A Midnight Murder in Davenport

James Gallagher

He didn’t see them coming until they were right on top of him.

October 30, 1915. Second and Fillmore Streets. Davenport, Iowa, after dark. A street corner that feels normal in daylight and ugly at night. Quiet. Empty. A little too much shadow.

James Gallagher came in from Ottumwa and ended up on that corner at the wrong time. Two men stepped out of the dark and closed the space between them fast. They weren’t there to talk.

There’d been two holdups in the past two days. Quick stickups. A hard voice, a gun in your ribs, a pocket turned inside out. The same story stayed the same: two men. One taller. One shorter. The short one with the nerve.

That night they picked Gallagher.

The smaller man pulled a .38. There was a flash, a crack, and it turned from robbery to murder in a heartbeat. Gallagher took a bullet through the right lung. He lurched forward.

He made it a few steps. Then he folded and hit the pavement.

He Killed His Wife To Marry His Girlfriend

Walter "Dusty" Rhodes

Walter “Dusty” Rhodes wasn’t a stranger drifting through Iowa City. Everyone knew him. He could joke with a hardware clerk, nod at a neighbor, and blend into the daily noise of town. “Dusty” sounded harmless, like a nickname earned from farm roads and old work boots. Nothing about him said danger.

He had a wife, a steady job, and a home. People like that don’t get whispered about or watched. They move through life under a blanket of normal, and normal is the best hiding place.

 

The morning his wife died, he leaned on normal like it could hold him up.

 

Down in the basement, the shotgun went off with the force of a bomb.

 

Dusty ran upstairs and told the maid to call a doctor and the sheriff. It was an accident. His voice was fast, controlled, almost businesslike. Myrtle remembered that calm later.

 

When the officers arrived, Dusty said he was preparing to go hunting. His wife handed him the shotgun, and it accidentally discharged. It was tragic, but nobody’s fault.

Jack the Hugger--A Different Kind of Ripper

Jack the Hugger would sneak out from the shadows,
hug a woman, and disappear

London had Jack the Ripper. Muscatine had Jack the Hugger. He appeared out of nowhere the day after Valentine’s Day in 1904, randomly grabbing and hugging women on the street.

The Muscatine Journal was at a loss to explain the strange phenomenon and dubbed the perpetrator “Jack the Hugger.” The story quickly went viral, appearing in newspapers throughout the Midwest, and eventually spawned a slew of imitators.

The Hugger assaulted three women on the evening of February 15. The first attack occurred on East Seventh Street. The man jumped out of the shadows and embraced the girl, almost suffocating her in a giant bear hug. He grabbed his second victim as she walked through the cut on East Second Street. The Hugger leaped out and grabbed her tight.

The third assault occurred on the high bridge near Walnut Street. The Hugger was a little more daring this time. He threw his arms around the girl and planted a wet, juicy kiss on her lips. Then, when she screamed, he bit her under the eye and hurried off down the alley.

Buffalo Bill Cody Frontier Scout Wild West Performer

Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show

Buffalo Bill Cody was born in Le Claire on February 26, 1846—the same year Iowa became a state.

The family left for Kansas in 1853, searching for freedom because Iowa was feeling a little too crowded. That wanderlust followed Bill for the rest of his life.

The Pony Express was Bill’s first brush with fame. It only ran for about eighteen months, but it changed everything. Riders hit relay stations at full speed, swapped horses, and kept flying. Mail moved across the country faster than anyone thought possible. It was dangerous, brutal work. A boy could vanish on the prairie and no one  would know.

Bill said he rode for it. People still argue about whether he did, but it doesn’t matter. The Pony Express fit the image he sold the rest of his life: an inexperienced rider in empty country, living on speed and nerve.

After that, he trapped, scouted, and rode with soldiers. Then he picked up the name that turned him into a brand.

27th Iowa Infantry in the Minnesota Sioux Uprising

Attack on the Lower Agency in Minnesota Sioux Uprising

In August 1862, violence swept across Minnesota in what became known as the “Minnesota Sioux Uprising.” It hit fast and close. Along the Minnesota River valley, families fled farms and small towns with little warning.

New Ulm was attacked on August 19, and panic spread across southern Minnesota. Fort Ridgely was assaulted on August 20 and again on August 22. Settlers crowded into towns or ran east, leaving wide stretches of countryside empty.

On September 6, the War Department created the Department of the Northwest and placed Major General John Pope in command, with headquarters at St. Paul. Pope’s orders were clear: restore order and end the violence. His first problem was also clear. He needed troops.

The Civil War made that difficult. Regular army units were tied down in the South and East. Pope had to pull help from nearby states, even if the men were brand new. Iowa responded with the 27th Iowa Volunteer Infantry.

Rearguard Action At Jenkins' Ferry

Iowa soldiers covering the retreat at Jenkins Ferry

Jenkins’ Ferry wasn’t a battle anyone went looking for. It happened because the Union army was tired, short on food, soaked to the bone, and trying to get out of southern Arkansas without being destroyed.

The trouble started weeks earlier with the Camden Expedition. The plan looked good on paper. A Union force would move south from Little Rock, link up with other columns tied to the Red River Campaign, and tighten the squeeze on Confederate Arkansas. In reality, it was a gamble. Supplies were thin. Roads barely deserved the name, as spring rain turned everything into mud and muck.

Iowa regiments made up a big part of the force. They knew what campaigning in the Trans-Mississippi looked like, and they knew it was usually miserable. This one got bad faster than expected.

Iowa Soldiers at Iuka and Corinth

General William Rosecrans

The fights at Iuka and Corinth tested Union troops in very different ways. Iuka was a confused collision in the woods. It came late in the day and never settled into a clean line. Units bent, folded, and drifted under pressure. Corinth followed two weeks later and felt nothing like it. It was a direct assault on a fortified railroad town. Success depended on whether men could hold ground while being hit again and again.

Iowa regiments ended up in the hardest places because the campaign pushed experienced units toward weak points. When the line thinned, they were sent there. When artillery needed cover, they were placed beside it. When ground had to be held no matter the cost, they were already close.

Iuka sits in northeastern Mississippi where roads and rail lines cross. The town was nothing more than a dot on the map. What mattered was control. Confederate General Sterling Price moved in during September, hoping to regain ground and threaten Union supply routes. Union commanders tried to trap him before he could slip away. A column under William S. Rosecrans marched in from the southwest. Another under Edward Ord moved in from the northwest.

On paper, the movement seemed simple enough. Two columns would close in and crush Price’s force. In the field, everything broke down. Roads narrowed into muddy paths. Wagons jammed. Units lost their bearings. Ravines cut across the landscape and split formations without warning. The woods were thick and uneven. Sound didn’t travel the way it should have. When fighting started, part of the Union force never heard it and stayed out of the battle, forcing Rosecrans’ column to take the full weight of the attack alone.