung into the 25-Mile, a small mining camp with a couple of pubs and a store. Here the local constable, unaware of their dastardly doings, allowed them to pass on.
Meanwhile the report of the murder had reached Coolgardie with picturesque embellishments, and Inspector McKenua, with Sergeant Sellinger, accompanied by a volunteer detachment of the Goldfields Light Horse, started in pursuit. The auxiliaries, under Vet. Surgeon Nathan, got as far as the six-mile, but there the full details of the bloodthirsty American and his deadly aim quickened their memories, and they recollected that they had appointments back in Bayley Street which were too urgent to be broken by following a mere murderer. Vet. Surgeon-Major Nathan, however, decided to stick with the police, and no doubt they felt fortified by his presence.
The party hurried on, picking up accounts of what had happened to Mahomet, the camel and the derelict grog merchant. Past the 25-Mile they went, and on to the 42-Mile, following the sulky’s wheel tracks easily.
About six miles before reaching the 42- Mile they struck a condenser, and the owner came out, and dumbly pointed a significant thumb over his shoulder. The officers dismounted and rushed in to capture Reid asleep, with a Winchester rifle alongside him.
He gave no trouble, but declined to supply any information about his death- dealing companion. He was handcuffed to Surgeon Major Nathan, and consigned to the charge of a policeman. The Inspector and Sergeant pushed on, but they found that the trap had been abandoned, and that Connolly had mounted the grey horse, and gone forward with the object of getting as far away from justice as possible.
It was night before the officers reached the 42-Mile and as it was impossible to follow the tracks, they decided to camp at the wayside hotel.
As they were sitting in the little dining room, Sergeant Sellinger said: “I’m going to look for that fellow. He can’t be far away. His horse must be pretty tired, judging by the way it’s been driven.”
“What! Are you going alone?” asked the Inspector.
“Yes, I’ll just have a look around.”
“All right, but you’d better take the constable with you.”
The Sergeant, who by the way was swathed in a porous plaster, got his revolver, called the constable, and they started exploring the scrub in the moonlight. Sellinger was ahead, looking for the grey horse, because he knew the owner would not be far away. After they had gone some distance, the sergeant thought he discerned the horse, and had half-turned to direct the constable’s (Harris’s) attention, when he saw two eyes close to the ground looking at him. Then he made out a man with a rug, and a movement going on under it. All these things are seen and divined in a flash. The Sergeant knew he had run his man to earth, and that whoever was quickest would win, so he literally threw himself at the figure’s throat, and thrusting his revolver against its head, he said: “Move, and I’ll blow your brains out.”
“All right,” said Connolly, “you’ve got me.”
Constable Harris was up by this time, and the handcuffs were adjusted. When the rug was pulled back there were the ruffian’s two “bull-dogs”, fully loaded, but he’d made one mistake – he’d forgotten to sleep with them out of the holsters. Under his head was a bag of cartridges.
He was brought into the hotel, and asked Mrs Hastings Scott for a drink of water.
“Yes,” she replied, “I’d give you a drink of water if it would choke you. You cur! You could shoot a defenceless woman. Why didn’t you shoot the Sergeant?”
The rest of the story is well-known. Connolly and Reid were tried in Perth and – acquitted! Acquitted in the face of daunting evidence. And the same night Connolly entertained the jury at supper. The boys outback had subscribed a big sum, but he swindled all who had saved his neck, including Mr. R. S. Haynes, K.C., and absconded without paying his debts.
A year or two later the scoundrel was shot and killed in Dawson City, Yukon, by the notorious ‘Soapy Smith’.
When the trial was concluded, Sergeant Sellinger said to Connolly: “There are your revolvers and Winchester – they are yours.”
“Oh, you can have them Sergeant. Do you know how you are alive today? Well, I couldn’t get one of those barkers out of the case. If I could, you’d have been a dead man.”
Sergeant Sellinger has since been promoted to Inspector, and is one of the finest officers in the force.