Bart was gentle with his victims and never harmed driver or passengers. He had style. He had wit and charm. Newspaper accounts of the day hailed him as a man who "takes only from the rich and spares all life.» It was revealed later that he never owned a single shell for his shotgun and could not have fired it even in self defense.

His first known crime occurred on July 26, 1875, when he stopped the Sonora-Milton ex¬press coach four miles east of Copperopolis in California's gold country.

John Shine, the startled driver, at first busied himself following orders, then hesitated. A deep voice roared from the flour-sack mask, directed at the bandit's "confederates" stationed at strategic positions on a hillside covered with high manzanita brush. "Boys, stay where you are!" he directed them. "If he dares to shoot, give him a solid volley!"

It was only after the bandit had looted the strong box and hiked off across the rugged hills that Shine discovered he had been hoodwinked. Going back to pick up the emptied box, he could see the highwayman's confederates still had their rifles leveled at him. Still, he gingerly approached the brush-only to find that the guns were sticks fastened in place.

But it was neither trickery nor ferocity that turned Black Bart into a lasting legend. On his fourth robbery he launched a habit that thereafter provided newspapers with thousands of column-inches of copy and engaged the fascinated attention of readers for years-making Black Bart a celebrity in his own time.

On August 3, 1877, Bart was successful in holding up the Wells Fargo stage between Fort Ross and the Russian River. Authorities who arrived on the scene to investigate found a battered-open strongbox on the ground with the following message pinned to it:

I've labored long and hard for bread,
For honor and for riches,
But on my corns too long you've tred,
You fine-haired sons of bitches. . .

It was signed Black Bart, Po 8 (po-ate).

The doggerel verse and humorous signature captivated both newspaper editors and the public. And if Wells Fargo considered him a down¬ right nuisance, the foppish bandit acquired a certain fame for his charm and wit. It was unquestionably wrong of him to take the money in the strongbox, but on one thing he was adamant-he never robbed the passengers. On one occasion, three frightened ladies offered him their money and jewelry. "Don't be alarmed, ladies," he told them with a courtly bow, "I wouldn't harm a hair on your heads."

This colorful career came to an end when Bart was wounded while escaping from a holdup near Copperopolis-ironically, at almost the exact spot where he had held up his first stage more than eight years earlier. It was the largest heist he had ever accomplished-some $4,900 in gold and coins. He was hammering open the lock box when the driver started taking pot¬shots at him with a rifle owned by a young hunter passenger. Bart grabbed the lock box and darted into the brush, but he left behind something more serious than the loot. He dropped several pieces of evidence, the most serious being a silk handkerchief that was the key to his capture. On it was a laundry mark, FX-O. 7. The Wells Fargo detectives spent eight days checking San Francisco laundries, and finally traced it to a customer who claimed to be a mining engineer. He turned out to be Charles E. Bolton, one of San Francisco's leading citizens and a man who had

After his arrest, Bolton confessed to the crimes of Black Bart and told a strange tale of his life. He was born Charles Boles and grew up in Illinois as an intelligent, well-educated citizen. After serving in the Civil Way, he followed the crowd to the California Gold Rush. That didn't work out, so he went to work clerking in several stage offices, where he studied shipments and schedules. When he decided to make his move, his prior knowledge made the job easy.

Everything went so well, he tried it again. And again. With success came prosperity. Boles moved to San Francisco, changed his name to Charles Bolton, where he moved in prominent social circles, always nattily dressed. His reputation was of a non-smoking, non-drinking, God-fearing man with business interests in the mines. It was so easy. Whenever he needed more cash, he had only to put away his derby and pack up his linen duster.

Justice was swift. On November 17,1883 ¬five days after his arrest and two weeks after" his last fateful robbery-Black Bart was sentenced to six years in prison. Two days later, he was behind the walls of San Quentin.

After his release, Bart hung about San Francisco, then drifted south to the San Joaquin Valley. He then disappeared, leaving a valise in his lodgings. He was never heard from again. . He simply vanished from the face of the earth. There were rumors, of course. He had been seen in Kansas, Mexico, Japan. A story circulated that a New York paper had carried his obituary. One story claimed that Wells Fargo had pensioned him off and sent him away.

The fact is, no one will ever know for sure just what happened to Black Bart, the most famous stage robber of them all.