Frontier Times Magazine

Jack Hays, the Famous Texas Ranger

2023-09-03

Jack Hays, the Famous Texas Ranger

From Hunter's Frontier Times Magazine, October, 1923

In the annals of the Republic of Texas, few figures shine as brightly as Captain Jack Hays. He stands out among those who displayed remarkable talents during this era. Hays was a true guardian of the western border, engaged in over forty encounters, defending San Antonio and Southwest Texas against outlaws and indigenous tribes.

Government records of his time celebrated his patriotism and heroic deeds, which earned him national acclaim and endeared him to the people of Texas. Yet, today, his name and exploits have faded into obscurity, remembered only by a handful of survivors from the pioneer days and their descendants. These individuals recall Hays as a stalwart defender of the frontier, standing firm against the Comanche Indians and Mexican bandits who threatened their communities.

In times of peril and danger, Hays was a trusted figure, always responding with unwavering dedication and remarkable success. His adventurous and romantic achievements, too numerous to detail here, are a testament to his courage and leadership.

Early Life: Born at Fort Haysboro in Wilson County, Tennessee, on January 28, 1817, Hays faced adversity early in life. When both his parents passed away, leaving him with a younger brother and sister, they were raised by his maternal uncle, Abner Gage, a Mississippi planter. Despite these challenges, Hays received a basic education and gained expertise in surveying. By the age of fifteen, he was employed by land speculators in the region, accumulating savings. His pursuit of a civil engineering education was cut short by the Texas Revolution, prompting his response to Colonel Travis's call from the Alamo.

The Texas Ranger:

Arriving on the Brazos a month after the Battle of San Jacinto, Hays engaged in land surveying in Austin's colony when not called upon by the military. Armed with letters of introduction from President Jackson to influential Texans, he received advice from General Houston to enlist in the ranger service on the western frontier. He joined Deaf Smith's spy company as a private, arriving in San Antonio in late December 1836. There, he participated in the military funeral honors for the Alamo heroes on February 25, 1837. His first combat encounter occurred in March when he joined Captain Smith in hoisting the Texas flag near Laredo, defeating the enemy. After Smith's resignation, Hays joined Dawson's company and later served with distinction under Colonel Karnes. From February 1838 until 1841, he worked as a deputy surveyor in the Bexar district, later being elected surveyor of Bexar County.

The Ranger's Exploits:

Hays gathered a select group of men who aided him in many battles against Comanche Indians and bandits. In 1840, President Lamar authorized him to form a ranger company, marking the beginning of continuous combat against Indians and Mexican bandits. When Woll invaded Texas in 1842, Hays thwarted his plans by summoning 300 Texans and skillfully luring the enemy from the Alamo to the Salado, where the Mexicans faced a resounding defeat. Hays led his troops to the Hondo, boldly charging into the midst of the Mexican army and nearly forcing their surrender, had he received adequate support. Hays held a leadership role in San Antonio, where he enforced martial law until the Somerville expedition was formed. He then accompanied the expedition to the Rio Grande, returning to San Antonio upon its disbandment. He also scouted for the Mier expedition, attempting to dissuade its leaders from pursuing their ill-fated venture.

Hays' enduring legacy includes actions at various locales: Warin; Bandera Pass; Enchanted Rock; Sister's Creek, above Seguin; Anna Dulee; Paint Rock, among others. He relentlessly pursued the Comanches, dealing severe blows to them for their attacks on settlements. He also vigilantly tracked and fought Mexican bandits.

The Mexican-American War:

When the war with Mexico began in 1846, Hays commanded a ranger battalion, holding the rank of major. He was later authorized to raise a regiment to serve under General Taylor for six months, amassing a force of 1,300 rangers. These troops, including notable figures such as Ben McCulloch and Tom Green, provided vital scouting services before the Battle of Monterrey. During the battle, they played a pivotal role in capturing key locations, ultimately contributing to Monterrey's capitulation. Hays' regiment was mustered out in May 1847, but he remained in Texas to oversee its continued protection, albeit declining re-election.

Further Adventures:

In August 1848, Hays embarked on an exploratory mission to establish a route between San Antonio and El Paso. Although the government supported the project, it ended in disappointment due to lost guides, with the party only reaching Presidio del Norte after six grueling months.

In July 1849, Hays led a group of emigrants bound for California via El Paso, escorted by U.S. troops. Their journey was marked by hardship, and they reached San Diego in late December. From there, they sailed to San Francisco, arriving on January 10, 1850.

Life Beyond the Frontier:

Hays was welcomed by old friends and urged to accept the position of city marshal in San Francisco, which he did. He subsequently became sheriff of the city, serving two terms. In 1852, he, along with others, purchased a significant tract of land on the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay, founding the city of Oakland. President Pierce appointed Hays as the United States Surveyor of California, a position he fulfilled to the satisfaction of the people. Later, President Buchanan named him Surveyor General of Oregon.

Hays remained active in politics, deeply committed to the Democratic Party's success. He even attended the National Democratic Convention, where Samuel J. Tilden was nominated as a presidential candidate.

Legacy and Later Life:

Hays built a beautiful home on a farm in the foothills of Alameda County, north of Piedmont, where he lived until his passing on July 25, 1883, at the age of sixty-four. Posthumous eulogies published in California newspapers hailed him as a remarkable man, one of the most notable in the state's history.

Colonel John S. Ford, who served as adjutant in Hays' regiment under General Scott, emphasized Hays' bravery and leadership qualities. He described Hays as a modest, honorable, and courageous man who left a significant mark on Texas history.

General Henry McCulloch also spoke highly of Hays, praising his enduring legacy as a commander, citizen, and soldier.

Jack Hays' contributions to the Republic of Texas, the Mexican-American War, and the state of California left an indelible mark on history. His leadership and valor remain a testament to the spirit of the Texas frontier and its enduring legacy.

DRAMATIC ACCOUNT OF AN EARLY DAY SHERIFF - Ira. L. Wheat

2016-03-23

Ira. L. Wheat, former sheriff of Edwards county, who attended the State Fair of Texas last week, and Henry Putz, 4116 McKinney Avenue, met the other day for the first time in forty years.

In 1885, Putz was a member of the Texas Rangers, Company F, Captain Will Scott, Sergeant K. A. Brooks. The Rangers had gone to Montell, Uvalde county, on the trail of a widely organized gang of horse thieves, and Wheat had met them there to be their guide through the rocky fastnesses of that wild region.

"Mr. Wheat showed us through the wilderness of Southwest Texas about the time we were proud of our whiskers, and I am now reciprocating the favor by showing him through the Wilderness of the greatest city in the South when we are both a trifle grizzled," said Mr. Putz,talking from his Ford.

"My father, George Wheat, who came to Texas from Arkansas was killed by the Apache Indians in Medina county in 1861, when I was 4 years old," said Mr. Wheat. "In my childhood, and for long after, Southwest Texas was as wild as when La Salle looked it over.

"I settled in Edwards county in 1878. The Apaches were still raiding the country, murdering and stealing. The Comanches, the Huns of the Southwest, made whirlwind cavalry forays into the settlements. The Apaches always softly crept in, afoot., hoping to be able to go out on the backs of stolen horses, and too many times they realized their hopes.

"After I located in Edwards county the Apaches murdered two families in the county—the

McLaurins and the Coalsons--and retired with a good bunch of horses. That was in 1879 or 1880.

"A squad of United States soldiers under command of Capt. Bullard, followed this band into Mexico, and discovered them camped in a pleasant valley, sixty miles beyond Del Rio. The savages were supinely resting after their fatiguing journey. The soldiers opened fire on them from all directions. With the exception of one old squaw, all the Indians in the camp were killed without a single casualty on the side of the attacking party. This squaw, who was young, was exceptionally graceful and good looking considering her antecedents, for the Apache squaws were the coarsest and ugliest of all Indian women. The United States government took charge of her, and I never heard what became of her.

"I was elected Sheriff of Edwards county in 1881 and held the office continuously until 1896. Before I was elected Sheriff I acted as guide for the rangers in their operations against the organized horse thieves, and afterwards cooperated, with them. Horse stealing was carried on on a large scale for many years. The thieves in each county were organized and worked together from one county to another, through Val Verde, Sutton, Kimble and Edwards, from the Rio Grande to Georgetown and Austin, whence they made their shipments. Not content with what horses they could steal in Texas, they smuggled in bunch after bunch from the other side of the Rio Grande. They covered a territory about 100 miles in length by 100 to 150 in width. The gang in each county passed its roundups to the gang in the adjoining county. They operated by night and were back home by daylight.

"It Was estimated that at least 500 men were connected with this industry when it was at its height. Among them were some wealthy men, and a great many first rate young men, who had, by means which they could not explain themselves been gradually drawn into the organization.

_____________________________________

Enjoying this story?

Join our Facebook group here

Never miss a story!

Free downloads

_____________________________________

"It was not their idea to fight the rangers and the Sheriffs. They depended on outwitting us, and this they succeeded in doing for about twelve years. Through their admirable organization, they always got wind of the coming of tiie rangers long enough in advance to betake themselves to the mountains, so it early became apparent that terrible as the rangers were against outlaws in general, they were ineffective against this particular gang, and that if the outlaws were ever run to earth the Sheriffs would have to do it. Accordingly Sheriffs W. H. Baylor, Dick Russell and Noah Corder and I got together and decided to put among the thieves a man of our own.

We encountered great difficulty in finding a man who was willing, even for good money, to undertake such a hazardous adventure. But finally a volunteer came forward, one of these fellows who are born without the fear bump, who live on excitement and set little value on their own lives. He put us in possession of evidence on which we secured thirty-seven convictions and made things so unsafe for the rest of the horde that they disbanded. But, as we predicted, they got our man. We never heard exactly what befell him but it was easy to conjecture.

“The Sheriffs put the gang out of business with a minimum of bloodshed. They had to kill Alvin and Will Odell, brothers, fine fellows, who like so many other first rate youngsters in the early days got off on the wrong foot. Three of my deputies and two or three rangers came on the Odell boys in the hills of Edwards county and demanded their surrender. Instead of complying they reached for their Winchesters, and of course perished in the unequal combat.

“The worst men among the outlaws were Lon Bass, who was killed by the rangers, and Bill Chisolm, who escaped to Mexico and there died. It was they who largely directed the operations of the combined gangs. Chisholm legitimately owned large cattle interests. The rangers who cooperated with the Sheriffs were Capts. Frank Jones, Will Scott, K. J. Brooks and Gillette. Capt. Brooks settled Brooks county, which was named for him. He represented the county in the Legislature and later was elected county judge.

“As a youngster I ran cattle for a long time, working for Lytle & McDaniel, trail drivers, and owners of big herds. I made several trips over the trail, starting from Medina county and winding up at Abilene or Wichita, Kansas. The Cattle in those days were longhorns without the least trace of improved blood, and were almost as wild as deer. The western half of Texas was wide open range, covered with knee-high grasses, on which cattle fattened as they journeyed north. It required, ordinarily four months to move a herd from Medina County to Kansas.

"There being no fences, cattle mixed to a considerable extent and at the roundups cattlemen found the brands of all their neighbors represented in their herds. To save the labor of cutting out they usually bought all the strays among their cattle. The standing price in the 70's and was $3 a head for yearlings and $11 for steers.

“In early days closely pressed outlaws in south Texas found safe passage out of the country by enlisting as trail drivers. One year, about 1876, the sheriffs of the counties of the Southwest turned over to the rangers a batch of indictments with descriptions of the boys wanted. The rangers stationed themselves at the head of the Llano river, stopped each herd and cut out the cowboys. They made so many arrests that some of the herds were left without men enough to handle them. C. K. Burr, now living in San Antonio was one of the rangers employed in this work.

“The rocky counties of the Southwest, including Val Verde, Edwards, Kinney, Uvalde, Real and Medina were long passed up by the settlers as worthless, just as the covered wagons crossed the Sandy lands of East Texas as people traverse a desert. And just as the people of East Texas have grown rich by cultivating vegetables, fruit, melons and berries, so the people of the rocky counties have found prosperity in raising goats, sheep and fine cattle. There are no more longhorn cattle or Mexican goats in those counties.

"Arnold and Landrum of Uvalde county made the first importation of Angora goats in 1885 and Mr. Witt introduced the first African goat 12 years ago. He paid $1,200 for it, but it died in a short time. African goats at an auction early this year brought all the way from $300 to $800 each. African goats, which it appears are not easily procured, yield fleeces of mohair which is so valuable that the owners of herds of them will give the kids to anyone who will bind himself to give them the first shearing of mohair in payment. Our rocky region is stocked with Angora and African goats and the finest grades of sheep and cattle, and it is rolling in prosperity. Our people have found out how to smite the barren rocks in a way to make them gush forth riches.

20,000+ more pages of Texas history, written by those who lived it! Searchable flash drive or DVD here

$129.95

BREAKING UP THE LAWLESS ELEMENT IN TEXAS - Major W. M. Green, Texas Ex-Rangers' Association

2016-02-08

From Hunter’s FRONTIER TIMES Magazine, May, 1924

I first saw the light in January, 1854, near Peach Tree Village, in Tyler county, Texas. My parents moved to Hill county in 1855 and to Johnson county in 1856, where my mother died in 1859, and father died at Little Rock, Arkansas in 1861, so like Uncle Dick Sullivan,I know what the life of an orphan is. In February, 1874, I went to the little town of Comanche and joined Captain M. R. Green's company of Rangers, but as soon as Richard Coke became Governor of Texas we were disbanded. In May of that same year I enlisted in Company A, Frontier Battalion, commanded by Captain John R. Waller of Erath County.

A little digression here will more fully explain some things that I shall mention later. There was a notorious gang over the line of Comanche and Brown counties, but making their headquarters in the latter county, and this gang seemed to take great delight in coming over in Comanche and "painting the town red," as they termed it. In the course of time the good people of Comanche became weary of this sort of thing and determined to put a stop to it. Fair warning was given these lawless characters, but they did not seem to realize that the slumbers of a sleeping lion was being disturbed, and they came once too often. Marshal Jeff Green was on the job, and in trying to quiet things he was forced to use extreme measure with the result that one member of the gang, Charlie Davis, was killed and Jim Beard ran a narrow risk and got out of town alive, it being reported afterwards that he had several bullet holes through his clothing.

After this Charlie Webb, a deputy sheriff of Brown county, arrested Jim Baird and Jim Buck Waldrip and they were sent to the penitentiary for stealing cattle. So by reason of these acts Jeff Green and Charlie Webb were slated to be killed.

Along about the first of May, John Wesley Hardin and Jim Taylor, from down on the Guadalupe river, made their appearance in this region, then came others from Corsicana, including the Dickson boys, the two Anderson boys, and Alex Barekman. It seemed that none but Hardin and Taylor knew just what their mission to Comanche was but it is supposed they came to get with the leaders and to be protected from charges then opening against them at Corsicana. This gang laid plans to get Green and Webb because of the killing of Davis and the conviction of Beard and Waldrip. However, Jeff Green's friends had their ears to the ground and their eyes on the indicator, and kept him warned of the gang's movements and intentions. They persuaded him to keep close about home, and to give the gang no advantage whatever. He very reluctantly heeded their admonitions and I have always said that in doing so it was one of the bravest acts of his life, for he was an absolute stranger to fear and would not have hesitated to engage the whole gang in combat, but his friends knew that it would be suicide for him to undertake to discharge the functions of his office under the circumstances and they intervened to await a more opportune time for action. The gang, in order to get Charlie Webb over from Brownwood, matched a horse race between the Dickson Colt and the "Old Squaw," two noted horses to be run at Comanche on the 28th of May, 1874. The race had been pretty well announced and quite a number of men from Brownwood came over to see it, among them being Charlie Webb, This was just what Hardin and his gang were hoping for. The race came off in the afternoon, but I do not remember which horse won. Red liquor flowed freely all day, and betting ran high. The race over and all went to town and the usual tippling was being indulged in until late in the evening, and it seemed that the day was going to pass without anything out of the ordinary happening. Suddenly the familiar crack of the Smith & Wesson 44 and the colt's 45 rang out on the evening breeze to herald the tidings of a murder most foul. When the smoke had cleared away Charlie Webb lay dead on the street in Comanche, the victim of John Wesley Hardin, JimTaylor and Bud Dickson. After the killing the outlaws scampered away laughing about how they had shot their victim. Charlie Webb was a good citizen and one of the best and bravest peace officers in West Texas. Alex Barekman, Jim Anderson, and Tom Dickson were promptly arrested , but Barekman made his escape during the night.

The real hunt now began. Company A had been sworn in on the 25th of May, one half at Stephenville and the other half at Comanche. Our company was quickly mobilized at Comanche and camped on the public square. Major Jones was at Corsicana, and did not get to Comanche in time to take part in the work. We had no guns, but the officers secured what arms they could to use until our needle guns were sent up from Austin. Bud Dickson was captured the second day after the killing, and that left the two, Hardin and Taylor still at large. They were seen almost every day by citizens and several times the rangers exchanged shots with them, but as there were but few horses in the country equal to those of the outlaws it was impossible to get close enough to kill them with six-shooters and shotguns. Barekman and Ham Anderson were in hiding but were not seen for several days. Hardin and Taylor's favorite hiding place was in the Big Thicket, ten miles north, and at Round Mountain about the same distance northwest of town, the two places being five or six miles apart. When the Rangers got too hot for them at the Big Thicket they would pull out for the mountain. The chase had not gone on many days until the people saw they had to put Hardin's father and brother under guard. On one occasion a sheriff's posse ran onto Barekman and Anderson and captured their horses and saddles, but failed to get the men. Three or four days later, however, they were found in the eastern part of the county and killed. By this time Hardin and Taylor had not been seen for several days, and it was believed they had left the country.

_____________________________________

Love Texas history?

JOIN OUR FACEBOOK GROUP

Never miss a story!

Free downloads

_____________________________________

Soon after the killing of Barekman and Anderson a crowd of about forty men came at a late hour one night and took Hardin's brother, Joe G.Hardin, Bud and Tom Dickson from the guards and hung them. Dr. Brockers, who had been arrested, was not molested. The sheriff of Hamilton county had six men who had been arrested and about 2500 cattle from DeWitt county. So a detachment of Rangers were sent to Hamilton for them and brought them up to Comanche a few days later. About this time a detachment brought in Bud Galbraith and one Hickey wanted in Bosque county. They had been captured in Lampasas county. When the deputy sheriff of Bosque county came for them a detachment of Rangers was sent with him to Meridian. Galbraith pretended to be sick on the way and the officer, whose name was Pierson, secured a wagon, and putting his own and Galbraith's horse to it, arranged for Galbraith to lie down in the wagon behind the seat. The Rangers with Hickey on horseback out traveled the wagon and soon passed out of sight. Galbraith saw his chance and sprang upon Pierson and killed him with his (Pierson's) pistol, and made his getaway by taking the horse from the wagon and riding off.

The day after Pierson left Comanche with Galbraith and Hickey, Sergeant Atkinson with a detail of twelve Rangers, including myself, left Comanche for Austin with seven members of the Hardin and Taylor gang, including the six men brought up from Hamilton and the old doctor previously mentioned. Our sergeant was a good fellow, but was fresh from the States and knew but little about Texas outlaws. Leaving Comanche we had to travel a bridle way for more than a day, and the sergeant conceived the idea of tying the horses of the two worst men, White and Taylor, together in order that they might not escape. All went well until we had to cross a deep ravine. When these two horses got to the bottom of the ravine they could do nothing but spin around. I was instructed to go down and get them out, and after working at the task for some time I found that the sergeant and I differed very much as to how to handle the situation. But I was permitted to have my way and untied the horses and we rode out of the ravine with ease. I thought the matter was closed, but not so, for the sergeant turned to me with a sarcastic smile and said, "Now that you are so d—d smart, you may tie White to your saddle for the rest of the way," not knowing that he conferred upon me a very great honor. White was about thirty years of age and one of Hardin and Taylor's most dangerous men. Those fellows were all of the man-killing type, and White had been placed in my hands (I, a mere boy of 20 years) for safekeeping! On the way to Austin we stopped for a night at Liberty Hill and tried to get the constable at that place to take charge of the prisoners, but we were told that those fellows had friends around Liberty Hill and if they heard of us we would have trouble with them before day. We went to a hardware store and purchased locks and chains and strung them like fish, then put them to bed on a porch in front of the store building.

We arrived in Austin on Sunday evening, expecting to be relieved of our charges Monday morning and start back to our company at Comanche, but were held there until Wednesday, guarding our prisoners in the office of the Kingsbury Hotel. During this time it had become known by some friends of the outlaws that they were prisoners in the hands of the State Rangers at Austin, and five or six of them came in to see the prisoners and were permitted by the sergeant, over the protest of some of the boys, to talk to them privately. It is evident that a plot was entered into at that time, as the reader will see later, to trap the Rangers. The presence of these friends of the outlaws was reported to General Steele and Governor Coke, and the report was put out on Tuesday that we would leave Austin at four o'clock Wednesday morning for Cuero, on the train. It was thought this would disconcert the gang, but instead we were ordered to leave Austin at one o'clock Wednesday morning on horseback. We had breakfast about fifteen miles out of Austin. As we nooned that day we saw three of those fellows pass on the stage, and we then knew they had kept strict watch on our movements at Austin and were depending on the prisoners to carry out their part of the plot. Before leaving Austin Governor Coke gave us a bit of advice which may seem strange to some of the younger set that the governor of the state would do such a thing, but Governor Coke was a real man and he understood the conditions. He instructed us to use every precaution and if there was an effort made to take our prisoners from us that we should kill them (the prisoners) and then do the best we could for ourselves.

We were on the lookout all the while for we knew that Hardin and Taylor had about forty men altogether, and we could account for only twelve of them. We stopped a little early Thursday evening as one of our boys, Dave Hudson. was sick, and by the time the sun went down supper was over and all bunks made down. We always had the prisoners to make their beds side by side so closer watch could be kept over them during the night. When we began to drag up our saddles for pillows Dave Hudson found that his two six-shooters had been removed from their holsters. On account of being sick he had taken them off and swung them to the horn of his saddle. The prisoners had all gone to bed by this time, and of course knew nothing of the discovery that the two guns were missing. The bunks were about thirty yards from Hudson's saddle. The boys quickly put the prisoners under cover with their needle guns and made them get up, and found the pistols under the pillows of White and Taylor. We made them all go back to bed and the boys were instructed to kill any of them that raised up without first calling the guard, and they were told that it might be best to not roll over too often.

Everything went well until noon Friday. The prisoners had all morning been pleading with the sergeant to cross the Guadalupe river at a ferry twenty miles above Clinton and go down on the west side. We nooned at the ferry after crossing the river. As some of the boys were cooking dinner two negroes, an old man and a boy, came along and Fayette Oxford and myself began questioning them as to whether they knew any of the men in our crowd, and we found they knew all of the prisoners, but none of the rest of us. We told the old negro we had these men as prisoners and were taking them to Clinton, and that they had told us the nearest and best route was down the west side of the river. The negro then told us that it was "des seben miles ober dar to John Wes Hardin's headquatahs." We reported to the sergeant what the old negro had told us and informed him that we would not go down the west side of the river. We made it into Clinton about nine o'clock Friday night, but before we got there, however, Taylor made a pass to get away, but failed. We had to cross the Guadalupe at Clinton and when we arrived at the bridge it happened that I was in the lead with my man, White. It was getting pretty dark and when I left the bridge—started up the bank I rode right into 200 men before I knew there was a man over there. I was not scared, but my spurs just kept rattling. I called for the sheriff and found he was standing near me, and he spoke very low and asked where the prisoners were. Very quietly he took the prisoners from their horses and put other men on them, then called out loudly for us to take them to the hotel for supper. We turned to the right and went up the river about 300 yards to the hotel with all the crowd following, thinking we had the prisoners, but by the time they had discovered the ruse the sheriff had a strong posse placed. We had a good night's rest and our horse's fared well Saturday. On Saturday night we were called upon to help protect the prisoners, which we did. We were informed by several men that when we left they would hang those outlaws. We departed from Clinton Sunday morning, and when we reached Austin we were told that the threat had been made good—that the prisoners were hanged Sunday night.

A few days later we reported to Captain Waller at Comanche and moved up near Carter's ranch on Big Sandy in Stephens county, twenty miles north of where the town of Cisco now stands where we put in our time chasing the redskins.

CLICK HERE

TEXAS RANGERS CHRISTMAS IN 1862

2015-12-24

The following article was written by Austin Callan, well known feature writer, was brought to the Chronicle office by Mrs. W. E. Wood. The R. C. Morgan whose name appears in the article several times is Mrs. Wood's father, Two other men featured in the article, Frank Alexander and John Sinclair are her uncles. Col. J. E. McCord, father of J. P. McCord, is also mentioned.

The Christmas of 1862 was a cheerless Christmas to West Texans. Most of the able-bodied men were away from home, serving in the Confederate Army and their women and children poorly protected from roving Indians.

The 46th Texas Cavalry, organized for the safety of the Texas frontier was made up of young men living out there from the Colorado river westward. Col J. E. McCord, for many years a prominent and much beloved citizen of Coleman, Texas, commanded the 46th Cavalry. In December, 1862, he established a ranger camp at the foot of Santa Anna mountains, in Coleman county.

Comanches had been raiding in that vicinity and their trail led through a gap in these mountains. Among the men assigned to the ranger camp were Lieut. John Sparks, later governor of Nevada, Frank Alexander, John Guest, R. C. Morgan and John Sinclair. They were experienced frontiersmen, accustomed to Indian scouting and fighting.

The day before Christmas a blizzard had swept through the Santa Anna gap, accompanied by heavy snowfall. The ranger camp was, therefore, a cold cheerless place with its tents, improvised bunks, crude cooking utensils, and scant supply of provisions.

"We'll miss our hot plum pudding this Christmas," Lt. Sparks said to the boys, as he pulled back the tent flap and looked out upon the storm which had slightly abated.

"Yep, and we'll miss the Virginia Reel with them Jim Ned creek girls" put in John Sinclair, puffing at his pipe and thinking of more peaceful days when Earl Van Doren, E.Kirby Smith, John B. Hood, and Fitzhugh Lee, now fighting for the Confederacy, made merry at Camp Colorado, in Coleman county.

Frank Alexander was a rugged ranger, noted for physical strength and plain speech. He snarled at the mention of plum pudding and "leg-shaking," as he called dancing. Lifting a cup of black coffee to his lips, he said, "This ain't no sort of country for a fellow to be thinking of such trimmings as you boys mention. It's a place for fighting men and jerked beef. By the holy lizards, I'll miss no ginger cake or shin-digging, but I'm going to miss my turkey gobbler and rich stuffing."

"That gives me an idea, Frank, "Lt. Sparks said, smiling. "We can have a turkey for Christmas. It is not far down to that thicket where Guest said he saw a big bunch of wild turkey at sundown the other day. It's on Santa Anna creek, you know. I'm going to detail you and John Sinclair to go down there and get the bird. I'll have Morgan barbecue it, then we'll have a sure-enough Christmas dinner."

Alexander and Sinclair agreed to get the turkey, if there "air any to be had," as they put it.

When the two rangers were ready to go, John Sinclair winked at one of the boys and said: "I reckon there ain't any sneaking Comanches prowling around in a storm like this."

"Well, what of it?" retorted Alexander." I'd as lief fetch in an Indian buck as a turkey gobbler. The same amount of powder is burnt for one as t'other. Maybe, I'll be able to get a Comanche to put in your sock in the morning. Try hanging it up."

"Maybe you'll have a Comanche in those red top boots you are wearing," ventured Lt. Sparks. "If I were you I'd leave them in camp. They will catch some Indian's eye."

"Never mind, " laughed Frank. "The red devil who gets these boots will have to catch the fastest colt in the 46th Texas Cavalry."

_____________________________________

Love Texas history?

JOIN OUR FACEBOOK GROUP

Never miss a story!

Free downloads

_____________________________________

Soon the two rangers, Alexander and Sinclair, were riding toward Santa Anna creek. By now the snowflakes were flying fast and thick, swallowing up the rangers before they were a hundred yards from camp. It was a nasty blizzard, and only game men would face its fury to secure turkey meat for Christmas dinner.

"They are rough and ready cusses," commented Lt. Sparks, looking in the direction taken by Alexander and Sinclair, "but as gritty as the sand in these hills. Such men make a red-blooded fellow love the frontier. I reckon either one of them would tackle the devil. They seem to get as much pleasure out of courting danger as courting girls over at the settlement.”

The thicket on Santa Anna creek was miles from the ranger camp. Alexander and Sinclair had been there many times, or else they could not have picked their way in such a blinding snow storm. Certain familiar trees and landmarks along the route assured them they were going in the right direction.

Once Alexander checked his horse, listening intently. "Did you hear that?" he asked Sinclair. "It sounded like a wolf and any wolf prowling around in a blizzard like this is a fool."

"I reckon it was the wind howling," Sinclair said, and the two rode on in silence.

Finally arriving at a point on Santa Anna creek, where there were heavy live oak trees, they dismounted and crept up under the trees, presuming that turkeys would seek shelter in the protected bottom. It was impossible to see far ahead, but at fifty yards Alexander caught sight of a big, lone gobbler. As the turkey disappeared in a thicket, he ran around the opposite side, hoping it would come out of the brush and he would get a shot at it.

Sinclair, meanwhile saw several turkeys running in an opposite direction and took in after them.

Alexander, still waiting for the gobbler to come out of the thicket, decided to smoke his pipe. He put his gun down in order to crumble some tobacco in the palm of his hand. While thus engaged, he heard brush rustling back of him. Turning quickly around, he ducked just in time to avoid a knife thrust from a powerful savage who had sneaked up behind him. As Alexander ducked, he caught the Indian's wrist in a vice-like grip, the wrist of the hand holding the deadly knife. A desperate struggle now ensued for possession of the knife.

Frank Alexander was a giant in strength. No man in the 46th Cavalry could put his shoulders to the grass. The savage, though large and sinewy, was no match for the ranger. Still holding the Indian at bay by the wrist in that vice-like grip, Alexander slowly but surely forced him to his knees, and finally down flat on his back. Having his enemy now helpless and realizing it was a battle to the death, with no quarter, the ranger wrested the knife from the savage and instantly plunged it to the hilt in his heart.

To Alexander, the killing of this Indian was no great feat, just an incident in frontier life. He never liked to talk about the tragedy. Once he did remark: "I'm not rejoicing. Maybe, that red skin wanted a Christmas turkey, too. Maybe he loved life, like the rest of us. But darn him, he had no business going after my scalp. That's where he made a mistake."

John Sinclair did not know Alexander was battling with an Indian for his life. He was too busy chasing and killing turkeys a mile down the creek. He bagged two fat gobblers, enough to provide a real Christmas treat.

Christmas morning the sun broke clear through sullen skies, sending scintillating beams over miles of level, snow covered prairie—a magnificent sight. No Christmas carols or Christmas chimes heralded the great day in the ranger camp—this lonely camp out on the fringe of civilization—but an odor of barbecued turkey brought memories of home and smiles to ranger faces.

By noon Bob Morgan had the turkeys cooked to an appetizing brown, even surprising everybody with pecan dressing inside the turkeys. Also, as an added surprise, was a pan of baked apple dumplings. The boys had taken seats at the rough pine board dining table, all except Lt. Sparks. He came in at last, freshly shaved, took a seat at the head of the table, bowed his head and offered the following supplication:

"Lord, we thank thee for this good day, for thy many blessings, for peace on earth and goodwill to men. But above all, Lord, do we thank thee for the safe return of our comrade-in-arms, Frank Alexander, and for this wonderful Christmas dinner."

______________________________________

How About The Gift of History for the Holiday?

PLUS (FOR A LIMITED TIME) WE WILL ADD 12 HARD COPY MAGAZINES AT NO EXTRA COST!!!

Click here to get yours!

Colonel Buck Barry

2015-11-17

Colonel Buck Barry

J. Marvin Hunter, Sr.

From J. Marvin Hunter's Frontier Times Magazine, October, 1947

Colonel James Buckner Barry, better known to early Texans as "Buck" Barry, was one of those intrepid Texas Rangers, who before, during, and after the Civil War, became famous for his valor in defending the frontier and was noted for his high individual courage in all times of danger. He died at his home in Walnut Springs, Bosque county, nearly forty years ago at the ripe age of 87. Colonel Barry's history originated in the traditional wists of Irish annals. Two hundred years ago his great grandfather, James Buckner Barry, and three brothers were involved in a rebellion against the British crown, which, being put down, they were compelled to flee the country of years ago his great grandfather, settling at Beaufort, North Carolina, and the other brothers finding homes elsewhere in the colonies. One brother was Commodore Barry, father of the American Navy. The Colonel's father, Bryan Buckner, was seven years old when Cornwallis surrendered,

Colonel Barry, the subject of this sketch, was born in North Carolina, December 16, 1821, passed his boyhood on the farm and received his education in the subscription schools, and while a young man taught the first free school in the state of North Carolina. In the early 1830s an older brother had gone to Texas and on his return had many unusual narratives to relate of the wonderful country west of the Red and Sabine rivers.

Colonel Barry often spoke of him when he came to Texas while this country was a Republic. He said: "I went up Red River by boat to the place where Jefferson now is, and my first meal in Texas was eaten in the piney woods, on a pine log about three feet high, for which the price asked was twenty-five cents, but all the money I had was a dime, so my host had to take that." He located a headright of 640 acres of land near Corsicana. "You ask what my gainful occupation was in those days. Now, to be frank, I hunted most of the time, I had a farm, some negroes, and raised crops, but there was more hunting than anything else. The country was just as God Almighty left it. He had said, `Subdue the land,' and I went to work to subdue it. There were panthers, bear and every other kind of feathered and furry game, and it was quite in line with my love for outdoor life to give my time to the chase rather than the more prosaic occupations of farming."

While the Republic was still in existence he became identified with the Ranger service, for which his life history is especially notable. He first joined an independent company at San Antonio, and later became connected with Captain Jack Hays' company in North Texas. "Let me tell you how the country was protected in those days. You have heard of the famous 'minutemen' of the Revolution, and right here on the Texas frontier all the settlers were subjected to the same sort of service. Every man kept his arms ready and forty rounds of ammunition in reserve, and when the call came, even if it was in the dead of night or in the midst of storm or sickness, he hurried from home to the defense of his brother pioneers. But these men, under the command of Jack Hays, were the couriers and messengers rather than actual protectors of the frontier. They were under the imperative order, `Get into no fights,' which was the most difficult of all commands to obey, for they were born fighters and the enemy had never whipped them till they had killed the last man of them. No, these Rangers who were in regular duty had the task of Paul Revere,when the Indian alarm was given, they rode with daredevil haste and recklessness throughout the country, arousing the minutemen and marshaling the militia army to battle with the savage foe. It was the duty of these Rangers to picket the entire frontier line, each being stationed with a few hours' ride of a comrade, so that an alarm could be sounded all over the country in a brief time. This was the kind of service I was in before annexation, and up to the time of the Mexican war, I was with a surveying party along the Trinity river.

"You must allow me to relate a little experience of mine while I was with that surveying party. We were at work in the region not far from Corsicana, and one day two buffalo hunters, who were killing the buffalo for their robes, struck our camp and spent a few hours in our company. We were resting in the edge of the woods, the surveyor being seated on a log engaged in writing up his field notes and the rest of us were smoking and chatting and quite oblivious of what was going on around us, our guns resting on the ground or against the trees. Suddenly the practiced ears of the hunters caught a familiar tread of hoofs, and, directing our eyes to the prairie, we saw a herd of some fifty or sixty buffaloes coming toward us. Of course the hunters, in line with their occupation, prepared to do execution and urged all of the party to shoot into the drove and all did so except myself, who, as somewhat of a hunter also and never killing an animal except it returned an adequate reward in meat value, refused to shoot and left my gun standing by the tree. While the others were engaged in the destruction of as many buffalo as possible, my attention was diverted to a rather unusual tussle between a big dog that belonged to the hunters and one of the buffalo. The dog, seeming to pick out his game and running up to it, grabbed the buffalo by the jaw and hung on tenaciously, although unable to stay the progress of the big foe, and the two went crashing through the brush and apart from the rest of the herd. I was curious to know the outcome of this contest, and ran up to keep in sight of the struggling animals. The three-year old bull at last found he could not shake off nor gore his enemy and was bellowing and groaning desperately, while the dog, which was a magnificent fighter, was backing around a tree, against which both braced themselves and which afforded some protection to the dog against being trampled. When I got to the spot I pulled by bowie knife, and with a deep thrust, killed the buffalo. As it sank down the dog gave its head a final shake, and, turning his big yellow eyes np to me and then to the dead beast, reluctantly concluded that the fight was over and trotted back to his, masters. As I returned I found several of the men engaged in cutting up one of the slain buffaloes to get a meat supply, and I exclaimed: "I've got a fatter buffalo than that out in the brush yonder.' `You have; how did you kill it?' was the surveyor's distrusting reply, for he knew that I had left my gun by the tree and could not believe it possible to slay a buffalo without a gun. `I ran up and killed it with my knife,' was my explanation, at which there was a roar of skeptical laughter and for several minutes they bantered me unmercifully for my supposedly `big' tale. Finally the hunters said they would go over and get the hide, and when they examined the body and could find no other wound except the knife thrust they were compelled to admit the truth of my claim. But it was not easy to convince the party that I had overtaken and dispatched the big buffalo with the knife alone, and though I afterward told my companions in the surveying party of the important connection which the dog had with the incident, the hunters had never missed their dog during the excitement of the killing and parted from me in forced admiration of my prowess as a buffalo killer."

As soon as the news of the battle of Palo Alto reached him, Mr. Barry started for the field of war. joining the company of Captain Eli Chandler, which formed a part of the famous regiment of First Texas Rangers. Jack Hays was elected Colonel of this regiment on the Palo Alto battlefield, while some of the bodies of the slain Mexicans were still lying in the grass unburied. This regiment was a part of General Taylor's army, and was engaged chiefly in reconnoitering duty to locate the enemy, clear up to the battle of Monterey, in this,battle, while a number of the force that captured the second battery in the upper part of the town, Mr. Barry was wounded, he served through the war and then returned to his Texas home.

"In one respect, at least, I differ from the opinions of most persons in regard to our neighbors south of the Rio Grande. The Mexicans are human beings. Don't call them cowards. On one occasion while our regiment of Rangers was camped before Monterey, a regiment of lancers came out and formed in our front preparing to attack us. We had not slept any for the past two nights, were listless and in great disorder and in no fit condition to give battle. Hays, with his natural quickness, took in the situation at once and to afford delay to the attack, drew his sabre and, riding out toward the Mexicans, swore at them roundly (for he could speak Spanish well) and called out that their commanding officer should come half way and fight him on the field between the two lines. The Mexican officer accepted the challenge without hesitation, I suppose Hays knew little more about using a saber in a hand-to hand fight than I did, and this probably prompted him, as soon as the Mexican advanced, to jerk out his six-shooter and with a single shot laid the officer out of his saddle. Did you ever throw a chunk of wood at a hornet's nest? Well, this action of Hays in slaying the Mexican officer had a similar effect on those Mexicans, for, instantly and while the smoke from Hays' gun was still floating in the air, they swarmed forth in gallant charge. Here again Hays showed his quick wit. `Keep behind your horses and use them as a barricade,' he commanded, knowing that it would be impossible to form in battle array. Thus shielded, we stood and received the charge with deadly volleys from our pistols, but the lancers never wavered and their rush carried them clear through our lines to the rear, where they wheeled and, in perfect order, hurled themselves upon us with their lances. Although many of their number fell in these two attacks without corresponding loss on our part, they had no sooner formed in their original position when they repeated the charge and again submitted themselves to our deadly fire from behind our protecting horses. Fully eighty of the enemy were killed in this series of charges, while their lances were effective against only one or two of our number, although many were wounded, I have never since been able to call Mexicans cowards. They are a brave, gallant, chivalrous people,"

Col. Barry, after the war, returned to North Carolina, where he married his first wife, Sarah A. Matticks, and then returned to Navarro county, where he lived about ten years. He was elected the second sheriff of Navarro county, where, that being then the frontier, he had every cutthroat and desperado in Texas to deal with, but, backed up by the good citizens, he held his own and preserved law and order. "I have seen a heap of human nature and am well acquainted with the ways of men," commented the Colonel in his quaint philosophy of life. "Don't risk anything you value out of your sight. There are circumstances under which your best friends will go back on you. My experience has fastened this opinion on me, that every man on the face of the earth was born a thief and a liar. I once propounded this view in the presence of a number of people, and a preacher called me to account. `Look here, parson,' said I, `do you recollect your mother's sugar bowl? It is arrogance for us to claim to be better than our ancestors, Adam and Eve, one of whose first acts was to lie to their Creator.' Yes, I believe that priest, prince, potentate or president would swear a falsehood rather than give up their most prized possession."

About 1857, trusting to the protection which the grouping of the Indians at reservations and the better policing of the frontier with United States regulars seemed to guarantee, Colonel Barry moved to Bosque county, which has been his home ever since. But he had hardly been there a year before several persons were killed in the neighborhood and the insecurity of the isolated groups of settlers became apparent. "It was the notion of the Indians," said the Colonel, "that the soldiers were sent to protect the Indians while they were murdering the citizens of Texas, which country they did not regard as property of the United States."

Colonel Barry served under three flags, though all the while a resident of Texas: the Texas Republic, the United States and the Confederate States. He was commissioned by Governor Sam Houston to raise a company to protect the women and children of the frontier from the scalping knife of the Indian, this company being independent of the regular troops. He recruited his men from the hardy frontiersmen, he continued to hold his commission as captain under three governors, and when Texas seceded he paraded his men, read them the news of the secession, and then addressed them: "Secession or union, war or peace between the states, this frontier must be protected, and I want just as many of you as can stay with me." Fully half of his force chose to remain and his company was soon recruited to full strength. He continued in the Ranger service throughout the war, and from captain became major, then lieutenant-colonel, and as such performed practically all the field service. His headquarters for the greater part of the time were at Camp Cooper, and his range of operations called him all along the frontier from the Red River to the Rio Grande. Buck Barry's Rangers were justly famed through that period, for they were a body of men as fearless in face of personal danger, as resolute in performance of duty, and as loyal to all the offices of a frontier soldier as any similar organization known to history. They were constantly on duty, and a few hours of repose were granted to a Texas Ranger in those trying times. Colonel Barry claimed that his original company was responsible for the killing of all but three of the Indians slain by the entire regiment during the war. Such was his success as an Indian fighter and defender of the frontier that the State Legislature at its twelfth session voted him a present of the finest gun that could be bought. It was his fortune on four different occasions to be thrown into single-handed conflict with Indians, from all of which he escaped victorious and unscathed.

"During the latter part of the war," Colonel Barry related, "the Indians became so insistently hostile that I was compelled to concentrate two companies at Fort Belknap. About forty miles away, at Camp McCord, were stationed Captain M. B. Loyd and Captain Whiteside, each with his company. To assist them in the capacity of guides, messengers, etc., they had about eighty of the friendly Tonkawa Indians, who always remained loyal to the Texans. One day a soldier who had been out scouting around over the country was observed, when still at a considerable distance out on the prairie, to be returning with an Indian prisoner. Immediately the Tonkawas began jumping up and down, throwing their arms about in exultant gesticulations, and yelling, `Kiowa!, Kiowa!’ The scout had taken a lone Kiowa prisoner, thinking him to be a Tonk, and was escorting him back to his tribe. No sooner had the unfortunate Kiowa arrived in camp than the Tonkawas demanded him for execution according to their own barbarous customs, saying they were going to eat him.

The idea of cannibalizing the prisoner was, of course, abhorrent to Captain Loyd, and he was placed in a dilemma, for, at the same time, he felt it very necessary to keep the Tonkawas conciliated and do nothing to offend them as valuable allies. He accordingly sent a messenger post-haste to me, as Colonel commanding, asking what should be done in the matter. I studied for a solution of the difficulty for some time, and finally sent back word, `Tell the Captain he is not my Indian; he belongs to the scout who made the capture,' Thus I thought to relieve myself of all odium which might attach to the transaction. You understand that the message was delivered orally, for both the Captain and myself were shrewd enough to write no order, which would in time have found its way to the superior officers and might have brought abou t a courtmartial. The incident never was officially reported. Well, the question of possession being settled, the Indians went for the scout to turn over the prisoner to them, the scout refused for a day or two. Finally a duel between one Ton k and the Kiowa was suggested as the best manner of settlement, but the Tonks would take no such risks; they understood the prowess of the Kiowa too well, and knew that such a fight would afford their quarry but a certain method of escape. Finally it was agreed, and the Captain gave a reluctant consent, that three Tonkawas should fight the lone Kiowa. On the appointed day the entire populace went out to witness this strange form of the ancient gladiator combat. Two companies of soldiers, all the citizens, and the friendly Indians formed a close circle around the arena set apart for the contestants, the ground chosen being situated between Battle Creek and Deep Creek. Bows and arrows were the weapons and each Indian had three arrows. Of course the Kiowa was at a disadvantage, for his three adversaries could flank him and he could do little more than dodge and maneuver after he had spent his three arrows. But he put up a gallant fight. Finally being struck with an arrow, he pulled it out of his flesh, and threatening his assailants so savagely that they for the moment drew back, he eluded them and ran straight through the line of Rangers that blocked one side of the arena. The Tonkawas and citizens alike excitedly urged the Rangers to kill him, until one trooper, named Campbell, pulled out his six-shooter and with a single shot brought down the fleeing savage. Then followed a triumphant revel over the slain. A big fire was built, they all came up and cut off a piece of flesh each liked best, and around the leaping flames they danced in hideous and fantastic motions, burning the Kiowa's flesh on a spit, raving over it, chewing it, foaming at the mouth, and in every fashion known to barbarism showing their vengeance over an inveterate foe. They did not really eat the flesh, but their mouthing of it seemed just as repellent to the white men. Captain Loyd, in this affair, had three parties to please, the Rangers, the citizens, and the Tonkawas, and though repugnant though the incident is to modern civilization, it was the only avenue of escape from a very perplexing situation."

Colonel Barry returned to his farm in Bosque county after his Ranger service was over. He subsequently served as a member of the Legislature, and his activities in all lines were so prominent as to make him one of the best known old timers in Northwest Texas. His children grew up to be honored men and women, and he had an ideal home life in the companionship of his wife and family. His wife, his second marriage, whose maiden name was Martha Peveler, was herself an interesting pioneer woman, having come to the Republic of Texas in 1839.

Enjoy reading first-hand accounts from the settlers and pioneers of the Texas frontier? There’s lot’s more here.

Neal Coldwell, a Gallant Texas Ranger

2014-12-02

[From J. Marvin Hunter’sFrontier Times Magazine, January, 1926]

Captain Neal Coldwell was born in Dade county, Missouri, May 2nd, 1844 and died at his home near Lenten Point, Texas, November 7, 1925. His father, Thomas Coldwell, was a soldier under General Jackson in the War of 1812, and participated in the famous battle of New Orleans, fought on January 18th, 1815. The best sketch of the life of Captain Neal Coldwell, who became famous as a frontiersman and Texas Ranger, is Given in A. J. Sowell's book, "Texas Indian Fighters," and we herewith reproduce the sketch in full:

"In 1850 Thomas Coldwell immigrated to California, going the overland route across the plains. His was quite a large outfit, consisting of five wagons with five yoke of oxen in each, and one spring wagon and ambulance for the members of the family to ride in. Besides this he carried extra horses for the vehicles and 100 head of Missouri cattle. In his pay also as guards, were fifteen men under the command of Captain Stockton.

"This was a long, tedious trip, and fraught with many dangers and hardships. Many Indians were met on the route, but most of them were friendly. Near Carson river, however, one night a hostile band made a raid and stole all of their horses and part of the cattle. Next morning the guards followed them on foot and succeeded in getting the cattle back, but not the horses, and they now had to work oxen to everything. Finally Mr. Coldwell bought several head of horses from some friendly Indians and continued his journey, but was followed and overtaken by another band, who claimed the horses, saying they had been stolen from them by the ones who had sold them. There was no other alternative but to give them up, and the Indians drove them back.

“Neal Coldwell was then but six years of age, but distinctly remembers all of these things, and says one circumstance which made a vivid impression on his mind was crossing the desert, which consumed two days and nights of travel. It was a sandy country with no water on the route, and was strewn with abandoned wagons and other possessions of those who had gone the trail previous. Feather beds had been ripped to save the cloth and the feathers had been scattered promiscuously by the winds across the sandy wastes. He saw men chopping spokes out of wagons wheels for fuel, and yokes and chains were lying in front of abandoned wagons where they had been dropped and the given-out teams carried on to water and grass. These wagons were public property for anyone who was disposed to pick them up, as the owners never returned for them, not being worth a trip back in the deep sand to recover them. The elder Coldwell exchanged wagons several times, finding some he liked better than his own among the hundreds that strewed the desert plain. Twelve miles from Grass Valley an enterprising individual was found by the roadside selling grass and water, the latter at $1 per gallon. The Coldwell family finally reached their destination, and Mr. Coldwell went into the stock business. His cattle were the first Missouri stock to cross the plains, and some of them sold for $150 per head. None but Spanish stock had been here previously. Gold dust was the circulating medium in trade, and each dealer, in whatsoever business he was engaged, had his scales to weigh the gold dust.

"In 1852 the elder Coldwell died, and in 1856 Mrs. Coldwell went back with her family to Tennessee, her native state. Here young Neal Coldwell attended the Black Grove and Newmarket schools until 1850, when his mother with her family came to Texas, and reached Kerr county in 1860.

"In 1862, during the progress of the Civil War, young Coldwell enlisted in the company of Captain Eugene B. Millet, 32nd Texas Cavalry, the regiment commanded by Col. P. C. Wood. Their field of operation was in Louisiana, opposing the invading army under General Banks. He participated in all of the battles and skirmishes, thirty-two in number, with the exception of Mansfield, his last fight being at Yellow Bayou. During one of these battles, while the regiment was under fire and not replying to it, awaiting orders, one man became nervous, and said there was no use talking, he could not stand it, and would have to move back. Sergt. John C. Douglas of Seguin told him to come and stand with him, and he would try to keep him up to the fighting point. He stood for a few minutes until a bucketful of canister shot tore up the ground in front of him, when he wilted again, and Douglas told him to go and he went. Their horses were tied in the rear and this man rode a swayback he called Rainbow. He was a humorous fellow, and telling afterwards of his fight from the battlefield, he said that when he mounted he picked old Rainbow up with his spurs and shook him three times, and when he let him down he fairly flew, only hitting the road in the high places. After the war Captain Coldwell came back to Kerr county and engaged in farming and stockraising.

"In 1875 a frontier battalion was organized to operate against the Indians, and he was appointed captain of Company F. Pat Dolan was first lieutenant, F. C. Nelson, second, and there were seventy-five enlisted men. There were six companies in all, the whole being under the command of Major John B. Jones. Their station (Captain Coldwell's men) was on the headwaters of the Guadalupe River. Their scouting territory embraced the country from the mouth of the Pulliam Prong of the Nueces to the mouth of the South Fork of the Llano, where Junction City now is. Much scouting was done, and with such energy that the Indians were kept in check without any fights, but they came near getting one band. On this occasion George Danner, William Baker and Joe Moss were camped with a wagon four miles east of the Frio Water Hole, hunting game and wild honey. They found a bee cave in a gorge and were robbing it, when they were attracted by the barking of a dog at their wagon on the hill. Climbing out to see what was the matter, they discovered a band of nine Indians who had taken their wagon horses and were driving them off, the dog followed and barking at them. The distance to the Indians was about 600 yards, but Joe Moss had a buffalo gun, and taking a pop at them, he killed one of their horses. The Indians now killed the dog and rode on. At this time Baker was out on a hunt and riding their only remaining horse. When he returned and learned the situation he at once rode to the camp of Captain Coldwell, nine miles distant, and informed him of the presence of the Indians. He set out at once to the scene with thirty men. The trail of the Indians was taken up at 5 o'clock and followed until night. It led south towards the head of the Sabinal river, and the trailing was tedious and slow, being in a timbered country abounding in high grass. The rangers camped on the divide at the head of the river, having no water, and were moving again as soon as the trail could be seen on the following morning. As they turned down into the head of the canyon a belled mare and colt were seen, and had they known the situation here they could have waited and caught the Indians, for the latter had only gone down in the valley to camp by the water, and come back to the divide next morning, but not on their own trail of the previous evening. They crossed over into another valley and came out near enough to see the mare which they captured, and killed the colt. While they were doing this Captain Coldwell and his men were trailing them to where they camped and back on the divide, where the dead colt was found, and the mare gone. Part of this time only a ridge intervened between the Indians and the rangers. The trail now led down the divide between Cypress Creek and the Frio, which came in above the town of Leakey. Here on a high point the Indians stopped for noon, having a good view of the country for several miles. and evidently saw the rangers on their trail and hastily decamped, which fact was indicated by signs of cooked meat, etc. They intended raiding Frio Canyon that night, for as yet they had only one horse beside those they were riding. This one they had stolen from Sam Larrymore on the head of the Pedernales, and had been pushed out from there by citizens who were now on their trail behind the rangers, but went back when they learned that Captain Coldwell was after them. At the noon camp of the Indians the captain left the pack mules with Sergt. W. G. Coston and five men to follow on, and he and the others pushed on as rapidly as the rough nature of the country would admit.

"To give an idea of the difficulties which had to be surmounted in crossing these rocky mountains, the following incidents will be a fair sample: In many places the rangers had to lead their horses, and in one of these Captain Coldwell was leading his by the rope with the bridle reins, over the horn of the saddle, and coming to a four-foot ledge, the horses had to make a powerful spring to clear, and all succeeded but the captain's horse. When he made his spring the bridle reins tightened and pulled him backwards and he fell in such a position with his feet uphill that he had to be turned over before he could get up. At a similar place one of the pack-mules with Sergeant Coston's party fell backwards and rolled to the foot of the hill with his pack.

"The Indians were crowded so close that the water in the little branches which they crossed was still muddy when the rangers would cross. If there had been any open country they would have been caught, but all was brakes, mountains and canyons. Much blood was on the trail where the Indians had spurred their horses. On the West Prong of the Frio two men were discovered some distance off in a little valley, and not knowing whether they were Indians or white men, and wanting to be sure to get them if the former, Captain Coldwell deployed his men and completely surrounded them. When the cordon was drawn close and they were caught in the circle, it was discovered they were white men. The latter were greatly surprised to see armed men riding towards them from every direction, and at first they were alarmed. They were busy cutting a bee tree, and did not notice the approach of the rangers until they were close upon them. They were also on the trail of the Indians but had not noticed this fact, having come into the valley after the Indians crossed it. One of the men was named Ragsdale. The rangers made another dry camp. They had no provisions, but about 10 o'clock in the night Sergeant Coston came up with the pack-mules, and they got something to eat. The Indians had the advantage of the night when the trail could no longer be followed, and got another good start ahead. They were followed however, until 3 o'clock on the following evening, when a heavy rain came up and obliterated all signs of the trail. Captain Coldwell now went down the Nueces, hoping to find the trail again but could not do so, and the pursuit was abandoned. The Indians were not heard of any more.

"In December it became necessary to reduce the ranger force and the company of Captain Coldwell was cut down to forty men and the lieutenants thrown out. Afterwards Major Jones allowed one, and W. K. Jones, (later county judge of Val Verde county) was appointed. He was a brother to the ranger captain, Frank Jones, who was killed near El Paso. Soon after the company was reduced Captain Coldwell was sent down into the Rio Grande counties with his men to stop the depredations of bandits. The territory to scout over was from Ringgold Barracks to Brownsville. By vigilant work the outlaws were kept in check during the winter. The command was now ordered in to be disbanded, and Captain Coldwell instructed to turn over State government property, mules, etc., but with the view of organizing a new company for further operations against Indians and lawless characters. The home of Captain Coldwell was near Center Point, in Kerr county, and here he had the government mules, with a man employed to look after them. They were turned out during the day ad rounded up and penned again at night. On one occasion a mule failed to show up, having strayed, and that night the Indians made a raid through the valley and carried him off, also a horse belonging to Monroe Surber. Captain Coldwell followed the Indians far to the west, over the rugged mountains, but failed to overtake them, as they scattered and went various ways.

"At this time Lon Spencer and a companion, whose name cannot now be recalled, were out on the head draws of the South Llano hunting game or mustangs, and saw two Indians coming towards them a long way off, and ambushed them. When they came within gunshot each selected his man to shoot at, and both fired. Spencer killed his Indian, but the other man missed, and one got away. Now it happened that these two Indians had the mule and horse which were stolen at Center Point, and they were recovered. Spencer brought back the recaptured property, and also the scalp of the Indian and his rigging.

"In 1876 another company was organized with Captain Coldwell as commander. Their scouting territory was the same as before, and they did a great deal of it. On one scout of ten days, while returning, they came upon some cattlemen at Painted Rocks, on the South Llano, who were carrying a herd to Kansas. They informed the rangers that the Indians made a raid on another cow outfit at Green Lake, six miles above, and captured eleven head of their horses. Captain Coldwell at once repaired to the scene with his scouts and took the trail. Their only chance for carrying water was in canteens, and as the Indians had gone out through a dry country, the captain cautioned the men to be saving with the water. It was warm weather in April, and the water soon gave out. On the second day, at night, a dry camp was made in a draw, and the men were suffering very much with thirst. They looked bad—skin dry and lips swollen. During the night they were very restless, and moaning in their sleep. Some arose and scratched in the dry gravel of the draw, trying to find moisture. Aleck Merrit, the trailer, had walked a great deal in following the trail, and had long since used up all of his water, and was suffering more than the others, who had ridden their horses. Captain Coldwell and Dr. Nowlin were lying on their blankets together, a little apart from the rest, and were commenting on the long distance Merrit had walked and trailed and expressed an opinion that he was certainly more thirsty than the balance. The captain had preserved some water in his canteen for an extreme emergency if it came, and now called Merrit and made known to him the fact, and offered him some of the water and explained to him the reason. The unselfish and true Texas ranger refused it, because he thought it would look wrong in him to accept it when the other boys had none, and went back to his pallet and suffered on through the following day. When water was found the men could not very well be restrained, and many of them drank until they were sick. Eighteen Indians had camped here the night before, as was indicated by the imprint of their bodies in the rank grass where they slept. Just below, in the same little valley, a like number had spent the night and held a bunch of horses there. It is likely well enough that the rangers did not come into contact with this band, numbering thirty-six to their twelve, in the famished and weakened condition they were in. The scout was held here two days.

"George Beakley's horse had given out and was not able to keep on the trail of the Indians, and the captain did not want to leave him alone, so a return towards camp was made, Beakley riding a pack mule and slowly leading his jaded horse.The captain had Rankers on both sides while on the move, and one of these, William Layton, became lost from the command. He was seen during the greater part of the day, but finally he was missed and the command halted. The captain got on an elevated place and searched for him with a spy glass, but could not discover him. He hated to leave the man, but it was useless to go back to hunt for him, as they could not even guess where to look. The grass was fired with the hope that the smoke might be seen by him and to some extent guide him, and the scout moved on. The men would soon be out of water again, and it was twenty-five miles back to it. Provisions were left in a tree, so that if the lost ranger should strike their trail he could find it. Two nights passed before anything was seen or heard of him and he was about given up as lost in fact, when on the third day he overtook them. He had crossed the trail of the rangers once and did not see it, and turned back when he discovered that he was going too low down the country. His horse took the trail when he came to where the grass was burned, and followed it as true as the needle to the pole. It was at the next water that the provisions were left at the tree, and by the time he reached that place they were very acceptable to the hungry ranger. Layton had not been in the service very long. An old time Texas ranger would not have gotten into such a scrape as that.

"In the following December Captain Coldwell was put in command of Company A, which acted as escort to Major Jones, and was almost constantly employed in going from one post to another, inspecting paying off, etc.

"In 1877 Major Jones, with Captain Coidwell's command, Pat Dolan's and Frank Moore's companies, were ordered to concentrate. Captain Dolan was in Nueces Canyon and Captain Frank Moore was on the Llano, where Junction City is now. The purpose of assembling the rangers was to round up the whole country around the heads of the Nueces and Llanos, and arrest every man in it. This part of the country had become headquarters for all the desperadoes, outlaws, horse and cattle thieves, and fugitives from justice in the whole Southwest and from the East, and the intention of apprehending every man was to be certain to get the right ones, as the rangers could not distinguish the guilty parties. Each man was examined and he had to give a satisfactory account of himself before he was turned loose. Forty men out of this round-up proved to be the persons wanted, and they were carried to Junction City and there confined in shackles in a place called the "bull pen." Junction City was just being laid off. There were only a few houses there—no jail or court-house—although it was designated as the county seat of Kimble county. Judge Blackburn had arrived there to hold court, and the rangers remained to give protection in case of any of the outlawry kind gave trouble. But these at the time were all in durance vile in the "bull pen," and everything passed off smoothly during this first term of court in Kimble county. Court was held under a large live oak tree, and to give color to this primitive court of justice in the wilderness, a swarm of wild bees were working in the tree under which were assembled judge and jury, lawyers and witnesses. The arrested men were all turned over to the civil authorities.

"After this Captain Coldwell went to Frio town and operated in surrounding counties, capturing outlaws and desperate characters in that part of the country. During this service he and his scouts apprehended more than forty men and brought them to justice.

"The last rangers were different from the first—the Indian-fighting rangers. Many of them were detectives from other states and different parts of this state. The first ones were of the cowboy style—good riders, trailers, and shots, wearing leggings, many of them, and buckskin. The last ones, however, did splendid work in their line, which was fraught with as much danger as fighting Indians. This service was continued by Captain Coldwell until 1879.

"Governor Roberts was in the executive chair during the last mentioned date, and Major Jones was made adjutant-general, and Captain Coldwell quartermaster of the frontier battalion. His business was to make tours of inspection, furnish rations, and recommend changes of men or companies from one place to another. During this service information was received that lawless characters were operating south of Fort Davis, in the Chenati Mountains, where there were no rangers. General Jones ordered Sergt. Ed Sieker to take four men and one Mexican guide and repair to the scene. As these men figure in a fight with the outlaws in which one of them lost his life, their names will be given as follows: Sam Henry, Tom Carson, L. B. Caruthers, __ Bingham, and the Mexican, name not known. At Fort Davis Sergeant Sieker learned that the most daring of the desperadoes were four in number, one of whom was Jesse Evans, from New Mexico. They would rob stores in daylight in Fort Davis and terrorize the citizens generally, and the latter had offered a reward of $500 for their capture. The rangers learned through a negro named Louis, who occupied a netural position between the two parties, that the outlaws' stronghold was in the Chenati Mountains. He also told the latter that the rangers were after them. They believed the negro was wholly on their side, and that their position was not known. They told him if only four rangers came to hunt for them he need not put himself to the trouble to inform them, but to keep them posted in regard to a larger force.

"From the fort the rangers went south about eighty miles to near the Rio Grande, on a little creek in the Chenati range, and there, while hunting for trails, discovered four men on horseback above them. As this corresponded to the number of men they were hunting, and in their range, they turned and started towards them. The outlaws, for such they were, turned and ran, and soon commenced firing at the rangers who were in pursuit. This settled their identity, and Sergeant Seiker and his men put their horses to the utmost speed to overhaul them, firing as they went. The chase lasted two miles, until the outlaws came to a mountain which was flat on top, but on the opposite side was a ledge of rock four feet in height which ran around the circle of the mountain. The fugitives went up the mountain, across its flat crest, down the ledge to near the base, and there dismounted, tied their horses, and came back to the ledge and took a position behind it to fight the rangers. When Sergeant Sieker and his men arrived at the mountain and found out the position of the desperadoes, they went up near the crest, dismounted, tied their horses, and advanced to assault their position on foot. The Mexican had stopped back with the pack mule. The rangers deployed as they went, but were soon fired on, and a desperate charge was made across the open ground, in which Bingham was killed. His comrades were charging straight ahead, firing rapidly with their winchesters, and did not notice his fall. The bullets flew so thick along the rim of the ledge that it was death to an outlaw to get his face above it.

"The leader, Jesse Evans, kept his head above, and was fired at by Sergeant Sieker, who was charging straight toward their position, but his first ball hit the rock in front of him too low. For an instant the outlaw ducked his head and then raised it again, but only to receive a ball between the eyes from the winchester of the sergeant. The other three became rattled when he fell and ran around under the ledge, keeping their heads below, and almost ran against the muzzle of Tom Carson's gun, who had charged to the brink of the ledge and was looking over, with his gun cocked and finger on the trigger, trying to see them. Before he could fire, they begged for their life and began to throw down their arms. The other rangers congregated at this point, and Sergeant Sicker ordered them to hand up their guns and pistols and come out from under the ledge. This all happened in a very short time, and now for the first time it was discovered that Bingham was killed. The others then wanted to kill the prisoners, but were prevented by the sergeant. The sad duty of burying the dead comrade consumed several hours, as they had nothing to dig with but Bowie knives. The horses of the outlaws were brought up, on which they were mounted, securely tied, and the rangers took their departure, leaving the dead desperado under the ledge where he fell. The trip back to Fort Davis was made without further incident, and the captives put in jail there.

“To take into consideration the disadvantage under which the rangers had to charge across open ground upon a sheltered position of desperate men, armed with the best repeating guns and the numbers nearly equal, and the rapidity with which they made themselves masters of the situation, this fight has but few equals in any warfare.

"The jail at Fort Davis was of Mexican model, and was a regular dungeon. The main building was square and made of dobies, with rooms in the center and doors opening on the outside in the courtyard. The jail was in one corner of the building, and blasted out of solid rock to a proper depth and then covered over the top by strong timbers securely fastened. The egress was by a trap door. No light was in there. Into this place of utter darkness the captured outlaws were placed.

"At this time Captain Coldwell had just arrived, having been sent down there by General Jones to ascertain if any more men were needed at that place. Finding the necessity, General Jones was informed of the fact, and Captain Charles L. Neville and his men were sent. The rangers were quartered at the court and jail enclosure, and some of them stood guard there all of the time. The citizens of this place and Fort Stockton greatly rejoiced at changes which had been wrought, and had a great respect and admiration for the Texas rangers. Before this they were afraid to open their mouths in condemnation of the lawless acts which were constantly being committed in their midst. Men were murdered by these desperadoes on the least provocation. The $500 reward which they had offered for the apprehension of the four leaders of the gang they cheerfully paid to the five rangers, or to the four survivors of the desperate battle. Of course such service as this was expected of rangers without any compensation except their monthly pay, and it was not for any reward that they ran the bandits down and captured them, and they did not expect anything. They accepted the gift in the spirit in which it was given. The donation was from wealthy men—merchants and stockmen. "After the incident above narrated Captain Coldwell was ordered by General Jones to Ysleta to inspect the company of Capt. George W. Baylor. At this time Victorio, the famous Mescalero Apache chief, was in Old Mexico, south of the Rio Grande, with a strong band of desperate warriors. He had been fighting the United States troops in New Mexico, and getting the worst of it had run down in there for safety. His presence there being a menace to citizens of Mexico, troops were sent up from Chihuahua by order of the Mexican government to attack him. Officers of the United States troops in Texas, believing that if he was driven out of Mexico he would cross the Rio Grande into Texas, had troops scattered through the mountains at all the watering places to intercept him. Colonel Grierson was in command of these forces, with headquarters at Eagle Springs, forty-five miles east of Fort Quitman, on the Rio Grande. On the El Paso stage route a buckboard was run one day, and a "jerky," or two-seated hack, the next. Captain Coldwell went down from Fort Davis on the "jerky." The Captain only had his revolver, but one of his men put a Winchester in the vehicle, saying he might see Indians on the route. A man named Baker was the driver. Nothing of interest occurred on the trip down, and they arrived all right at Ysleta. Several days were spent here attending to business, and then the start was made on the return trip to Fort Davis. At Fort Quitman news was received that the Mexican forces had fought Victorio his band, making a stand-off affair, and had gone back to Chihuahua, and also that after the fight Vittorio had crossed the river and was now in Texas. Captain Coldwell now knew the trip back to Fort Davis would be fraught with much anger. Besides himself in the “jerky" was one negro soldier, a boy named Graham on his way to Fort Davis to act as hostler there, and the driver. The latter thought the Indians would attack them at Quitman Canyon, but if they passed that place all right they might get safely through. They expected to meet the buckboard at dusk at Eighteen Mile Water Hole, where a short halt was made to get water. In the evening five men were seen on large horses, who at a distance had the appearance of United States soldiers on account of the horses. One came towards them a short distance and then went back. The captain now felt somewhat relieved, thinking the country was being patrolled by the regular troops. About dusk the water hole was reached, but Baker and his buckboard were not there. This caused some uneasiness, but Captain Coldwell got out and said he would fill a vessel with water and they would continue their journey. I will here describe the peculiar team which worked to the vehicle. They were small mules, and had been trained to run all the time on the road, and when they were harnessed and turned loose from the hitching post they started off at once in a gallop, and could not be stopped quietly until they reached the next station. So when Captain Coldwell alighted and was filling his canteen the driver had let the mules run around in a circle until he was ready to mount again. One startling fact which the captain and his party were not aware of at the time, was that on this very day a battle had been fought with Victorio's and in a few hundred yards of this water hole, in a little canyon just back of it, in which a squad of the tenth Cavalry had been routed with the loss of five or six men and horses and they had retreated back to Eagle Springs. The dead horses were lying almost in view of the road, and the men in the valley back, who had been taken for United States soldiers, were scouts of Victorio mounted on cavalry horses which they had captured. It had been agreed by the party in the hack, if the Indians came upon them, that the driver would give his gun to the boy Graham and let the team run in the road, and the balance to fight the Indians as they went, unless a mule was killed, and then to stand and fight to the best advantage, but with little hope of ever coming clear. If they had known what was ahead the situation at this time would have been more desperate. The non-appearance of Baker with the buckboard was ominous. After leaving the water hole the mules in the "jerky" went at a lively rate for three miles and then shied at something by the road. It was the buckboard with one mule dead, the other gone, and beside it lay two dead men—the driver Baker, and a passenger. They were evidently killed about sundown, as they should have been at the waterhole at the sametime the other vehicle was there. No doubt they ran and fought the Indians until one mule was killed, and then died beside the vehicle. Very little time was taken to look around there. The situation was appalling for the captain and his party. Indians were all over the country, battles were being fought and men were being killed in various places. The driver was told to slow down his team. The captain sat with his Winchester in his hand, admonished the men to keep cool, have their guns in readiness, and to keep close watch on both sides of the road; they were in for it, and must face the situation and get out of it the best they could. They arrived at Eagle Springs alright and reported the killing of the men in the buckboard. Baker was warned by the soldiers who had fought the battle near the water hole not to start on his trip, and they told him he was certain to be killed there. For four days Victorio's band swarmed along the road, and finally crossed it at Van Horn's Pass and went in the direction of Rattlesnake Springs. The troops being informed of the route, went around them and laid an ambush at the springs. Here impatient, restless men spoiled all, as is the case on so many occasions of ambuscades. Firing commenced too soon, and the Indians turned back and re-crossed the Rio Grande, at the same place where they did in coming over. Victorio was quite a general; he knew the Mexican troops were gone by this time, and the coast would be clear on that side.

"In the following winter Captain Baylor came down from Ysleta with his men to investigate the killing of one man and the wounding of another in the Quitman Pass. At the time Captain Neville came down from Fort Davis with his men, and the two commands met at Eagle Springs. The combined forces now, after finding the trail of the Indians, which were Victorio and his band, again followed in rapid pursuit to the Guadalupe Mountains, and here located the camp of the Indians by their smoke and surrounded them. A fight ensued, but the hostiles soon discovered that it was a considerable force of Texas rangers that was upon them, and began to scatter and break through the cordon and got away. Six were killed on the ground and many wounded. One wounded squaw was captured and brought back. Some of the United States officers paid the rangers a compliment when they returned by saying they had done more good in ten days than the United States troops had all summer. Victorio was finally killed and his band scattered.

"Captain Coldwell's service ended on the frontier in 1883.

Swimming Cattle Across the Canadian - By Captain Ira Aten, Texas Ranger

2014-11-09

[From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, April, 1941]

In 1898 there were three divisions of the XIT ranch lying south of the Canadian River—the Escarbada No. 5, Spring Lake No. 6, and Yellow House No. 7.

When Spring came to the ranch our first detail of work was to gather our yearling steers and deliver them to Buffalo Springs division, which was on the extreme north end of the ranch adjoining a section which we boys called "No Man's Land." We would commence this work just as soon as the cattle and horses could "stand alone." We used this term to express the condition of the animals because the cattle were very poor and the horses had been running loose in the Canadian brakes horse pasture all winter and generally were able to be ridden about the tenth or fifteenth of April.

Our next detail of work, or "roundup," would commence about July 10, and continue for a month or six weeks. This work was the big branding job of the year. On the Escarbada division we branded from six to nine thousand calves each year, depending on the severity of the previous winter. During this branding we did not carry any herd so the boys would not have any night guard to stand when they were working so hard at branding. A cowboy usually worked about sixteen hours a day in the roundup season of the year and his pay was the whole sum of $25.00 per month, he furnished his outfit consisting of saddle, bridle, blanket, slicker and bed. The ranch furnished the grub and horses and the big broad prairie to roll out his bed on.

About the tenth of September we started our third roundup of the year. During that time we would gather our beef herd, fat dry cows and such barren cows as we could guess, together with old bulls, and deliver them to Channing for shipment to the stock market in Kansas City. During this roundup we also branded all the calves dropped or missed since the July branding. The shipment to Kansas City usually consisted of about 1,000 head of beef cattle from Escarbada division and if the market was good we were sent back to gather a second herd for shipment, which sometimes would carry us way into November before we could finish and it would be very cold standing night guard and sometimes caught in a snowstorm.

Late in December we gathered up the bulls. I always tried to get this job done quickly so the boys could all go home for Christmas. Should it happen we would be delayed in this work from any unforeseen cause, I would allow every one who wanted to, to go home for the holidays and I would pick up the camp and windmill men to finish the job.

We did not make any regular roundup of the cattle to gather the bulls, but just drifted through the cattle and gathered the bulls, finding some ten or a dozen in bunches at this time of the year, with others hanging along the fence lines trying to get back their winter pasture. Again at this time we gathered any unbranded calves to be found and branded them, as it was unsafe to allow any unbranded calf to go through the winter near the New Mexico fence line. I always impressed upon the boys the idea to braid every calf over three days old, as to allow it to remain unbranded might make a thief out of an honest boy.

We ran one bull to every twelve or fifteen cows and they were turned loose the first of July, which brought the time to drop calves about April 1, and would last until up in September. In this way we were able to get from 60 to 75 percent calf crop, depending on the loco weed and the severity of the winter. Our yearly losses were from 5 to 10 per cent from all causes. The wolves took their share; the black-leg and bog in the Spring at heel fly time also accounted for part, but the greatest loss came in years when the loco weed was at its worst, which was about every three or four years after we had plenty of rain in the summer and fall. It seemed to hit us worst in the fall and winter. Many of our best horses became locoed and were never much use after that. Should a cow become badly affected by the loco weed it was better to knock her in the head as she was sure to die from the effects of the weed before spring. The loco weed was the worst on the plains. It did not grow much under the Canadian river banks.

Among our losses we counted only cattle and calves which had been branded. It must be understood that we did not feed the cattle in those days, but they had to rustle for themselves or starve and in that way they were more subject to eat the loco weed. However, any poor cow, heavy with calf, which would be found close to a camp would be picked up by the camp main, taken to camp, and fed hay.

When we started out in the spring to gather the yearling steers, ten riders were used, each man having ten horses. With the regular outfit was also a horse wrangler and a cook. The horses at that time of the year were all fresh from their winter rest and many of them had to be broken over again. Among the mounts for each man were given two fresh broncs each year, which made things very interesting for the boys during the first two or three weeks of work.

Each day we usually made two roundups so that we would not have to throw large bunches of cattle together for any great length of time. We would then cut out the yearling steers, allowing the cows to go, as they had begun dropping their calves and were in poor condition. These cattle had been so accustomed to running to the roundup ground, which was always at some watering place, at the first sight of the cowboys on the circle and hearing their cowboy whoops, that they would break and run. The cows with little calves would be dropped out but usually followed along behind us as fast as the little crooked legged fellows could travel and they would generally get to the roundup ground about the time we turned the herd loose. Cutting off from its milk (as many of them were still suckling) took a good cowboy and a good cow horse. All the king’s horses and all the king's men could not have held these yearlings from their mothers at night, particularly a stormy night, on their own range, and so it was necessary to pen them at night in pens located at convenient places about the ranch for branding purposes. When such a pen was full the animals would be taken to the Trujillo 5-wire fence bull pasture until the herd had been collected together and by that time the yearlings would be pretty well weaned and could be handled quite easily. All the cows which had dropped winter calves were also gathered and branded on this work.

We usually arrived at the Canadian river about the last of May or early in June, which was the rainy season over in New Mexico. On the particular drive of which I am writing, we had over 3,600 head of yearling steers—the largest herd we had ever driven North. As we left the ranch with the herd we could see great black clouds hanging over the tributaries of the Canadian river over in New Mexico. They had been in the sky for the preceding week or ten days and we were wondering how high the river would be when we reached it. The day before we arrived at the river it had rained and that added to our troubles.

Our suckling yearlings were about weaned and they were fairly easy to hold in the herd at night and the last night we made camp before reaching the river we did not have any serious trouble, but the yearlings were restless and wanted to walk and walk all night. The next morning I rode ahead of the herd down to the river, several miles away, to look over the ground and estimate what we would be up against when we started to cross. I found the river booming out of its banks. The current was very rapid and much driftwood was speeding downstream. I rode back to the herd and told the boys we had a bad river to wrestle with. Not a single smile creased the faces of the boys when I told them this news as they realized we were in for a tough time. It was enough to make one's hair stand on end to face that flooded river with 3,600 head of yearling steers. When faced by any flooded stream I had made it a practice to keep the cattle from water the day before at noon so they would be thirsty and take to the water with a rush when we came to the river. As it had rained heavily the night before and there were puddles of water standing all about, I knew it would be useless to try to get the herd to take to the river that day.

We threw the cattle back on a hill where there was no water and grazed them until the next day, hoping by that time the swollen river would recede, but no such good luck was in store for us. I determined to risk crossing at noon as the cattle were getting thirsty and so far as we could judge it might be a week or two before the river would go down. We had an early dinner and then about noon drove the herd down to the river.

Being very thirsty by that time the leaders rushed into the water, drinking as they went in, and were in swimming before they realized what had happened. When an animal starts to swim it looks straight ahead and seldom turns around to come back but will try to follow any object ahead of it. Often, if the riders are not watchful, the animals may go downstream with the current and come out on the same side they went in.

When crossing a herd of cattle in flood time the boys would always take off their boots and part of their clothing while others would strip to the skin. The boys had great arguments who had the best swimming horse and thought about as much of him as they did of their cutting or night horses. Not every horse will swim when a rider is on his back. Some will turn on their side and float downstream with the current until the rider gets off; others will sink like rocks. In either case the rider would slide off behind, grab the horse's tail and give it a severe twist. This would wake up the animal and start him swimming for the shore. Such peculiarities made it necessary that each rider know the habits of his swimming horse. The boys would take off their flank cinches or tie them up so as to give the horses a chance to expand with plenty of air to keep afloat.

The boys knew their places on the downstream side of the herd and followed in as the cattle took to the water behind the remuda. When cattle strike the swift current of a stream they will not make much effort to swim straight across unless they are forced to by the men on the downstream side. The boys splash water in the faces of the cattle; some would whip them over the heads with their ropes. Where the leaders go in swimming water, the herd is sure to follow and sometimes will come out on the opposite bank a quarter or half mile below where they started in, making a rainbow or arch in crossing. It usually takes about an hour to put such a herd as we had across a river after starting in (if you have good luck) and it is a beautiful and exciting sight to witness if you are standing off on a hill.

When the leaders of the herd get into wading water they were turned upstream to where the horses were and the herd then made a greater effort to swim straight across the river. Most of the boys would return to the water and help keep the cattle from drifting downstream so far as to get completely out of control. Anyone who has had the experience will agree that it is no joke to swim a large herd across any river, particularly the Canadian, with its swift current and red, muddy water. As the river was very high and dangerous, we decided not to undertake bringing our wagon across, so we carried our beds on the horses and such grub as we could get along with—flour, bacon, coffee and salt. From there on we would use pack horses and left instructions to our cook to remain where he was until we returned, some ten or fifteen days later.

The previous year we had reached the river just as the rise had fallen and it left the river very boggy with quicksand. Some of our steers bogged down at the edge of the water going in and coming out and we had to dig them out. When an animal bogged down in quicksand the only way to save him is to dig his legs out by our hands, turn him on his side and let him crawl on his knees and flounder out. To try to pull him out by the neck often means death to the animal.

On the occasion just mentioned, as our team neared the opposite bank of the river our two horses bogged down and one of them rolled over on his side and it was with great difficulty that we kept him from drowning. One of the boys jumped off his horse and held up his head while the other men unhitched them. We then had to dig out his legs after which he floundered out onto solid ground.

It was a regular practice of mine to take the lead team off in crossing a flooded river as there was always danger of the wheelers getting their feet tangled in the stretchers of the lead team. Then, two of the men would tie their ropes to the end of the wagon tongue and could pull much more than the lead team.

Getting a horse out of the mire was just a minor detail of our troubles, however. Our wagon had settled down in the sand to the hubs. We then carried out our bedding and grub and floated out the wagon bed. We had to dig out each wheel; take it off and carry it out and then carry and float out the running gears. The rear wheels had settled down so far in the water and sand that the boys had to dive down many times to unscrew the nuts so as to get off the wheels. It took us all afternoon to get out our wagon and it was some job.

Not daring to undertake bringing our wagon across the river this time, we camped on the north bank for the night, looking back wishfully at our chuck wagon and the cook waving his big white apron and laughing at us, hollowing "come and get it." He was having a real vacation.

The next night we camped on the Rita Blanca, south of Ealy Moore's horse pasture. It had started to rain again and many range cattle had drifted in on the Rita Blanca flats. I knew our herd could not be held during the night storm without becoming badly mixed with the range cattle, although they had been fairly well trained for the trail and our milk calves were not giving us much trouble. Still, many yearling steers had just been gathered in the Rita Blanca pasture and the mother cows were running everywhere in search of their calves. With this difficulty facing us and not wishing our cattle to get mixed up with the range cattle which might take us all the next day to cut the herd, we let down the horse pasture fence on the south side and turned our cattle loose in there. The yearlings, trying to go back home held to the south fence and did not track up the pasture very much. If Ealy ever knew about it he never said anything to me. My invitation to the boys from the south end of the ranch was to use my horse pasture in every emergency.

After getting our cattle out of the horse pasture the next morning we trailed the 101 Ranch and camped for the night on a big flat. It looked like it was going to be a very stormy night and we knew the yearlings would give us much trouble. The old reliable cowboys tied up two night horses so that when one gave out the other would be fresh. Nothing tires or worries a man so much as to ride a tired horse. It is a sort of disgrace for a cowboy to let his herd get away from him and we did not want that to happen to us.

It rained all night and the cattle gave us much trouble. We could keep track of the herd only by the flashe sof lightning which lit up the sky. Yearlings do not stampede and run like grown cattle. They will jump and run; many of them would start bawling and then the run would slacken and they could easily be turned into a mill. Big steers are more subject to stampede than cows or younger cattle. When a large herd of 4 to 6 year old steers stampede there is something doing. It is only 45 or 50 years ago when Amarillo was the largest range cattle shipping point in the world, that a large herd of steers from the South Plains stampeded and ran four or five miles before the leaders could be turned. No good cowboy dares to ride in front of the leaders of such a stampede. He follows at the side of the leaders and watches until they become winded and slacken in their run and he gradually turns them on a wide circle and into a mill. My instruction to my men was that the men on the right hand side of the herd always do the turning of the leaders. Men on the left hand side would drop back and give the leaders a chance to circle back in the running line of cattle which we cowboys called a "mill."

It is quite amazing as well as aggravating to see a new cowboy ride at neck break speed on the opposite side of the leaders to run them twice as far as if he had dropped hack and given the man on the right a chance to turn them.

During the run of such a stampede not a sound can be heard except the clatter of hoofs and the knocking of horns. The cowboy lonesome wail has but a little effect on them until they get over their fright and run. Some of the cowboys were up all night with our herd, which seemed determined just to walk and walk, not so much to run.

When I went back to camp after daylight everything was floating in water. Some of the boys had come in worn out and were sound asleep with water all about them. Our flour and salt were ruined and to make things still worse, a coyote had come into camp and stolen our bacon. The storm finally wore itself out and the only men with dry matches were the ones who had been up all night.

We drove the herd on a few miles to a windmill and corral where we found some dry wood and made coffee and cooked our flour dough the best we could, without salt. I was afraid to kill a beef without any salt, as there was danger of making the boys sick—they were so hungry. I told them to drive the herd up across the railroad and I went to the nearest section house to get some flour and salt. That section house was near where Dalhart stands today. We had a great feast that night as the cattle, being worn out, gave us but little trouble.

The balance of our trip was easy. The herd trailed out the next day northeasterly across the sandhills—a beautiful sight to behold as they straggled along almost in single file from hill to hill.

During my ten years as foreman of the Escarbada division of the great XIT ranch, I had some as good cowboys as ever straddled a horse and as brave as any matador in the arena. They were not afraid of man or beast—nor of the Canadian river in flood time. Some of these boys worked for me six and eight years, and it is with great respect and appreciation for their faithful service that I write these lines. Some of the old boys have passed over the Great Divide and many of us who are left, see the sun setting in the West.

***************

20,000+ more pages of Texas history, written by those who lived it! Searchable flash drive or DVD here

The Buzzard's Water Hole Gang and Captain Bill McDonald, Texas Ranger

2014-11-09

[From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, June, 1950]

(EDITOR'S NOTE — Captain Bill McDonald was a noted Texas Ranger.and made quite a reputation for himself as a law enforcement officer in the 1890's. The book, "Captain B. W. McDonald," by Albert Bigelow Paine, published in 1909, contains many thrilling accounts of his colorful life, and it is from this book that McDonald's version of the mob activities in San Saba county is taken. The writer was living in Mason county, which adjoins San Saba county on the south, at the time those events mentioned in McDonald's book were happening. We personally knew District Attorney Linden, who prosecuted the cases, and also we knew some of the Rangers who were there with McDonald; but there are some statements made that are surprising to say the least. We publish the account just as it appears in the book, which was copyrighted forty-one [years] ago.—Editor)

It was in 1897 that certain citizens of San Saba county petitioned the Governor to send Rangers to investigate the numerous murders which had been committed in that locality—the number of assassinations then aggregating forty-three within a period of ten years.

In fact, San Saba and the country lying adjacent was absolutely controlled at that time by what was nothing less than a murder society. San Saba county, situated about the center of the State, lies on the border of the great southwest wilderness, and is crossed by no railroad. In an earlier day a sort of Vigilance Committee or mob had been organized to deal with lawless characters, but in the course of time the usual thing happened and the committee itself became the chief menace of the community. Whatever worthy members it had originally claimed, either dropped out or were "removed," and were replaced by men who had a private grudge against a neighbor; or desired his property; or were fond of murder on general principles. In time this deadly organization became not only a social but a political factor, and as such had gathered into its gruesome membership—active and honorary—county officials ranging from the deputy constabulary to occupants of the judicial bench. Indeed, it seemed that a majority of the citizens of San Saba were associated together for the purpose of getting rid—either by assassination or intimidation—of the worthier element of the community.

This society of death was well organized. It had an active membership of about three hundred, with obligations rigid and severe. Their meeting place was a small natural pool of water, almost surrounded by hills. It bore the curiously appropriate name of "Buzzard's Water Hole," and here the Worthy Order of Assassins assembled once a month, usually during full moon, to transact general business and to formulate plans for the removal of offending or superfluous friends. Sentinels were posted during such gatherings and there were passwords and signs. These were forms preserved from the original organization; hardly necessary now it would seem, since the majority of the inhabitants were in sympathy with the mob, while those who were not could hardly have been dragged to that ghastly spot. They preserved other things—they kept up the semblance of being inspired by lofty motives, and they maintained the forms that go with religious undertakings; therefore, being duly assembled to plot murder, they still opened their meetings with prayer!

After which the real business came up for transaction. Members in good standing would make known their desires, setting forth reasons why citizens in various walks of life were better dead, and the cases were considered, and the decrees passed accordingly. Sometimes when a man's offense was only that he owned a piece of desirable real estate, a resolution was passed that a committee of fifty should wait on that citizen and give him from three to five days to emigrate, this to be supplemented by a second committee of one whose duty it would be to call next day and make the said undesirable citizen a modest, not to say decent, offer for his holdings. It was not in human nature to resist a temptation like that. The man would be likely to go. He would accept that offer, whatever it was, and he would get out of there before night. The organization acquired a deal of choice property by this plan. When an election was coming on, the society decided who was to be chosen for office, and who for assassination, and committees were likewise appointed to see that all was duly performed. It was a remarkable society, when you come to think about it—a good deal like Tammany Hall, only more fatal.

To break up the Buzzard's Water Hole roost, and to discourage its practices in and around San Saba was the job cut out for Bill McDonald and his Rangers during the summer and fall of 1897.

Captain McDonald began the work by sending over three of his men—John Sullivan, Dud Parker and Edgar Neil—to investigate. There was plenty of trail and the Rangers ran onto it everywhere. It wound in and out in a hundred directions, and gathered in a regular knot around the seat of justice. Perhaps there were town and county officials who were not in the tolls of the deadly membership, but if so they were not discoverable. Sullivan promptly got into trouble with the sheriff by re-jailing a man whom he found outside, holding a reception with his friends, when the State had paid a reward for his capture. Sullivan and the sheriff both drew guns, but were kept apart, and the district judge, who seemed to have been a sort of honorary "Buzzard," holding office by virtue of society favor, undertook to get rid of Sullivan by sending him along way off after some witness supposed to be wanted; though why they should want any witness in acourt like that, would be hard to guess.

Captain Bill himself now came down to look over the field. He had his hands full from the start. When he arrived, the Rangers, Barker and Neil were patrolling the town with guns, while a number of citizens similarly armed were collected about the streets.

"Hello, Dud," he said, "are you-all going to war?"

"Looks like it, Cap," returned Barker.

Captain Bill looked over the armed citizens, and raised his voice loud enough for them to hear.

"Well, Dud, if that's the best they can do," he said, "we can lick em, can't we"?

"Yes, sir, if you say so, Cap."

The armed citizens showed a reluctance in the matter of hostilities and began to edge away. McDonald now got his mail and reviewed the situation, for prior to his coming he had scarcely known what the trouble in San Saba was all about. By and by he went to his hotel. It was about 10 o'clock and he was sitting out in front, when he saw flashes and heard shots across the public square. The mob was shooting up the town for his benefit. Captain Bill seized his gun and went up there. The main disturbance seemed to be in and about a saloon. The Ranger captain pushed into the place alone, compelled every man in the assembly to put up his hands and allow himself to be disarmed. He then required them to appear for examination next morning. They did appear, and were discharged, or course, but, nevertheless, it was evident that a man who would not be scared and who was not afraid to do things, was among them. Members of the society felt a chill of uneasiness. Worthy citizens, heretofore silent through fear of their lives and property began to take heart.

McDonald now interviewed the sheriff and county officials in general and delivered his opinion of them, individually and collectively, concluding with the statement that he would bring Sullivan back as soon as a message and steam would get him. The sheriff replied that Sullivan and he could not stay in the same town.

"Then move," said Captain Bill. "The county will be rid of one damned rascal. It will be rid of more before I get through here."

Captain Bill went to Austin himself, after Sullivan, so that there might be no mistake about his coming. He presented the case to Governor Culberson and got his sanction, then sent word to his men at San Saba to meet them, and he arrived with Sullivan promptly on time. He had expected that there would be a demonstration by the sheriff and his friends, instead of which the streets of the little town were deserted. Perhaps the sheriff and his party had given out that war was imminent and this was the result.

It was clear now that to obtain evidence and convictions under such conditions as they prevailed in San Saba was going to be a long, slow job. With officials incriminated and citizens intimidated; with witnesses ready to come forward and swear anything in defense of the murderers, knowing they would be upheld in their perjury, the securing of good testimony and subsequent justice would be difficult.

The Rangers went into camp in a picturesque spot on the banks of the San Saba river, a mile from town; pitched their tents under the shelter of some immense pecan trees; arranged their "chuckboards," staked their horses and made themselves generally comfortable. Then they posted sentinels (for a fusillade from the society was likely to come at any time), and settled down to business. Evidently they had come to stay. The society postponed its meetings.

Captain Bill now began doing quiet detective work, a labor for which he had a natural aptitude; anybody can see from the shape of his ears and nose; and from the ferret look of his eyes that this would be so. Good citizens took further courage and came to the camp with information. The Ranger captain looked over the field and undertook a case particularly cold-blooded and desperate.

A man named Brown, one of the society's early victims, had been hanged by that mob some ten or twelve years before, and his son Jim, though he had never attempted to avenge his father's death, had fallen under the ban. Jim Brown never even made any threats, but he must have been regarded as a menace, for one Sunday night while riding from church with his wife and her brother, he was shot dead from ambush; his wife, whose horse became frightened and ran within range, also receiving a painful wound.

Captain Bill secured information which convinced him that one Bill Ogle had been the chief instigator in this crime, and that the father and brother of Brown's wife were likewise members of the society and concerned in the plot. He learned, in fact, that the plan had been for Mrs. Brown's brother to ride with her, and for her father, Jeff McCarthy, to carry her baby by a different route to keep it out of danger. The brother, Jim McCarthy, was to stay close to his sister, to look after her horse and keep her out of harm's way while her husband was being murdered. It was due to the fact that Jim McCarthy did not perform his work well that the sister was wounded. McDonald in due course uncovered the whole dastardly plot.

The murderers now realized that trouble was in store for them. Some of the men began quietly to leave the country. Others consulted together in secluded places and plotted to "Kill Bill McDonald." Sympathizing citizens encouraged this movement, and anonymous warnings—always the first resort of frightened criminals—began to arrive in the Ranger camp. Captain Bill paid no attention to such communications; he was used to them. He went on gathering and solidifying his evidence, preparatory to the arrest of Ogle and such of his associates as the proofs would warrant. Ogle, the “tiger" of the society, as he was considered, McDonald had not yet seen, for the reason that the tiger did not live in town, and for some cause had lately avoided those precincts. He arrived, however, in due season. Perhaps the brotherhood let him know that it was time he was taking a hand in the game.

Captain McDonald, one hot afternoon, was talking to an acquaintance on the streets of San Saba, when he noticed a stout surly-looking man, with the village constable, not far away. Now and then they looked and nodded in his direction and presently an uncomplimentary name drifted to his ear.

"Who is that fellow talking to that sorry constable?" he asked.

His companion lowered his voice to a discreet whisper. "That is Bill Ogle," he said, "the worst man in the murder mob."

Captain Bill looked pleased. "Goodbye," he nodded. "I want to see Bill Ogle"

He stepped briskly in the direction of the two men, who seeing him approach, separated and loafed off in different directions. Captain Bill overhauled the constable.

"See here," he said composedly, "I heard you call me a name while ago when you were talking to that murderer, Bill Ogle, who is going down the street yonder. Now, an officer that throws in with a murder mob ain't worth what it would cost to try, and hang, and if I hear any more names out of you I'll save the country the expense of one rope, anyway."

The constable attempted to mutter some denial. Captain Bill left him abruptly with only a parting word of advice and set off down the street after Ogle. Ogle crossed the street and passed through the courthouse to a hardware store on the other side—where a number of his friends had collected.

"Don't go over there. Captain," cautioned his friend, "you'll be killed sure."

"Well, I'll go over and see," Captain Bill replied quaintly, continuing straight toward the mob store.

As he entered there was a little stir, then silence. Evidently those present had not expected that he would walk straight among them. Here he was—they could kill him and put an end to all this trouble in short order. But somehow they didn't do it. There seemed no good moment to begin. Captain Bill walked over and faced Bill Ogle.

"Come outside," he said quietly,"I want to talk to you."

Ogle hesitated. "What do you want to say?" he asked sullenly.

Captain Bill laid his hand on Ogle's shoulder. "I want to say some things that you might not want your friends to hear," he said—and a quiver in his voice then would have been death. "Come outside!"

He applied a firm pressure to Ogle's shoulder and steered him for the door. The others, as silent as death, made no move. They did not offer to interfere—they did not attempt to shoot. They simply looked on, wondering.

Outside, Captain Bill led Ogle to the middle of the street. It was blazing hot and the sand burned through his boots, but he could talk to Ogle out there and keep an eye on the others, too.

"Now, Bill Ogle," he said, in his deliberate calm way, "I know all about you. I know how you and your outfit murdered Jim Brown—just how you planned it, and how you did it. I've got all the proof and I'm going to hang you if there is any law in this country to hang a man for a foul murder like that. That's what I'm here for, and I'm not afraid of you, nor any of the men over there in that store that helped you do your killing. You are all a lot of cowardly murderers that only shoot defenseless men from ambush, and I'm going to stay here until I break up your gang and put your gang and put every one on the gallows or behind the bars, and I'm going to begin with you."

As Captain Bill talked, the sweat began to pour off of Ogle and his knees seemed to weaken. Presently they could no longer support his stout body and he sat heavily down in the hot sand, trying weakly to make some defense.

"Get up," said Captain Bill, "Haven't you got your gun?"

"No, sir, Captain, I haven't."

"Well, you'd better get one if you're going to go hunting for me. And there's the men over there who helped you kill Jim Brown, and your Greaer-lookin' constable and your sorry sheriff. Get your whole crowd together, and get ready and then I'll gather in the whole bunch. Go on now, and see what you can do."

"Yes, sir, Captain."

Ogle made several attempts to get on his feet, finally succeeded, and went back to his friends. Captain Bill immediately set about getting out a warrant for his arrest, but after some delay, found he could not get the papers until next morning. Ogle, in the meantime had been to his friend, the district judge, who now appeared before the Ranger captain with the statement that Ogle, whom he believed to be a square man, had said he wanted to leave the country for fear McDonald would kill him; McDonald, he said, having the reputation of being a killer and a bad man generally.

"Yes, Judge," said Captain Bill, "that's the proper reputation to give me, so that some of your crowd of murderers can assassinate me and your court can deliver a verdict that I was a bad citizen and ought to have been killed sooner, the way you've done about all the rest of the forty-three that have been murdered and no one tried for it in this section. Now, I intend to see that he don't leave this country, unless he leaves it in shackles. He committed murder, and I can prove it. I've got one of the members of the mob as a witness."

"You will stir up old trouble and get things in worse shape than ever," protested the judge.

"If I can't get things in better shape, I'll lay down my hand," said McDonald.

A little later, on the street, Captain Bill saw Ogle approaching. He was armed this time—with a big watermelon. He approached humbly. "Captain," he said, "you've done me a great wrong, and I want you to accept this watermelon."

Captain Bill did not know whether to laugh or to swear. Presently he said: You scoundrel! I suppose that thing is poisoned. I believe I'll make you eat it, rind and all."

Ogle backed away with his melon and presently set out for home. Fearing now he would escape before the warrant could be issued, Captain McDonald instructed Rangers McCauley, Barker, Neil and Bell, members of his camp, to keep watch and if Ogle attempted to leave the county to hold him until he (McDonald) could arrive with the proper papers. These were obtained next morning, about 10 o'clock, and Captain Bill, starting out with them, met his Rangers with Ogle, who had, in fact, attempted to escape. He was taken to jail and a strong guard was set.

Consternation now prevailed among the society and its friends; in the cowboy term they were "milling." Members of the mob were to turn State's evidence; one John McCormick, who had been made a member by compulsion—having run into one of their meetings—had been brought from an adjoining county and would testify; a grand jury composed of exemplary citizens had been secured.

And that was not all. Captain Bill one day went to the district judge, ostensibly for advice.

"Judge," he said,"I want some legal information."

The judge was attentive, and took him to a quiet place. "Now, Judge," said Captain Bill, "you know that the Buzzard Water Hole mob holds its meetings over there once a month, and the monthly meeting is about due. You know that they meet there to kill somebody or to run him out of the country and take his property, and that they've already done such deviltry as that for years."

The judge assented uneasily.

"Well, then," continued the Rangers Captain, "I want to know if it will be all right for me to charge in on that meeting with my Rangers and kill any of them that might make any resistance, and round up the rest and drive them into town and put them in jail—just drive them afoot like a lot of cattle and let their horses be sent for later; would that be all right, Judge?"

The district judge was a good deal disturbed. "No, Captain," he said, "I don't think you'd better undertake that. I should advise against such a move."

"Well, Judge," said Captain Bill, "that's exactly what I propose to do. I'll take chances on the results and I'll bring in the prettiest bunch of murderers you'll find anywhere. Goodbye, Judge, and thank you for the advice."

However, this program was not carried out — not in full. There was no material with which to make it complete. Within a brief time from his talk with the district judge, Captain Bill's purpose was known to every member of the mob. It was a time to take to tall timber and high trees. The society adjourned sine die.

_____________________________________

ENJOYING THIS STORY?

Join our Facebook group here

Never miss a story!

Free downloads

_____________________________________

The Rangers did, however, visit the Buzzard's Water Hole at the time the mob meeting was due. Not a soul was to be found anywhere. Then knowing certain members of the gang, and having learned the society signals, Captain Bill and his men went riding over the country from house to house, halting outside to call "Hello! Hello! Hello!" which was a signal call between members of the society. In reply to each such call a door opened and a man came out quickly, only to find the Rangers, who inquired if he were going to attend the meeting at Buzzard's Water Hole; whereupon, as Captain Bill put it later, "They like to died," and vigorously pretended ignorance of the meaning of the "Hello" signal. Next morning the Rangers were back in San Saba, and when the news came in that they had been around calling on mob members there was not only anxiety, but mystery for some of these members of the society lived a distance of twenty-five miles away. But a fifty or seventy-five mile ride in a night on an errand of that kind was merely little diversion to a Ranger.

The grand jury's work was difficult. It found indictments against many of the assassins, but the district judge made an effort to annul most of these actions on one ground or another, and to trump up charges against the Rangers. McDonald finally gave this official a lecture which he probably remembers yet, if he is alive. About the same time one of the gang leveled a Winchester at Ranger Barker, who with his revolver shot him five times before he could pull the trigger, and was promptly cleared — all of which had a wholesome effect on the community as a whole.

With the arrest of Ogle, the anonymous letters became very terrible indeed. Captain Bill had brought his wife to the San Saba camp for the winter, and one morning appeared before her with one of these letters in his hand.

"Well, I've got to leave San Saba, "he said.

"Why," she asked. "Has the Governor ordered you away?"

"No, the Governor hasn't, but read this."

He handed her the letter which informed him that if he did not leave San Saba in two days he would be filled so full of lead that it would require a freight train to haul him to the graveyard. Rhoda McDonald read the communication through. Then she said:

"Bill Jess, if you leave here on account of a thing like that, I'll leave you."

"Well," said Captain Bill, sorrowfully; "I seem to be in a mighty bad fix. If I stay I'll be filled with bullets, and if I go I'll lose my wife. I s'pose I'll have to stay."

The examining trial of Bill Ogle was an event in San Saba. Josh McCormick was chief witness for the State, and was a badly scared man, in spite of the fact that the Rangers had taken him to their camp and guaranteed him protection from the members of the Buzzard's Water Hole crowd. Other witnesses on both sides were frightened enough, for nobody knew what might happen before this thing ended. It was the program of the mob forces, of which Ogle and his lawyers were the acting principals, to impeach the State's witnesses and thus break down their evidence before the court as was their custom. Unfortunately for them they selected as one of their perjurers old Jeff McCarthy, father of Brown's wife, himself accessory to the crime for which Ogle was being tried. Captain Bill knew McCarthy's relation to the affair, though the evidence had not been sufficient for his indictment. Furthermore Captain Bill believed that the old man, like McCormick, whose uncle he was, had been forced into the band, and had acted under compulsion throughout.

McCormick was placed on the stand, and told what he knew about the society and its crimes in general, and about the killing of Jim Brown in particular. His absolute knowledge did not extend to the connection of the two McCarthy's with the killing, and they were not mentioned in his evidence. When he left the stand, a number of nervous witnesses, were called by the other side to swear that they would not believe him on oath. Finally old Jeff McCarthy was reached. He was frightened and trembling and in a wretched state altogether. Captain Bill watched him closely while he was making his statement concerning the worthless character of his nephew, McCormick, and the old man shifted and twisted to evade those eyes that were piercing his very soul. Now and then the Ranger Captain leaned toward him and lifted his finger like the index of fate, prompting the District Attorney meantime as to what questions to put to the witness. The old man became more and more confused and miserable, and when at last he was excused he tottered from the stand. He lingered about the place, however, seemingly unable to leave, and by and by, when the court adjourned for the day, McDonald found him just outside the door, with others of his kind.

"Jeff," Captain Bill said in his calm drawl, "you did not tell the truth on the stand; you know every word you said was a lie."

Old Jeff McCarthy gasped, tried to get his words, gasped again and failed.

"I don't blame you so much," Captain Bill went on, "for you were afraid this mob would kill you if you didn't testify according to orders — now wasn't you?"

Again the wretched old man made an effort to reply, but was past speech.

Captain Bill's finger was pinning him fast.

"They frightened you and made you join their gang, didn't they? And now you would like to get out, but you don't know how — ain't that so?"

The old man was on the verge of utter collapse. He backed off and slunk away. After that Old Jeff haunted the Ranger camp and finally when he could stand it no longer made full confession to Captain Bill of his connection with the mob, revealing the mob's secrets, its signs and passwords, the names of its members and its gruesome oath.

"They will kill me," he said, "but I don't care. I'm happier now than I've been for years."

"I don't reckon they'll try that," said Captain Bill. "That thing is about over around here."

They formed a guard, and escorted the old man home, for he was full of fear.

When the court of examination adjourned, Ogle was held without bail. Through the efforts of District Attorney Lynden it was decided to transfer Ogle's case to Llano County for final trial, Lynden making his fight for this change on the grounds that no fair trial could be obtained in the San Saba court.

In Llano County Ogle's case was fairly tried, and he received a life sentence. Two accessories to the killing of Brown, were arrested, but just then war was declared with Spain; the Rangers were hastily ordered off to protect the Rio Grande frontier, where a Mexican incursion was expected, and without Captain Bill to keep up the vigorous action, and a sharp oversight on the witness stand, convictions were not obtainable.

However, the San Saba campaign was a success. The society that murdered men for spite, or gain, or pastime, no longer existed. When the next election of county officials came around the old lot was wiped out clean, and men of character and probity came into power. The roads that led to the Bad Lands were kept dusty with the emigration of men who had formerly gathered at Buzzard's Water Hole, and in their stead came those who would give to San Saba nobler enterprise and worthier fame. Eight Rangers were among the new blood that came to rehabilitate San Saba county, That long winter of '97-98 had not been altogether spent in chasing criminals. Those eight had found wives, or rumors of wives; in due time they were all married, and with eight established resident Rangers, how could any county help becoming as serene and safe as a Sunday-school? Ranger Edgar Neil was elected sheriff; Ollie Perry was chosen constable; Dud Parker, Ed Donnelly, Forrest Edwards and Bob McClure also settled in San Saba, and caused Company B to go recruiting for Rangers.

Bill Ogle is still in the penitentiary at Huntsville, Texas. As late as May, 1908, he wrote to Captain McDonald as follows:

"Huntsville, Texas, 5-21-08.

"Capt. W. J. McDonald,

"Austin, Texas.

"Dear Sir:

"It has come to my ears from some of my friends, who have recently visited Austin in my behalf, that you are bitterly opposed to my being released from the Penitentiary. I regret very much that you are taking this stand against me. My friends also told me that one of your reasons of being in opposition to my release was, that you had fears of your own life, should I be pardoned.

"Capt. McDonald, I want to assure you that I have no feeling of bitterness against you, and you may rest assured, that I would never harm you in the least or try to injure you in any way, should I regain my liberty. I feel that in doing what you did, you were doing your duty as an officer.

"My conduct in the Penitentiary ought to be a guarantee to you of my intention to lead a correct life, when I get out, and I feel, that if you will investigate my standing here, and find out what the officers here think about me, you will be convinced of this.

"I trust that you will reconsider this matter, and soften your heart in my case, and you may rest assured, that I will appreciate anything you will do for me as long as life shall last.

"I would be pleased to hear from you, and I hope that you will give me some little encouragement.

"Thanking you in advance for anything you may say or do for me, I am,

"Yours respectfully,

WILL OGLE."

Captain McDonald's reply to Ogle's letter was, in part, as follows:

"Austin, Texas,

June 4, 1908.

"Mr. Bill Ogle,

"Huntsville Penitentiary.

"Dear Sir:

"Your letter of the 21st inst, received, and contents duly and carefully noted.

"I note what you say in regard to what your friends say about my opposing your pardon, claiming that in case of your release I had fears of my own life. Now, Bill,...my advice to you is to make a clear, truthful statement, giving all the facts connected with numerous murders committed by this mob, and thereby secure your liberty.

"You know I'm not in the Ranger service now, and it makes no difference to me who is released, and I so notified the Board of Pardons.

"You say you have no feeling of bitterness against me, and that you would not attempt to harm me. You can rest assured that I have no fears in that line, I only did my duty as an officer, as you say I did, and I have no animosity against you; and would not have gone before the Board of Pardons, had I not been sent for.

"I understand that your conduct has been all right while in jail, and in the Penitentiary, and I am sorry that your conduct wasn't better before you got into that mob, because you know that was an awful thing. Now, don't you?

"You asked me to consider this matter, and that you will appreciate it as long as life shall last. I certainly will not utter any protest, unless the Governor asked me what I know about it, and I'll then tell the truth about it.

"Very respectfully,

"W. J, McDONALD."

What Captain Bill had said before the Board of Pardons was:

"I don't know the gentleman that is presenting this talk to you, but I do know the names of a good many of those signers, and I know Bill Ogle is guilty of this murder, and I know that a good many of these other fellows ought to be where Bill is now."

______________________________________

How about 20,000+ pages (352 issues) of Texas history like the one you just read?

Texas history, written by those who lived it! Searchable flash drive or DVD here

AN OLD TIME TEXAN TELLS HIS STORY - by J. T. Wood, Parksdale, Texas

2014-10-26

[From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, April, 1929]

I was raised on the frontier of Texas, and know all about the privations and hardships of the early settlers of grand old Texas. I was born in San Saba county, Texas, January 6, 1857, and lived there until I was twenty-one years old. My father was among the early settlers of that county. I have been told by some of my relatives that my sister, two years older than my self, was the first white child born in San Saba county. My grandfather settled on a little creek known as Richland Creek. He had a large family and owned several negro slaves. His children all married and settled up and down Richland Creek, and when his grandchildren came to visit him they made quite a crowd of little folks. He would get us all together and take us fishing and plum hunting, and we would all have a fine time. He seemed to enjoy it just as much as any of us. I thought there was no one on earth like my grandfather. When he was with us we never thought of Indians molesting us, although they came into the country every light moon and stole horses and often kill ed white settlers. I remember being at grandfather's once when I was just a boy, and was playing with the children, when we heard someone hollering away off. Being small, we didn't pay much attention to it. We just played on, and about ten o'clock that morning someone came and told us that the Indians had killed old man Beardy Hall out about the Round Mountain that morning. He had gone out there to see about some sows and little pigs. I suppose he was feeding them to gentle the pigs. This little round mountain was about half way between Richland Creek and the San Saba river. One could get on this mountain and see in every direction for a long distance, so I suppose these Indians were on the mountain trying to locate some horses, when they saw Mr. Hall, slipped up on him and murdered him. Of course they took his scalp with them so they could have their big war dance, as that was their custom when they killed anyone. Since my grandfather died when I was very small, I can only relate some of the experiences my grandmother told me about her life on the frontier. Everyone called her "Aunt Betsy" and grandfather "Uncle Jimmie." She said after the Runaway Scrape they were broke up, so Grandpa cleared up a little field, cut poles, made rails and carried them on his shoulder to fence it, and dug up the land with a hoe. He planted a crop of corn for bread, and of course it wasn't much trouble to kill deer and turkey for meat, but they didn't have much fat about them. Grandmother had to have grease to make soap out of, so she saved all the deer and turkey bones and put up an ash hopper, filled it with ashes, poured water on it and dripped lye to make soap. People couldn't go to the store and buy a can of lye to make a pot of soap in those days. In fact, with the exception of a few, they did not know there was such a thing as concentrated lye.

I was very small at the time of the Civil War and do not remember much about it, but I remember well when it was over, for Uncle Spence Wood was in the war, and when it was over we heard he was coming home. We were so glad that he had gone through the war without a scratch, that all who could went to meet him. He fought in several big battles and said the Yankees, as the Northern men were called in those days, came near cutting him off from his command in one battle. He was riding an old sorrel straight-backed horse and said he just turned old "Straightie" loose and out-ran them, and got back to his command safely. I remember the old horse he called "Straightie" as well now as the day I saw Uncle Spence come riding him home from the war. Uncle Spence was the only one of father's brothers who was in the Civil war. The rest of them were on duty guarding the frontier against the Indians. My father belonged to the Minute Men. They served as rangers to scout after the Indians, although they did not have to scout but ten days each month. If the Indians made a raid they were supposed to he ready to go at a moment's notice. That is why they were called Minute Men. Sometimes my father would be gone for three weeks at a time, and we had no one to look to for protection but my dear mother. We felt safe as long as she lived, for she could shoot a gun as good as any man. Father often said that she could beat him shooting a sixshooter. I've seen her get her gun and get out after a bunch of turkeys that came close to the house when father was gone. I know she was one of the best women that ever lived. I was only eleven years old when she died. We were living in San Saba at the time of her death. She left seven children, one girl and six boys. Our sister was the oldest child, and I was the oldest boy. Sister has been dead for several years, and I have been an invalid for over thirty-two years, not being able to walk a step without the use of crutches. This was caused by being stuck in the right side of my neck with a knife by my brother-in-law, J. A. Thompson, while I was waiting on him when he had slow fever. He was either crazy or in a delirious state, and never knew anything more after he stuck the knife in me. That was September 23rd, 1894, and he died two days later.

My mother was like most of the other women in those days. She had to card, spin, weave, make clothes for the family, knit sox and other similar duties. People didn't buy everything they wore then. They did not wear silk like most of the women and girls do these days, but wore good, substantial clothes that were home made. I don't know how many pretty blankets and coverlets my mother made herself, but she had plenty to keep her family warm in cold weather, and plenty when company came to spend the night. If the women got a new calico dress in those days it was fine enough.

In our trouble with the Indians, I had two uncles killed. Uncle John Myers was killed somewhere out on the plains. We never knew for sure whether the Indians killed him or not, but the Indians got credit for it. Many people were killed then, and the blame was laid on the Indians. Uncle Boze Wood was killed on Richland Creek and Uncle Henry Wood was out north of Richland Creek at what was known as Cottonwood Pond. He was hunting when the Indians got after him and they had a running fight. Uncle Boze was shot, but got home before he died. A short while before he was killed, he and his wife were sleeping out on their porch and had two horses tied right close by so they could keep watch and try to keep the Indians from stealing them. Some time in the night the Indians slipped up and stole the horses without awakening them. They knew nothing about the Indians until the horses were gone. Uncle had several dogs lying around the house, but the Indians were so stealthy that they did not even disturb the dogs.

There was a man who lived two or three miles up the creek from us by the name of Jackson Brown. One day an Indian boy walked into Mr. Brown's yard, and going up to Mr. Brown, stuck out his hand and said "How!" Mr. Brown could not speak the Indian's language, and the Indian could not speak English, but a man named Jones, who lived further up the creek, could speak several Indians dialects, so he was sent for and soon came. The Indian boy told how he came to he there. He said a party of his tribe had come into that region, and ran off and left him there, and as he did not know where to go he decided to come to that ranch and make friends with the people there. In token of friendship he had left his bow and arrows hidden in the woods and when Jones requested him to bring them in he went out and got them. Next day Newt Brown took the Indian boy to San Saba, and as they came by our house they stopped and we were permitted to see the Indian. He was the first Indian I ever saw, and I think about the lousiest. His hair hung down on his back and had probably never been combed. It was covered with nits and lice. When Newt Brown reached town he had the boy's head shingled and a doctor put something on it to kill the lice. Newt bought him some clothes and dressed him up, and he did not look like the same Indian when he brought him back home. The Indian boy stayed with Mr. Brown a long time and seemed very well contented. He was still with the Browns when I left that country, but later I heard he went to San Angelo and lived with some Mexicans there.

Wiley Williams, who lived at San Saba, often staked his horse out to grass on moonlight nights in an open place, and he would hide somewhere nearby to watch for Indians. One night he saw an object approaching his horse and heard something like the grunt of a hog. He decided it was an Indian, so he cut down on it with a shotgun, and it ran off. Next morning he trailed it up and found a dead Indian.

I remember hearing my father tell of a company of rangers being camped near a settlement in which some of the rangers' families lived. Sometimes the men would go home to see how their folks were getting along. One morning while in camp they heard a turkey gobble in the direction of the settlement, and one of the men, who was going to the settlement, remarked that he would go by the turkey roost and if he killed a turkey he would bring it back to camp. After he had been gone a little while the men in camp heard a gunshot, and after waiting awhile for the ranger to return, he failing to do so, they decided that he had missed the turkey and had gone on to the settlement. The next morning they heard the turkey gobble at the same place, so another ranger, who had decided to go to see his family that morning, told his comrades that he would go by the roost and if he killed the turkey he would bring it to camp, but if he did not kill it he would go on to the settlement. After he had been gone awhile they heard a gunshot, and as he did not come back they supposed he had gone on home. The next morning the gobble of the turkey was heard again at the same place. Another of the men said he would go and kill that turkey. Within a short time they heard him shoot, and soon he came back to camp without a turkey. The supposed turkey was a big buck Indian, who had concealed himself in an old hollow stump, and he had killed the rangers who were on their way home. The third ranger discovered the Indian's ruse, and came up behind while the Indian was watching in another direction. So Mr. Indian got what the turkey would have gotten. The Indian got two scalps, but lost his own.

After my mother's death my father married a girl by the name of Warren. Her mother was A widow and lived in Burnet county. One day father and my step-mother left us oldest children at home to take care of the place while they went on a visit to Burnet county to see Grandma Warren. They were gone several days and while they were absent we heard our dogs barking one night as if they were baying something in our yard. We lived in a bottom where the timber made so much shade it was very dark in there after night. I yelled at the dogs and hissed them, and they created an awful furore. Next morning we found moscassin tracks in the yard, and signs among some plum bushes of a fierce struggle.

While we lived in San Saba county, before my mother's death, my father owned a beautiful dun mare, and one night he staked her out in the edge of town, not over 300 yards from where the courthouse now stands, and the Indians came along and led her off. We heard the dogs barking all over the town, and heard horses traveling through, but we supposed it was someone living there who had been out of town and were coming home. Next morning our mare was gone, and several more horses had been stolen that night from other parties.

A foul murder occurred in San Saba in those early days, which I will never forget. An old man came there from up north somewhere to buy a herd of cattle, as thousands of cattle were being driven "up the trail" at that time. Two young men came with him, and claimed to be waiting for the old man to buy the cattle and they were going to help drive them up the trail. My father and Dave Low owned a blacksmith shop in San Saba, and Mr. Low ran a hotel there. This old man, whose name I have forgotten, slept in a little room at the back of the shop, and took his meals at the hotel. One morning he failed to appear at the breakfast table, and when Low went to see about him he was found dead. He had been gagged and robbed. A big red handkerchief was tied over his mouth. The two young men were missing, and naturally suspicion pointed to them as being the murderers. They were caught near Lampasas and brought back to San Saba, and the sheriff decided to chain them together. He had father to make some irons to go around their necks, and when they were brought to the shop I watched father as he braded the irons onto their necks. One of the men confessed to the crime, and they were taken to another town for safe keeping. One of them succeeded in breaking jail and escaped, but the one who confessed refused to leave the jail. I do not know what sentence he received in the trial for murdering the old man.

After my father married the second time we moved back to Richland Creek, and there I began work as a cowboy. I helped Captain Riley Wood gather a herd of cattle. Most of these were wild cattle. Nearly all of the gentle cattle had been driven out of the country and the wild cattle would lay in a thicket all day and graze at night only. Uncle Riley Wood would take a small bunch of gentle cattle out in to the postoaks and hold them in an open place on moonlight nights and round in the wild cattle and bring them in to the pen. I was too small to make a hand rounding in at night, but I could help hold the herd. We gathered a big pen full, and Uncle Riley thought it would be best to stand guard around the pen to keep the cattle from breaking out. While he and Uncle Spence Wood were standing guard the first night, the cattle became frightened and stampeded, tearing down one side of the pen for some distance and making an awful noise. I was asleep in camp and when I became thoroughly awake and realized what had happened I found myself up in a tree. The cattle were finally rounded up with the loss of twenty or thirty head. We had some beef steers in that herd which must have been twelve of fifteen years old, and I believe them the largest steers I ever saw. A man did not need much money in these days to buy a herd of cattle, for they were very cheap. A big beef steer was worth about $10, and about all the money needed was enough to bear the expense of gathering them and driving to market. When the herd was ready to start up the trail the inspector would be notified and he would come and inspect the cattle, tally them, and the road brand would be put on. Then they would be ready for the long drive up the trail to Kansas. The inspector would give the trail boss a pass on his herd to show that they had been inspected, and he would also have the tally put on record in the county clerk's office, and the cowmen could go and look at this record and if they found anything in their mark and brand the owner of the herd would pay them for their stuff when he had sold the cattle, if he was an honest man. But sometimes there were dishonest men who carried herds up the trails, and didn't come back.

It was in 1870, I think, when about 75 Indians made a raid down Richland Creek and gave us a pretty bad scare. Warren Hudson lived near the headwater of the creek, and the Indians rode near his house, while he stood in his doorway and watched them. They took a pony he had staked near his house, and rode on down to where the Harkey children lived. There were twelve or thirteen of these children on the place, their parents having died, they lived there on the old homestead. When the children saw the Indians coming they all ran to the house, except one little girl, who climbed a tree and remained concealed among the branches until the Indians passed on. As they passed the house Joe Harkey got his gun and fired two or three shots at them, but the Indians rode on as if they never knew anybody had shot at them. Further down the creek they ran into about fifteen cowmen with a bunch of cattle rounded up, and had quite a battle with them. It was about a mile from our place and we could hear the firing. Soon the cowmen came dashing to our place, with Alex Hall in the lead. They told father to flee as the country was full of Indians. We went over to Uncle Spence Wood's place, and prepared for a fight. The cowmen reported that a man named Bomar had been killed by the Indians, but this proved a mistake, as Bomar came in next morning unscratched. The Indians had chased him pretty close, but he found refuge in a hole of water under a bluff, and they failed to get him. In the fighting Parson Davis was wounded with a lance, but soon recovered. It is not known how many Indians were killed. The Indians came to the Widow Lindley's house, and found nobody at home. They robbed the house and then burned it. Uncle Riley Wood was in this fight, and shot at an Indian that had a skirt on his head. He dropped the skirt on the battleground, and it was found to belong to Mrs. Lindley.

After this raid the few families living on Richland Creek decided that they had no chance against large bands of Indians, so we all moved down on the river near San Saba town. We crossed the trail where the Indians went out and saw plenty of signs of the battle they had with the cowmen.

Out on that wild frontier in those days we were often frightened and alarmed. We were momentarily expecting Indian raids, and just to show how easily we were frightened I want to relate an insignificant incident as an illustration. While we lived on the San Saba river, before we moved bark to Richland Creek, there were four families living on the east side of the river. Our family lived where the road crossed going to San Saba. Pick Duncan and family was next up the river, about a quarter of a mile distant, and a little further up was Uncle Spence Wood's place. Above him lived George Barnett. Father and Uncle Spence were gone from home one night and we went to stay all night with Uncle Spence's folks. Just after dark we heard women and children screaming down at Duncan's camp, and we thought something awful had happened there. We were so sure that Indians had attacked the camp that we all ran up to George Barnett's and stayed there all night. The women sat up all night and every little noise they heard they just knew the Indians were coming. Next morning it was learned that one of Mrs. Beattie's little girls was hurt while playing in the yard, which caused all of the fuss. Mrs. Beattie was a widow, and a sister to Mrs. Duncan.

_____________________________________

Never miss a story!

Free downloads

Join our Facebook group here

_____________________________________

When the Indian raids became less frequent we moved back up on Richland Creek to our old home, but for several years the raids continued. My father had a good bunch of horses and the Indians kept stealing them until all were gone.

When I was old enough to drive an ox team, I became what the people called a "bull whacker." The last time I was in Austin I and a man named John Stevenson went with an ox-team each from San Saba to Austin after a load of lumber. The distance was one hundred miles, I think, and we received $1.00 per hundred for hauling It was in the winter time and we weren't feeding our oxen. We hobbled them out at night, as the range was fine and they could get plenty of grass to eat. They would hit the road just after dark and go just as far back towards home as they could get, and next morning just before daylight and sun-up, they would quit the road, go off behind a thicket, lay down, and keep so still we could not hear their bell rattle when we went in search of them. We always put a bell on one ox of each yoke. This may sound like a big yarn to anyone who never drove an ox-team, but those who have had the experience of freighting with oxen know their tricks. Before we reached Austin on this particular trip it came a big snow storm and covered the ground several inches deep. We stopped at the edge of a little town, which I think was called Bagdad, and bought feed for our oxen from a man named Oliver, and he let us sleep in his barn. We were a month on that trip.

Uncle Spence Wood and myself made a trip with an ox team to the Concho river and gathered a wagon bed full of pecans. The country was full of wild game, and we had a wonderful time, but we had to keep on the look-out for Indians all of the time. That whole region was unsettled, and we saw but few people on the trip. We carried our pecans to San Saba and sold them for four cents per pound.

When I was seventeen years old father moved to Fort McKavett to haul cord wood and prairie hay for the fort, and we remained there one summer and fall. While we were there we lived on the north side of the river in a settlement called Scabtown, and one night two government freighters were camped about a mile down the river. The Indians attempted to drive off their horses and one of the freighters shot an Indian. The redskin fell from his horse and was found lying there next morning flat on his back, dead, with his left arm across his breast, his right arm clown by his side his elbow resting on the ground anti his six-shooter in his hand, the hammer pulled back and his finger on the trigger ready to shoot. He was killed with an old rim-fire winchester. We called those old guns "yellow-leg winchesters," because the sides were brass. The ball went through that Indian's shield and through him too.

At the time we were living here Frank Jones was a guide and scout for the troops at Fort McKavett. On one occasion the soldiers went but and followed an Indian trail for a long ways, finally overtaking the redskins. Several Indians were killed and three squaws and a small Indian baby were captured, and brought back to Fort McKavett. I saw these captives when they were brought in.

Father secured the contract to cut and haul some cedar poles for a man to build a picket house and also made the boards to cover the house. We had to go over on the North Llano to get this timber, a distance of about thirty miles from Fort McKavett. When this work was finished we returned to Richland Springs.

There were bears in the McKavett country in those days, and lots of deer and turkeys, and we often enjoyed hunts. I remember a buffalo hunt we had in 1876, away up in the Colorado river country. Those who went on this hunt were Uncle George Wood, a man named Blackwell, Blufe Hamrick, Hiram Hamrick, Virgil Wood and myself, six altogether. We had three wagons, two drawn by oxen and one drawn by horses. We went out by Trickham and then up the north side of the Colorado until we got to the mouth of the Concho river. Here we saw our first bunch of buffalo, but did not kill any. We saw antelopes in great droves. A few miles above the mouth of the Concho we crossed the Colorado river and went up on the west side until we reached Oak Creek, then we crossed back to the east side to Brown's Ranch, and from there we went to old Fort Chadbourne, which had been abandoned some years before. The old buildings were partly torn down, or had fallen down. From here we went on west to Yellow Wolf creek, and struck camp. We killed all of the buffalo we wanted. We saw thousands of buffalo on the range as we were coming home.

For several years I followed the occupation of a cowboy in the San Angelo country, working for Ike Mullins, and others. Then I went over into Kimble county, where George Hamrick lived, and worked for Frank Cloudt. Later I went to work for Peter Robertson and Billie Bevans in Menard county. Their ranch was seven or eight miles below Fort McKavett, on the San Saba river. My salary was $20 per month, and I had to stay in a camp by myself on Rocky Creek. I did not have time to get lonesome during the daytime, but the nights were lonely for me.

Captain D. W. Roberts and his company of rangers were stationed at that time on the south side of the San Saba river, several miles above Menardville. I enlisted in this company at a salary of $30 per month, to serve one year in Company D. Frontier Battalion State Troops. D. W. Roberts was Captain, Lamb Sieker was first sergeant, Ed Sieker was second sergeant, Henry Ashburn and Doc Gourley were corporals, and there were twenty-five privates. The first duty assigned me was to go to San Saba with six or seven other rangers to help the officers there while district court was in session Ed Sieker was in charge of our little scout. Everything seemed to be quiet and court was conducted without any trouble. The sheriff had us to take nine prisoners to Lampasas and turn them over to the proper authorities there. I enjoyed this trip very much, as I was raised in San Saba county and found many old friends there. It was like going home on a visit.

While I was in the ranger service the stage was robbed three nights in succession down about Pegleg Station, between Menardville and Mason. Captain Roberts took me and three other members of the company and went down there to see if we could find the trail of the robbers, but without success. We started back to camp and as we were coming through the country we saw three men on horseback, each leading a pack horse, and thought perhaps they might be the robbers, so Captain Roberts stopped them and made a search, but nothing was found to implicate them and they were allowed to go on. We scouted regularly for Indians and outlaws, and were kept busy all of the time.

We made several scouts over into Kimble county on the lookout for a man who was wanted for cattle theft. I do not remember his name. He had a cow camp on a little creek called Contrary, which runs into the South Llano river just below Painted Rock. I remember the first scout I went on after this man we went from our camp on the San Saba through the woods in an attempt to slip in without anyone knowing we were in the country. We had our pack mule and supplies, with frying pan and coffee pot. I began to worry about how we were going to make bread without a pan in which to make up the dough and cook it for six or seven men. We had a sack of flour, and I was soon to learn something. Doug Coalson opened up the sack and pressed down a hole in the flour and made the dough in that sack. We cut sticks and rolled the dough around them and held them by the fire. Soon we had enough bread cooked for supper, and I think it was about the best bread I ever ate. After dark we saddled up and went over the mountain and down Contrary Creek until we got within a half mile of the wanted man's cow camp. Here we dismounted and took it afoot. When within a few hundred yards of the camp we pulled off our boots, and stealthily crept forward. As we approached some dogs began to bark and we made a rush for the camp. Ed Sieker was in the lead and ran into some vines and fell down. Tom Carson ran over him, and I ran over both Sieker and Carson. We got up as quickly as possible and charged the camp, but did not find the man we were looking for.

When my term of enlistment expired I left the ranger service. My association with the boys of Company D was pleasant and agreeable, and I will always hold in fond remembrance the friendship formed while in the service. I have not seen some of my old comrades since I quit the service. The majority of them have answered the last roll call on this earth. Several are still living, including my honored old captain, Dan W. Roberts. I went from the ranger camp to George Hamrick's in Kimble county, and then on down to the head of the Guadalupe to visit my father's family, and while there I saw all of my brothers and my only sister, also all of my half sisters and half brothers, and my stepmother. That was the last time we were all at home at the same time. My father moved to New Mexico some time afterwards and while there suffered an attack of pneumonia and died. My step-mother died January 13, 1927.

On October 2, 1881, I was married to Miss Mary Thompson, who lived on Pulliam Prong of the Nueces river, and we went to Kimble county to reside. I traded for a small piece of land on the North Llano, about a mile above the mouth of Copperas Creek, and we went to housekeeping in a tent which a man named Balcum loaned us. Later I built a log cabin on the place. After remaining here awhile we decided to sell our place and move to the Nueces Canyon. A young man named Grub Hamilton came along and offered me a good price for my land, and I sold it to him, and we moved to Edwards county in the spring of 1882. I settled on some school land near the headwater of Pulliam Prong of the Nueces River, in Edwards county, and I am still living on the place, I own two and a quarter sections of land and have it stocked with Angora goats. We had five children born to us, two girls and three boys, Belle Delia, Jim, Bunk and Dan. Belle died when she was two years old; Delia married R. T. Craig. Our youngest boy, Dan, died about six years ago.

I have had many interesting experiences on the frontier, which if published would fill a book.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AN OLD BANK Seguin (Texas) Enterprise We note with interest that several banking institutions have laid claim to being the oldest in their respective sections of the state to-wit Cuero, Gonzales, Galveston, etc. Seguin has a bank, the history and record of which should be a credit to any section. Not only in point of age, does it excel, but its substantial basis and conservative management has been well known for many years. The present banking firm of E. Nolte & Son, then known as Edward Nolte, was a banking institution in 1870 and was doing some kind of banking business as far back as the late 40's or early 50's. The first bank was located in a building whic h was formerly a Methodist Church on the corner now occupied by the Post Office. Here a general store was run by Mr . Nolte and here a safe, possibly the first in Seguin, housed most of the local currency. History disclosed that one night this safe was looted of its entire contents, which not only contained money of Mr . Nolte's, but cash which had been left there by local people for safe keeping through the courtesy of the store. All the loss was. made good by Mr. Nolte. Later a general banking business was entered into by the store and became known as E. Nolte & Sons. For many years it was Seguin's only banking institution and in several financial panics was the only bank in the entire section which did not suspend payments to its depositors. During one of these panics, when Nolte's Bank was guaranteeing payments of other banks as well as their own depositors, and a large quantity of cash was in their vaults; that they kept special guard day and night, realizing the results if the bunk should be robbed at this time. The Notle Bank was doing business when there were few others in the state outside of Galveston, San Antonio, Gonzales, Cuero and Austin.

The Killing of Captain Frank Jones - By J. Marvin Hunter

2014-10-25

[From J. Marvin Hunter’s Frontier Times Magazine, January, 1929]

Captain Frank Jones was a gallant Texas Ranger. He is remembered kindly by all of the Old Guard who are yet living, as one of the most efficient, brave, untiring Rangers in the service of the State. He lost his life in the discharge of duty, while trying to effect the capture of a band of outlaws, near El Paso, Texas, June 30, 1893. The story of his death will be given further on in this article, as related by the late lamented Colonel George Wythe Baylor, his father-in-law. Captain Frank Jones was born in Austin, Texas, in 1856. He was the son of Judge Wm. Eastman Jones of Georgia, and his wife, Elizabeth Rector Jones of Tennessee. He enlisted in Company A, State Rangers, under command of Ira Long, when but 17 years old, and remained with that company a year when he joined Company F, commanded by Lieutenant Pat Dolan, with whom he stayed nine months. He next enlisted in Company D, under Captain D. W. Roberts, and was appointed corporal of the company. Later, in the same year, Captain L. P. Sicker took command of the company and Corporal Jones was promoted to sergeant. Subsequently when Captain Sicker was appointed quartermaster of the battalion, Jones was left in command of the company later was appointed captain. This was during the administration of Governor Ireland, and his career from that time to the time of his death had been in keeping with the record he had already made, winning him commendation from headquarters as well as from all with whom he came in contact.

The following account of the killing of Capt. Frank Jones appeared in the San Antonio Express July 1, 1893:

"Ysleta, El Paso Co., Texas, June 30—(Special) Frank Jones, captain of Company D, of the Texas Rangers, was killed by smugglers near the line of Mexico this morning. He had been scouting with his detachment to capture a band of Mexican outlaws, and a fight ensued, in which the Mexicans outnumbered the rangers. Captain Jones' body was taken to San Elizario, and reinforcements secured to follow the murderers. The whole section is up in arms and a hot chase has been made to capture the murderers. Sergeant J. R.Hughes went to the assistance of Corporal Kirchner, who was left in command. Captain Jones has two brothers in San Antonio and another who is county judge of Val Verde county. The fight was a desperate one when it was seen that the rangers were overpowered and it is fortunate that the whole party was not killed."

"El Paso, Texas, June—(Special)—About 1 o'clock this morning information reached here that Captain Frank L. Jones, in command of Company D, Texas Rangers, had been killed by Mexican outlaws on an island about thirty miles down the Rio Grande. Sheriff Simmons called for volunteers to form a posse to go out at once to the relief of the surviving members of Captain Jones' company of rangers. Superintendent Martin of the Southern Pacific tendered Sheriff Simmons a special train with a coach for the men and a stock car for the needed horses. The volunteers were soon found and about two hours after the news of the killing of the officer had been received a dozen men were on their way to avenge the death and capture the body of the fallen man from the keeping of the pirates and cut-throats that took it.

"News has just been received that the posse has the outlaws surrounded on the Mexican side of the river and that Sheriff Simmons is on his way back for reinforcements. The men that killed Captain Jones are a part of a gang of thieves, murderers and smugglers that have for years infested an island that has been a sort of neutral ground. For several years the people of this part of the state have desired the presence of a company of rangers for protection from these border thieves and murderers, and only a week ago did Captain Jones and the brave men with him erect tents in Ysleta for the avowed purpose of ridding the island below the bosque above of the desperate characters that have for years infested them."

Captain Jones married a daughter of General George W. Baylor only a short time before he was killed. In reporting the details of the murder of Captain Jones to the Adjutant General's Department, General Baylor wrote:

"Ysleta, Texas, July 9, 1893—W. H.Mabry, Adjutant General State of Texas, Austin.—Dear Sir: Having been delayed by efforts to recover Captain Jones' arms and effects, and Private Tucker's horse, has delayed me, and together with providing a room for my daughter, who could not bear to remain in the house where she had spent a few happy days with her husband, will be excuse for my not being more prompt. The newspapers are in the main correct. I give the particulars of the fight, as it will be of interest to you and Captain Jones' old comrades.

"The scout was made to arrest Jesus Maria Olguin and his son, Severio Olguin, charged with horse and cattle stealing and with assault with intent to commit murder. The father, Jesus, his sons, Sebastian, Severio, and an unknown Mexican, having defied Ed Bryan and two men with arms, Bryan being deputy sheriff. They are a hard set, the grandfather, Clato, his sons, Jesus Maria, Antonio (ex-convict) and Pedro Olguin. The sons of Jesus are Severio, Sebastian, Pecilliano, and two younger ones. All live on the Island on Texas soil, except the ex-convict, Antonio, who was sent to the penitentiary and escaped. Sebastian and Pecilliano have been arrested and at the last term of court were sentenced one to ten years and the other three years in the penitentiary.

"The scout was composed of Captain Frank Jones, Corporal Karl Kirchner, Privates T. E. Tucker, E. D. Aten, J. W.Sanders and R. E. Bryant. They left quarters on the evening of June 29, 1893, and camped the first night opposite La Quadrilla, five miles below San Elizario, on the east bank of the present Rio Grande. That morning the party were in their saddles by 4 o'clock and rode straight across the island for the Olguin ranch, some five miles distant, and the east bank of the old river and boundary line between Mexico and the United States, rounding up the ranch they found old Clato Olguin, Jesus Maria's wife, two other women and a boy. The old man was very surly, and the men wanted had evidently been notified of the scout, possibly by their friends in Ysleta or San Elizario, and had crossed over to the Mexican side to the house of Antonio Olguin.

"After getting breakfast the captain started up the river in the main road, which crosses backward and forward from our side to Mexico several times, the river being very crooked and being overgrown with chaparral, it is difficult to determine which one is the Texas or Mexico. About three miles above the Olguin ranch while in advance with Private Tucker, Captain Jones saw two Mexicans coming down the road towards them, who on seeing the rangers wheeled and ran back and the rangers immediately gave chase and kept up the road. After a run of three or four hundred yards Corporal Kirchner and Privates Saunders and Aten passed Captain Jones and Private Tucker and ran on to the Mexicans. One of them, Jesus Maria Olguin, fell from his horse and turned square off to the left of the road, he being near Antonio Olguin's house, and doubled back again across the road and ran into the house. The other turned off to the right of the road and threw up his hands.

"There were four houses in this settlement which is on the main road and some 200 yards from the Texas line. As Corporal Kirchner, who was ahead, passed he was fired upon from the door of one of the houses. One bullet struck his Winchester, bending it so that he could only fire one shot and then reload. Saunders came next and a second volley was fired at him, which he returned by a shot from his pistol, this being the first shot fired by the rangers. Captain Jones came next and a volley being fired he halted and dismounted within thirty feet of the door and in front of it and returned the fire with his Winchester. Private Tucker also dismounted and fired. The Mexicans would open the door and fire and two Mexicans on the right and left of the house would rise from behind an adobe wall and fire also. The door would then close. Kirchner, Saunders and Aten whirled and came back and dismounted and Bryan came up back of and within fifteen or twenty feet of Captain Jones and Tucker, and every time the door was opened and a volley fired, Captain Jones and the men would return it. The house had a porthole also from which firing was kept up. In the second volley Captain Jones had his thigh broken and fell, but managed to get his wounded leg straightened out in front of him and fired two or three shots. His mortal wound was given by a Mexican behind the adobe wall, the captain leaning forward in shooting and the Mexican shooting over the wall. The ball struck just above the heart (as brave and noble one as ever beat) and ranged downward killing him instantly. Tucker, who stood over him when he first fell, said, 'Captain, are you hurt?' He answered, 'Yes, shot all to pieces.' A moment later when the fatal bullet struck him he said, 'Boys, I am killed,' and fell back dead.

"Tucker says the captain probably never knew he had crossed the line, and Tucker only knew it when Pat Bryan said, 'We had better get across the line; we are in Mexico and within a mile or so of the Plaza of Tres Jacales, and there will soon be a force of Mexicans here.' Young Lupan, who went with them from San Elizario with the scout to try and recover a stolen horse, told them a courier had gone to the town of Guadalupe for soldiers and men.

"All firing had ceased and the rangers rode up the road towards Tres Jacales and Bryan asked a Mexican to take care of the Captain's body, which he promised to do, but said they could not deliver it to us on this side, as it was against their laws. Of the Mexican outlaws Severio Olquin had his arm broken near the body; Jesus Maria Olguin was shot through the right hand and had two bullets gaze his head. The Mexicans had them under guard so they told Major Teel, but turned them loose and luckily Colonel Martinez, who came down from Juarez with Sheriff Simmons to turn over Captain Jones' body, came onto Jesus Olguin and Antonio, the ex-convict, in a short bend of the road and the colonel on being told who they were had his escort arrest them and they took them to Tres Jacales and there arrested Severio Olguin, and the three are now in the Juarez jail and our officers are trying to have them extradited.

"You will see the bosque gang have had a hard blow and taking into consideration that the rangers were in an open road and the thieves in an adobe house or behind adobe walls, they certainly made a good fight. The Mexican authorities have shown every courtesy in their power in giving us the body of our dead ranger and promise to return the gun, pistol, watch, money and horse left at the scene of the fight.

"A good, true, and noble man has fallen in the path of duty and we mourn his loss and pity the broken heart of a loving young wife. Let us hope the result may be that our authorities and those of Mexico may combine to rid the country of this set of thieves and outlaws. Yours respectfully, GEORGE WYTHE BAYLOR.

"Captain Frank Jones is survived by one daughter, Mrs. Kathleen Jones Tyndall, wife of Major John G. Tyndall, Field Artillery, U. S. Army, and now stationed at Fort Sheridan, Illinois. Mrs. Tyndall very kindly sent Frontier Times a letter written by her father to Mrs. Pauline Baker, Uvalde, Texas, in December, 1891, in which he tells Mrs. Baker of the capture of some train robbers. The letter was written on the stationery of Company D, State Rangers, with Frank Jones, Captain; non-commissioned officers were, first sergeant, B. L. Outlaw; first corporal, John R. Hughes. The letter is given verbatim, as follows:

"Camp Hogg, Texas,

Dec. 2, 1891.

Mrs. Pauline Baker,

Uvalde,Texas.

Dear Mrs. Baker: Thinking an account of the capture, as it really occurred, of the train robbers might be interesting to you, and having some leisure time to dispose of, will devote a part of it to writing you this letter. If it does not prove interesting, I at least hope it will not bore you. When I left Uvalde I went straight to El Paso as an attached witness for the Federal grand jury then in session. Before reaching El Paso I received a telegram, forwarded from Alpine, stating that the robbers were in camp about 50 miles from Comstock, a station on the Southern Pacific road, and about 30 miles west of Del Rio. I went on to El Paso that evening and the next day saw the Division Supt. and made arrangements for transporting men and horses from Alpine to Comstock.

The next day I came down on the passenger train to Alpine and got off and came out to camp and got the men and horses and returned to Alpine the same evening. We boarded a freight train about nine o'clock in the night and reached Comstock about noon the next day. Here we left the railroad and that night camped at old "Camp Hudson" on Devil's river. The next day we arrived at the place these robbers had camped and slaughtered a beef, but they had been gone 3 days.

The next day I followed their trail across the country about 40 miles and camped without water for our horses, but found sufficient in some rocks for our own use. The next day the trail lead in the direction of the Pecos and we came to a ranch at "Howard's well," an old time station on the old overland stage line from San Antonio to El Paso. At this point some parties had seen the men we were following and they were yet 3 days ahead of us. A few miles from this place we again found their trail and followed it all that day. The next morning we heard of them and they were only one day ahead of us, they having laid up 2 days to rest their horses.

We would have overtaken them the next day, but they did not ride close together and the grass was almost knee high and we had some difficulty in trailing them. The next day about noon we followed their trail to a ranch where I expected to find them as the sign was quite fresh. We ran up to the house and surrounded it and found no one there but a lady and she was so frightened she could hardy talk. She was a Northern woman. After she got breath enough to talk, informed me that the robbers had been gone about 4 hours and that a young man who worked for them had ridden off with them. Said they wanted to purchase some horses and as this young man had some for sale they had gone up the next pasture where they could catch them in. I pushed on and on reaching this place found 2 of the robbers' broken horses near the pen, and of course, I then knew two of them had a fresh mount. It was now about 2 o'clock and we had ridden very hard that day and had no dinner. We unpacked and while the boys were getting dinner a man came up and he proved to be the man who had left the ranch with the robbers that morning. On being questioned he said that he had sold them two splendid young horses and that they were in camp only one mile from us. He said that, he ate dinner with them and they had a splendid place in which to make a fight. He described them so accurately that I knew positively the two who had obtained the new horses; they were John Flynt and Jack Wellington, the worst men by far in the party. We hurried through dinner and packed up and went straight to their camp. I had fully made up my mind to go on them no matter when or how I found them. They must have started about the same time we did for when I reached the place they had camped for noon we saw them about one mile ahead riding along very leisurely. I noticed that they were making a curve to the left and I quit the road and went up the bed of a dry ravine and quartering with them. When we came out of this ravine they were in plain view and distant about half a mile. We increased our gait to a brisk trot and when about 300 yards from them I ordered a charge and at them we went with our guns drawn. They did not see us until their horses shied at the noise ours made running. Lansford did not attempt to escape but the others put spurs to their horses and the chase was on in good earnest. Flint and Wellington stayed together and I followed them about 3 miles when Wellington's horse was shot and could not run any more. Wellington jumped off and gun in hand started to some rocks on the side of the mountain. When he dismounted I was sure that Flynt would too and that they would fight to the death. I dismounted and shot at Wellington 3 times but it was a long distance and I undershot him. He had a much better gun than mine, it being a large long range rifle with cartridges as long as your finger. I knew that he was a famous shot and at long range had a decided advantage. I remounted my horse and ran up to about 100 yards of him where I felt pretty sure I could kill him the first shot. I then called out to him that I was an officer and did not wish to hurt him and he surrendered. In the meantime Flynt ran on and the two men who were next to one I sent on after him telling them to follow him until they ran him into some hole and that as soon as I captured or killed Wellington would follow on. There had been so much talk about Wellington that I was anxious to try conclusions with him and I guess we would have had a regular Winchester duel only he saw some of the men coming on up the flat and knew that in case he killed me he could not get away with his life. He was not a particle unnerved. Flynt ran about 5 miles farther on then dismounted and went into a ravine in a little thicket, and after making a note in his pocket book as to what disposition was to be made of his property, blew his brains out. Some time in the chase he had been shot through the body, but I do not think the wound was necessarily a fatal one. You who understand anatomy would be a better judge of that than I am. The ball entered just under the right shoulder blade making its exit through the right nipple. He had not bled a great deal except from the wound in the head. He had not bled a particle from the mouth or nose. We procured a hack and brought his body to a ranch 8 miles from where he was killed.

The next day we buried him the best we could under the circumstances, the prisoners assisting us. I had to purchase the partition out of a house to get lumber to make a coffin for him. Flynt was a young man who had been given good advantages, but gambling and drinking had ruined him. He was to have been married in Oct. but got into this trouble. I had met the girl a few times and she is a very bright woman. Since his death she "cut me dead" but I am under the impression that I will survive. I am really sorry for her. I would give almost anything to know the history of this man Wellington. He is a gentleman and he is a very handsome man. Has fine blue eyes, fair complexion, blond hair and mustache. He said that he and Flynt had put up several jobs to get to kill me. But enough of trainrobbers. I am afraid you will never speak to me again for having inflicted such a letter on you.

I have not heard from my daughter for some days and she was not very well, but nothing serious. You just ought to see how I am fixed up in camp. Have a $32.00 bedroom set, and am not engaged to anyone in Uvalde or anywhere else. I would be glad to hear from you any time. Will visit Boerne about Christmas.

With best regards, I am, Your friend, FRANK JONES."