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"Old Leather Man"

All this info came from Dan W. Deluca, he is looking for any information on the "Old Leather Man", Photos, Caves, Scrapbooks. Anything. Please contact: Dan W. Deluca.

Extracts from the Press.
THE LEATHER MAN'S GHOST.

A Frightened Farmer who was searching the Late Recluse's Cave.

Shrub Oak, April 1, 1889. - Since the death of the old "Leather Man" hundreds of people have visited his lonely cave in the Saw Mill Woods, near Shrub Oak, searching for money which he is supposed to have hidden away during the twenty years that he has made this spot his headquarters. On Saturday night, after Farmer Clematis Sorrell had finished his day's work, he bade his wife and daughter adieu and with his lighted torch in his hand started for the big Saw Mill Woods in quest of the late "Leather Man's" treasure.

Soon after midnight the farmer returned to his family and related a heart-rending story of his narrow escape from the clutches of the Leather Man's ghost. He said that while he was making his way out of the cave his torch was extinguished, and, having no matches, he endeavored to find his way out without a light. He was soon confronted by the Leather Man, who ignited a pile of dried sticks and beckoned for Mr. Sorrel to leave at once, which he did with all possible rapidity, running all the way home, a distance of three miles. Sorrel, who is not a drinking man, thins the Leather Man has a double - New York Daily News.

Photo taken by 19 year old James Frances Rodgers of Branford, Conn.

Saw the Leather Man's Ghost.

A Farmer Seeking for Treasure is in the Dead Man's Cave is Frightened Out of His Wits. Hundreds of curiosity-seekers have visited the lonely cave of the dead hermit know as the Leatherman, who was found dead last week in his cave in the Saw Mill Woods near Scrub Oak.

The hermit is supposed to have had money, and many believe that it is buried some where in the woods near the cave.

Last night after Farmer Clematis Sorrell had finished his day's work he started, with a lighted torch in his hand, for the big Saw Mill Woods in quest of treasure. Soon after midnight the farmer returned to his family and related a story of his narrow escape from the clutches of the Leather Man's ghost. He said that while he was making his way out of the cave his torch was extinguished. Having no matches, he endeavored to get out without a light.

He was soon confronted by the Leatherman, who lit a pile of dry sticks and beckoned to Sorrel to leave at once, which he did with all possible rapidly, running all the way home, a distance of three miles. Mr. Sorrel is not a drinking man. He thinks the Leather Man has a double or he aw his ghost. The Morning Journal, April 2, 1889.

A Night With the Leatherman By James Frances Rodgers Of Branford, Connecticut. 1885 Compiled by Dan W. DeLuca

This is a true story written by James Frances Rodgers. James was crippled and had to use crutches to get around. Over a number of years he became friends with the "Old Leather Man," and the "Leather Man" would look forward to seeing him. James was studying to become an Artist and was an amateur photographer. On June 9, 1885 James convinced the "Old Leather Man" to pose for some photographs. James took over seven photos of him, one of them in front of one of his caves. James died December 7, 1887 at the age of 21.

[In presenting the above cut of the Old Leatherman, now famous throughout this section of Connecticut, the photograph from which it was made was not such as to enable the engraver to produce a first class work. The picture, however, conveys a correct idea of this strange person's appearance. When it is remembered that the old fellow has a horror of photographers, and indeed, of anyone who seeks information, the difficulty of getting a desirable photograph of him will be realized.] (NOTE: This cut was made from a photograph that the Leather Man posed for. James F. Rodgers was the photographer. The Leather Man was about 51-53 years old. (Researched by Dan W. DeLuca.)

A Night With the Leather Man

"Hear comes the leather man!" I hear the shout repeated a dozen times, and as I reach the window a bevy of children are scurrying for a neighboring yard, where some of their numbers are already ranged along the fence, and peering anxiously down the road at the strange, ungainly creature coming toward them. Who could resist the curiosity of seeing him? The temptation seizes me as of old, and I cannot forbear its influence. My palette and brushes are hurriedly laid aside, and I am soon amid the juvenile group and, like them, gazing intently on the coarse features and bent form of the leather man. As he passes I noted a keen, scowling look under the shadow of the high leather cap so characteristic of the old man upon his journey. I waited until he was a few rods father on, then, started out after him. Soon he left the dusty highway for the shady protection of some adjacent maples, and shortly afterwards turned into a gateway leading up to the porch of a great white farmhouse. Here he paused a moment, then gently tapping the door with his staff, seated himself on a bench to await the result. His knock did not remain long unanswered, for soon a quiet, motherly looking lady, who has attended to his summons for a quarter of a century, opened the door and looked pityingly on the wanderer as he placed his great rough hand upon his lips and muttered the words, "Eat, eat, eat!" Then disappearing, she returned laden with dishes, which had been thoughtfully laid aside for him. In silence he ate his meal: then placing the remainder in his bag and taking up his staff, he was again ready for the road.

As he saw me standing by the gate, closely observing him, he focused that piercing look full upon me. Almost involuntarily I shrank under the searching gaze, but again, summoning up my courage, I stepped out with him, and accompanied the strange man up the street.

At every window I saw faces directed toward him, I heard venders repeat his name and enter upon current gossip concerning him. Two dainty school misses stole cautions side looks at him, and whispered behind their books the often repeated query, "Who is the leather man?" The urchins abandoned their sport as he approached, and stood with grave wonder gazing upon his weather worn face. But seemingly all unconscious the old man plods on, hopelessly striving to finish the weary circuit of that relentless journey of his life. For nearly a mile I walked beside him, but he continued as silent as the stones in his pathway. At times he looked inquiringly at me, but in no other way deigned to acknowledge my presence. Finally, as we reached the summit of Plant's hill, I ventured to speak, and looking him full in the face, said, "Leathery, this is a hard life of yours."

He gradually lifted his eyes until they met mine, then in a faint, sad voice answered, "Yes, yes." "But," I continued, "Will you not tell me why you lead such a life?"

He stood still a moment, and looked absently at me, then slowly shook his head and went on. I saw it was useless to question him further, and stood watching him until he disappeared beyond the next hill top, then turning, retraced my steps, with his melancholy words ringing in my ear, and mind still more entangled in the mysterious life of the strange, silent man.

I have seen him trudging through the slush and blustering rain of early spring, unflagging under the scorching summer sun, unrelenting as the last phantom leaves of autumn fell about him and "chill November's surly blast" proclaimed the advent of winter, and I have caught glimpses of him veiled by the blinding snow, ever plodding on his apparently endless journey, which will only terminate at death's door. Clad throughout in coarse leather, which in by gone days creaked a merry accompaniment to his footsteps the sunshine and storms of nearly thirty years, with his unrelenting tramp, has left it worn and tattered, and replaced its luster with accumulations of patches and dirt, cumbersome and uncouth, even repulsive in his appearance, seldom lifting his eyes from his path, and never uttering a syllable, he is indeed a fit subject for many stories concerning him.

Maiden ladies unanimously agree that the leather man has been disappointed in love, but shudder when they think who could ever have been infatuated, by so repulsive a being. Others ascribe his wandering, and adherence to silence, to those of a lunatic who despises humanity and seeks to gratify his unknown longing by these never ending journeys. Misers, whom the old man seems to known and avoid by instinct, say he has vast quantities of gold and jewels hidden away in the dark recesses of some cave. All are creations of the imagination, existing only in their author's mind. But the leather man is indeed an enigma of humanity rarely to be met with. None save the weird, subtle genius of Hawthorne could do him justice in romance, and Dickens, with his inimitable faculty of description, would have found in him a study, while Dore, with all his uncouth grotesqueness of imagery, has scarcely conceived a more repulsive being. To those who have seen him any description would be week and impotent, but to the unacquainted reader it may not be amiss to endeavor to transcribe the picture my memory retain of him.

He is about the average height, through very compactly built. His thick, dark hair straggles from under the great leather cap in tangled confusion, and when closely examined the intermingled gray gives ample evidence of the burden of the years which the old man has upon him. His face recalls to my fancy Hawthorne's "Monk of the Catacombs," since only seeming to harden rather than change its countenance. It is swarthy, and nearly obscured by a short, coarse beard and overhanging eyebrows, in whose shadows lurk his keen gray eyes with a piercing glitter. His nose and mouth are well shaped through the other parts of the face somewhat destroy their symmetry. His leather garments, from which he takes the name of the leather man, are made up wholly of boot tops, which have been from time to time, patched and mended until scarcely a vestige of the original texture remains visible. His shoes are not unlike those worn by the peasants of Norway and Sweden through far more cumbersome, over his shoulder he carries a large leather bag, and in his hand a hickory staff, surmounted by a wooden ball. Such is a faulty pen picture of this unknown man who for nearly thirty years has excited the curiosity of all, and who is now more than ever encircled in mystery.

On April 2, 1885, I saw him tolling up the road, bent under his burden, and hurried to the farmhouse with a firm resolution to try and entice him into conversation with me. I heard the same knock repeated, and listened to his trembling voice as he pronounced the word "Eat." As the lady turned to bring his food I went out and sat down beside him. He looked at me in an indifferent manner, but no sounded escaped him. "Leathery," I said, "will you please tell me your name?"

"Yes," he answered. "It is E-zek."

"I then asked him if he was tired, and again came that melancholy "Yes."

"Will you take these from me?" I continued, handing him some cigars. He bowed his head in acknowledgment and taking them placed them in an inner pocket. I then asked him if he spoke French, and another "yes" was my only reply. By this time his food was brought him and he immediately began to dispose of it in a manner that quite astonished me. A few weeks previous I had been to his cave on salt-on-stall Ridge, which had been founded by tracking the old man in the snow, and had taken there from a piece of his old leather suit with its canvas lacing, which had been carefully hidden in a crevice of the rock, I suddenly through of this souvenir and dispatch "Bit" Lane to my house to get it. He was not long in returning as he came up the path the old man darted a horrible scowl upon the unsuspecting "Bit" in a way that brought that individual to an abrupt stop. He had recognized the leather. Handing it to him, I asked him if he had ever seen it before. He carefully examined the stitching, and putting it in his bag answered, "Yes, that is mine."

"But, Leathery, you must give that to me," I said. "You do not need it." He took it from the bag and placed it in my hand, saying: "Here."

"Do you wish to go back to France?" I began.

He shuddered perceptibly and answered, "No! No! No!"

I knew from the little I had seen that it was an easy matter to arouse his suspicious nature by questioning, and decided not to trouble him by other queries until he had known me better. All the time he had been endeavoring to satisfy what seemed to me to be a truly ravenous appetite. Slice after slice of bread disappeared, and huge blocks of meat went after them in rapid succession, and the manner in which he consumed his pie and cake reminded me of an expert magician disposing of his cards. Finally after two quarts of coffee had met the fate of the foregoing articles, he took up his bag and staff, and as I turned to leave him at the gate, he extended me his brawny hand, which I shook heartily, and felt at last that old Leathery had taken me into his confidence.

I awaited his next arrival with anxious expectation, and just thirty-two days afterward I saw him trudging up the road, his unwieldy garments creaking in harsh discord with the rasping shuffle of his clumsy shoes. I went out to him and was pleased to see he had not forgotten me, for he came forward with outstretched hand, and smiled when I shook it. "Come, Leathery, and have something to eat with me," I said, and pointed to my house. He shifted his bag to his shoulder and directed his cumbersome bulk towards the gate as I led the way.

His appearance was provokingly illustrative of a monster turtle, as he shambled up the garden a few steps, and then pausing, poked out his head around at me latching the gate, then went cautiously on. With a few alterations, nothing more aptly describes the pitcher of him than the old darkey song by which George H. Boughton so appropriately illustrates his delightful sketch of "William Grobbyus."

The head must be bowed and the back must be bent
Wherever Old Leathery goes.
A few more years and his troubles all will end,
In the place where the wooden nutmeg grows:
A few more years he must tote the weary load,
No matter it never can be light,
Then, proud world, good night.

I could not get him to enter the house, so telling him to sit down on the porch, went and brought him some food. He ate for a few minutes, but upon the appearance of two or three more upon the scene, manifested signs of uneasiness, and taking me by the arm pointed toward the great farmhouse. I went with him, and I waited until he had eaten, then started up the road, walking beside him. He willingly answered the few questions, which my limited knowledge of French would allow me to put to him. I asked him where he was going, and he told me that "in a little time to his cave." Again he extended his hand, as at Plant's bridge he turned to leave the road, and said, "Adieu! I will see you again."

I hurried home, and after putting up a little lunch, and arousing the dormant ambition of my friend "Jock," we started for the leather man's cave. He had gone by way of the railroad and I knew it was customary for him to sit down and rest for some time. We took the Cherry Hill road and cut across Holley's farm, around by the head of Lake Saltonstall, and from thence over the ridge and reached the cave in early afternoon.

I called it a "cave," through in reality it is a hut. All along his route, at regular intervals, he has built these hovels, in which he passes one, or, if delayed by storm, and has a store of food, two nights. Hence the regularity of his coming is easily accounted for. In every town he has one or more places where he obtains food, this he carries to his caves, and, as he is an enormous eater, it seldom serves him for more than two meals. Therefore he must go on in order to obtain more. There are few callings, which we attend to which to with more unfailing punctuality than our stomachs, and as Leathery has only that one he attends strictly to it.

He has built the hovel I have mentioned of decayed butternut trees laid up slanting against a stick which rests upon a large boulder and the projecting limb of an ash, the hollow of the trunks being laid up, perhaps to carry off the rain. On the south side he has piled up brush and stones, the eastern protection being formed by the boulder itself. Within is a rude fireplace, always kept clean and ready for use, and in the nook and crannies of the great rock his few accessories are carefully hidden and covered with leaves. A large flat stone, laid near the fireplace, is worn quite smooth, and around it are strewn a number of hemlock boughs, for his bed, the stone serving in the capacity of a pillow. Without a great quantity of wood ashes and embers have accumulated, showing that he has tenanted his secluded hut for many years. The trees in the vicinity bear no evidence of his axe, as he never chops one down, but burns the old decayed wood, the hemlocks being the only exception, from which he cuts a few boughs for his bed. "Poor, homeless one, thy lot is indeed a hard one." I through as I gazed on the wretched hovel, and the great pine above seemed to sigh in sympathy as the wind tossed its branches.

It was now nearing 3 o'clock, and every moment I expected to here the crackle of the underbrush foretell the coming of the old man. We crept under the shadows of a clump of hemlocks and listened attentively for some sign of his approach. Half after three, four, five, but still no leather man. It was a cold, cheerless day, so characteristic of this lagging spring: trying to rain, and still not raining, the great smoky, ragged clouds chased each other over the ridge top in rapid succession, each one threatening to pour down a deluge of water upon us. The wind roared down the gorge and moaned among the trembling trees. Far below, the lake spread its ruffled surface into hazy distance, and Cherry Hill, away to the south, seemed twenty miles distant. At times, as the wind, subsided for a moment, we heard the plaintive call of the chickadee, or listened to the clamor of the wind-blown crows as they shot over our heads in pursuit of some vagrant hawk.

Jock had a short black pipe and forgot all anxiety under its mollifying influences. He busied himself by replenishing this source of comfort, and building miniature mounds around the Ant Hills. He is a typical son of Erin, and when I told him of the dreaded snakes of "Pond Rock" and showed him its mottled boulders jutting out of the ridges some distance to the north of us, he held it in far more dread than the leather man.

I varied the monotony by going up to the ridge and looking off in the distant mountains or down at the quiet little village of Foxon, with its elm sprinkled meadow and undulating farms.

Half past 5! I crept hastily back and had just reach the friendly protection of the hemlocks, when I heard the long wished for crackling. Yes, without doubt, the leather man was coming, and if he possessed any nature, he would show it. I lay still as death and told Jock to do the same, and ere many moments had elapsed, I saw through my screen of bought the well-known features of old Leathery. He came direct to the cave, carrying in his hand a black tin pail. When he reached the entrance he listened for what seemed to me to be twenty minutes, then threw down his bag, and put the pail inside. He drew a long breath as he seated himself on a rock and looked about him, and I confess I felt rather uncomfortable when I saw him put his hand round under his coat and, talking there from an axe, deliberately put his hand in on the other side and bring forth the handle. This he fitted into it, and after two or three raps upon a stone proceeded to chop a prostrate tree trunk into short pieces for his fire.

"Now, Jock," I said, "keep close to me," and slipped out from under my ambuscade. The old man heard the first crackle, which betrayed our presence, and in all my life I never beheld a person more surprised. He looked at Jock, then looked at my crutches and myself in utter astonishment, until I shouted, "Hello a, Leathery!" Then, coming forward, he shook my hand heartily. I had Jock take then axe, which the old man rather reluctantly gave him, and proceed with the chopping.

"Now, Leathery," I said as he placed the great flat stone for me to sit on, "will you sit still?"

"Yes, " he answered, and seated himself beside me, and, as I endeavored to transfer his rugged picture to my paper, I asked him these questions:

"How long have you been tramping?"

"Twenty seven years, " he answered in his broken English.

"How old are you?" I want on.

He muttered in a low voice, "Sixty eight."

"And are you not tired?"

"No-o-o. I am sorry." As he dwelt upon the words I saw every limb tremble.

"Sorry for what?" I queried. "What should you be sorry for?"

"For much. For much." He sighed and bent his head upon his hand.

"Will you tell me why you were that leather suit?"

He slowly raised his head and mournfully repeated the words, "I don't known, but I am sorry."

"Did you make it?"

"Yes, a long time ago,"

"But," I reasoned, "Why do you not throw it off, and live among your fellow men?"

"No! no!, never!" The old man raised his voice and every nerve seemed strained to pronounce the words.

I did not break the silence that followed, but worked steadily on until the gathering dusk closed in about us.

He arose after awhile and bending over my shoulder looked down on the rude sketch I was making.

"Ah! From France," he said, as his wary eye caught sight of the crayon pencil in my hand upon which was stamped some Parisian advertisement.

"Yes," I answered, through my conscience smote me for so doing, as I am confident the pencil was no more made in Paris than the rock I sat on.

He then went up to the old ash tree and rested his shoulder against it, and with his pitiful expression looked down at Jock as he sunk the axe deep into the fallen tree with every blow. No doubt he saw in the young man's stalwart form the counterpart of himself in years bygone, before age stole on, and he had learned the bitter experience of his lonely life. It had grown chilly, and I told Jock to light the fire, but the old man heard my request and hastened to comply. Soon the tiny match blaze caught the dry cedar branches and the dreary interior became radiant and cheerful. The leather man seated himself on a stone near me, and, as Jock filled his great pipe for him, I ventured to break the monotony.

"Leathery, are you not going to tell me something more?" I asked, and place's my hand upon his shoulder.

He reached his hand into a crevice and took there from a leather wallet, and untying the fastening, drew out a large paper and handed it to me. I unfolded it and, by the aid of the firelight, saw it was completely covered with curious characters, written in pencil and red chalk, and with scrupulous regularity.

"What are these?" I asked with surprise.

He waved his hand in a circle about his head, by which I concluded he meant his route, and these strange characters were indeed records of his journeys, for he took from the wallet sheet after sheet written in the same manner. I asked him for one which I held and he said "Yes, keep it," He then took out another, through smaller wallet, which contained a pair of scissors, some thread, a bone comb, and a piece of cloth. He took the latter in his hand and slowly unwinding it disclosed a worn old French prayer book and a rosary which he reverentially bowed his head.

The through flashed upon me:

He was a religious monomaniac living a life of terrible penance.

I became very eager to question him farther, and I am afraid he perceived my excitement, for when I asked him to tell me all about his life he sorrowfully shook his head and whispered:

"Not to night, not to night, but when you come again." Then, taking off his cap and kneeling down, he placed the crucifix in the crevice before him and opening his prayer book bent over the firelight.

I did not want to excite his ill will, and knew that he wished to be left alone, so talking his hand I bade him good night. Coming out into the darkness, we grouped our way down the hillside and through the hemlocks, pausing only when we reached the open lot at the head of the lake. I could just see his fire, a mere speck, glimmering through the trees far, far up the ridge.

Poor, lonely wanderer, shivering over it when the winter sighed and moaned about him, no companion, no home, naught but the sighing pines and silent stars of heaven. Years have come and gone and he has shared their sorrow, for with him pleasure is unknown. Let no taunting tongue molest him, for the leather man will soon be knowingly in "memories of the past and possibilities of the future. Should any of my readers visit his lonely hovel, let no sac religious hand be raised to hurry the crumbling pile to its destruction, for I look hopefully forward to the coming night when under its scanty shelter I shall see his dark features tinted by the fitful firelight, and hear him repeat in his low, sad voice: "The Leather Man's Story."

True Story
SHRUB OAK. February 22d, 1885

Owing to the heavy rains and severe weather week before last the "Leather Man" did not put in an appearance on his usual day and there was consequently considerable speculation as to his whereabouts. Thinking that perhaps he had perished with cold in his lonely cave in the Saw Mill Woods we visited that on Tuesday night. The moon was shining through the leafless branches with all its exquisite brilliancy and everything was quiet and motionless save the brook that went roaring and spattering over its rocky bed. The ruins of the old saw mill, which has long been deserted, stood like a faithful sentry guarding the crooked path that leads to the secluded headquarters of the old leather man. Arriving at our destination we found everything in readiness for the proprietor. The bed of dry leaves were in good order and were hold in their place by several pieces of chestnut rail. Being satisfied that his leathership was not at home we came away. On the following day the leather man was seen going to the cave where he rested during the night, starting again on his route the next morning, seeming eager to make up for the time he had lost. When passing the grocery store, Mr. Darrow beckoned for him to come in. Contrary to his usual custom of shyness he entered the store and took a seat that was offered him near the stove. After eating some crackers and cheese he was asked several questions but would make no reply. Finally, Mr. Dorrow said, "I am old, (writing his age upon a piece of paper and handing him the piece). How old are you?" The leather man took the lead-pencil and Wrote five figures of which the following is.

A FAC-SIMILE.
What he really meant by these rude figures now seems to be a great conundrum. Some think he meant to say, that he was born on the 15th day of the 3rd month 1842. Others think that he will be 42 years of age on the 15th of March, while others, whose minds are capable of conceiving vast ideas, claim that the leather man must be 15,342 years of age. At all events this is the first time anybody has been able to obtain a manuscript from him and he will soon be requested to write in young ladies autograph albums. L.

INQUEST OF CORONER,
GEORGE H. SUTTON.
Sing Sing, New York, March 24th and 25th, 1889
Compiled by Dan W. DeLuca

Extracts from the testimony of witness.

Jurors on the Inquest
John M. Terwilliger,
Charles Ryder
Richard Austin,
Eugene Hall,
Ezra Bouton,
Simeon C. Washburn,
John L. Birdsall,

Witness on the Inquest.

Joel D. Madden, M. D., & Charles S. Collins, M.D, Testified as to Cause of Death: The Immediate cause of his death is blood poisoning. It resulted from lupus, or "wolf" cancer, which had made frightful ravages in his mouth, almost destroying the lower jaw and so affected the throat that for a long time before his death ensued it must have been impossible to swallow anything but liquids, so that of last starvation was probably added to his other pangs. He most likely has been dead for at least three or four days when he was found.

Henry Miller, carpenter, Town of Mt. Pleasant, testified as to finding body on the farm of George Dell: I went out for a walk with my wife on Sunday morning last, my wife expressed a wish to see the retreat of the Leather Man, so, we went there. As we entering the hut, we through the man was asleep, but a second glance saw that he was dead. His hair and beard was mottled with blood, his face swollen and distorted.

George Dell, farmer, testified: He frequently stopped on my farm for a little over five years last past, in a rude structure he made in the woods for a shanty or a hut. I had a conversation with him once. I could not hold him long in conversation. I thought he was a Frenchman. I asked him a few words in French and he answered promptly in French. This man frequented the place where he was found dead, often. He never came to my home to beg, nor did I ever give him any food. I never saw him under the influence of drink of any kind. He never asked my permission to build the hut on my land, and I didn't object. I have seen him in the hut a number of times, but could not talk with him. On a cold or stormy day I would say to him, "why don't you build a fire?" He would answer, " a good fire, a good fire" I never saw him cooking anything. When I first saw him, twenty-eight years ago, he wore then the same suit or one similar to it, and made of small pieces of leather, mostly boot legs sewed together with leather bands. Two books each made of leaves of brown paper, full of figures were found; but I don't think he could read or write.

Reuben Whitson, farmer, testified: I have known the Leather Man for over twenty-eight years past. The last twenty years I saw him once in every two months pass my house, and he never varied his line of march. He carried a large leather bag made of bootlegs. I do not know how he lived, as he never begged, nor his name, nor any of his relatives.

Walter L Whitson, farmer, testified: I have known the Leather Man ever since I was a small boy. I often tried to get him into conversation, but he would never reply. I offered him a chew of tobacco, but he did not answer me. The last time I saw him he looked ill and did not have the large bag. He was a mystery to me. I never knew him to work anywhere. He was about sixty years old.

The "Old leather Man" was never IDENTIFIED, he was not Jules Bourglay, this was a story. I will be working on having his grave marker changed to: The "Old Leather Man" Never Identified.
Thank You Dan W. DeLuca

All this info came from Dan W. Deluca, he is looking for any information on the "Old Leather Man", Photos, Caves, Scrapbooks. Anything.
Please contact: Dan W. Deluca.

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