The Wild West of America wasn’t the only place where tales fit for a Louis L’Amour novel took place. The Northwoods of Wisconsin, with its rough logging boom towns and frontier justice, saw its own share of gun smoke and violence in the early 1900s. Saloons hummed, tempers ran hot, and men of the law sometimes paid in blood to keep order among the pines. In the summer of 1911, that truth hit hard when a Vilas County sheriff rode out to make an arrest and never came home. Subsequently, a secret vigilante organization formed in Rhinelander to tamper down growing vices in the frontier towns. They were known as, the Twelve Apostles.
The trouble began on July 5, 1911, when Vilas County Sheriff John Radcliffe and his deputies followed complaints from Lake Julia (near Eagle River), that a young woman from Ashland was being held against her will. Rumors spread about houses of ill repute and coercion. The language of the day, sometimes careless and prejudiced, painted the men involved as white slavers, a sensational phrase often applied to anyone suspected of running brothels or exploiting women. Whether or not those charges were fully grounded, the sheriff carried lawful warrants and meant to bring the suspects in.
Radcliffe rode north with Deputies John Hanson and G. L. Carter. They tracked their men, Tony Imperio and Phillip Roberti, to a small store near Conover. According to surviving accounts, the officers moved in to arrest them. The suspects later said they believed the men approaching were robbers. In that tense moment, Imperio pulled a revolver. Bullets snapped through the air. Carter was shot in the right arm and lung. Hanson was struck in the legs. Radcliffe fell with a fatal wound. Hanson survived and crawled to safety, raising the alarm. Radcliffe was carried home to Eagle River, where he died soon after.
News of the killing ran like lightning. More than two hundred men from Eagle River and Rhinelander took up rifles and entered the forest. Search parties swept the country around Conover, believing the fugitives were moving east. Families barred doors. Train cars were searched. Old prejudices stirred as newspapers called the suspects “Italians”, and printed every rumor about Hurley vice, Chicago connections, and the hidden world of prostitution in the Northwoods. The region carried both fear and anger, and for a brief moment, justice seemed a thin thread.
The fugitives stayed ahead of the search for several days, but the Northwoods is hard country, where hunger and mosquitos wear a man down. The pair were finally found and taken into custody. Their captors did not linger in Eagle River. With talk of vigilante justice on the streets, the men were quickly put on a train and advanced from one holding place to another. The threat of mob violence was real. They were eventually secured in Milwaukee, then returned for trial.
Witnesses arrived from Rhinelander, Eagle River, and Hurley. Some told of the officers announcing themselves. Others repeated the suspects claim that no badges were shown. The defense argued panic, confusion, and fear of robbery. The prosecution spoke of lawful authority, the warrants, and the death of a respected sheriff. The newspapers followed every detail, carrying a mixture of fact, speculation, and the prejudices of the era. Public mood leaned heavily against the accused.
In December, the jury returned a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree. Both Imperio and Roberti were sentenced to life at Waupun. An appeal for a new trial was denied. One of the men was later required to spend each July 6 in solitary confinement a yearly reminder of the day Radcliffe lost his life.
The funeral for Sheriff Radcliffe was somber and well attended. He had lived in Eagle River since the 1890s, served as sheriff and county clerk, and carried a quiet reputation for fairness. Masons from Rhinelander joined the procession. His wife and six children mourned. In time, his son William H. Radcliffe was appointed to finish the term, keeping his fathers name on the office door.
The shock of the killing and the swirl of vice accusations had an effect throughout the Northwoods, and sparked action in Rhinelander. On July 14, 1911, the City Hall filled with residents determined to protect their community. Led by prominent lumberman Edward O. Brown, they resolved to pressure and, if necessary, shut down places linked to gambling, prostitution, and illegal drink. Twelve men took up the cause. Because of their number, they were called the Twelve Apostles.
They worked quietly and without official authority, applying social and economic pressure. One saloon linked to the fugitives lost its license after a long council meeting that stretched past midnight. Others found landlords unwilling to renew leases if young women lived upstairs. Members of the Apostles denied rough methods and insisted they used only influence. Their secrecy invited whispers. Some saw them as protectors. Others wondered who had granted them that right. But they made their mark, and Rhinelander made it plain it would be no Hurley, counted among the roughest towns in the Northwoods at the time.
By winter, the panic had passed. The killers were jailed. The worst of the vice activity faded. The Twelve Apostles dissolved into memory. Yet the events of that summer still echo through the pines. A sheriff rode north to uphold the law. He did not return. In the uneasy weeks that followed, townspeople stepped into the breach, determined to uphold the character of their community. The Twelve Apostles left behind one of the most striking, yet little known early chapters in the story of Rhinelander.
Sources: Rhinelander Daily News, The New North articles 1911, Various Wisconsin Newspapers, 1911.
Rhinelander Daily News, Jack Corey Article, 1954.
*Listed below are the names of Rhinelander’s 12 Apostles, many unknown at the time, but discovered and documented in later years: E. O. Brown, B. R. Lewis Sr, Charles Perry, J. H. Morgan, F. S. Robbins, Matt Stapleton, John Swedberg, John Didier, C. W. Porter, J. O. Moen, A. M. Riley, Chris Ropecke.
