A 125-Year-Old Frontier Photo Was Supposed to Be Harmless—Until Experts Noticed the Rifle and Reopened a Murder Case Wyoming Buried

At first glance, it looked like nothing more than another relic of the American frontier.

Three men stood shoulder to shoulder outside a rough-hewn log cabin. Their expressions were calm, almost ordinary. Each held a rifle. The edges of the photograph were yellowed, the faces softened by time. Written on the back in fading ink were five simple words:

“Hunters, Wyoming Territory, 1899.”

For most people, that would have been the end of the story.

For Dr. John Thorne, it was only the beginning.

A Routine Authentication That Should Have Taken Minutes

Dr. Thorne had spent over fifteen years authenticating Western artifacts—firearms, documents, photographs, and estate items tied to frontier history. He had handled outlaw letters, lawmen’s badges, even confirmed items belonging to famous marshals. Very little surprised him anymore.

Lot number 47 at the Legends of the West auction in Denver was supposed to be routine.

The auction house had acquired the personal estate of a recently deceased Wyoming rancher. Inside several dusty boxes sat saddle parts, ledger books, old clothing—and one loose photograph.

High-resolution scanning revealed three men dressed in practical frontier clothing, rifles resting easily in their hands. No dramatic posing. No obvious symbolism. Just men documenting their lives in a harsh landscape.

But something about the image refused to let Thorne move on.

The Detail That Should Not Have Been There

As part of standard procedure, Thorne zoomed in to examine the firearms. He expected common Winchesters—mass-produced tools of the frontier.

Instead, his breath caught.

On the stock of the rifle held by the man on the right was an unmistakable detail: a silver wire inlay, shaped into a serpent consuming its own tail.

An ouroboros.

The craftsmanship was elite. Custom. Expensive. The kind of personalization rarely seen west of the Mississippi in the 1890s.

Thorne’s hands went still.

He had seen that symbol before.

A Rifle Linked to a Murdered U.S. Marshal

In territorial law enforcement archives, one rifle was infamous.

U.S. Marshal Everett Vance carried a custom Winchester engraved with a silver serpent—commissioned to mark his appointment and rumored to have cost more than a year’s salary.

That rifle vanished in 1899.

So did Everett Vance’s life.

The Case That Went Cold in Six Months

On October 15, 1899, Marshal Vance was transporting a prisoner through a remote Wyoming trail when both men were ambushed. Their bodies were discovered three days later by a cavalry patrol.

The evidence was grim and efficient:

·       Two gunshot victims

·       No signs of prolonged struggle

·       Horse unharmed but riderless

·       Badge, wallet, and custom rifle missing

Authorities quickly blamed the Red Creek Gang, a notorious outlaw group active in the region at the time. Despite manhunts and bounties, no arrests were ever made.

The case was officially closed within six months.

Now, 125 years later, Vance’s missing rifle appeared in a photograph—held casually by a man labeled only as a “hunter.”

Why Would Killers Pose for a Photograph?

The contradiction gnawed at Thorne.

If the men in the photo were criminals, why commission a professional portrait? Why keep the rifle visible? Why date the image so close to the murder?

Examining the photograph’s margins under magnification, Thorne noticed something else: a tiny embossed emblem in the corner.

A raven perched atop a camera lens.

That symbol narrowed the timeline immediately.

The Photographer Who Recorded Everything

Arthur Peton, the auction house’s semi-retired archivist, recognized it instantly.

“Albert ‘The Raven’ Finch,” he said.

Finch was a legendary frontier photographer—and an eccentric. He believed photography captured not just images, but the spiritual state of his subjects. Unlike most traveling photographers, Finch documented every single photograph he took.

Names. Dates. Locations. Personal observations.

Those logs were housed at the University of Wyoming.

The Entry That Changed the Case

After two days of research, Thorne found the relevant logbook entry:

October 18, 1899. Photograph commissioned by three friends at workshop cabin, fifteen miles northwest of Laramie. Present: Silas Cain, Jebidiah Cain, Caleb Cain.

One name detonated everything.

Caleb Cain.

Because Marshal Everett Vance’s original surname was Kaine.

A Family Dispute the Newspapers Documented in Real Time

Territorial newspapers told the rest of the story.

Everett Vance and his younger brother Caleb had publicly feuded over their father’s ranch inheritance. Everett wanted to sell and invest in railroad expansion. Caleb wanted to preserve the land and cattle operation.

Witnesses reported shouting matches. Threats. Broken family ties.

One article quoted Everett directly:

“You’re dead to me, Caleb. You’re no family of mine.”

Five days later, Everett Vance was murdered.

A Perfect Motive—And a Perfect Alibi

The photograph now looked like a confession.

Except for one problem.

Caleb Cain and his companions were registered bounty hunters—and exceptionally successful ones. Records showed they had captured over thirty criminals in three years, earning nearly $15,000.

More importantly, on October 15, 1899, the exact day of Vance’s murder, all three men were documented in Cheyenne collecting a $500 bounty.

Signed. Witnessed. Public.

They were 300 miles away.

The alibi was airtight.

The Gap No One Had Noticed

While mapping their careers, Thorne noticed something strange.

From 1896 to 1899, the trio worked relentlessly—capturing fugitives every two to three weeks.

Then, abruptly, on October 16, 1899, their activity stopped.

No bounties. No filings. No correspondence.

For two full months.

Their work resumed on December 20, 1899—three days after Finch photographed them.

Professionally, financially, the pause made no sense.

Unless they had been working outside the law.

The Dog That Solved the Case

The final clue came from a detail almost invisible to the naked eye.

Beside Silas Cain in the photograph sat a dog.

Not just any dog.

A bloodhound.

Territorial records listed Marshal Vance’s personal bloodhound—Tracker—as missing after the murder. The dog was known for absolute loyalty, refusing commands from anyone but Vance.

In the photograph, the dog sat calmly, relaxed, trusting.

A bloodhound would never behave that way around its owner’s killer.

But it would sit beside family.

The Real Story Behind the Photograph

The conclusion became unavoidable.

Caleb Cain and his companions did not murder Everett Vance.

They avenged him.

They abandoned official bounty work, tracked the Red Creek Gang privately, recovered Vance’s rifle, and eliminated the men responsible—outside territorial jurisdiction and paperwork.

The photograph wasn’t a trophy.

It was closure.

A Frontier Case Closed by a Photograph

Further research uncovered supporting evidence: reports of Red Creek Gang members found dead during the winter of 1899–1900, diary entries from saloon keepers, and sightings matching the three men during their “missing” months.

The auction house halted the sale.

Historians verified the findings.

The collection sold to the Museum of Western Justice for $847,000.

A single photograph didn’t just authenticate a rifle.

It corrected history.

And it proved that sometimes, the most important evidence isn’t found at a crime scene—but waiting quietly in an old family box, for someone to finally look closely enough.