American History Tellers - Daring Prison Escapes | Escape from Leavenworth | 3

Episode Date: September 17, 2025

In 1909, a young convicted train robber named Frank Grigware began a life sentence at the United States Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. Leavenworth was the nation’s first federal penitentiary, touted as a state-of-the-art facility. But in the early 20th century, its prisoners endured bleak conditions, rigid routines, and harsh punishments.In the spring of 1910, Grigware and five fellow inmates hijacked a supply train and rammed it through the prison’s heavy iron gates. The audacious breakout set off one of the longest-running manhunts in American history.Be the first to know about Wondery’s newest podcasts, curated recommendations, and more! Sign up now at https://wondery.fm/wonderynewsletterListen to American History Tellers on the Wondery App or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all episodes ad-free and be the first to binge the newest season. Unlock exclusive early access by joining Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial today by visiting wondery.com/links/american-history-tellers/ now.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Hey, history buffs, if you can't get enough of the captivating stories we uncover on American history tellers, you'll love the exclusive experience of Wondry Plus. Dive even deeper into the past with ad-free episodes, early access to new seasons, and bonus content that brings history to life like never before. Join Wondry Plus in the Wondry app or on Apple Podcast and embark on an unparalleled journey through America's most pivotal moments. Imagine it's the morning of April 21st, 1910 in the yard of Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary in Kansas. You're the engineer of a train that delivers construction materials to the prison every Thursday.

You lean out of the window to confirm that the flat car loaded with lumber has been uncoupled from the rest of the locomotive. But when you turn back around, put your hands up. You find four prisoners in gray uniforms entering the driver's can. Two of them have their arms around a guard whose eyes are wide with fear. Before you can act, one of the inmates places a gun to your head. Pull the throttle wide open. What? I said pull it open. I can't do that. The gate's still closed.

You point to the towering steel gate that guards the prison's outer wall. The prisoner just shakes his head and pokes you in the ribs with his revolver. Then I guess we'll see which is stronger. This gate or a few tons of train? pull the throttle open. If we rush that gate, we're going to die. Do I look like I'm here to have a discussion? Pull the throttle open. You think you can just hijack a train and bust out of here? The guards are going to start shooting at us from the tower any minute now. A prisoner nods to the guard they've taken hostage. They won't shoot as long as one of their own is on board. They won't risk killing him.

Now, I won't tell you again, pull that throttle open or put a bullet between your eyes. Okay, okay. You reluctantly pull the throttle, and the train lurches forward, passing the prison's open inner gate. As it rushes toward the closed outer gate, you instinctively move to stop the engine, but the prisoner nudges you in the back with his revolver. Keep your hand off that throttle. You close your eyes and brace yourself as the engine slams into the steel gate. With a sound like an explosion, the gate rips free, sending a shutter down the length of the engine. And as you rush on, you're horrified by the thought that there's no stopping this runaway train if you want to stay alive.

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So don't be shy. Join the conversation and head over to YouTube. to watch Nick Cannon at night or subscribe on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcast. From Wondery, I'm Lindsay Graham, and this is American History Tellers, Our History, Your Story. In April 1910, a group of prisoners hijacked a supply train and rammed it through the gates of the United States penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.

Leavenworth was America's first federal penitentiary, known at the time for its harsh conditions and a rigid military-style discipline. Its early years were marked by several escape attempts, but few were as bold as the attempt to break out by driving a train through the prison steel gates. One of the escapees that day was a 24-year-old prisoner named Frank Grigweir. He was serving a life sentence after being convicted of robbing a U.S. mail train. Grigweir swore he was innocent, and his trial had been marked by shaky evidence and tainted testimony. After he escaped, the search for him and other fugitives became a high-stakes manhunt that drew in gun-toting farmers, the fledgling Bureau of Investigation, and International Authorities. This is episode three of our four-part series,

Daring Prison Escape Getaway Train from Lemonworth In 1906, 20-year-old Frank Grigweir left his home in Spokane, Washington to chase his dreams of adventure and riches in the West. Grigware had a fair complexion, an athletic build, and hands marked with scars from his job as a carpenter. He made friends easily, helped along by his tendency to see the best in others. He had dropped out of school in the fourth grade,

but what he lacked in education, he made a job. for in a strong work ethic. He kept his head down, saved his money, and refrained from drinking and smoking. He believed that with hard work and determination, he might find fortune mining for gold and silver. He gave his mother a locket with his picture inside as a parting gift. With his friend Jack Golden by his side, he boarded an eastbound train setting off on a 50-mile journey to the mountains of Northern Idaho. But once in Idaho, Grigweir and Golden netted only meager profits. By the fall of 1907, they left the area and drifted south in search of new opportunities. They eventually landed in Denver, Colorado, where they fell in with a gang of men that Golden

knew through his brothers back in Washington. Grigware soon paid the prize for his trusting nature. His new friends arrived in Denver in January 1909, around the same time that a train was robbed just outside the city, and the men often left Grigweir and Golden for days at a time, declaring they were scouting for business opportunities. If Grigweir had any suspicions about the men's involvement in railway hold-ups that seemed to follow wherever they traveled, he suppressed them out of loyalty to his oldest friend. Before he could distance himself, it was too late. On May 22, 1909, a group of bandits ambushed an eastbound Union Pacific train outside of Omaha, Nebraska. Holding pistols and wearing handkerchief masks over their faces,

they demanded that the U.S. post office clerks on board opened the door to the mail car. They took off with seven sacks of mail, with contents worth an estimated $700. What became known as the mud-cut robbery was an instant news sensation. The Union Pacific and the federal government offered $6,000 rewards for each suspect, or $30,000 in total, over $1 million in today's money. Witnesses on the scene said that it was too dark to make out any of the thieves, but authorities collected circumstantial evidence linking Grigware, Golden, and three of their friends to the crime. Within days, all five were arrested and thrown in jail.

But from the start, Grigware firmly denied any wrongdoing. Imagine it's October 1909 at the county jail in Obaha, Nebraska. You're a court-appointed defense attorney, and you're meeting with Frank Grigweir, one of your clients in the mud-cut robbery trial. A guard leads you through a dim corridor to Grigware's cell. He peer through the bars to see him perched at the end of a narrow iron bed. He stumbles to his feet as you drop your briefcase to the floor. Sit down, Frank, I've got good news.

He nods and sits back down on the bed. his pale eyes brightening. Yeah, what is it? The prosecution's made an offer, a chance to cut a deal. If you plead guilty and agree to testify, you'll be looking at a reduced sentence maybe just 10 years. No. What do you mean? No. I mean, no, I didn't rob that train. So you said, no, you're not listening. I wasn't there. I didn't even hear about the robbery until the police hauled me in. How am I supposed to be a witness against the others? I don't know anything about it. Frank, listen. The police found an envelope addressed to you at the crime scene. One of those boys stole. from me. He stole all my mail. He was probably hoping I'd be sent some money from home.

And a hard work clerk in Utah says he sold a gun to you and two of the others. I've never even been to Utah. Well, I admit the evidence is weak, and I reckon most of their witnesses are just hoping for a piece of the reward money. But I also know that the authorities are out for blood. They're sick and tired of all these train robberies, and they're determined to make an example out of you and your friends. I'm warning you. This plea deals your best shot at avoiding spending the rest of your life behind bars. The light drains from his face. I swear to you, I'm innocent. I can't just lie and say pardoned something I wasn't. Look, I'm trying to save your neck here. I won't save myself by lying and damning for others.

Well, then, that's your funeral. You pick up your briefcase to leave. He's staring at the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. There's no guile in his boyish face. It strikes you that he might really be telling the truth, but you fear that no matter what you say at trial, he's about to go away for life. In the fall of 1909, Frank Grigweir's court-appointed lawyer urged him to take a plea deal and testify against the other four defendants, but Grigweir refused to admit guilt to a crime he swore he did not commit. It was a high-stakes decision. Mail theft was a federal crime, punishable by life in prison. On October 25th, 1909, the trial for the mud-cut robbery began in a federal district courthouse in Omaha. The prosecution called more than 80,

witnesses to the stand. With many witnesses driven by the prospect of collecting the $30,000 reward, much of the testimony was suspect. Several claimed to recognize the defendants as men who robbed the train, even though the robbery had occurred in almost complete darkness and the bandits had been masked. And witnesses could not agree on the basic question of whether four or five men had robbed the train. One witness identified Grigweyer as one of the robbers solely based on his stature and carriage. A postal worker claimed to recognize his voice, despite acknowledging that he had not talked much during the robbery. And a hardware store clerk from Utah testified that he had sold a gun to Grigware and the other defendants before the robbery. But he had

no invoice for the sale, and there was no evidence that the gun had been used in the crime. The clerk was later convicted of perjury for false statements made in a separate robbery trial. By the time the mud-cut robbery trial was over, one of the lead investigators was convinced that the trial was a botched affair tainted by perjured testimony. He believed that the cases against Grigweir and his friend Jack Golden were especially weak, but it made no difference. On November 11, 1909, the jury took less than 90 minutes to reach a verdict, declaring all five men guilty as charged. A week later, the judge sentenced them to life in prison. The next day, they were cuffed with heavy leg irons and placed on board a prison train for the 160-mile

journey south to the United States penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas. From the beginning, Leavenworth was designed to be the nation's premier federal penitentiary, a 22-acre city within a city. Modeled after the U.S. Capitol, it had two massive cellhouses, each seven stories tall and longer than a football field linked by a central rotunda capped with a silver dome. A nine-room school, the first in any penitentiary, reflected a faith in rehabilitation. The yard was lined with two long rows of factories, and the facility was enclosed by a towering brick wall. Leavenworth was part of a new federal prison system Congress had recently created to address rising crime and overcrowding in state facilities. Other prisons were planned for Atlanta,

Georgia, and McNeil Island, Washington, but Leavenworth was the nation's first. Construction of such a large facility was a massive undertaking, requiring years of work, vast amounts of materials, and train tracks and a locomotive to transport supplies inside the prison gates. After Congress authorized Leavenworth in 1895, funding was delayed for two years, prompting the Justice Department to rely on prison labor from other facilities for cost savings while they continued construction in the meantime. With hundreds of inmates working on construction amid a constant flow of materials, Leavenworth had a major security weakness that left it vulnerable to escape attempts. An unsuccessful mass escape attempt in 1898 ended the career of Leavenworth's first warden.

He was replaced by Robert W. McLaure, a former Chicago police chief who implemented a rigid system of control, undermining the original vision of Leavenworth as a place of reform and rehabilitation. He ordered guards to shoot prisoners who strayed beyond set distances and forced silence during meals and work and punished the possession of unissued items. Severe infractions meant beatings or time and solitary in a darken cell known as the whole. Despite McLauri's firm hand, a second mass escape attempt occurred in November 1901 when 26 inmates working in construction overpowered their guards and escaped on foot. All were eventually recaptured.

Three main conspirators had their sentences extended to life in prison for killing a guard during the escape. Security was tightened in the immediate aftermath of the breakout. McClory had a siren install that was audible for 10 miles, hired more staff, and planned a new 100-foot central tower equipped with signal lights and machine guns. McClory told a visitor, Leavenworth is hell, and I guess I'm the chief devil.

Eight years later, in 1909, Frank Grigweir arrived at the gates of McClory's Hell. On the rainy afternoon of November 19th, a prison train rolled into Leavenworth, and Grigwer was marched inside. At intake, he was stripped, searched, deloused, measured, photographed, and fingerprinted. Finally, he was escorted to a narrow and grimy cell. He would no longer be known as Frank Grigware, but by the number that adorned his gray uniform, 67, 68. In the days that followed, he was forced to adapt to the strict rules and monotonous routines of Leavenworth, described by one prisoner as a giant mausoleum adrift in a great sea of nothingness. He was assigned to work eight hours per day in the prison carpentry shop.

He ate meals in a massive dining hall where silence was strictly enforced, and prisoners who fail to finish eating face punishment. A 90-page rule book outlined a dizzying array of offenses, failure to comply meant punishment from guards who worked 14-hour days for meager pay. Many took out their frustrations on the prisoners they oversaw. In December 1909, a brutal winter storm deepened the inmate's misery, and several men fell ill from a typhoid outbreak. After Christmas, Grigware grew weak with fever and diarrhea.

When he saw treatment, he was accused of faking his illness and sent to isolation in the hole, stripped of his wool uniform, and handed a set of ragged cotton long johns, he was forced to freeze in a dark cramped cell for two days. When he returned to work in the carpentry shot, His fellow prisoners quietly helped him recover. He had endured a right of passage. Frank not only had survived, but he had earned a measure of acceptance from his fellow inmates.

And he emerged from the experience with a newfound resolve to break free no matter the cost. It's your man, Nick Cannon, and I'm here to bring you my new podcast, Nick Cannon, at night. I've heard y'all been needing some advice in the love department. So who better to help? than yours truly. Now, I'm serious.

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Want to watch episodes early and ad-free? Join Wondery Plus right now. On Boxing Day, 2018, 20-year-old Joy Morgan was last seen at her church, Israel United in Christ, or IUIC. I just went on my Snapchat and I just see her face plastered everywhere. This is the missing sister, the true story of a woman betrayed by those she trusted most. IUC is my family and like the best family that I've ever had. But IUIC isn't like most churches. This is a devilish cult. You know when you get that feeling like I don't want to be here.

I want to get out. It's like that feeling of like I want to go hang out. I'm Charlie Brinkhurst Cuff. And after years of investigating Joy's case, I need to know what really happened to Joy. Binge all episodes of The Missing Sister exclusively an ad-free right now on Wondery Plus. Start your free trial of Wondery Plus on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or in the Wondery app. an inmate named Arthur Hewitt carefully studied the rhythms of a supply train that carried construction materials to Leavenworth. Heuart was a convicted horse thief who had been bent on

escape ever since he arrived at Leavenworth a decade earlier. Every Thursday morning, Hewitt watched as a Union Pacific train arrived through the Westgate of the prison, carrying lumber to be used in construction. It always followed the same procedure. The Westgate was double-gated, and both gates were made of heavy steel bars. The outer gate opened to admit the backing train, then closed while the engine waited in a 40-foot enclosure. Once the inner gate opened, the train proceeded slowly into the prison yard. The Thursday morning train was a major weak spot in Leavenworth's security because the track connected to a regular train line that could carry fugitives out to open country.

The guards had repeatedly urged Warden Robert McClory to install a remote switch that could derail the engine. McClory agreed on the need, but he insisted that the costs were prohibitive, declaring without additional congressional funding, his hands were tied. The Thursday train was of special interest to prisoners like Arthur Hewitt, who were harboring thoughts of escape. Nine years earlier, Hewitt had led the 1901 Leavenworth breakout alongside his friend Thomas Cating, who had belonged to the same horse theft ring before their imprisonment. They were joined by Bob Clark, a stocky, wild-eyed inmate missing a tooth and part of a finger,

described by McClory as one of the most cold-blooded and cold-hearted criminals he'd ever known. Hewitt, Cating, and Clark were serving life sentences for engineering the 1901 escape. The intervening years had made them no less defiant, and all three spent months at a time and solitary in the hole. Back in 1901, they had fled Leavenworth on foot. Now, Hewitt realized that the best way to break out of the prison was to hijack the Thursday morning train and drive it through the Westgate. The only problem was how to seize control of the train without weapons. But in late March, 1910, an idea occurred to Hewitt while he was sharing a sense.

with Theodore Murdoch, who was well known among the inmates for his skill as a craftsman. Murdoch was serving time for counterfeiting money, and he spent his days in the Leavenworth carpentry shop building prison furniture. Recognizing his bunkmate's unique set of skills, Hewitt asked Murdoch if he could make three or four fake guns out of wood that looked real enough to fool the guards. Murdoch, Hewitt, and Hewitt's longtime accomplices, Caning and Clark, would board the engine once it rolled into the yard, then hold the engineer at gunpoint to force him to drive through the closed steel gate. Murdoch agreed to carve the guns in secret during his daily shift in the carpentry shop.

Hew had worked in the tailor shop where he planned to steal shoe polish to paint the guns. Hew had informed Clark of the plan and got a message to Katie, who had been in the hole since February for refusing to work. But as Murdoch got started on the prop guns, he realized that the real challenge would be keeping the escape plot secret from the guards and the other inmates. Imagine it's early April 1910, and you're in the carpentry shop of Leavenworth Penitentiary, carefully carving a block of wood under the table.

He has one eye trained on the guard supervising him. He turns his back as another guard steps into the shop to talk with him. With the guards distracted, an inmate sitting beside you, a man named Grigware leans toward you. Hey, what are you doing? You give him a sideways glare. None of your business. Come on, I know you've been working on something. What is it?

Nothing you need to know about. In a sudden movement, the inmate ducks down to steal a glance under the table. Is that what I think it is? No, it is not. It looks to me like you're carving that block of wood into the shape of a revolver. You're seeing things, kid. Yeah, well, I know a gun when I see one, even if it's fake. But whatever you're planning, I won't end.

You pause your work to consider this. You know that you would get more done if you didn't have to constantly keep an eye on the guards. But you also know that the more people that are involved, More likely that word will get out. Want to get involved? Why? So you can flap your gums to the next guy who offers you a cigarette? It's best you pretend you never saw a thing. But I can help. I can be your lookout.

How do I know you're not a rat? Oh, you can trust me. I won't say a word. You know they offered me a plea deal to testify against my friends, right? I wouldn't do it. Oh yeah, the big Omaha train robbery. Aren't you always saying that you're innocent? I doubt you have the guts. Grigwheres fist tightens around the chisel in his hand.

No, I'm not afraid. This is my only way out. No judge is going to free me, and I'll be damned before I spend the rest of my life in prison for a crime I didn't commit. Do you have any idea what happens once that siren goes off? Those guards will open fire without even blinking. I tell you, I'd rather die trying to get out than run away in this place. You study him. There's steel in his eyes you didn't notice before.

All right, I'll talk to you the others about it, see what they think. But right now, shut up before the guards catch us. Right on cue, the guard starts walking toward your workbench. You hide the fake revolver and return to your assigned task. Grigweir fidgets with the chisel in his hand, his nervous energy palpable. You hope you're not making a mistake by bringing him in. For this plan to work, it's going to take loyalty, luck, and sheer nerve. In the carpentry shop, Frank Grigweir noticed that his fellow inmate Theodore Murdoch

was secretly carving a block of wood into the shape of a gun. Although Murdoch and Arthur Hewitt were wary of involving more men, they decided they could trust Grigweir as someone who had nothing to lose, since he, too, was serving a life sentence. Another inmate in the carpentry shop, John Gideon, became the sixth and final member of the escape crew. Grigweir and Gideon served as lookouts, allowing Murdoch to work without constantly watching for the guards.

On April 16, 1910, Hewitt's friend Thomas Cating was released from the hole after promising to return to work in the tailor shop and obey the rules. On Wednesday, April 20th, Murdoch completed three extensive. extremely detailed recreations of cult revolvers. He had smuggled the wooden guns to a cell in the loose folds of his oversized uniform for sanding and touch-ups, painting the barrel's steel gray and the stocks are rich walnut. Now that everything was in place, the six conspirators agreed that they would wait no longer. They resolved to make their escape the following morning when the Thursday supply train arrived. At 8.30 a.m., on Thursday, April 21st, Grigware and his three

co-conspirators in the carpentry shop watched as a Union Pacific locomotive back through the prison's Westgate. At the sound of the lumber cars, uncoupling from the engine, Gideon brandished one of the fake guns, and the guard manning the carpentry shop dropped to his knees. Grigware grabbed a hatchet, and the four of them rushed out of the shop and sprinted 20 yards to the train. When they ran into another guard, Gideon forced him into the cab at gunpoint. In the tailor shop, Hewitt and Cating met more resistance. When they pulled out their fake guns, a Ricky guard struck Cating with his nightstick, knocking him to the floor. But Hewitt managed to overpower the guard, and he hauled Cating to his feet and dragged him off to the train.

Out in the yard, other guards watched helplessly, paralyzed by fear. They knew that a guard had lost his life in the 1901 breakout, and they had no intention of meeting the same end. Inside the locomotive cab, Gideon pressed his fake gun to the head of engineer Charles Curtin, ordering him to open the throttle and ran the west gate. Fearing for his life, Curtin did as he was told. Grigware looked back to see Hewitt and Cating jump on board just as the train took off. The engine barreled forward and slammed into the outer gate with a deafening crash. The gate broke open, the steel bars warping from the force of the train.

The engine rushed on, gathering speed as it left Leavenworth behind. A guard standing in the West Tower aimed his rifle, but didn't shoot, unable to differentiate the escapees from curtain or the guard they had taken hostage. As the train accelerated, Grigware relished his first breath, of fresh air in months. The landscape surrounding the prison was a patchwork of pastures, plowed fields and tidy farms enclosed by fences. Through its heart ran Salt Creek, a stream lined by cattails and cottonwood and pine trees. But when the train approached the creek two and a half miles west of Leavenworth, Curtin announced that the railroad bridge was

under construction and could not hold the train's weight. When the site of a pile driver confirmed the truth of his words, the fugitives reluctantly ordered him to stop the train at the edge of the water. Their freedom had proved all too fleeting. The fugitives could hear the prison sirens blaring two and a half miles away. They had planned to barrel on into the open countryside, traveling faster than any automobiles that tried to follow them, but now they had no choice but to make a run for it on foot. They ordered curtain to kill the engine by dowsing the coals with water to slow down its return to the prison and give them a head start. For the fugitive stripped curtain of his clothes. After dividing their loot, they ran south on instinct. It was the same

direction they had run during the 1901 escape. But Grigware took a different tack, grabbing curtains dinner pail and sprinting off alone into the northern stretches of the Salt Creek Valley, which were more wooded than the southern ones. Murdoch chased after him briefly, but Grigware was faster. He zigzagged through the woods until he found a hidden depression in the earth. Clutching the dinner pail, he buried himself beneath a pile of leaves and branches and lay motionless, his heart pounding. All the while, sirens wailed in the distance, a constant pressing reminder. that a massive manhunt was already underway. Hi, I'm Denise Chan, host of Scam Factory.

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piece of this investigation. In Scam Factory, we reveal how a billion-dollar criminal empire turns job seekers into prisoners, and how the only way out is to scam your way out. Ready to uncover the full story, binge all episodes of Scam Factory now. Listen to Scam Factory on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Within 30 minutes after the breakout from Leavenworth Penitentiary, Warden Robert McClory had formed a posse of 50 guards to track down the fugitives. Engineer Charles Curtin returned the train to the prison, then took the guards back to the spot at Salt Creek where the inmates had Meanwhile, residents within a 10-mile radius of the penitentiary responded to the sirens by gathering their rifles and locking their doors.

Over the next few hours, Arthur Hewitt, Thomas Cating, Bob Clark, and John Gideon, the four fugitives who had fled south, were quickly recaptured. They were promptly returned to Leavenworth and sent to the hole. Only Frank Grigweir and Theodore Murdoch, who had carved the guns, remained at large. The next morning, Friday, April 22nd, McClory faced a throng of reporters. He blamed the breakout on Congress's failure to fund better infrastructure and distributed

wanted posters for Grigware and Murdoch, and he added a $200 bonus to the usual $50 bounty with a stern warning, take no chances, get the drop on them first, they are both bad men. The reward drew scores of armed farmers into the Salt Creek Valley. Murdoch could hear men looking for him while he lay hidden in a clump of bushes. By Saturday morning, the guards were exhausted. They had been searching for Murdoch and Grigware for two days and two nights straight without leaf. Fearing the men were long gone, McClary called off the search and sent the guards home. Little did he know, Murdoch was only two miles away from where he had jumped off the train.

And that afternoon, the temperature dropped the 35 degrees Fahrenheit with snow flurries and wind speeds of 40 miles per hour. Murdoch was soaked, freezing, and starving when a farm boy spotted him, saw the number on his collar, and ran home to alert the authorities. In Murdoch's desperate hunger, he was almost relieved to be recaptured. When he returned to Leavenworth, he told the guards that the prison looked like heaven. Murdoch's capture revived hopes that Grigware would soon be found. For more than two days, he remained in a hollow near Salt Creek, pulling leaves and fallen branches over him to stay hidden.

He only ventured above ground for water, and the food he stole from the train engineer helped him avoid the hunger that had plagued Murdoch. It was only after his food ran out on Saturday evening that he finally emerged and began moving northwest along the train tracks using the woods as cover. The next morning he came upon a farmhouse. Hungry and exhausted, he knocked on the door, and a middle-aged woman welcomed him inside. If she suspected that he was a fugitive, she said nothing.

She fed him, clothed him, and directed him to a hobo encampment at a water tower besides some nearby train tracks. He traveled to the encampment that afternoon. When a freight train stopped to take on water, Grigware hopped aboard one of the box cars. He would later recall, I did not know where I was going.

I didn't care, for even yet I had no plan, just a desire to stay at liberty. The train traveled north. When it approached Minneapolis, Minnesota, Grigware jumped off and disappeared into the city. He knew that if he wanted to remain free, he could no longer go by the name Frank Grigware. That life was over.

He took on a new name, Jim Fahey. While Jim Fahey began a new life, the search for Frank Grigware widened. In August 1910, the Bureau of Investigation, the precursor to the FBI, took over the case. For years, agents pursued a variety of leagues, that took them across the country. Rumors spread that Grigware was living as a railroad switchman,

a traveling salesman, a Catholic priest, and a criminal in Mexico. Every lead resulted in a dead end. Meanwhile, Grigweir's family faced constant government surveillance, especially his mother, Jenny. In 1913, Woodrow Wilson's presidency brought changes to Leavenworth. Thomas Cating wrote several letters to the president complaining of mistreatment.

Wilson was far more receptive to allegations of abuse than his predecessors. Amid increased scrutiny, Warden McLauri resigned, and his cronies were ousted. A few months later, Wilson commuted the sentences of Cating, Arthur Hewitt, and Bob Clark. They would go free a year later. Wilson would also commute Theodore Murdoch sentence due to health issues caused by McClory's abuse. Then in August 1913, Postal Investigators submitted a report to Wilson highlighting flaws in the mud-cut robbery trial of 1909, including possible perjury. Wilson pardon Grigweir's childhood friend Jack Golden, making it likely that Grigweir too would have been pardoned had he remained in custody.

As the years went on, the search for Frank Grigweer ebbed and flowed, but his wanted poster continued to grace the walls of courthouses and post offices across the country. In 1928, 18 years after his escape, the Bureau of Investigation quietly reopened the case in hopes of scoring a publicity coup. Imagine it's Thanksgiving morning in 1928, and you're at home in Spokane, Washington. You open your front door to find a young, clean-cut man wearing a gray suit and dark tie. You immediately recognize him as yet another agent with the Bureau of Investigation, come to ask after your son, Frank.

He tips his hat and flashes a shiny brass badge. Morning, ma'am, I was hoping to ask you a few questions. It won't take too much of your time. I've got nothing but time. come on in. He walks past you and takes a seat on your sofa. You sit down in the chair opposite him and fidget with a locket around your neck. I know you've been watching me for the past weeks, sitting in that car across the road. You're making the neighbors nervous. He studies a framed family photograph on the table beside him, ignoring your comment. Have you received any word from

your son? Not a whisper, and that's the truth. And he calls? No. What about letters? No, none. You struggle to maintain your composure. You know it's men like him. that put Frank in jail in the first place. What about you? Have you heard anything from him? No, ma'am, but we thought he might send word, given the holiday. Given the holiday. Well, I certainly don't expect to hear from him because of that. I spent Thanksgiving alone for many years now.

What about his friends? What about him? Well, surely you must have made contact with someone. You're wasting your time. I believe my son's dead. I have a gut feeling about it. If you were alive, you would have sent word by now. You wouldn't have just cut off all contact with his own mother.

The agent's expression softens. He stands and drops a car on the table. Well, happy Thanksgiving, man. Call if you hear anything. I'll show myself out. As he walks out the door, you stare at the old family photograph taken in happier times. Over the years, the agents have changed, but the questions stay the same. And with each visit, you lose a little more hope of ever seeing Frank again.

As much as you hate to admit it, you know they're chasing a ghost. By 1928, Frank Grigweir had been missing for 18 years, longer than any other federal fugitive of his time. His mother, Jenny, had come to accept that her son was dead. One federal agent wrote, if he is still alive and in the United States, most likely he would be very careful to lead a quiet, law-abiding life in order to avoid any possibility of being arrested and later identified. In reality, Grigweir was living his life as naturalized Canadian citizens, James Fahey. After a few months in Minneapolis, he had moved to Northern Alberta, where he started over. He ran a confectionery store, Bill Holmes, was an active member of his church, and even served

as mayor of his small town. He married and had three children. His family and friends were oblivious to his past. In 1929, the Bureau learned of a credible sighting of Grigware a decade earlier in Edmonton, Canada. Agents sent his photo and prison fingerprints to the Royal Mounted Canadian Police, but the trail went cold. closed the case once more in 1933. But just three months later, Grigware was caught poaching in Canada. Local police fingerprinted him and sent the prints to the Royal Mounted Canadian police. The clerk matched the fingerprints to the prints sent by U.S. authorities years earlier. After 24 years on the run, Grigware had at last been found. His capture was a massive media

story in both the United States and Canada. But while U.S. authorities demanded his extradition, the Canadian press and public rallied behind him. Some argued that he deserved mercy for turning his life around. Others said that he had never been guilty in the first place. Petitions flooded Washington, and the U.S. dropped the extradition request. Soon after he was found, Grigwe's mother, Jenny, traveled to the town of Jasper, Canada, to surprise her long-lost son. After nearly three decades apart, it was an emotional reunion for both.

Her hair had turned white, but she was still wearing the small locket with Frank's picture inside that he had given her when he left home 28 years earlier. In the 1950s, Grigweer's niece asked the Justice Department whether Grigweer could return to the U.S. to visit the rest of his family, but her request was denied as he had never been officially pardoned. He never returned to America. The FBI continued monitoring him until finally closing the case in 1965. He lived out the rest of his life in peace and anonymity,

dying in 1977 at the age of 91. Leavenworth endured long after Grigweir and five fellow Indians, inmates fled its gates on a westbound train. For the next century, it remained America's largest maximum security prison, helping to shape modern incarceration. The story of its most elusive fugitive lives on, raising questions about justice, reinvention, and the price of freedom when systems fail. From Wondery, this is episode three of our four-part series, Daring Prison Escapees from American History Tellers. On the next episode, as World War II rages in Europe, the United States houses hundreds of thousands of prisoners of war and camps around the country. At one camp in

Arizona, a group of captured German naval officers hatch a plan to flee, but they're unprepared to traverse the harsh southwestern desert. If you like American history tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondry app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at Wondry.com slash survey. If you'd like to learn more about this story, we recommend Leverworth Train, a fugitive search for justice in the Vanishing West by

Joe Jackson. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsay Graham for airship. Audio editing by Mohamed Shazi, sound design by Molly Bond, supervising sound designer Matthew Filler, music by Lindsay Graham. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton, edited. by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rosansky. Managing producer Desi Blaylock. Senior managing producer Callum Ploos. Senior producer Andy Herman. Executive producers, Jenny Lauer Beckman, Marsha Louie, and Erin O Flaherty for Wondering.