Yuma Territorial Prison

Miles of sand dunes and barren desert mountains form a background of isolation for early Arizona's Yuma Territorial Prison. Dick Dietrich Inset photograph by Alan Benoit.

A Legend on the Last Frontier

He was as much a part of the museum as those items kept inside under glass. People couldn't remember how long he had been there. They merely thought of him seated on the splintered wooden bench each day, his face to the sun. Mahogany flesh, taut and deeply seamed, retained its coarse texture, reflecting the arid landscape. A local wag, in writing a feature for the Sunday paper, had theorized that he might have been caught in some Asimovian time warp. The analogy was apt. He was an anachronism. But he seemed also to reflect the tough, quiet spirit of this place which had been an integral part of the progressing seasons on the southwestern desert.

A young man tennis-shoed his way along the wall, keeping apart from the others, then sat beside the old gentleman. A giggle of girls passed them, teetering on clumsy wedged sandals, oblivious to anything but their intimate gossip. Bees went about a lethargic collection of sweets. And silence, oppressive as the surrounding stone buildings, waited to be broken. Over near the parking lot, one small boy squatted in the colorless dirt and poked a short stick at a daydream spinning itself out between his feet.

"The hellhole of Arizona Territory," mused the young man. "There's not much life here now, is there?"

"Used to be," was the soft reply from the old man at the other end of the bench.

The young man, researching material for a master's degree in history, thought how it must have been on that Tuesday a century and six years ago when the cornerstone was laid here.

April 28, 1876, had begun as most days do over Yuma, Arizona, clear and sunfilled, promising another brilliant afternoon. New evidence of construction puckered the earth atop the bluff overlooking the Colorado River, that old brigand who once had twisted and plundered his way past the town and through the valley.

Proud, perspiring citizens watched Mayor A. J. Finley trowel the cornerstone into place and the "Hellhole of Arizona" became a reality. For 33 years, Yuma Territorial Prison was to house the worst criminals of the most lawless period in American history, the Southwestern desperados of the late 19th century.

"Arizona Territory was 'wide-open' in the 1860s," the old man said, "and law books were more at home behind a .45 than in a court of law. Human life didn't mean very much, and a lot of people were agitatin' for a prison out here."

One editor demanded that something be done "to permit a few of our citizens to live until they die a natural death, so as to show the world what a magnificent, healthy country it is."

As a result of public demand, the territorial Legislature voted funds to build a prison and named Phoenix the site. But a member of the Legislature from Yuma, Jose Maria Redondo, did some energetic politicking, and the site was changed to Yuma. Bonds totalling $30,000 were authorized for financing the project that year of 1875, and as labor was scarce, prison-ers from the local jail were used in the construction.

"Law enforcement officers back then were convinced that prison was meant for punishment," continued the old man, "and they didn't waste time worryin' about rehabilitation and reform. Their idea was to make the penitentiary so bad and un-inviting that the very thought of it would make a person think twice before he acted outside the law. And if he did go ahead and then got caught, one stay in the prison was all he should need to convince him his decision had been wrong."

Yuma was ideally situated for such a purpose. Summer temperatures in the southwestern corner of Arizona run as high as 120 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade, and with tin roofs, surrounded by a high wall which effectually cut off all breezes, the prison became, literally, an oven. No heat in the convicts' cells during winter months sent the thermometer to much lower extremes. Frequent dust storms blew in from every direction and provided still another source of torture.

"C'mon, young fella; let me show you somethin'."

As they walked, the old man continued. "It was a hard place, all right, but people forget the prison was really a community activity. The gates were open to the townspeople, and they came and went, selling things and buying from the prisoners' bazaar. They visited the prisoners and the guards. The whole operation was open to inspection. Sort of like a jail in a fish bowl."

The two men looked at the remains of a wall which once had ringed the cellblocks and prison workshops. Eighteen-feet high, eight-feet wide at the bottom, and tapered to a four-foot width at the top, it made a perfect walkway for guards who patrolled from lookout posts at each corner.

Adobe, stone, and iron, set into place by an ever-increasing prisoner population, housed 3040 men and 29 women through 33 years at the Yuma location. There in the heart of nowhere, the legend grew and prospered.

George M. Thurlow posted a $5000 bond and became the first prison superintendent in June, 1876, when 15 prisoners were housed in the new facility.

Yuma Prison

"But it was the next superintendent, Captain Frank Ingalls, a pilot on the old river steamboats, who really made the place a prison. He came from a long line of military men, and he brought real discipline to both the prisoners and the guards," said the old man who, through unspoken agreement, had become tour guide for the student. "But they replaced him in 1885; you know how bureaucrats change things at the capitol. The governor appointed Tom Gates, then."

Gates' first report showed 169 prisoners and 17 guards "in residence." The prisoners were kept busy building and repairing the prison, and they worked at trades such as wagon building, garment manufacturing, blacksmithing, and lace making.

"How about prison breaks?" asked the young man.

"There were some; probably less than half a dozen from inside, although there were quite a few men who got loose when they were working on road gangs outside the gates. I read somethin' about that a few months ago. You know, the files on those escapees still aren't closed, even though the youngest one of 'em would be about 80, now."

It is said that during warm spring days and after hearing flocks of geese passing northward in the night, the old prison pulsated with an undercurrent of suppressed excitement. Guards were doubled, ammunition was checked, as the mounting tension within the adobe walls became almost palpable.

"This is hard country. The desert's a killer and there's a lot of it before you can get to water and safety. Over here's the town, and below this hill's the river. That river doesn't look it now, but in them early days it was a killer, too. It was wide and deep and had tricky currents with whirlpools and such. But, yeah, there were some breaks."

He thought a bit as they stood within the latticework of shadow which lay heavily across a melted adobe wall. There was no vitality here, now. The old stones reflected no shimmer of sun; they merely absorbed the desert heat.

"I guess the first and most famous of the breaks was durin' Gates' term of office. It caused his resignation, and maybe it had a lot to do with his suicide later, too."

For 10 years the prison record was unblemished, then on a late October afternoon in 1887, seven inmates captured Gates and tried to make their way to the river. The Gatling guns in the towers were of no use because if they opened up on the prisoners, their shield, Gates, would undoubtedly fall too. But B. F. Hartlee, rated the best shot to ever serve as a guard, calmly leaned against a tower support and started to pick off the captors with his deadly rifle fire. Four of the seven fell, but one of the remaining three stabbed Gates in the neck and back. A "lifer" then went to the aid of Gates and with the help of guards, finished the mutiny. The lifer was pardoned for his act, but Gates never fully recovered from his wounds.

Captain Ingalls was again appointed superintendent, and it is safe to surmise that heavy discipline was restored to Yuma Territorial Prison.

The two men walked the line of wall, then the young man stopped at an iron gate leading into the main cell block. The quiet had almost a physical quality. He leaned with his back against the black studded iron and tried to imagine the frustration and anger of its prison population: Indians, Chinese, Mexicans, and Anglosall once held within these walls. Time, mouldering and draining away into the pale sands, surely took with it a man's spirit and left in its stead a hopeless desperation.

The youth walked slowly on, his red sneakers making no sound against the hard-packed floor. His tape recorder, scratching eerily with the thin voice of the park ranger's lecture earlier in the day, reminded him of one of the prison's more notable inmates.

"Shortly after Captain Ingalls' second appointment, a Tombstone bartender named Buckskin Frank Leslie, the most colorful frontiersman to do time at the pen, went too far. He had killed 13 men, one of whom was Johnny Ringo, and after each killing, Boothill Cemetery marked up another addition to its grisly toll, and the matter was forgotten. But number 14 happened to be a woman, and chivalry being what it was, a jury of his peers sent him packing to Yuma for 'life,' in the company of the deputy sheriff."

The tape gave back the sound of "dead air," then clicked into silence. The young man stopped and pressed his face against a square of iron door and peered into the blackness of a shallow cell. Who had paced these narrow confines? How old was he? What unthinking deed had put him here?

Records show that inmates were an assorted lot and ranged from the Apache renegades to a bank president, and the crimes of which they were convicted reveal the character of the frontier, a rugged but comparatively uncomplicated environment.

One of the prisoners was Adam Munroe, who as a youth came to Arizona looking for adventure. At Pete Kitchen's Ranch near Nogales on the Mexican border, he became infatuated with a beautiful Mexican girl, unfortunately the wife of one of Kitchen's employees. The girl encouraged Adam with sly glances and lifted eyebrows, and infatuation ripened into love. At a fiesta, the girl's husband objected to Adam's attentions to his lovely wife and an argument followed. The husband drew his knife and Adam Munroe shot him dead. He was sent to the territorial prison.

A guard by the name of Shreeves called the young Adam a "bastard" and kept baiting his wrath until, finally, the prisoner knocked him down. This, evidently, was what Shreeves had been waiting for. Adam was placed in the dreaded dungeon called "the snake pit." In the round stone room, he sat upon the dirt floor in the pitch-blackness, bitterly cold, biding his time for release. On the third day, he was feeling along the floor for his bread and water when he was stung on the right hand. It immediately began to swell and shortly was twice its normal size. No amount of beating on the iron door or shouting brought a response. Terror gripped him as the vision of snakes sharing his cell grew. Much later, when he was released from the dungeon, other prisoners told him it was the practice of Shreeves to put scorpions in the pit "to keep the prisoners company." Adam's hatred for the guard grew.

He waited for a chance, and one night, while working on a late detail of wall building, Adam and another prisoner stuck a trowel through the throat of their lone guard-Shreeves. They placed his body, along with his rifle and whip, upon the unfinished wall and rapidly filled in around it with adobe brick.

"Shreeves wasn't found," the ranger's lecture had said, "but Adam and the otherprisoners were afraid he would be. They managed to escape sometime later by killing two guards and riding some 20 miles south to Mexico. They crossed the border at San Luis. Adam went on to Hermosillo and Guaymas where he stayed for eight years. His companions were killed shortly after the break.

"Thinking his original crime had been long forgotten-and perhaps being a little homesick for the fleshpots of Tombstone - Adam Munroe returned. Time and his appearance hadn't changed him enough though. Fate tapped his shoulder. Pete Kitchen was still alive and saw him on the streets of Tombstone. Adam was captured and was returned to Yuma prison."

A group of nine Girl Scouts came into the cellblock with their scout leader. Their talk was subdued, echoing the young man's perceptions of the place. Two girls asked about women inmates. The scout leader caught the young man's eye, smiled a little, and seemed to include him in her answer.

"There were only 29 of them here, you know, and they were sentenced for all sorts of reasons."

To nobody's surprise, the few women caused as much trouble and received more publicity than did the men. The kindest thing any superintendent had to say about any of them was that women were a terrible nuisance in a men's prison.

"Well, how about someone really bad?" asked one little blonde girl.

The scout leader consulted her guide-book. "There was a stage bandit, Pearl Hart, of course; and then there was Elena Estrada who cut out her boyfriend's heart and threw it in his face."

The girls gasped and stared at the older (Far left) Superintendent Tom Gates, stabbed during an attempted prison break, never fully recovered from his wounds and later committed suicide. (Left) Guard B. E Hartlee at the sally port gate. Behind it, for 33 years, Yuma Prison housed the worst criminals of the most lawless period in American history. (Below) The east side of the main yard, looking south into some of the driest and roughest country in the Southwest. Yuma Territorial Prison State Park woman, then whispered excitedly among themselves. There were a few exaggerated shudders and an "Oh, yuk!" before they asked to hear more about Pearl.

"Sometime after Adam Munroe returned to prison, Pearl Hart entered his life. In May of 1899, a stagecoach was held up near Globe. One of the passengers was certain that the leader who handled the shotgun and kept the passengers covered was a woman. The sheriff of Pinal County, Bill Truman, took a posse after them, and he found them a man, Joe Boot, and a woman, Pearl Hart. They were tired and worn-out from lack of food and water, and they still had the loot with them. They evidently had planned the holdup, but had neglected to think much about their getaway. A lady stagecoach robber was a novelty to the press, and writers likened her to a female Black Bart. They were tried in Florence and were sent to prison by a judge not influenced by Pearl's flirtations directed to an all-male and awestruck jury. She was to serve five years."

Pearl's presence among the male inmates was a disruption. Arguments and fistfights took place among the prisoners vying for her attention at mealtime. The guards and trustees went to all lengths doing special favors for her. And then, into her life came Adam Munroe. He met her in the cookshack where he was an assistant to the baker. As romance developed, Pearl bribed a guard to let Munroe into her cell. Immediately she propositioned Adam to escape with her. She had worked out a plan to crawl under the tarp of the beef wagon when it came on Saturday at noon and to ride through the gate to freedom. Adam fell for the plan.

Yuma Prison

(Left) Main prison guard tower. Here, under deadly fire from armed convicts storming the main gate, Madora Ingalls, wife of prison superintendent Captain Frank Ingalls, stopped a prison break by driving the men back inside with a Gatling gun. Alan Benoit (Below) "Heartless" Pearl Hart served five years in the women's section of Yuma Prison for a stagecoach holdup near Globe in 1899. Seeking to commute her sentence, she played an elaborate double cross on a fellow inmate, foiling an escape attempt she had herself set up. The ploy earned "heartless" Pearl only enmity however. Arizona Historical Society (Right) Eighteen-feet high, eight-feet wide at the bottom, and tapered to four-feet wide at the top, the wall, as well as many other sections of the prison in Yuma were built by the convicts themselves. Arizona Historical Society It worked well, but at the last minute, Pearl went back for forgotten sandwiches and left Adam in the wagon, waiting. She double-crossed him, told the guard, and he was caught. Why? Perhaps to commute her sentence for foiling an escape attempt? In hopes of getting a pardon? She got neither.

"Pearl, like most of the inmates, didn't serve out her entire five-year sentence. She was sent to prison on November 11, 1899, but was pardoned three years later in 1902, with 20 other ladies, when an epidemic broke out in town."

The Girl Scouts straggled out of the compound behind their leader. At the end of the corridor, the young man joined his elderly companion who still leaned against the wall in the sunshine.

"C'mon," the elder said, "I'll show you where they kept the women."

As they walked to the western edge of the prison yard, the two men discussed the case of May Woodman. She lived in Tombstone, and some pranksters inserted in the Tombstone Epitaph a story to the effect that a resident of that town by the name of William, Kinsman was soon to marry May. The next day, Kinsman inserted a paid advertisement in the Epitaph declaring he had no intention of marrying Miss Woodman. It is not known what the relationship was between the Two, but for May, to think was to act. The following day, she met Kinsman in front of the Crystal Palace gambling house and shot him dead. She was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. "She probably would've got off if that had happened these days," the old man remarked, "but she only served three years and was pardoned. None of the ladies stayed here very long, actually. Administratively they were a lot of trouble in a men's prison. Anyway, here's where they kept most of 'em. Sometimes I think they got the worst of it. See; the cells were just hacked out of the cliffside, almost, and they faced that terrible afternoon sun."

It was about this time, too, that the break occurred which furnished a prideful story for the women of Yuma. Under the hand of Captain Ingalls, the prisoners were what could be termed "model." Despite this, however, the desperate character of the prisoners broke through. Nobody is sure just what touched off the break or whether it was planned well in advance or happened "on the spur of the moment." At any rate, it was a miserably hot morning in July. Some of the escaping inmates had somehow obtained firearms. They buried a spike deep in the chest of one guard, shot another, then stormed the big gate, con-centrating their fire toward the main guard tower.

Yuma Prison

They forced another guard to open the gate. As they streamed through, a Gatling gun, high on the tower, began to fire; but a volley from the prisoners silenced it. An officer raced up the stairs to replace the dead gunner, but he was cut down too. A second person moved quickly, and suddenly the Gatling gun came into action, driving the prisoners back inside the gate. "My God, it's Mrs. Ingalls!" a prisoner yelled. Madora Ingalls, the wife of the superintendent, was manning the gun. How she got to the tower and how she learned to operate the big gun is a mystery. But she kept the prisoners pinned inside the wall until the officers and other guards could organize themselves and quell the riot. Ten minutes after Madora had taken the dead gunner's place, the jailbreak was over. "She must have been a pretty tough woman," remarked the young man.

"It was a tough bunch of people livin' out here, then. Of course, there were the 'do-gooders,' too," said the older man. "A group of 'em came up and wanted to see what conditions were in here. They 'specially wanted to see where the men were kept in solitary confinement. The warden wanted to make a good impression, so just before the women arrived, he had a trustee go into the dungeon to clean it up. Well, the trustee started to clean the old wooden air duct in the ceiling, and as the ladies came into the dungeon, a whole nest of scorpions fell out of the duct and ran everywhere-all over the floor, on the walls, and across the body of a prisoner chained to a wall.

"The ladies were horrified. The story got out, and the scorpions got bigger and bigger every time the story was told. Finally, a Los Angeles newspaper ran an article about the 'snake pit' at the territorial prison, and it was published all over the country. That's how that dungeon got its name."

The territorial prison at Yuma was closed down in 1909 when the last 40 prisoners were shackled together and marched down from Prison Hill to the train that was to take them to the new prison at Florence. The growth of the prison population had required additional and enlarged facilities from its first day until the last and all available space had been used. More room was mandatory.

"What did they do with all this, then?" asked the young student, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. The two were walking down the incline toward the old riverbank below the northeastern side of the prison compound.

"Well, the high school downtown had a fire that same year, so they moved the kids and some of their classes up here. That was a couple of years after we came out here from Texas, and I remember people talkin' about comin' up here to go to school." The Yuma School Board voted to use the prison buildings until a new school building could be finished; so, from 1910 until 1914, algebra, American history, and the languages took the place of clanking chains, iron bars, and solitary confine-nment in the stone and adobe buildings atop the sun-struck bluff. Even today, the influence of the four years of academic life in that grim place is felt: all athletic teams of the present Yuma High School carry the team name, "Criminals," and to be a "warden" still means membership in the honor and leadership society.

The two men walked silently among the stone-heaped plots in the prison cem-etery. The old brown wooden markers have long since fallen and disappeared, but the graves are there, rippling the hillside above the old riverbed.

"There's one or two markers in the museum, still. There were plenty of 'em standin' when we came up here in the early years. Prisoners were handled humanely, and I guess the worst punishment was solitary confinement on bread and water, and maybe with a ball and chain. And that was reserved for the ones who broke the prison rules and for the incorrigibles."

Prisoners were treated fairly and with compassion. There was order and good food and they had a school of sorts. There was a library and occasional entertainment and prisoners were encouraged to learn marketable skills for the time they would again be on the "outside."

The old man and the young one started the desolate climb back toward the jumble of adobe above them. They spoke quietly together of how it must have been in the early days in this place. They headed toward the splintered bench, now in shadow, outside the museum. They sat down and watched a large group of tourists come from the museum and straggle toward the parking lot where the tour bus waited.

Today, the austere adobe walls, the dark cells, and the ominous guard towers of the territorial prison still exist, slowly crumbling in the hot Yuma sun, mute testimony to the fierce law of the last fron tier, now a legend grown larger than life.

Yours Sincerely

Comments and questions from around the state, the nation, and the world.

Dear Editor, Thanks for a long awaited visit to God's Country (Flagstaff issue-June '82) and the included selection on Northern Arizona University. We have a daughter presently enrolled at NAU and her very enthusiastic letters echo your apt description of this unique campus and the programs offered thereon. We know how refreshing the cool Flagstaff summers are, but we were surprised to learn that March sunshine is warm enough to go barefoot and shirtless while walking between high snow piles. Unbelievable!...

Dear Mary, It's nice to hear that your daughter is as "turned on" by NAU as we are. It is truly a beautiful place for young people to get a college education. With the other students she meets and the community she lives in, there's a beautiful education inside of her education. However, as for going barefoot between snowdrifts in March, I'll keep my shoes on just the same, thank you.

Dear Editor, I have read where people say that certain articles or photos that appear in your monthly take them back to fond memories. That has happened to me too, but nothing like your June issue. "Welcome to Flagstaff Country!" With each word and photo I was a time traveler. The happiest days of my life (I'm 37) were spent in Flagstaff Country... If there is such a thing as a perfect monthly, then the June issue is one... If I may, to paraphrase your magazine, "Flagstaff is the gateway to my heart!"

Dear Editor, There are stories about your readers who just can't get enough of Arizona... and it is tough to understand...until you have to leave, as we did. Our children were born there, and during the winter back here I actually have to get mad at them because they want to runaround like they did in Arizona, shorts and tee shirts... Like so many others Uncle Sam moved me to Luke AFB in 1967 and...I took a real liking to it, then... I actually became fascinated with it all. I felt like I had to experience as much of Arizona as I could. So began the treks... out through the countryside we went, usually in a pickup truck... At any rate, Arizona Highways is the thing around our house that raises the most excitement on a monthly basis. It's usually accompanied by "Remember when we were there?" or "how come we never got over that far?" From Sedona to Ashurst to Wupatki to Blue to Hurricane Lake, to doing what we liked the most-just stomping around the desert. So if you can hustle up the back issues we've missed since the first of the year when we get them we'll feel a whole lot closer to home!

around like they did in Arizona, shorts and tee shirts... Like so many others Uncle Sam moved me to Luke AFB in 1967 and...I took a real liking to it, then... I actually became fascinated with it all. I felt like I had to experience as much of Arizona as I could. So began the treks... out through the countryside we went, usually in a pickup truck... At any rate, Arizona Highways is the thing around our house that raises the most excitement on a monthly basis. It's usually accompanied by "Remember when we were there?" or "how come we never got over that far?" From Sedona to Ashurst to Wupatki to Blue to Hurricane Lake, to doing what we liked the most-just stomping around the desert. So if you can hustle up the back issues we've missed since the first of the year when we get them we'll feel a whole lot closer to home!

Dear Editor, We have visited Arizona the last five years on vacation and love your magazine and state. I would suggest somewhere in the publication you put the address of your state tourist agency, so we can write them for a calendar of events and plan our trips to take in the main events in certain months.

Dear Ben, Here it is, and we hope you doubly enjoy your next vacation: Arizona Office of Tourism 3507 North Central Suite 506 Phoenix, AZ 85012 Dear Editor, How do you seal a friendship? Send your friends a subscription of Arizona Highways! When our monthly copy of Arizona Highways arrives, we think of our good friends in Las Vegas, and though half a world separates us, we share with them once again the beauties of the desert which we enjoyed together in the past.

Dear Editor, In a time and world of strife and tension, it behooves each of us to derive peace and serenity from the attributes of nature which are so magnificently depicted in your magazine. You light up my life, and my heart anxiously awaits your monthly gift of rich, contented hours with Arizona Highways. My soul sings a sincere "Thank you."

Dear Editor, The articles and photographs about Carefree, Arizona, irritate me and my wife to no end! For several years we have been dreaming of the day when we can buy a few acres there and build a place consistent with that utopian spot on this great planet. Photoessaying Carefree in the beautiful manner that you did will bring too much attention to this special place that we so desperately want to keep secret. In the future, could you please wait until we are at least land owners?

Dear Editor, From the special issue of April, 1980, devoted to Prescott, may I quote Jana Bommersbach "... Prescott also is a town concerned about its future; about preserving its past so the joys it has brought to so many generations can be enjoyed by those yet to come; a town that knows it will not stand still but doesn't want to run away from all that makes it a city with a living past." As Arizona's first territorial capital, Prescott's citizens are mindful of their responsibility to make others aware of new federal and state tax incentive legislation that encourages historic preservation. To update your readers, Heritage Foundation of Arizona, Yavapai Heritage Foundation, and the Arizona State Historic Preservation Office jointly will sponsor the statewide Annual Historic Preservation Conference on October 1, 2, 3, 1982, in Prescott. Unique to Prescott is the opportunity to experience current projects in a "living laboratory" format with workshops that include on-site visitations.Editor's Note: For additional information about the conference, which is open to all interested participants, write: E.J. Mendenhall, Chairman Prescott Preservation Conference P.O. Box 61 Prescott, AZ 86302