Texas Ranger Dispatch - Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum

Transcription

Issue 33, 2011
Texas Ranger Dispatch
Magazine of the official Museum, Hall of Fame, and Repository of the Texas Rangers Law Enforcement Agency
Operation Border Star Challenge Coin
Britton Johnson
Texas Ranger Reunion 2011
John R Hughes
Ira Aten
Bloody Bill Longley
Red Arnold
Company D 1874-1901
This issue of the Texas Ranger Dispatch is funded in part by a grant
from the Texas Ranger Association Foundation. Their generosity
makes this publication possible.
http://www.thetexasrangers.org

Founded in 1964, the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum
is a nonprofit historical center owned by the people of Texas. It is
hosted and professionally operated by the city of Waco, Texas.
It is sanctioned by the Texas Rangers, the Texas Department of
Public Safety, and the legislature of the State of Texas.
 http://www.texasranger.org/index.htm
Texas Ranger Dispatch Production Team
Byron A. Johnson - Managing Editor; Director, Texas Ranger Hall of Fame & Museum
Pam S. Baird – Technical Editor, Layout, and Design
Sharon P. Johnson, Volunteer Web Designer, Baylor University
Christina Stopka, Archivist, Texas Ranger Research Center
Shelly Crittendon, Collections Manager, Collections Division
Christina Claridy, Research Librarian, Texas Ranger Research Center
In Memoriam - Robert Nieman 1947-2009
Texas Ranger
Dispatch
Issue 33, 2011
Table of Contents
4 Britton Johnson.................................................Christy Claridy
8 Rio Grande Valley Joint Operations Intelligence Center Issues
Operation Border Star Challenge Coin........................Staff
10 Texas Ranger Reunion 2011............................................Staff
Captain John Wood, oldest living Texas Ranger
12 Introduction to Books.......................................Byron Johnson
16 If You Pull It, Jack, I’ll Kill You........James R. (Bob) Alexander
from Rawhide Ranger, Ira Aten: Enforcing Law on the Texas Frontier
24 Battling the Olguins........................................Chuck Parsons
from John R. Hughes, Lone Star Ranger
32 Bloody Bill Longley................................................Rick Miller
from Bloody Bill Longley: the Mythology of a Gunfighter
39 A Carnival of Crime and Corruption...James R. (Bob) Alexander
from Winchester Warriors: Texas Rangers of Company D, 1874-1901
49 Assault on the Highway........................................Bob Arnold
from First in Texas
Britton Johnson
Painting of Britton Johnson by Lee Herring,
on loan to the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum
Britton Johnson
Christy Claridy
The Texas Ranger Museum and Hall of Fame has received on loan a striking painting by Lee
Herring, Official Texas State Artist for 2007. The work depicts the ferocious fight between Britton
“Britt” Johnson and Kiowa warriors in 1871. While much has been written and speculated about
his life, there is very little verifiable data about Johnson, and much of the information available
today is based on oral history. These stories were passed down from Johnson’s contemporaries,
who noted with respect his unwavering determination to find his family and his courageous stand
against Kiowa warriors that resulted in his hard-fought and gruesome death.
Britt Johnson is alleged to have been born a slave under either Moses Johnson or his son Alan
Johnson around 1840, although Britt’s name does not appear in the 1850 or 1860 slave censuses.
In 1850, a Moses Johnson from Tennessee was living in Navarro County, Texas, and by 1860,
a Moses Johnson from Tennessee was living in Young County, Texas. According to this census,
Moses Johnson’s household includes a thirty-year-old black male (which, if this is Britt Johnson,
does not support an 1840 birth date), a twenty-year-old mulatto female, a fourteen-year-old black
Contents and design of the Texas Ranger Dispatch™ are copyrighted by the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum and other named copyright holders. Permission is granted to print copies or excerpts for personal use and educational coursework. Commercial use or redistribution requires written
permission from the Office of the Director, Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, PO Box 2570, Waco, TX 76702.
4
Britton Johnson
female, a three-year-old mulatto male, and a one-year-old mulatto male.1 A J. A. Johnson from
Tennessee (possibly Alan Johnson) appears on both the 1850 Navarro County census and the 1860
Young County census. He owned two slaves in 1850: one twelve-year-old black female and one
fourteen-year-old mulatto male, both approximately the assumed ages of Britton Johnson and his
wife Mary. In fact, some sources assert Johnson was born in 1835, not 1840.2 Since the 1860 Young
County census does not list J. A. Johnson as a slaveholder in the slave census even though he is
included in the general census, it appears that he did not own any slaves at that time. Regardless
of status, Britt Johnson became a celebrated hero of the American West for his extraordinary solo
expeditions into the heart of the formidable Comancheria (Land of the Comanches) in search of
his captured family and friends.
The saga of Britt Johnson began in 1864 when Johnson was likely living in Young County,
Texas. As stated previously, there is much conjecture surrounding his life. If Johnson remained a
slave, he had a great amount of freedom and worked as a foreman on the Johnson Ranch while
tending his own cattle herd. Perhaps he was not a slave and was working for a widow named Elizabeth Fitzpatrick on her ranch. What is known for certain is that on October 13, 1864, Britt Johnson
was away from home when Fitzpatrick’s house, where Britt’s wife and children were either visiting
or living, was attacked by Comanche and Kiowa warriors during what came to be known as the
Elm Creek Raid. Seven people were captured during the combined assault,3 including Johnson’s
wife Mary and their two children, and Elizabeth Fitzpatrick, her son, and her two granddaughters.
Johnson’s eldest son and Fitzpatrick’s daughter were killed during the attack, and Elizabeth Fitzpatrick’s son was subsequently killed while the captives were on the trail. Regrettably, neither the
names and genders of the Johnson children nor the number of children in the family before or
after the attack can be verified.
According to some sources, Mary Johnson was pregnant at the time of her capture. Indeed,
there is a Depression-era Works Project Administration oral history interview with a gentleman
named John Johnson, who asserts that he is the son of Britton and Mary Johnson4 and was born
in December 1864 while his mother was in captivity. He claims he was ransomed shortly after the
rest of the captives were returned, but he remained in captivity eight years before being returned
to his mother. There are a few inconsistencies with this story, though. Mr. Johnson says the date of
the attack was in 1863, not 1864. He also says Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s daughters, not granddaughters,
were taken captive. He claims that he was not in the original ransom because his father did not
know of his existence. However, if he was born in December 1864, Britt Johnson would certainly
have known his wife was pregnant by the time of her capture in October 1864. By giving the date
as 1863 and giving his date of birth as December 1864, John Johnson seems to imply that Mary
Johnson gave birth to him over a year after she was taken captive, which would explain why Britt
Johnson would not have known of his existence. There is also no real reason given for why he had
to wait eight years before he was returned to his family. There are numerous holes in this short narrative, all of which begin with or are ultimately centered on the erroneous 1863 date of the attack.
1 1860 Federal Census, Slave Schedule, Young County, Texas.
2 1850 Federal Census, Slave Schedule, Navarro County, Texas.
3 War of the Rebellion, series 1, vol. 41, chap. 53, pt. 1:884-886.
4 La Vere, David, Life Among Texas Indians: The WPA Narratives (College Station: Texas A&M
UniversityPress, 1998) 68.
5
Britton Johnson
In spite of the speculation and ambiguous history surrounding Britton Johnson, he has remained a much written-about figure of the American West. After his family was captured in the
Elm Creek Raid, Johnson traveled into Comancheria five or more times in an attempt to ransom
the captives. His remarkable and awe-inspiring solo quests into an area feared and avoided by
so many made his actions legendary. He traveled to forts situated throughout the frontier, visited
reservations, and went to Comanche and Kiowa camps looking for his friends and family. Johnson
never abandoned the search and never missed an opportunity to inquire about the Elm Creek
captives. Some sources opine he even lived with a band of Comanches in an attempt to win their
trust and get his family returned by either ransom or escape. It is not certain whether or not this
is true. It is conceivable he at least met with Comanche leaders during his expeditions into their
homelands, and it is also logical that those meetings were fraught with resentment and tension on
both sides––a very dangerous atmosphere. Sources assert that a Comanche chief named AsaHavey, who was interested in pursuing peace negotiations with the government, assisted Johnson
in his efforts to find his family and worked in conjunction with Johnson for their successful recovery.5
The manner in which the captives were recovered (negotiation, deceit, or likely a combination of
both) very possibly created a reputation for Britt Johnson among the Kiowa and Comanches that
aroused the necessity for revenge.
After his family was restored to him in June 1865, Johnson moved to Parker County, Texas,
where he owned and operated a freighting business. In November 1871, he and two men in his
employ were transporting supplies through the sparsely populated plains near Graham in Young
County when they were attacked by Kiowa warriors. Observers in the distance noted Johnson’s
two employees were killed almost immediately, leaving Britt alone to fight the advancing warriors.
He killed his horse and used its body for cover as he made his desperate, lone stand. Ultimately,
however, Johnson was killed. He did not succumb easily though. Passersby who discovered the
grotesquely mutilated remains of the three men found nearly two hundred shells surrounding the
body of Britt Johnson.6 Against insurmountable odds, he obviously had fought furiously and aggressively for his life.
Britt Johnson’s courageous perseverance and bitterly contested death have endured as
testaments to the fearless character attributed to heroes of the American West. His tenacity has
even been recognized and memorialized by the Hollywood movie industry. The lead characters in
the classic novel The Searchers by Alan Le May were based on the celebrated actions of Britton,
who relentlessly searched for his family through an unknown and unwelcoming region in spite of
the danger to himself. The book was later adapted into a movie of the same name starring John
Wayne, and it has been hailed as one of the best westerns ever filmed. Johnson’s legacy endures
into the 21st century as his heroism continues to inspire novels, articles, and now paintings.
Nye, W.S., Carbine and Lance: The Story of Old Fort Sill (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press,
1937) 46.
6 McClellan, Michael E. Britton Johnson, (Handbook of Texas Online, accessed April 2011).
5
6
Britton Johnson
SOURCES
Burton, Art. T., Black, Buckskin, and Blue: African-American Scouts and Soldiers on the Western
Frontier. (Austin: Eakin Press, 1999).
La Vere, David, Life Among the Texas Indians: The WPA Narratives. (College Station: Texas
A&M University Press, 1998).
McClellan, Michael, Britton Johnson. (Handbook of Texas Online, Texas State Historical
Association, retrieved April 21, 2011).
Neighbours, Kenneth F., Elm Creek Raid. (Handbook of Texas Online, Texas State Historical
Association, retrieved April 21, 2011).
Nye, W. S., Carbine, and Lance: The Story of Old Fort Sill (Norman: University of Oklahoma
Press, 1937).
Smith, David Paul, Frontier Defense in the Civil War: Texas’ Rangers and Rebels (College
Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1992).
United States of America, Bureau of the Census, Seventh Census of the United States, 1850,
Slave Schedules, 1850, Navarro County, TX. (Washington D.C.: National Archives and
Records Administration, 1850, retrieved www.ancestry.com May 3, 2011).
United States of American, Bureau of the Census, Eighth Census of the United States, 1860,
Slave Schedules, 1860, Young County, TX. (Washington D.C., National Archives and
Records Administration, 1860, retrieved www.ancestry.com May 3, 2011).
United States War Department, War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of
the Union and Confederate Armies. Series 1, volume 41, chapter 53, part 1. (Washington
DC, Government Printing Office, retrieved Cornell University Library, www.ebooks.library/
cornell.edu May 3, 2011).
7
RGVJ Coin
Rio Grande Valley Joint Operations
Intelligence Center Issues
Operation Border Star Challenge Coin
Operation Border Star Challenge Coin, 20/100
Gift of Rio Grande Valley Joint Operations Intelligence Center
Cat. No. 2011.23.1
The Challenge Coin for the Rio Grande Valley Joint Operations Intelligence Center (RGV JOIC)
is a unique combination of the military and the law enforcement agency of the Texas Rangers.
There were only one hundred of these coins struck, with the first twenty-five being numbered. Coin
#1 was presented to Texas Governor Rick Perry, and the remaining twenty-four were distributed
to members of the JOIC team and various officials within the Texas Department of Public Safety,
Texas Military Forces, and the US Border Patrol. Coin #20 was reserved for the Texas Ranger Hall
of Fame and Museum. These coins will not be produced again.
8
RGVJ Coin
RGV JOIC Team Members
The JOIC concept is the base of operations along the border between the state of Texas and
Mexico for Operation Border Star intelligence collection and dissemination. The JOIC is supervised by a staff lieutenant from the Texas Rangers, who is assisted by a border liaison officer and
members of the Texas Military Forces (TMF). The RGV JOIC is housed within the United States
Border Patrol RGV Sector Headquarters and is deeply integrated with the US Border Patrol in
intelligence collection and distribution.
The Challenge Coin was designed by two members of the TMF JOIC team, Sergeant First
Class Ron Smith and Sergeant First Class David Gutierrez. The front side of the coin is dedicated
to the Texas Military Forces, which is comprised of the Texas State Guard, Texas Army National
Guard, and the Texas Air National Guard. Soldiers and airmen from Operation Border Star and
Texas Counter Drug are the operators who man the JOIC. The shield is the official insignia of the
TMF. The palm trees represent the Rio Grande Valley, and the six stars represent the original
six operators from the Texas State Guard who manned the JOIC from inception. (The JOIC TMF
component has been increased in the number of team members since it began operation in 2008.)
The back of the coin has the distinctive cinco peso badge of the Texas Rangers, and this is the
first time that a military unit and the Texas Rangers have been combined on a Challenge Coin. Is
only fitting since both organizations, which trace their foundation back to 1835, have had significant
interaction in many ways for over one hundred and fifty years. The seven stars under the Ranger
badge represent the unity of the Texas Rangers and the Texas Military Forces in meeting the tasks
and goals of Operation Border Star and protecting the citizens of Texas and the United States.
Only those persons who have physically entered the RGV JOIC are privileged to receive this
coin. It is passed on in the traditional method of shaking hands between the JOIC Team member
and the recipient.
9
Texas Ranger Reunion
2011
Each year, the Texas Ranger Association
Foundation (TRAF) hosts an annual reunion
of Texas Rangers at the Texas Ranger Hall of
Fame and the Waco Convention Center. The
statewide get-together attracts more than 350
active and retired Texas Rangers, their families,
and TRAF members.
As part of the reunion, the Department
of Public Safety (DPS) displayed the latest in
Ranger technology, including an armored personnel carrier, tactical firearms, a Kevlar-reinforced
patrol boat, and a mobile command center. The 63-foot command center has been used on the
border and is capable of coordinating Texas DPS and Texas Ranger activities in a wide area with
conventional radio and satellite feeds. A demonstration of special tactics involved a helicopter fly
over the Museum, with Texas Rangers repelling to the ground.
The gala dinner attracted 540 persons and featured a silent auction benefiting the TRAF scholarship program. The program is administered by Constance White of the Spindletop Foundation,
and it grants college scholarships to children of active-duty Texas Rangers.
The guest speaker was the Honorable John Cornyn (R-Texas), United States Senator. Cornyn
discussed border security and his hopes for the support the federal government will provide. TRAF
also honored the oldest living Texas Ranger, retired Captain John Wood, age 97. Foundation
members expressed their appreciation to outgoing TRAF Chairman Steve Sikes and welcomed
incoming Chairman Gary Crawford.
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Captain John Wood
Oldest Living Texas Ranger
John Mansel Wood was born October 9, 1913,
in Colorado City, Texas. He began his career in law
enforcement as a city policeman in 1942, and a few
months later in November, he joined the Texas Department of Public Safety as a Highway Patrolman.
He was selected to become a Texas Ranger on January 1, 1949. His first assignment was in Midland in
the Permian Basin oil fields.
As a sergeant, Captain Wood recovered more
stolen oilfield equipment than any other Ranger in
the state. In 1970, he received a promotion to captain
and commanded Company D, headquartered in San Antonio. His major assignment there was
the investigation of government corruption in Duval Country, a job that took ten and a half years.
His efforts resulted in several hundred cases against two dozen people.
After almost thirty years of service in the Texas Rangers and thirty-six years with Texas DPS,
he retired on October 31, 1978. Thank you, Captain Wood, for your service and dedication to
the people of Texas.
11
Publishing the Texas Rangers
An American Literary Tradition in Three Centuries
Byron A. Johnson, Director
Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum
This issue of the Dispatch
excerpts several outstanding
new books in the latest cycle
of publication on the Texas
Rangers. The current leader in
publishing Texas Ranger history
is the University of North Texas
Press, under Director Ronald
Chrisman:
The University of North Texas
Press is dedicated to producing the highest quality
academic and general interest
books for the Metroplex, state,
national, and international
communities as part of an
outreach activity. UNT Press
publishes in the humanities
and social sciences, with
special emphasis on Texas
history and culture.
Since its founding in 1987,
publications on the Texas Rangers have been a staple of UNT
Press’s program, beginning
with :
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* In the Line of Duty: Reflections of a Texas Ranger Private - Lewis Rigler
UNT Press has published biographies of the four “Great Captains” at the turn of the twentieth century:
* Captain John H. Rogers, Texas Ranger - Paul N. Spellman
* Captain J. A. Brooks, Texas Ranger - Paul N. Spellman
* Yours to Command: The Life and Legend of Captain Bill McDonald - Harold J. Weiss Jr.
* Captain John R. Hughes: Lone Star Ranger - Chuck Parsons
Other recent titles on Texas Ranger history include:
* Winchester Warriors: Texas Rangers of Company D, 1874-1901 - Bob Alexander
* Rawhide Ranger, Ira Aten: Enforcing the Law on the Texas Frontier - Bob Alexander
* Eleven Days in Hell: The 1974 Carrasco Prison Siege - William T. Harper
* The Savage Frontier series of four volumes on the early Rangers from 1835 to 1845 -Stephen L. Moore
Truly, Texas Ranger books have a life and history of their own. Walter Prescott Webb’s landmark, The Texas Rangers: A Century of Frontier Defense, was published for the Texas Centennial
in 1936. As part of his research, Webb shared sentimental reminiscences of the old days as well
as libations with veterans Frank Hamer and Bob Goss. He came away agreeing with their opinion
that the twilight of the Texas Rangers might have arrived with the creation of new Texas Department of Public Safety.
Seventy-five years later, the Texas Rangers remain a pillar of Texas law enforcement, the oldest
law enforcement agency in the nation with statewide jurisdiction. Webb’s book, still containing his
long outdated apprehensions, has never gone out of print since 1936. Webb intended a revision,
but he died in 1963 before writing it.
Colonel Homer Garrison Jr., long-time director of Texas DPS, once stated, “As long as there
is a Texas there will be Texas Rangers.” It also appears that as long as books are written about
the American West, there will be books about the Texas Rangers.
Scarcely two decades after their creation in 1823, the Texas Rangers had become national
celebrities, “superstars” of the Mexican War. They owed this fame to the first embedded journalists
in history, who traveled to Mexico with the US Army. These newspaper correspondents described
the Texas Rangers as “highly irregular irregulars,” unorthodox heroic figures worthy of columns
of newsprint.
Unlike the starched US and Mexican troops, Texians wore colorful frontier dress reminiscent
of Davy Crockett. On one hand, they exhibited raucous backwoods behavior, but they also carried
devastating high-tech Colt repeating weapons decades ahead of what the Army carried. Refusing
to line up in orderly ranks to be shot, as did the US and Mexican troops, the Rangers employed noholds-barred horseback guerilla tactics that drove West Point officers to distraction. This combination
saved the US Army from defeat on more than once occasion and influenced a generation of young
officers like Robert E. Lee, who borrowed their tactics in the Civil War. Texian Ranger leaders like
Jack Hays and Sam Walker became household names in Philadelphia, St. Louis, and Richmond.
Following the lead of the news media, the publishing establishment began a new Texas
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Ranger literary tradition. Novels, histories, biographies, autobiographies, songs, and stage plays
appeared. They were later joined by screenplays for silent movies and “talkies” and scripts for
radio programs and television series. So far, the phenomenon has lasted more than160 years.
The first Texas Ranger book noted by the Library of Congress is a florid romance novel
by Joseph H. Ingraham, The Texan Ranger; or, the Maid of Matamoras a Tale of the Mexican
War, published in 1847. It was soon followed by nonfiction histories like The Scouting
Expeditions of McCulloch’s Texan Rangers by Samuel Reid Jr. in 1848 and The Mexican
war and its Heroes (1849), containing references to John C. Hays and Samuel Walker.
Lurid Texas Indian captivity tales made their appearance during this era with Nelson Lee’s Three years
Among the Camanches, [sic] the Narrative of Nelson Lee, the Texas Ranger (1859). Nelson was allegedly
held captive by the Comanche and, straining credibility, eventually escaped by bartering a pocket watch.
The predecessors of Tin Pan Alley, not to be outdone, began publishing ballads
and sheet music for songs like “Song of the Texas Rangers,” “Texas Ranger!” and
“Texian Volunteers!” in collections like the 1874 compendium Allan’s Lone Star Ballads.
The next era of Texas Ranger publishing stretched between the Civil War and the early 20th
century. Ranger biographies premiered in the 1860s and 70s with the publication of The Scout and
Ranger: being the personal adventures of Corporal [James] Pike . . . as a Texan Ranger in 1865.
It was popular, and it was reprinted in 1883. Because of a gift for self-promotion and manipulation
of fact, Pike never made it into the pantheon of Texas Rangers. He unintentionally ended his
own life by using a loaded rifle as a club during an Indian attack. Two other bona fide Texas
legends gained additional fame in this era of biography with the publication of The Adventures of
Big-Foot Wallace: the Texas Ranger and Hunter by John Crittenden Duval in 1871 and Life and
adventures of John C. Hays, the Texas Ranger by John C. Hays with John Caperton in 1878.
This was also the era of dime novels, youth literature, and “penny dreadfuls.” Writers
of romantic bent churned out titles like The Ranger Boy’s Career or Cougar Bill of Texas by
Frederick Whittaker in 1872, Revolver Billy, the Boy Ranger of Texas: a history of the romantic
life of a prairie boy-Billy Miranda by Col. Prentiss Ingraham in 1883, and Texas Charlie, the Boy
Ranger: a Narrative of Thrilling Incidents in the Life of Captain Charles Bigelow the same year.
With this wealth of material appearing, melodramatic playwrights began to script dramas for traveling
theater companies such as The Vanishing Race or A Texas Ranger: a Frontier Melodrama in Four Acts
in 1899. In 1915, Harry Demark’s play A Texas Ranger, a Play of the Great Southwest in Three Acts
premiered to unknown reviews. There were certainly other Texas Ranger productions making the rounds.
The end of the century saw an increase in the number of Ranger biographies and a welcome
change from bombastic adventure stories to narrative history. Napoleon Jennings, a Ranger in
Leander McNelly’s Frontier Battalion, wrote his often-republished A Texas Ranger in 1899. In
1909, Albert Bigelow Paine wrote Captain Bill McDonald, Texas Ranger. It started McDonald,
“the man who would charge Hell with a bucket of water,” on his road to widespread fame.
John Sullivan, a less colorful but more observant writer, recorded his valuable reminiscences
in Twelve Years in the Saddle for Law and Order on the Frontiers of Texas, also in 1909.
By the 1920s and 30s, the few surviving Texas Rangers of the Old West were elderly. Fortunately
for posterity, several turned to reminiscing and writing their autobiographies. In 1925, James B. Gillett
penned Six years with the Texas Rangers, 1875-1881, a classic and one of the best sources of
information on Sam Bass, feuds, range wars, and skirmishes with Indians. Ira Aten wrote Six and oneContents and design of the Texas Ranger Dispatch™ are copyrighted by the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum and other named copyright holders. Permission is granted to print copies or excerpts for personal use and educational coursework. Commercial use or redistribution requires written
14
half Years in the Ranger Service; 50 Years Ago in the 1930s, and Buck Barry, with the help of James
Greer, wrote A Texas Ranger and Frontiersman; the Days of Buck Barry in Texas, 1845-1906 in 1932.
These books were outnumbered by countless novels. By the 1930s, new books by authors like
Zane Grey sold like hotcakes and spawned movie after movie starring the likes of Gene Autry and Tom
Mix. Pulp magazines appeared, including Texas Ranger, and were the descendents of dime novels.
In the last fifty years, thousands of Texas Ranger titles have appeared and hundreds remain in print.
It is certainly one of the outstanding genres of American literature. Thanks to the efforts of publishers
such as the University of North Texas Press, the Texas Ranger literature is moving into its third century.
15
If You Pull It, Jack
from: Rawhide Ranger, Ira Aten: Enforcing Law on the Texas Frontier
1st ed. Denton, Tex.: University of North Texas Press, 2011
ISBN 9781574413151. Hardcover $32.95
Chapter 6
“If you pull it, Jack,
I’ll kill you”
Bob (James R.) Alexander
In accordance with orders from Austin headquarters, Company D’s main camp was shifted
from San Ambrosia Creek back to Uvalde County. It would seem Lam Sieker, too, could see the
rationale in repositioning Company D Rangers due to hardened feelings. He notified AG King in
writing: “All I could do at my present camp [San Ambrosia] would be in a negative way.” Sieker’s
“negative way” was but gobbledygook: Rangers would brutally settle the score, he feared.
Certainly the captain’s assessment may have been on target. Remembering that little law
enforcement axiom, “you might beat the rap, but you can’t beat the ride,” the unforgiving Texas
Rangers of Company D acted. On August 1, 1885, in Laredo for court, Sergeant Ben Lindsey and
“3 men” arrested Pendencia and Tomas Herrera, “charged in Dimmit Co. with resisting officers.”
The tables, in these Texas Rangers’ minds, had been turned back upright. The entry in Company
D’s Monthly Return for August is curt: “Delivered them to Shff , Webb Co.,” who would himself
soon be ousted from political office. Whether or not Private Ira Aten was one of those “3 men” is
indistinct. He was, however, later in the month particularly identified as conveying prisoner Tobe
Edwards, charged with theft of a horse to the sheriff of Uvalde County, Henry W. Baylor.
Captain Sieker was also conveying someone—himself. As early as March, upon learning that
the Frontier Battalion’s Quartermaster, Captain John O. Johnson, was about to accept the lucrative
job as postmaster for the city of Austin, Lam Sieker had been vying to backfill. His career aspiraContents and design of the Texas Ranger Dispatch™ are copyrighted by the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum and other named copyright holders. Permission is granted to print copies or excerpts for personal use and educational coursework. Commercial use or redistribution requires written
16
tions were honorable and aboveboard—not hush-hush. The Frontier Battalion realignments took
place during October. Under a date of the 12th, General Order No. 85 made it official: Captain Lam
Sieker was promoted to battalion quartermaster. Leaving Lieutenant Frank Jones in command of
Company D and caring for his prized horse, Captain Sieker reported for duty at Austin. Although
its impact on Ira Aten’s life has been overlooked or underplayed, Captain Sieker’s promotion will
factor drastically and dramatically in resetting the young Ranger’s law enforcing compass.
For October 1885, Private Aten was a whirlwind of activity. He and another Ranger made a trip
into Edwards County, arresting T. M. Wilmore, wanted in Nolan County (Sweetwater) for assault
with intent to murder, covering 160 miles in five days. The prisoner did not take well to confinement
in the Uvalde County Jail, so he escaped. Private Aten was put back on his trail. After a grueling
trip, Ira finally ran Wilmore to ground on the Burris Ranch in Edwards County and jugged him
again. The following week, Ira was hunting in Tom Green County (San Angelo) for stolen cattle,
which were reportedly being driven for a clandestine export into Mexico. On the Texas side of the
Rio Grande, Privates Ira Aten and W. W. Collier recaptured the stolen beeves in Dimmit County.
Realizing they were being pursued by two Rangers, the thieves had abandoned the cattle, racing
for asylum at the river. Privates Aten and Collier came in second place, but recovering the cattle
was a pretty nifty prize. The owner thought so, anyway.
Though coming to a close, the tail end of 1885 was anything but quiet for Private Ira Aten.
During December on separate scouts, he covered more than 500 horseback miles and was away
from Camp Leona, which had been reactivated, more than two-thirds of the month. Perhaps his
most significant success during these scouts, aside from serving as a deterrent to some would-be
cow thieves, was his once again recovering a herd of stolen cattle in Dimmit County. Private Aten
aggressively attacking his workday assignment was not going unnoticed either in the field or at
battalion headquarters.
One of the most spellbinding chapters in the saga of Ira Aten’s law enforcing days unravels
during the front half of 1886. It seems that two of John Braeutigam’s supposed killers, Jack Beam
and Wesley Collier, had been rounded up the year before after their break from the Bexar County
Jail, and due to close proximity, had been locked away in Mason County’s jail—for a little while.
There was a second jailbreak, and the bad boys were on the run again. During September 1885,
Private Aten and two men had scouted in Kerr and Bandera Counties but “failed to learn anything
of their whereabouts.” For several months, it seemed as if fugitives Collier and Beam had fallen off
the face of the earth. Out of sight does not necessarily equate with out of mind, not for the Texas
Rangers, and in this specific case, the governor too. After Father Time ushered in a new year,
news about possible sightings of the wayward fellows picked up. The hunt intensified. Private Aten
made one scout trying to locate them, but as far as suspects Collier and Beam were involved, Ira
met with no success. However, he could report that while looking for them, he had bumbled into
Adrian Wilson, wanted for theft, and arrested him on January 23, 1886.
Not content to stand idle, Private Aten, teaming up with Sheriff Ira Wheat from Edwards County,
started looking for Collier and Beam once more on January 24. After a four-day search “on the
Devil’s River in Kimble County [Junction],” that scout was terminated and Sheriff Wheat returned
to his home base. Ira Aten remained in the field, this time hunting for John Odle, who was charged
with murder in Burnet County. Ira alone followed OdIe’s trail deep into the Devil’s River country of
Crockett County. After the trail played out, he returned to Camp Leona via Brackettville, Kinney
County. On this one scout, he was out twenty-two days, covering some 600 miles.
17
With a quick turnaround on February 17, 1885, Ranger Aten sashayed over to the Hill Ranch
and arrested William Redman for purportedly stealing a horse. Again, Private Ira Aten’s persistence
did not go unseen.
Particularly friendly to the German enclave in Texas’s Hill Country, according to Aten, Governor John Ireland had a mulish plan. The thought that Wes Collier and Jack Beam were time and
again outfoxing the Blind Mistress of Justice was wearing thin. There’s little doubt the governor had
turned to Captain Sieker, validating his scheme and double-checking his personnel selection. Ira
Aten had caught his eye. On March 6, Private Ira Aten was summoned to Austin on the shadowy
pretext of delivering Captain Sieker’s horse. Singling out Ranger Aten for an important special
assignment is clear indication Ira was maturing as a lawman, earning respect from his bosses. Ira
had been continually exhibiting the fact he was tenacious. As a man of but twenty-two years, he
had satisfactorily reacted under real pressure, galloping hard to join with suspected enemies with
Winchester in hand and exchanging scorching gunfire. The good governor had a message for his
budding Texas Ranger superstar: arrest Braeutigam’s murderers using all means at his disposal,
overtly or covertly. Time was of no import, and Ira was to stay after them with the perseverance of
a bloodhound or tiger if they wanted a fight.
On detached service, Ira Aten began making an investigation into the whereabouts of fugitive
Jack Beam. Ira laid on the pressure, scouting openly and aggressively throughout Williamson,
Blanco, Burnet, and Travis Counties. Figuring smartly that the outlaw would be fashioning plans to
skip to parts unknown but would probably seek a farewell visit with his sister, Ira made his move,
too. Beam’s brother-in-Iaw’s place on Perdenales Creek (Travis County) was placed under surveillance. Pressing into service the two Thruman brothers as citizen possemen, the stakeout kicked
off. On the second day, from their lair on a brushy hill with the aid of binoculars, the manhunters
espied a lone rider coming in. He was riding a “good” horse and had tied behind the saddle a
colorful blanket and an oilcloth slicker, indicators to Ira that the man was traveling, “coming to
bid his sister good-bye.” When the rider arrived at the homeplace, he didn’t put the horse in the
nearby barn but left it saddled and fed it grain from a box nailed to a tree. Ira’s interpretation was
straightforward and reasonable: the rider was ensuring a fast getaway if need be. Darkness soon
enveloped the little ranch, and Ira Aten and his helpers moved closer. The Thruman boys actually
found a secluded spot inside the barn. Texas Ranger Aten opted to remain outside, explaining, “I
took a position between the horse and the tree, squatting down almost under his neck.” Around
nine o’clock that night, the cabin’s door opened. Ira could hear the melodic tune of jingling spur
rowels as the mysterious form eased toward the saddled horse. When almost eye-to-eye, Ranger
Aten jumped up and popped into action, sticking his six-shooter right into Beam’s belly. He ordered,
“Hands up, Jack.” Throwing down saddlebags he had been carrying, Jack went for his Colt’s revolver. Ira finishes the story:
I was so close to him that I threw my left hand over on his right wrist and pushed down
upon it as hard as I could to keep him from pulling his six-shooter, at the same time saying ‘If you pull it, Jack, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you if you pull it.”
Thankfully for Ira, once they deciphered what was happening, the Thruman boys rushed from
the barn and helped physically subdue Jack Beam. After placing him in handcuffs, they passed
the night where they had wrestled him to the ground—35 miles from Fredericksburg. At the county
seat the next day, March 24, 1886, Texas Ranger Aten extracted a promise that folks would not
“mob” Jack Beam, and then he turned the luckless prisoner over to local authorities.
18
Two fellows had learned something that day. Texas Ranger Aten confirmed from Beam that
another of the suspects in Braeutigam’s demise was indeed Jim Fannin, a man never to be heard
from again. Wesley Collier, who was supposed to meet Beam that night for a trip out of Texas,
knew it was time to make long tracks before he too landed in the calaboose. Ranger Aten reported
success of Jack Beam’s capture to Governor Ireland, knowing Wes Collier would show up sooner
or later, here or there. For a manhunter, patience is indeed a golden virtue. Now pleased as punch
that he might not lose the German vote and that justice was at long last being served, an elated
governor noted Ira’s actual tenacity. Lam Sieker had been spot-on right: Aten was a “good Ranger.”
A damn good Ranger!
Good Ranger that he was, yet knowing his work was but half done, Ira Aten still managed time
to scoop up suspected horse thief C. C. Morrison on March 25, 1886, turning him over to Travis
County Sheriff Malcolm M. Homsby. Private Aten may or may not have put the San Ambrosia shooting affair and the capture of Jack Beam behind him, but loose ends were hanging, and Governor
Ireland was not a forgetful chief executive. Private Ira Aten maintained the hunt for Wes Collier.
In Travis County, during afternoon hours of April 29, 1886, the young Texas Ranger thought he
had inadvertently struck pay dirt. Working informants and sporadic scraps of criminal intelligence,
Ira Aten found himself sitting on the front porch at George Wells’ rancho on Long Hollow, about
ten miles southeast of Liberty Hill. Ira had unsaddled his horse and put it in Wells’ barn. The two
were pleasantly killing time before supper, talking about items of general importance and the possible whereabouts of Wes Collier in particular. Suddenly, George Wells looked up, peered into the
distance, and exclaimed, “I believe that’s your man!” Ira Aten reacted instantly and “threw my field
glasses on him and saw that he had on a vest with a large red bandanna around his neck and his
right hand in it, as if in a sling. He was riding a big sorrel horse.”
Telling George to sit real tight, Ira quickly slid into the house, trying to maintain clear sight yet
hoping to remain unobserved. As the rider drew closer, Ira realized his good fortune: It was Wes.
Private Aten checked the loads in his Colts, as his Winchester was not handy, still in the saddle
scabbard in the barn with his other gear. Fugitive Collier drew yet closer, suspiciously eyeing his
surroundings with coyote caution. There was not a clue George had company. When he reined
up in front of the porch, Wes Collier inquired of Mr. Wells the location of the Glasscock Ranch.
George raised his hand to gesture directions, and Ranger Ira Aten thought that was about the only
distraction he would get. From an open doorway, the Texas Ranger hollered, “Hands up, Wesley
Collier!” at the same time “throwing my six-shooter on him.” As modern-era lawmen might say, at
that point it turned “western.”
Wes Collier’s bandanna, the supposed sling, was but a blind. With the quickness of a diamondback’s strike, the outlaw’s hand was unsheathed and his six-shooter fanged poison in Ira’s
direction. A bullet struck the doorstep between Ira’s boots. Ira can tell it best:
He was a little excited, I guess, or he would have shot me right in the belly as he was a
better shot than I. We almost shot together. I hit his hand hitting the middle finger and
his six-shooter, which went a “whirling” in the air, and he spurred his horse and started
running downhill toward the creek below the house. I jumped out the door and thought
to myself, “I’ll just break your back.” I took my six-shooter in both hands and shot. Just
before I shot he had to go under a live oak which forced him to dodge down under a limb,
and I hit the limb center. I would have broken his back otherwise.
19
Racing on foot toward the big live oak, Mr. Wells and Private Aten right fast found Collier’s
sweat-stained headgear underneath the tree. Respectfully but somewhat mockingly and in good
fun, George chided Ira, “Oh, you’ve killed him. Here’s his hat with his brains in it.” The pair looked
around for awhile, hoping to find more clues, but darkness soon put the kibosh on further police
work that night.
The next morning, George Wells regretfully told Private Ira Aten that he had pressing business elsewhere (and there is no reason to doubt it) that would prevent his participating in that
day’s hunt for Wes Collier. Aten was advised he might secure help, if he felt he needed it, at the
Hughes’ Ranch over near Liberty Hill. By then, Private Aten had rightly learned that for a gunfight,
an assistant or two was not at all ill advised and, besides, having a favorable witness might just
prove an invaluable asset in front of a judge and/or jury. Aten struck out for Liberty Hill.
There he met thirty-one-year-old John Reynolds Hughes. The two hit it off admirably, and both
could trace roots to a birthplace in Illinois. John Hughes unhesitatingly agreed to join in the search.
Saddling up, he joined Ranger Aten, and the duo mapped a course for the nearest doctor, some
thirty-five miles away on the Colorado River. Ira was stuck to the notion that he had shot Collier at
least once, maybe twice. The frightened physician at first denied any treatment of outlaw Wes Collier. Finally, after an interval of aggressive but not physical intimidation, he owned up to providing
medical services. Aten and Hughes poked around in the country for a day or two but soon realized
Collier had flown the coop, and they returned to the Hughes brothers’ ranch. On May 3, 1886, Ira
Aten sat down at a desk, table, or board laid across his lap, and in longhand posted the adjutant
general with the latest development so he could pass it along to the governor:
On April the 29th I met up with my man Wesley Coller who is wanted in Gillespie County
for murder. As soon as he recognized me he drew his six shooter, & I mine. Shooting then
commenced on both sides, but I got in the second shot first & hit him in the right hand
then he dropped his pistol & run. He was on a fine horse & I was a foot at that time. I tried
my best to kill him but it seems I failed to do so. I think I hit twice, once in the hand & a
slight wound about the head. I got his hat, six shooter & pocket knife. I have looked the
country over & cannot find him. Think he has hid in the mountains some place. Will look
for him a few more days. Then report to you officially, say about the 7th [or] 8th. Will give
full particulars then. Excuse haste. [Signed Ira Aten]
Private Ira Aten was not fooling about sitting down with bigwigs in Austin for an official confab.
The meeting took place, confirmed by his own voice and in an addendum to Company D’s Monthly
Return. At the state capital, with arrangements made by Adjutant General King and in the presence of Captain Sieker, no doubt, Private Ira Aten gained another personal audience with the good
Governor John Ireland. Deservedly, Ira was congratulated in person for successfully and safely
rounding up Jack Beam and giving him up to local folks. He could now have a fair trial—of sorts.
The governor’s striking message about the Wes Collier manhunt was somewhat surprising to Ira
Aten in that a politico would not better cover his fanny, but the words were easily understood and
blunt. The governor said, “Catch him or kill him.” Ira would do just that before the month was out.
Why Wes Collier had not quickly left the Lone Star State for parts unknown, changed his
name, and nondescriptly blended in with hundreds, maybe thousands, of other yahoos dodging
the law in America’s Wild West defies coherent explanation. Murder charges would hold forever.
Were not gunshot wounds and being hounded like a wolf enough? There was indeed a common
20
denominator linking the outlaw to the Texas Ranger. Both guys were pigheaded. Wes would not
skip, and Ira would not quit: precursors, then, for a showdown.
On or about May 22, news broke Ira’s way. Roughly six miles east from Liberty Hill was the
Nicholas Dayton household. Although Wes Collier was married, according to Ira, he was sparking
the Dayton’s young daughter. On the quiet, Ira Aten contacted his civilian helper John Hughes.
After securing supplies to sustain them a few days, the pair initiated a stakeout of the Dayton
premises. It was a twenty-four-and-seven setup. Ira and John traded off, one sleeping and the
other watching. Late in the evening between sundown and dark on the third day, May 25, 1886, Ira
could just barely make out the color of an approaching man’s horse. It was a sorrel—it was Wes.
The hormone-charged outlaw was going to make his gamble, throw the dice, and see the Dayton
girl. He had not been with her for some time.
Putting his horse in the barn, Wes Collier went into the house. Aten and Hughes, their horses
tied in a distant thicket, began easing forward under the cover of darkness, and dogs began barking.
Aten whispered to Hughes, “John, we have got to get to that horse. He suspected something and
will leave right now.” Actually throwing caution to the wind, Aten and Hughes hotfooted to the barn,
knowing if they allowed their quarry to regain his saddle, they would be utterly helpless because
their horses were secreted too far away. As long as Collier’s boots were on the ground, it could
break even. Somehow, the canine yipping didn’t put Wes on the alert—he had something else on
his mind. The Ranger and his older apprentice passed the night, waiting to make their move at dawn.
At first light, a young boy came to the barn, fed the horses, and returned to the house. Ira Aten
and John Hughes had remained nearby, undetected. Shortly thereafter, the Dayton’s daughter
came outside and headed for the barn, presumably to gather a few eggs for breakfast. Ira Aten was
flabbergasted, thinking “she was the prettiest girl I ever saw.” After a few minutes, she returned to
the house, entering through the back door. She had not noted the lawmen’s presence either. Ira
explains what followed:
I said, John, you go to the front door and I’ll go to the back door. You will likely find the
front door locked, but the back door will be unlocked and I can get in. As I went into the
kitchen, the girl was preparing breakfast and did not see me. I passed tiptoe towards a
door leading out of the kitchen. I saw her skirts turn from the corner of my eye, but I did
not dare look as I was already opening the next door with my six-shooter in my hand.
Mr. and Mrs. Dayton were in that room. Sound asleep. I did not stop, but went right on
through to the next room, as I knew Collier would be in the next room. As I opened the
door, he was sitting on the edge of the bed with one boot on holding the other up in front
of him. With his foot starting into it, in the act of pulling it on. He was facing the door that
I opened [and] as soon as I touched the knob he was alert, and as I could barely peer
through I saw him quickly turn his head slightly and listen and look. I started to say: “Hold
Up, Wesley Collier.” I never had time to finish. He fell back across the bed towards his
pillows as soon as he saw me and jerked his six-shooter with both hands, and as he was
bringing it up from the pillows over to line it up on me, I shot him through the heart. He
dropped his gun, fell over on his back upon the bed, and mumbled something. He was
quick as a flash and in another instant would have killed me.
Hearing the gunfire, John R. Hughes, six-shooter in hand, kicked in the front door, rushing to
backup Ira. Not finding him in the front room, Hughes burst into the second bedroom, frightening
Private Aten badly. For a split second, Ira thought he would be mistakenly gunned down by Mr.
21
John, a lamentable case of friendly fire. Hughes, quickly grasping reality, cautiously lowered the
hammer on his Colts. Leaving John Hughes with the dead body of Collier, Ira Aten retrieved his
horse and rode west to Liberty Hill, where he telegraphed Williamson County Sheriff John Taylor
Olive and Adjutant General King at Austin.
Within but a short spate of time—three hours—Sheriff Olive and Deputy (Constable) J. F. Hoyle
were on the scene, accompanied by Sam Connell, justice of the peace, who was dutifully charged
with overseeing an inquest. The editor of the Liberty Hill Ledger was along also, as was a gathering
crowd of gawkers. Doctor Thorpe conducted a medical examination, suggesting that an autopsy
would only satisfy curiosity, not materially add to scientific results of the death investigation. Wes
Collier was dead, a lead bullet somewhere near the heart. Case closed.
The public’s general feeling that Wesley Collier was indeed a desperado was cemented upon
examining his armament:
Under his vest, on each side, was concealed a pistol and another was found in an inside
pocket. The pistols on his sides were arranged in a very ingenious manner, being connected together by a strap which passed over his shoulders, terminating at each end in a
scabbard, and in each of these scabbards was a six-shooter, one of them being a Smith
& Wesson, .45 caliber; the other a Colt’s of the same caliber. The smaller pistol which
was found in his pocket was an Invincible, .38 caliber. The whole of them were loaded all
around and in prime condition.
Who were not in prime condition were the Daytons. According to their version, they had simply
been hoodwinked. Ira relates their story:
The report of the pistol was the first intimation the horrified family had that they were
harboring a murderer and a refugee from justice. Their surprise and consternation, when
they became apprised of the facts can better be imagined than described. Collier had
been stopping there for a week, claiming that his name was Martin.
At the scene of the shooting, a blanket of legal formalities began smothering Private Ira Aten’s
reassured demeanor. Wes Collier had gone down rather than him—that was the good news. But,
would he himself have to withstand any criminal charges? Turning to Sheriff Olive, Private Aten
questioned, “Will you have to arrest me?” Almost indignantly, the sheriff replied no, he would not.
He was happy that Wes Collier had been taken off, and so would be the folks of Williamson County.
Mistakenly thinking Fifth Amendment protections of the United State’s Constitution regarding double
jeopardy extended to a grand jury’s work, Ira Aten believed that if he were but no-billed, the matter
could never ever be revisited. “I wanted them to indict me and get the matter over so an indictment
could not be trumped against me later on. They let me tell my story but would not indict me.”
One who did like the story was Adjutant General King. In a complimentary letter to A. L Patton,
Esq., Fredericksburg, King praised the Ranger’s taking off of Wes Collier:
Wesley Collier was killed by Aten, at a great expense both to the State & himself and at
great risk, for which he certainly deserves a part of the reward offered. Aten is a good
& courageous officer, & the killing of Collier has saved infinite trouble to the citizens &
authorities of your county.
Institutionally the Texas Rangers may have been dodging a few barbs hurled by Senator Hall.
Certain Rangers, it is true, were also running into career-changing snags in South Texas. The harsh
22
criticism and abrasive commentary wasn’t affecting Private Aten, not in the Texas Hill Country. He
was a hero. One has but to look at the aforementioned Liberty Hill Ledger eulogizing the Ranger
for embargoing the bad doings of Wes Collier:
Aten has been tracking him with the sagacity and tenacity of a bloodhound for a long,
long time....we feel that the people are under obligations to him for ridding the country
of a desperate character and thereby aiding in the triumph of truth and justice and the
downfall of heinous crimes and atrocious murders.
Private Ira Aten’s immediate supervisor, Frank Jones, who had attained captaincy of Company
D following Lam Sieker’s promotion to Frontier Battalion quartermaster, within days added his two
cents worth to the adulation being hastily piled on the private, saying, “Aten is deserving of both
credit and reward for his work after those murderers.”
Post the crime scene clean up, Private Aten reported to Austin, updating A. G. King and Captain
Sieker. If he met with Governor Ireland again, it has escaped historical notice. Someone that did
not manage a getaway was John Glasscock. Although the exactness of what actually happened
is murky, while Private Aten was in Travis County he arrested the fellow for resisting arrest and
locked him in the county jail. Presumably, this is one of the same Glasscock family that Wesley
Collier was trying to contact when he had made inquiry about directions at George Wells’ rancho
before spinning his horse in a one-eighty after tasting the hellfire of Ira’s Colt’s six-shooter.
With instructions from headquarters to keeping pressing the hunt for Jim Fannin, the fourth
man sought in the Braeutigam murder investigation, Private Aten returned to duty. His work had
been stellar regarding the capture of Jack Beam and the gunfight with Wes Collier, bolstering his
reputation as a manhunter. However, neither Ira Aten nor anyone else was ever able to locate the
elusive murder suspect Jim Fannin. That he fled Texas is not unlikely. That Fannin was but an
alias is also feasible. The case against Ede (sometimes written “Ed”) Janes would eventually be
dismissed. As for Jack Beam, that was a different story, but it would play out shortly.
Resting on his laurels was not in Private Ira Aten’s operational game plan. During July 1886, he
was on peacekeeping duty at Del Rio, Val Verde County. After receiving a report from Guadalupe
County (Seguin) Sheriff Hugh McGuffin that Appleton Thomas had misappropriated seven oxen,
Ira located the wanted man along the Texas-Mexican border. The arrest was quick and uneventful.
Ira Aten placed accused thief Thomas in Sheriff W. H. Jones’ county lockup at Del Rio. Seemingly
with the vigor of a tornado, Private Aten spun them into the jailhouse. He was dispatched downriver
to Eagle Pass to maintain order. There Aten quickly rounded up Susanna Rodriquez for stealing a
horse in La Salle County and Pablo Rameriz for a horse theft taking place in Maverick County. Aten
then scooted over to Zavala County and arrested Wash Poteet and Ab Love, charging them with illegally smuggling stolen horses and mules into the United States. These prisoners he turned over to Customs
House authorities at Eagle Pass. Aside from the successes, Aten came up short hunting fugitive Bob Finn,
who was charged with theft in Gillespie County. Also, even though he racked up 120 miles and spent three
days in the effort, he could not locate Bill Ware, wanted for a murder in Reeves County (Pecos).
The month rolled over on Ira Aten still in the field hunting for a fellow named Allen, who was
wanted in Edwards County for resisting an officer. As soon as he returned from this 200-mile scout
empty-handed, Private Ira Aten had new orders waiting for him: without delay, report to Austin
and see AG King, who had special assignments for the ever industrious Mr. Aten. One of those
delicate jobs was to covertly contact City Marshal N. O. Reynolds in Lampasas County, who was
in desperate want of a new face to “ferret out” some very specific “perpetrators.”
23
Battling the Olguins
from: Captain John R. Hughes, Lone Star Ranger.
1st edition. Denton, Texas: University of North Texas Press, 2011.
ISBN 9781574413045. Hardcover. $29.95.
Battling the
Olguins
Chuck Parsons
I Expect trouble here[.] can you send sergeant Hughes and outfit up tonight[?]
— Corporal Carl Kirchner to Adj. Gen. W. H. Mabry, June 30, 1893
During late 1892 and the early months of 1893, Captain John R. Hughes daily scouted after
fugitives and frequently arrested wanted men. Charges against these men included simple theft
of miscellaneous goods, obtaining money under false pretensions, theft of a horse, aggravated
assault, assault and battery, and theft of a saddle or theft of a horse and saddle. He probably
considered much of the work routine. His scouts were of course not always successful. On January 17, 1893, Hughes and one other man scouted to Fort Davis “and other points” in search of
one Marcos Justilla, charged with theft of a mare and a gun. After eight days scouting, they had
to give up without having found him. They had covered over 200 miles in their unsuccessful hunt.
Ironically, on that same day, Captain Frank Jones penned a letter to Adjutant General Woodford
H. Mabry praising his sergeant. Captain Jones noted that he was “very much of the opinion” that his
company could do excellent service in El Paso, and that “it will be a new field and we will be more
interested and can work with renewed energy.” He praised Hughes, but recommended he be left
at Alpine. “Sergt. Hughes should, in my opinion, be left at his present station. He is a fine officer
and is in full accord with the best people in the Country and is very familiar with the entire section
24
for several Counties along the Rio Grande.” Further, “Hughes Knows the people and Country and
can do better service than any one I can think of unless he was in the country for many months.”
Later that same month, ex-Ranger Baz L. Outlaw entered the office of County Judge W. Van
Sickle and discussed his situation. He had been dismissed from the service and now wanted to be
reinstated either as a full Ranger or at least as a Special Ranger. He was aware of the conversation the judge had held with Captain Jones about adding him to the rolls again. Apparently, certain
individuals had complained about Outlaw’s character, but he would admit to only one fault, saying,
“Where I was wrong only in one thing, and that was drinking too much Some times but not when
I was on duty, for it never caused me to neglect any Business.” He explained that any officer who
“Ranges over Texas Several years” and used any vigilance, or activity, “makes many enemies
among the criminal class of people.” And it was this class of people who were always eager to
make some negative report against an officer “& especially if it be a Ranger.” Outlaw had gone
before the county judge that very morning, January 26, and taken an oath, which was left on file
at Van Sickle’s office, “not to drink liquor of any kind for the next five years & I intend to Stick to
it for I realize that it has already injured me financially and otherwise.” His wish was granted, and
Baz L. Outlaw became a Special Ranger assigned to Company D. Unfortunately, Baz L. Outlaw
was unable to keep his pledge.
In February, Hughes and two others scouted via Cleveland’s Ranch to San Antonio Colony
in search of stolen horses, but found none. They learned later the horses had already crossed
the river into the state of Chihuahua, Mexico. Later that same month, Hughes and an unidentified
mounted inspector of customs spent five days searching for smuggled goods but only recovered
one horse, some wine, and some mescal.
Meanwhile, former Ranger and ex-member of the Texas House of Representatives George
Wythe Baylor was writing Adjutant General Mabry requesting that he send a squad of Rangers to
Ysleta. Just the day before, two men had been killed while driving off stolen cattle within twelve
miles of El Paso, and “theft of horses and cattle is nearly an every day matter [and that fact] would
seem to emphasize very strongly the pressing need of some thing more than the [local] officers of
the law to give protection to the citizens. . . .” Baylor reminded the adjutant general that the men
who had killed Ranger Fusselman had not been caught, as local officers could not follow them.
But Rangers “with their pack mule & 20 days rations would have Kept on the trail with out regard
to State or national boundaries & captured or Killed the murderers.” Baylor further reminded the
adjutant general that when he was in charge of a squad of Rangers, many outlaws were driven
out of the state and “did not dare to come back.”
In March, the decision of where to send Sergeant Hughes was still pending. Captain Jones
was inclined to send him to Ysleta in order to provide protection along the river, stating in a letter
to Adjutant General Mabry that “the men who are with Hughes are all 30 years or more in age,
and are tried and true, and that class of men are more needed in a small detachment than under
my immediate control.” The problem of too few Rangers and too vast a territory was vexing for
Captain Jones. His men had broken up a gang planning to attack the Southern Pacific Railroad,
but a further concern was that Langtry, “one of the toughest places on the S.P.” line, continued to
be a hotbed of trouble. Only two men were there to control the roughs and deal with cattle thieves.
Mabry considered sending a squad of four men to El Paso County, but Captain Jones believed that
“men will simply be murdered and will do no good.” The gang that was causing so much trouble
numbered at least fifty, and the gang was well organized.
25
Another group of hard cases, although considerably fewer in number, was of great concern to
Reeves County Sheriff George A. “Bud” Frazer, son of Reeves County Judge George M. Frazer.
Sheriff Frazer had served as a Ranger prior to becoming sheriff, first serving under Captain Sam
McMurry on May 3–31, 1882, in Mitchell County and then under Capt. George W. Baylor from
October 24, 1883, to February 19, 1884. He received an honorable discharge at Ysleta. In spite of
his record as a Texas Ranger, Sheriff Frazer did not have great faith in his own abilities and now
expressed his concerns to Governor James Stephen Hogg. He stressed that he had only three
Rangers, courtesy of Captain Jones, but would like them to be retained for the “next four or six
months.” Sheriff Frazer believed their presence was necessary “owing to the condition of affairs
here—the number of hard cases—and amt of crime . . .”
The hard cases causing Sheriff Frazer such trouble included the notorious James Brown Miller,
his brother-in-law Emanuel “Mannie” Clements, and Martin Quilla Hardin, as well as various others of their clique. Miller had arrived in Pecos in 1891 and became deputy under Sheriff Frazer.
Miller and his friends quickly became thorns in Sheriff Frazer’s side, however. Miller had married
Mannie Clements’s sister, whose father, Emanuel Clements Sr., had lost his life in a saloon brawl.
Clements was a cousin of John Wesley Hardin, who would be pardoned out of Huntsville State
Prison in 1894. The exact relationship of Martin Q. Hardin to John Wesley Hardin is unknown, but
the group of Miller, Clements, and Hardin were a formidable outfit of hard cases.
In 1892, Miller ran against Frazer for the office of sheriff but lost. Nevertheless, he attained the
position of constable, allowing him to wear a badge and legally go armed. Miller then began to plot
against Frazer. In May 1893, he intended to cause a disturbance at the train depot when Frazer
returned from a business trip, and during the created “disturbance” and confusion, a shot would
“accidentally” hit Frazer. A witness friendly to Frazer learned of the plot and informed the sheriff.
Charges of conspiracy to murder were brought against Miller, Clements, and Hardin, specifying
that on or about May 22, 1893, the trio plotted “with malice aforethought to then and there kill and
murder G. A. Frazer.” The three were held briefly in jail and then released on bond to later stand
trial. With the trio now on the loose, naturally Frazer became even more concerned for his safety,
living under constant fear of assassination. The Frazer-Miller feud would smolder until late 1896.
John R. Hughes found that the hard cases of Reeves County gave many lawmen “concern,” due
to the “condition of affairs.”
Learning that Captain Hughes was to be sent to Ysleta, attorney and State Senator John M.
Dean heard Shafter citizens express their concerns about his removal. Dean wrote:
Shafter is the most important place on the west side of the Pecos river for a detachment
of rangers. . . . John R. Hughes is a splendid officer and he has had an excellent detachment with him at Shafter and I hope that if he is ordered elsewhere that you will replace
him at Shafter with an equally efficient officer and detachment.
Dean did not know of anyone who could truly replace Hughes, but he apparently had enough
faith in the Ranger service in general that any commander would satisfy him.
Captain Jones investigated the area personally. He intended to determine the best place for
a permanent Ranger camp considering water, grass availability, and terrain. He determined that
Ysleta would be best and that a squad of Rangers “will be more effective stationed at this place
than any where else in the Valley.” At Ysleta, the command would be centrally located and could
operate in both directions along the river.
26
Meanwhile, after suffering from his leg wound for almost four years, Frank L. Schmid of
Company D died. Hughes learned of Schmid’s untimely death only after arriving in Ysleta, El Paso
County, having been ordered there by the adjutant general. He and eight men had spent ten days
on the road, traveling 250 miles. Ysleta, San Elizario, and El Paso would become home for Hughes
for many years, well into the twentieth century. In addition to the common hard cases he knew he
would have to deal with, Hughes as well as every other Ranger knew of the Olguins, also known
as the “Bosque Gang.” They were the most notorious of the desperadoes in the contiguous corner
of Texas, New Mexico, and Mexico. Parts of the area they inhabited were swamps or wetlands,
hence the name the “Bosque Gang.” The region covered was a swamp-like area between Fort
Fillmore, New Mexico and the San Elizario region south of El Paso. The primary headquarters of
the gang was on an island in the Rio Grande, frequently termed “Pirate Island.” An El Paso newspaper commented on the Olguin gang’s territory, decrying “the nature and extent of the Island and
Fort Fillmore bosques or swamps, and their capability of affording a safe hiding place for the horse
and cattle thieves, smugglers and murderers who have so long infested the border. Between these
two great jungles the distance is about thirty-three miles, and by avoiding the roads and keeping
in the mesquite thicket along the foot of the mesa a man or a party of men might travel the whole
distance without at any point being seen by a person fifty yards from the line of march.”
Some years before, the Rio Grande had changed its channel, causing this unusual land
formation. Due to the unstable nature of the river, an imaginary line was established to mark the
border between the two countries of Mexico and the United States. In June 1893, the invisible line
divided the island. In this instance, one could cross the river and still be in Texas, but crossing the
imaginary line placed one in Mexico. The island was several miles long and had a population of
about three hundred, mostly populated by a small community known as Tres Jacales. It was on
this land that Captain Jones intended to challenge the Olguins on the June 30, 1893.
The Olguins were composed of an extensive family. At this point in time, the head of the family,
Clato, was over ninety years old and perhaps going blind. His son Jesús María was in his midforties. Severio and Antonio, sons of Jesús María, were both young and now considered leaders
among the thieves and murderers who infested the “neutral ground” along the Rio Grande. Only
recently, Jesús María, his sons Severio, Sebastian, and an unidentified Mexican had all defied R.
E. “Ed” Bryant, a deputy sheriff of El Paso County. Captain Jones’s father-in-law, George Wythe
Baylor, later described them:
[They are] a hard set, the grandfather, Clato, his sons, Jesús María, Antonio (ex-convict)
and Pedro Olguin. The sons of Jesús 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. [By reputation, the Olguins composed a] “gang of thieves,
murderers, and smugglers that have for years infested an island that has been a sort of
neutral ground.
On or about June 25 several of the Olguins “got on a drunk” in the village of Guadalupe in
Mexico and killed one man and wounded three others, one of whom was expected to die.
The members of this gang and others created a reign of terror among many inhabitants of
the greater El Paso area. Petitions went to the governor for Ranger protection. Finally in June
1893, Adjutant General King responded favorably to their pleas and sent Captain Jones to provide
“protection from these border thieves and murderers.” One of the first things Jones did on arrival
was to set up tents in Ysleta “for the avowed purpose of ridding the island below and the bosque
27
above of the desperate characters that have for years infested them.”
On Thursday, June 29, Captain Jones and a squad of five men— Corporal Carl Kirchner,
privates Edward D. Aten, T. F. Tucker, John W. Saunders, and El Paso County Deputy Sheriff R.
E. “Ed” Bryant—left camp with warrants for certain members of the Olguin family. Jones believed
that since the Olguins had recently been in more trouble, they would now seek refuge temporarily
on the Rio Grande island. The evening of June 29, the Rangers camped on the east bank opposite
La Quadrilla, five miles below San Elizario. The next morning, they were in their saddles by 4:00
a.m. and rode straight across the island for the Olguin ranch, some five miles distant. Rounding
up the ranch, they found old Clato Olguin, Jesús María’s wife, two other women, and a boy. The
old man was very surly, and the fugitives were aware of the scout, as their friends in Ysleta or San
Elizario had apparently alerted them to what was coming. They had crossed over to the Mexican
side to the house of Antonio Olguin.
According to Kirchner’s official report, the Rangers then started “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 chapparal [sic], it is difficult to determine which one is in Texas or Mexico.”
The Rangers searched several houses (whether these houses were in the little village of Tres
Jacales or elsewhere is not clear in any of the reports). They got no results and were on their way
back when they saw two mounted Mexicans approaching them. The pair turned their horses and
ran, causing the Rangers to suspect they were the men they wanted. Within half a mile, Corporal
Kirchner and Private Saunders overtook them and demanded their surrender. The two Rangers
were well ahead of their companions as they had faster horses. Then from inside the building
the Mexicans fired two shots at Kirchner and four shots at the others. One shot hit the magazine
of Kirchner’s Winchester, not ruining it but damaging it in such a way that he had to reload after
each shot. The other Rangers, having now caught up with Kirchner and Saunders, dismounted to
engage the men hidden in the adobe house. Immediately Captain Jones received a bullet in the
thighbone, breaking it, but he continued to fight and shoot at his assailants.
George W. Baylor, Captain Jones’s father-in-law, provided additional details about the last
fight of his son-in-law, although slightly in disagreement with what Kirchner reported. As Baylor
wrote, it was Captain Jones and Private Tucker in the lead who met the two Mexicans who then
“wheeled and ran back.” After some three or four hundred yards, Kirchner, Aten, and Saunders
passed Jones and Tucker “and ran on the Mexicans.” Jesús María Olguin fell from his horse and
ran, finding sanctuary in the adobe house of Antonio Olguin. The other rider threw up his hands.
The little settlement had but four adobe houses, three of them on the right side of the road about
fifty yards apart, and one house on the left. As Kirchner passed one of the buildings, someone fired
at him from inside, the bullet hitting his weapon, disabling it in part so he could only fire one shot
and then reload. Bullets flew close to Saunders as well as Aten, and they both returned fire. Now
it was a situation of the Rangers being in the open and their assailants behind adobe walls, both
inside the houses and from behind the walls connecting them. The house had a porthole allowing
the shootists the advantage. Baylor continued:
The Mexicans would open the door & fire and two Mexicans on the right & left of the house
would rise from behind an adobe wall & fire also. The door would then close. Kirchner,
Saunders & Aten whirled and came back, dismounted & Bryan[t] came up back of & within
15 or feet of Capt Jones & Tucker, and every time the door was opened, and a volley be
fired Capt Jones and the men would return it.
28
In the second volley, a bullet hit Captain Jones’s thigh, breaking his leg causing him to fall. He
managed to straighten his wounded leg in front of him and fired two or three more shots. In great
pain, Captain Jones continued to fire, leaning forward, and shooting at the Mexican who fired at
him. Then he was hit again, the ball knocking him flat. Tucker saw him fall and asked, “Captain,
are you hurt?” Captain Jones replied, “Yes, shot all to pieces.” In spite of his leg wound and all
the confustion, the captain continued to fire his pistol, emptying it, and managing to hit two of his
targets. Now a Mexican from behind an adobe wall rose up and fired again at the captain, this time
a fatal shot. Jones managed to utter. “Boys, I am killed,” and collapsed.
Tucker, close to his captain when he was hit, stayed with him, intending to take the body back
to Texas. He later explained that when the fight started, Jones probably did not realize he had
crossed the imaginary line and was in Mexico. Now Deputy Bryant told him, “We had better get
across the line, we are in Mexico.” They were within a mile or so from the plaza of Tres Jacales
(Three Shacks) and knew that there would soon be a force of Mexicans coming to investigate.
Young Lujan, a youth who had accompanied the scout in an effort to try to recover a stolen horse,
informed the Rangers a courier had gone to nearby Guadalupe for soldiers.
The Rangers had to leave Jones’s body where it fell, and Tucker was now in command of the
squad. The concern became whether reinforcements for the Olguins would arrive to finish them
all off. When the firing stopped, the Rangers rode up the road to Tres Jacales. Bryant asked a
Mexican to take care of the captain’s body, which he promised to do but said they could not deliver
the body to the Rangers on the United States side as it was against their laws.
The Rangers had lost their captain, but two of the Olguins were injured. A bullet had gone
through the right hand of Jesús María Olguin, and two bullets had grazed his head. His son Severio
“had his arm broken near the body.”
There was nothing more for the Rangers to do other than return to Texas. At San Elizario,
Corporal Kirchner sent a telegram to General Mabry, writing, “Have just had fight with Mexican
outlaws near line of Mexico[.] Capt Jones killed[.] we were overpowered and have just come in for
reinforcements[.] only had six men[.]”
A second telegram to Mabry expressed his concern as he wrote, “I Expect trouble here[.] can
you send sergeant Hughes and outfit up tonight[?] the railway co[mpany] will furnish transportation free[.]”
Kirchner must have also quickly informed George W. Baylor of the death of his son-in-law.
Telegraphing Mabry, Baylor said, “Corporal Kirchner reports Capt Frank Jones Killed by Mexicans
on the Island near Tresjacales [sic] —can you send Sergt Hughes and squad here at once[?]”
Kirchner, besides informing his superiors of the tragedy, now resolved to recover Jones’s body.
El Paso County sheriff Frank B. Simmons quickly called for volunteers to go across and recover
not only the body but also Jones’s personal effects as well. Superintendent Martin of the Southern
Pacific provided Simmons with a special train: a coach for the men and a stock car for their horses.
Within two hours, additional men volunteered, many of them friends of the Rangers and heading
to the scene “to avenge the death of their friend and to capture the body of the fallen man from the
keeping of the pirates and cutthroats that took it.” Members joining Sheriff Simmons’s command
included officer Albert C. Ross, Deputy Sheriff J. C. Jones, Frank McMurry, Peyton F. Edwards Jr.,
Will Davis, Thomas A. Bendy, Paul Logan, and George A. Scarborough. There were also reporters:
J. D. Ponder, and Fred Stevenson “of the afternoon papers” and Thomas O’Keeffe of the El Paso
Times. Ranger R. B. Chastain later joined them, and attorney T. T. Teel also was with the group.
29
The news of the death of the Ranger captain spread rapidly. From Alpine, Special Ranger Baz
L. Outlaw contacted Mabry, telegraphing, “Capt Jones was killed near Ysleta by thieves today[.]
will go up on first train [and] do all I can to capture murderers.” Hughes was also at Alpine and
telegraphed Mabry the same day, “I will go to San Elizario by first train.” Now Kirchner telegraphed
further news to Mabry that the fight had taken place in Mexico and that he had recovered the body
of Captain Jones and secured the arrest of the men who had killed him. Baylor also informed Mabry
of the news of recovering Jones’s body, reporting, “The Mexican authorities have Shown every
courtesy in their power in given [sic, giving] us the body of our dead Ranger & promise to return
the Gun, pistol, watch, money & horse left at the scene of the fight.”
Sheriff Simmons did not realize that Kirchner had recovered the body and anticipated trouble
in attempting to do so. He met with the jefe político of Juarez, Lieutenant Colonel Rafael García
Martínez, and together they headed for the scene of the tragedy, intending to recover the remains.
Colonel Martínez had an escort of soldiers and, by chance, this group met three of the Olguins,
who were intending to sneak around Juarez to hide out in the upper bosques. Sheriff Simmons
recognized who they were, and Colonel Martínez ordered his escort to arrest them. Mexican officials delivered the prisoners to the military prison at Juarez. They were Jesús María Olguin, his
son Severio, and another son, Antonio.
Hughes arrived at San Elizario at 9:30 the morning of July 1 and found Corporal Kirchner had
left word for him to go on to Ysleta as there had been arrangements for the recovery of Jones’s
body. At 2:00 p.m., Kirchner arrived at Ysleta with the body. The Masons of the El Paso Lodge No.
130, A. F. and A. M. laid Captain Jones to rest at 6:00 p.m. that evening with full Masonic honors.
His brother, Judge William Kenner Jones of Del Rio, as well as John R. Hughes attended. Mrs.
Jones, prostrate, was unable to attend. Special Ranger Baz L. Outlaw arrived too late from Alpine
to assist in recovering the body but perhaps attended the funeral with the seven men he brought
with him. He doubted the widow Jones would recover from the shock of her husband’s death.
Perhaps the other Rangers of Company D attended as well, their thoughts on the tragic death of
their captain but also wondering who would replace him.
Hughes wrote to Adjutant General Mabry, “I found that Corpl. Kirchner had done good work in
getting the body and securing the arrest of three of the criminals on the Mexican side of the river.”
As yet, Jones’s personal effects—his arms, watch, and money—as well as the horse and saddle
of Private Tucker were still in the hands of the Mexican officials. They were to be delivered to
Juarez, and Hughes, Kirchner, and Tucker would “try to get them back.” Hughes continued sharing
his observations with his superior, noting that El Paso County was “in a very bad condition [and]
the depridations [sic] of the ‘Bosque gang’ as they are called have not been interfered with for so
long that they think they can do as they please and can not be arrested.” That of course would be
work to do for Captain Jones’s replacement, who would also have to complete the June monthly
return for Company D.
In the official records of Ranger scouts and activities, summaries of the death of a Ranger were
recorded. The clerk who summarized scouts in the adjutant general’s official operations ledger
wrote in red ink, that on June 29:
Capt Jones & 5 men Scout to Pirate Island with writs to arrest Jesus & Severino [sic] Olguin[.] Camped for the night 7 miles below Tres Jacales Mexico. No arrest. On returning
Scouted up old river. Saw two Mexicans wheel & run. Capt. Jones & party gave chase[.]
30
Capt Jones & party followed them to Tres Jacales not knowing that he was in Mexico. The
fugitives took refuge in a house & fired upon the pursuers, and Capt Jones was killed.
In the margin is written, again in red ink, “Capt. Jones Killed.” In the same margin, but in pencil,
it is recorded, “1 Horse wounded of a Ranger.” Adjutant General Mabry now had the difficult task
of selecting the man who would replace Frank Jones as captain of Company D.
To add even more excitement in the lives of the law-abiding of the area—and perhaps more
particularly to Sergeant Hughes—was the announcement in the El Paso Times that U.S. Deputy
Marshal Ben Williams of Las Cruces, New Mexico, was in El Paso the night of July 5. He was
described as “the officer who recently shot and captured Geronimo Parra, one of the Bosque gang
who killed young Fusselman . . .”
31
Bloody Bill Longley
from: Bloody Bill Longley: Mythology of a Gunfighter. 1st
ed. Denton, Texas: University of North Texas Press, 2011
ISBN 9781574413052 Hardcover. $29.95
Bloody Bill Longley
the Mythology of a Gunfighter
Rick Miller
After killing the Reverend William R. Lay, Bill Longley left Delta County, Texas. There is only
his fanciful account of where he was for the next year, as provided in Henry C. Fuller’s heavily
edited Adventures of Bill Longley.
According to Longley, on June 13, 1876, he rode north from Delta County and camped near
the Red River as it grew dark. He hid off the main road, ate a cold meal that he had gotten at Mr.
Lane’s place, and then slept on his saddle blanket. The next morning, he took a ferry across the
river. The ferryman told him of several parties who had crossed the night before into the Indian
Territory looking for a man who had killed a preacher. As Longley asked him questions, the ferryman looked at him with suspicion. Longley learned that most members of the posse believed that
the fugitive was still in Texas, so they planned to set up on roads leading into the Indian Territory
to waylay Longley when he headed north.
Leaving the ferry, Longley took to the river bottom, leaving the road and heading northwest
until he came to the Blue River, which would likely have been the Boggy River. He followed it, finally
riding west and passing to the south of the town of Caddo in present-day Bryan County, Oklahoma.
Longley rode steadily northwest for nine days, eating an occasional rabbit that he shot and
broiled. With distance between him and Delta County, he felt more secure. Late in the evening of
the ninth day, he encountered an Indian who could speak English, and they struck up a conversation. The Indian told him that he was in the Creek Nation, and eyeing Longley’s horse, proposed
32
Bloody Bill Longley
a horse swap if Longley would throw in the double-barrel shotgun that he used to kill Lay and
which was now empty after shooting rabbits along the way. Longley still had his two pistols and
agreed to the swap. He put his saddle on the Indian’s pony and the two men separated. Longley
recorded what lay ahead:
My troubles were about to start. I had not gone but a few miles before I heard the gallop
of a horse and on looking back I saw the Indian coming full tilt. He rode right up to me
and said: “You d___ lying white man, your horse no good, me want my horse back, or
me kill you.” I refused to swap back. We got into a quarrel, and then he said he had killed
three d___ white men and I would be the fourth and with this he sprang from his horse
and made for me with a big knife in his hand. Then the fun started. I put one ball through
his body and another through his head before he sprawled on the ground—too dead to
kick. Under his blanket I found two Colt’s improved cartridge pistols, and feeling that a
dead Indian had no use for them I left the shotgun and horse with him, remounted and
continued my journey.
Standing in the yard of a nearby cabin, Longley just then noticed three Indian women who
had witnessed the shooting. They began to scream loudly. Longley rode quickly away, but as he
topped a small hill, he found that he was at the edge of a large Indian village and that the cries
of the women had excited the village. The three women trotted toward him, still screaming. Trying to keep his wits in the face of being outnumbered should the Indians pursue him, Longley left
the road and headed for some mountains about ten miles distant. Looking back, he saw a party
of about twenty Indians in pursuit a mile behind him, so he checked his horse’s gait to preserve
some of the animal’s strength in case the Indians got closer. He reached the hills at dark, still with
a comfortable lead over his pursuers, and once more turned to the northwest. Riding all night
with one eye on the North Star and riding all the next day, he finally stopped the next night to rest
himself and his horse.
Longley rode on in the morning although his horse was quite stiff. Looking back, he saw dust,
which could have meant cattle or Indians, and he stopped to see what it was. The dust turned out
to be from the Indians still on his trail, and they also had a bloodhound with them.
Longley rode on, and soon came to a small cabin belonging to an Indian, but saw no one there
although a hobbled pony was grazing nearby. He saddled the Indian pony just as the bloodhound
ran up and began baying at him. Longley shot the dog and then mounted and rode off. An Indian
woman in the cabin began crying shrilly.
Riding hard, Longley did not stop until late that evening. He came upon a herd of antelope,
shot one, and was soon enjoying a broiled steak, his first meal in three days. After that, he prepared
some venison and then rode on that same evening. In only a mile or so, he came upon what he
later learned was a Seminole Indian village. Riding down into some timber at a nearby creek, he
planned to steal a fresh horse that night. As he unsaddled his horse, an Indian mounted on a splendid
paint steed rode by a short distance away. However, the distance was still too great to try to get the
animal, so the Indian rode unawares into the village. Longley slept until about midnight, saddled his
horse, and then rode down within a few hundred yards of the cabins in the village. Taking a bridle,
he slipped up on foot into the sleeping village and spotted the paint horse tied to a gallery post, eating corn off a blanket spread on the gallery floor. Two Indians were sleeping nearby. With a cocked
pistol in one hand, Longley sneaked up to the horse, cut its rope, and then silently led it away back
to where his own horse was. He changed saddles, turned his old horse loose, and rode off.
33
Bloody Bill Longley
Longley traveled all night and all the next day. In the late afternoon, came to the Arkansas
River, which runs across present-day northeast Oklahoma. This was country that he had been in
before, and he got an opportunity to contemplate what had brought him to this point:
It was a lovely scene that spread out like a map before me. I crossed my legs as I sat on
my horse, and became lost in thought. My whole life seemed to pass in review before
me, and as usual I was a hunted man. Why was Fate thus cruel to me? Was I the arbiter of my own destiny? Why was it that I persisted in choosing for myself this hard and
unsatisfactory life—this constant race from my kind, like some wild and hunted animal?
Longley got past these musings, which were probably contributed by author Henry C. Fuller in
his Adventures of Bill Longley. Longley figured that he was about forty miles west of Fort Wichita
in the Indian Territories and Nation. Enjoying a lovely vista across the river, including a valley
covered with grazing buffalo, he rode down, killed a buffalo calf, and roasted a side of ribs. As he
rested and smoked a pipe, he could still hear in his mind the piercing scream of his lost love, Miss
Louvenia, when he left her house to kill Lay, “and it went to my heart like the thrust of a dagger.”
Suddenly his rest was disturbed by the appearance of thirteen Indians still on his trail and
riding hell-bent for him. Longley leaped into the saddle and was off, leaving behind his hat and
saddlebags and the Indians yelling and firing rifles at him. The Indians rode within one hundred
yards of him, and Longley leaned low in his saddle, firing back at them. One of his shots killed an
Indian’s horse, which slowed them somewhat, and Longley dashed for the river about four miles
away. Although his horse was fresh and he could easily outdistance them, Longley’s “blood was
up, and I wanted to show this bunch of red devils that they had better remained at home and let
the man from Texas alone.”
Longley fired four more shots without doing any damage, but one of the Indians was leading
the others and coming uncomfortably close with his shots. Longley made a special effort to nail him,
and the Indian spilled from his saddle. The nearby buffalo, alarmed by the shooting and yelling,
stampeded and ran in the same direction as the running gun battle, dust billowing and the ground
shaking. Another Indian took the lead, cursing Longley in English and punctuating his epithets with
gunfire. Longley drew another pistol and fired at him but missed. As the Indian rode within twenty
feet of him, Longley’s horse stepped in a prairie dog hole and fell to its knees. As the horse stood
up again, the Indian rode up to him, but the Indian’s pistol was empty, so he struck Longley on the
head with it as his horse flew by. Longley put a bullet into the back of the Indian’s head, but this
didn’t cause the other Indians to check their pursuit. The leader of the party exchanged horses with
another Indian who had the strongest horse, one that could most likely catch up with the fleeing
white man on the paint. Longley describes what followed:
Then after me the leader came like a tornado. He ran right up on me. When he fired he
would say, “Wake up, you ___scoundrel, wake up.” I started in to shooting at him and my
first shot got him in the right shoulder, for I could see the blood running down his breast.
The first shot he fired cut one of my bridle reins, the second passed through my hair, and
the third hit me in the right side and broke one of my ribs. This shot knocked the breath
out of me and I turned as blind as a bat, momentarily, but quickly recovered. My pistol
fell from my hand, and I came near falling from my horse, and then he shot my horse and
killed him dead, although I am sure he did not intend to kill the horse as that was what
they were after, but intended to kill me first.
34
Bloody Bill Longley
My horse fell a fearfully hard fall, and in doing so fell on my right leg. The Indian ran by
me and fired at my head while I was struggling to extricate myself. He did not know that
I still had a pistol. He ran by me a few steps, then turned and came back, ready as he
thought to show his companions what a brave fellow he was. As he came on I suddenly
reached up, seized his bridle reins and shot him through the head. I sprang on the dead
Indian’s horse and with the shouting demons all around me still shooting at me I sped for
the river which now seemed to be near.
Longley reached the river bottom, but could not ride his horse into the thick brush. He then
cut the horse’s throat and headed on foot through the undergrowth for the river. He was bleeding
badly and found a hiding place to stop and check his wound. Pulling off his clothes, he noticed
“the ball had glanced off when it struck the rib and the end of the broken rib was sticking out of
the bullet hole.” He tore up his “drawers” to bind his wound and then tied his clothes on his head,
buckled on his pistols, and began to swim the high river. When he got his legs entangled in some
vines, he lost his clothes and had to struggle to keep from drowning. Reaching the other side naked with nothing but his pistols, he struck out again through the undergrowth, now aware of pesky
mosquitoes plaguing him. Growing sick and vomiting every few minutes, he sat by a tree to rest
as the sun went down. Longley fainted and later awoke in the darkness, dizzy and his head spinning. He tried to walk in the darkness but then sat down and gathered a bed of leaves in which to
lie down and maybe die.
He dozed fitfully, suffering from a terrible thirst, and dreamed of old Evergreen, Texas, and
the bubbling creeks that he had enjoyed as a boy. He mused once more about a life gone wrong
as he contemplated what he felt was a “most terrible fate.” But then he heard the call of a man not
very far away, answered by another man, and he realized that his pursuers were still hunting him,
feeling their way carefully through the dark woods. Longley remained still and the voices disappeared. As he recalled, “I had made up my mind to sell out at a dear price if they found me, and
I would have killed several perhaps and been killed by the others as the entire pack would have
come to the scene of the noise made by the firing of a pistol.”
At daylight, he found a stout limb to support him and started walking very slowly up the river
bottom, looking for a house or a path or road that could lead him to help for his wound. At about
two o’clock in the afternoon, he came upon a well-worn path and heard chickens nearby. Following the path, he came to a clear spring and thirstily gulped down some water and then bathed his
wound. Figuring that someone would come to the spring, he concealed himself, intent on killing
any man who came, stole his clothes, and moved on.
As sundown approached, Longley saw a young Indian girl, about seventeen, and called to
her. Frightened at first, she spoke good English, and after Longley explained his situation and
wound to her, she told him that she was already aware of him. Indians who were hunting him had
stopped by her father’s house, and in fact, several were still there at that moment resting from the
hunt. She introduced herself as Mary, a “pleasant looking girl,” who was the half-breed daughter
of a Cherokee. Mary told the naked, wounded man that her father was going to help bury the dead
Indians that Longley had left behind as well as look for him. She agreed to help him. Longley “told
her that my life was in her hands and that she could have me killed or she could save me if she
would. She cried and told me that she would die before she would tell anybody about me, and that
she would do everything she could for me, and she hoped that I would not doubt her.”
Mary returned to her house with water from the spring, and a still suspicious Longley rolled
35
Bloody Bill Longley
some rocks together as a sort of barricade in case she revealed his presence. But she returned
and brought him fried chicken and hot coffee as well as some clothes. He removed himself to
another hiding place further from the spring, and he talked with the Indian maiden about their
lives. Longley stayed there about nine days, and before moving on, the fair Mary gave him some
moccasins, four dollars, and some provisions that would last for a week. The Indians had finally
given up looking for him. Longley knew that Mary wanted to go with him, but he also knew that
she would be an encumbrance, although it was one that he would have given his life to protect
had she gone with him. “I sure hated to tell her goodbye, but it had to be done and so one night
I pressed her to my heart, left her standing by the spring and walked away, following directions
which she had carefully laid out for me.”
About ten miles from the spring, he found a railroad, which he followed until he came to a
nearby “Fort Barker.” He apparently did not stay there long, as caught a freight train on the Missouri,
Kansas, and Texas Railway for Fort Gibson. That military post had been established as early as
1824 near the confluence of the Neosho or Grand River with the Arkansas River between presentday Muskogee and Tahlequah, Oklahoma. It was an active army post at the time Longley was
there. Recalling that he had a friend who lived in Sebastian County, Arkansas, Longley checked
a map and took some six days to walk ninety miles to near Greenwood, southeast of Fort Smith.
His rib, though still sore, was healing nicely. Longley stayed with his friend from July to October
1876, and then he outfitted again with a “good horse, plenty of ammunition and new clothes.” He
set out for Evergreen, Texas.
According to Longley, he apparently left Arkansas, rode across the Indian Territory, and then
crossed the Red River north of Denison. He describes his visit:
I came down through Denison, and as I had not had any whiskey in some time, I decided
to stop and get a drink or two, something I should not have done by any means. I took too
much and got drunk. I got loud and boisterous and the first thing I knew several officers
were detailed to arrest me and place me in jail. I knew this would never do, and so I made
it to my horse just in time to keep from being arrested, and as it was they chased me out
of town, shooting at me several times as I went. I did not fire back, for fear I might kill
one of them, and so they thought they were running an ordinary drunk out of their town.
This account is reminiscent of the story told by Longley’s brother Jim as to their wild visit to
Van Alstyne in 1875. It may indeed be Bill’s version of the same episode since he never wrote
about the adventures he shared with his brother.
Longley took the road to Bonham in Fannin County with the idea of returning to Delta County
and visiting Miss Louvenia. About eight miles from Denison, he encountered “Deputy Sheriff Bryant” bringing two prisoners, “Jim and Dick Saunders,” to Denison. The two prisoners were tied on
their horses, and the horses were bound together at the neck with the rope tied to Bryant’s saddle
horn. Longley knew the brothers and winked at them. A conversation was struck with the deputy,
and Longley offered the lawman a drink from a bottle he had in his saddlebags. As the deputy took
a long swallow, Longley covered him with a pistol and ordered him to unbuckle his weapon and
toss it down, along with the two pistols belonging to his prisoners. He ordered him not to make
any suspicious move.
According to Longley, Bryant was determined to argue with him, and Jim Saunders warned
the deputy that the stranger with the pistol was none other than Bill Longley and that he had better
do as he was told or Longley would kill him. Bryant complied, and Longley had the now-chastened
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Bloody Bill Longley
lawman ride off a little while he had him covered. Longley cut the rope binding his friends, handed
them their pistols, and then all four took another drink before Longley and the brothers rode off.
Three wagons had driven up and watched the incident, and several men at a nearby house had
also watched, but no one attempted to intervene. While there is no contemporary account or record that this incident or the identity of a Deputy Bryant could be located, there is some evidence
that it did happen. In June 1878, when it was reported that a Richard Sanders was being taken to
the penitentiary by the Fayette County sheriff, he was identified as a “chum and bosom friend” of
Bill Longley, and “upon one occasion, and during the height of Longley’s career, that enterprising
brigand took Sanders away from the sheriff of Grayson County, in Blossom Prairie, Fannin County
[actually Lamar County], and managed to get his friend for the time being safely out of the clutches
of the law.” Another account in 1877 recalls that Jim and Dick Saunders “were released from a
deputy sheriff” by Bill Longley.
Actually, Jim and Dick Sanders (not Saunders) were friends of Longley. As early as 1860,
Alabama-born, nine-year-old Dick and five-year-old Jim lived with their parents and six other siblings on a farm near Union Hill in what was then Washington County. Another brother, Jack, was
killed in March 1876 near Victoria when a Fayette County posse, pursuing him for horse theft,
met resistance and returned fire. Richard Sanders Jr., was indicted in 1874 for theft of a gelding in
Washington County, and Dick Sanders was indicted in Grayson County in October 1877 for theft
of a mare. A Richard Sanders was also wanted in Lee County for rape and robbery.
As the sun went down, the trio overtook two black men who were returning to a farm after
selling some cotton. The air being chilly, the three men took leather gloves away from the black
men and filled a quart bottle from whiskey that the unfortunate men had in their wagon. The three
then rode on toward Bonham. After riding all night, they pulled up at Thomas Jack’s house at Ben
Franklin in Delta County about midnight and carried on a lively conversation until nearly dawn.
Miss Louvenia told Longley that Sheriff Hamilton had searched for him at the Jack place after
Lay was killed and seized a photograph of Longley that the outlaw had given her. Supposedly,
this photograph was reproduced on wanted posters and sent throughout the area, the authorities
having discovered his true identity. However, no such poster has been discovered. At daylight,
Longley bid her goodbye once more, and the three men rode on to the south. To avoid suspicion,
Longley tied Dick Sanders’ hands to the horn of his saddle and his feet beneath the horse. Also, he
somehow acquired a warrant for a “Bill Taylor” in the event that they were stopped by a lawman.
According to Longley, the three rode south in this manner, finally reaching Milam County, where
they stopped with a George Sanders and ate supper. George Sanders was an older brother and
may have been the G. W. Sanders who was indicted in San Augustine County in 1874 for selling
mortgaged property. The three again rode out that night and the next morning were overtaken by a
Milam County deputy, Matt Shelton, who wanted to see their authority. James “Matt” Shelton, born
in 1814 in Tennessee, had farmed in Milam County with his wife Martha since the 1850s, raising
thirteen children. Longley attempted to explain his authority:
I told him I was an officer—a deputy sheriff of Bell County, and was hunting a man who
had stolen a horse. We had turned “Bill Taylor” loose, thinking we were safe at this distance in Texas. I asked Shelton if he was an officer and he said he was. He then asked
me if I was going to Milano, a station on the railroad, not far from Rockdale. I told him I
was. He said he would go with us, but I knew he would ask me for my papers when we
got there, so I thought I would just take his pistol and quit the road. I did so and we left
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Bloody Bill Longley
him standing in the road, a-foot as we took his horse which we told him we would turn
loose, a mile down the road and we did so. The pistol I took from him was a nickel plated
Smith and Wesson.
This episode did occur and was confirmed almost a year later when Shelton rode to Giddings
to take Dick Sanders into custody and return him to Milam County. In a November 1876 newspaper account of his encounter with the three men, Shelton recalled that he was returning to Milano
from Cameron when he came upon three men armed with shotguns and pistols. As he passed
them, they asked him about some horse thieves they said they were tracking. They then got the
drop on him and ordered him off his horse. He was compelled to turn over twenty dollars and his
six-shooter. The three men left with his horse, leaving it about a mile off. Several posses scoured
the countryside, including the Brazos Ford where they had been spotted late in the evening, but to
no avail. Not suspecting that it was Longley, the authorities had assumed that the men belonged
to a local gang.
After disarming Shelton, Longley and the two men had ridden into Lee County and spent a
few days in the vicinity of Evergreen. Jim Sanders left them, and Longley and Dick Sanders rode
north to the Longley farm, from which Dick rode on back to Denison to his wife. Longley rested a
few days, apparently welcome once more back in his parents’ home, and then prepared to ride to
East Texas. But Longley’s presence in his old stomping grounds in Lee County didn’t go unnoticed,
as one Giddings newspaper reported:
We have been creditably informed that Bill Longley And crowd, the notorious gang of outlaws, was seen in this county during the present week, they having stopped some three
hours at a certain farmer’s house (we learned the farmer’s name, but have forgotten it).
Look out, boys, “they are coming one hundred strong.”
Longley was headed for East Texas late in 1876, but he was now better known to lawmen
around the state, and a keen lookout was being maintained. On March 10, 1877, Texas Adjutant
General William Steele, who supervised the Frontier Battalion, instructed Sergeant Joseph S.
Leverett at Blanco, Texas, “You will proceed to Kerr County and if Sanders & Longley can not be
captured, proceed by the most direct route to Lampasas.” Ranger Captain John Sparks of Company C responded on March 20 that his men were unable to find the two. Indeed, Longley was at
the other end of the state and ready to leave it again.
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Winchester Warriors
from: Winchester Warriors: Texas Rangers of Company D, 1874-1901
1st ed. Denton, Tex.: University of North Texas Press, 2009. ISBN:
9781574412680 Hardcover: $29.95
Winchester Warriors
Texas Rangers of Company D, 1874- 1901
Bob (James R.) Alexander
Chapter 1
A Carnival of Crime and Corruption
Luke Gournay in Texas Boundaries: Evolution of the State’s Counties writes that “Lampasas” is a Spanish translation for the English language word “lilies.” There is another truism about
Lampasas. Despite the genteel sounding name, at nineteenth-century Lampasas, Texas, there
were not many lily-livered folks tramping around town or scattered throughout the county of Lampasas. Cobardes (cowards) were in short supply. The town, sitting at an eastern entrance to the
enchanting Texas Hill Country southwest of Waco and northwest of Austin, was “wide open and
the saloonkeepers and gamblers had things their own way.” The sporting crowd was nervy and
growing more bold as each day folded into the next, that year of 1873. Legal statutes were but
pesky inconveniences. Outside town limits, the surrounding countryside was wonderfully productive cow country. The range country was unfenced. Fattening cattle could, during good weather,
nonchalantly graze on gently rolling uplands, slaking daily thirst in dependable spring-fed creeks
sheltered by towering post oaks shading the rich bottom lands. When the mercury plunged, which
was not too often, and frost nipped the air, those same limestone creek beds afforded warm and
welcoming protection for Lampasas County cattlemen’s walking assets. Problematically, those
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same secretive geographical sanctuaries shielding mamma cows and their newborn calves from
nature’s indifference were also screens for those bent toward a dab of cow stealing. Not so happily,
Lampasas County folks could boast a nefarious distinction. It was home base for quite a number
of “shady characters,” and incontestably, to the honest ranchers’ exasperation, “a good deal of
stock was being run out of the county.”
January 1873 was but two weeks old when, on the fourteenth, Lampasas County Sheriff
Shadrach T. “Shade” Denson was involved in a frightening gunplay. Upon the orders of Judge W.
A. Blackburn, Sheriff Denson attempted to arrest a drunk and disorderly Mark Short at a saloon
in Lampasas. Certain details are yet hazy, like who the real triggerman was. Depending upon the
particular variation cited, either Mark or his brother George Washington “Wash” Short jerked a sixshooter and furrowed a bullet into the sheriff’s side. There is, however, no fuzziness about what
happened next. The seriously wounded lawman fell to the saloon’s dirty floor, and local toughs––
the Horrell brothers Sam, Martin “Mart,” Tom, Ben, and Merritt, “who were raised to horses, cattle,
whiskey and guns”––backed down an intimidated posse of townsmen, with help from a few other
area yahoos. Then the Short boys made good their getaway. Lawlessness had taken a foothold in
Lampasas County, and local law enforcement was impotent, unable to gain traction. The state’s
gendarmes weren’t faring much better; their toehold was but tenuous.
Lampasas was a tough town to be sure. There, bigotry and bullets held sway. Radical Republicanism and the Texas State Police, with 40% of its ranks filled by freedmen, were not well-liked,
nor well accepted. A majority of southern-bred and Texas-raised folks had little respect for the involuntarily imposed Lone Star government’s authority. That black men were legally wearing badges
and carrying six-shooters was an anathema, at least in the minds of many unreconstructed citizens.
The psychic makeup of young and impetuous Texans had no gear for submission, especially not
to Yankee sympathetic policeman, much less a black man. Those ill-mannered bastards, well, they
could just strut the streets of Lampasas at their own peril, so voiced intolerance.
The following month, February, State Police Sergeant J. M. Redmon, posted at Lampasas,
advised his supervisor at Austin, the Adjutant General and Chief of State Police Frank L. Britton,
that he had excusably released from duty five of his black policemen because the probability of
their being bushwhacked “any night” was just too great. Sergeant Redmon unhesitatingly advised
his boss that to bring any semblance of stability to the ubiquitous disorderliness then underway
at Lampasas would require that his forces be strengthened and the racial makeup fine-tuned. He
stated, “I think we ought to have at least twenty five good men (all white).” As it turned out, Sergeant
Redmon wasn’t too far off the mark. At Lampasas, those arrogant State Police fellows could all be
damned and sent to hell, black or white! And those hardened Horrell brothers and their pals would
stand tight and tall, more than thrilled to be the ones that bid them one and all the fatal farewell.
During the late morning of March 14, on the roadway between Lampasas and Austin, area
freighter Telford “Snap” Bean met an eight-man platoon of mounted men. At the forefront rode
Texas State Police Captain Thomas G. Williams, a Civil War veteran and staunch supporter of
the state’s radically installed Reconstruction Governor Edmund Jackson Davis. The policemen’s
mission was clearly defined. At Lampasas, they were to enforce the state’s statute regarding toting pistols in public and to aid with the “arrest of a party of twelve to fifteen armed men, whose
occupation was branding, killing, and skinning other people’s cattle.” Whether or not he was drunk
is unknown, but according to an anecdotal allegation, Captain Williams had been drinking hard
liquor and was overheard to confidently brag that he was going to Lampasas to “clean up those
damned Horrell boys.”
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Winchester Warriors
Captain Williams and his detachment reined into Lampasas about one o’clock in the afternoon, hitching weary horses to handy live oak trees shading the town’s square. Arrival of the
visiting lawmen was no secret. The buzz passed from pillar to post. Nor was it a hush-hush that
Bill Bowen, a Horrell brother-in-law, was openly wearing a six-shooter, legally an infraction but
seldom enforced. The swaggering Bowen, right in front of God and the State Police, shamelessly
walked from the street into Jerry Scott’s saloon on the northwest corner of the courthouse square.
Unbeknownst to lawman Williams, Jerry Scott’s drinking emporium was the preferred hangout for
many of the county’s evildoers and hard-cases, including the untamed Horrell boys. Preparing
for action, Captain Williams posted his men, detailing the lone black police officer among them,
Samuel Wicks, to stand guard over their horses. After stationing policemen Ferdinand Marschal,
W. W. Wren, and Henry Eddy outside Scott’s saloon, Captain Williams, accompanied by James
Monroe Daniels, Wesley Cherry, and Andrew Melville, stepped up to the doorway, sucked up his
guts, and audaciously marched inside. Dutifully his three cohorts followed. Perhaps they pondered
if their $60 per month salary evened out with the risk-taking. The dynamic entry was foolish. Captain
Williams knew not just who nor just how many ne’er-do-wells were nesting within. As it turned out,
the joint was full, near standing room only. There wasn’t a friendly face among the loafing crowd
of cowmen, not one among the baker’s dozen.
Flawlessly reconciling the numerous versions as to what happened next is perplexing. It is
so very typical of how eyewitnesses can be at the same place and time, yet their interpretations
vary. Was it premeditated murder or primal madness? The following narrative is but one account.
Notwithstanding those maddeningly bothersome discrepancies, it comes down to the same inflexible outcome. When Captain Williams broached Bill Bowen and told him he was under arrest for
wearing a six-shooter, twenty-six-year-old Mart Horrell interjected: “Bill, you have done nothing
and need not be arrested if you don’t want to.” This imprudence was simply too much for Captain
Williams, whose nerves were already ajar. Shrewdly reading the tea leaves and fully knowing that
in a gunfight there were no second-place winners, Captain Williams jumped. He jerked his Colt’s
revolver and fired, severely wounding but not dropping the glib Mr. Horrell. Captain Williams had
opened the ball, but he would dance no more.
Certainly the next step hadn’t been choreographed, but those hard-hitting Texans needed no
rehearsals––they knew what to do, be it a calculated murder or just reactive mayhem. Effective
synchronization played its ugly hand. Quicker than a lightning bolt, those Lampasas County boys
unlimbered six-shooters. In unison, they cut down on the outgunned and horror-stricken policemen. Capping bullets into their breastbones or into their backbones was neither here nor there to
Horrell’s lineup. The light was dim, the range was but spitting distance, and the muzzle flashes
were scorching. The Colt’s hammers fell time after time. For the State Police, it was a catastrophe.
When the blinding blue smoke dissipated and the deafening roars stopped, officers Torn Williams,
James Daniels, and Wesley Cherry were dead on the barroom’s blood-splattered floor. Policeman Melville, not as fortunate, would linger and suffer nearly a month before he too gave up the
ghost. Outside, on Lampasas’ streets, the fireworks kept detonating. Reportedly, policeman Henry
Eddy punched a bullet through Torn Horrell’s shoulder, a flesh wound, and he or one of the other
surviving officers also clipped Mart Horrell’s neck, but not too critically––his second wound during
the blistering encounter. There was no need to call for a mathematician to calculate the odds. The
four state policemen yet standing chose to live to tell the tale another day. Not imprudently, they
sprang into saddles and galloped out of town.
Little did they know it then, but that zipping quartet of officers hightailing for Austin, aside from
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their actual taking part in a spine-chilling gunplay, had also witnessed a bit of genuine Lone Star
history. The killing at Lampasas was the last Texas State Police enforcement action that claimed an
officer’s life. Tallying those policemen wounded in the line of duty while drawing a paycheck from
the Texas State Police is unworkable; enumerating those policemen making the ultimate sacrifice
isn’t. From the get-go, it had proved dangerous business. Before the gunplay at Lampasas, ten
had fallen. Those hard-riding policemen making the mad dash for safety at Austin could feel their
bone-weary horses’ legs began to tremble beneath them. They may have also had an inkling that
the Texas State Police, as an institution, was standing on wobbly legs too. It was not a time for
crutches—an amputation was in the offing.
The Texas State Police had been in existence but three years, legislatively created during
April of 1870. Though criminality and lawlessness throughout post-Civil War Texas was real, for
most Texans this policing outfit was but an ugly stepchild, the prodigy of a damn Unionist–– that
Radical Republican Governor Edmund J. Davis. The state’s chief executive, perhaps rightly, had
recognized the necessity of creating a highly mobile law enforcing unit not hampered by county
lines or the influences of abject laxity or the bitter loyalties to a cause that had already been lost.
The Davis supporters, Republicans, had seen the measure of creating the Texas State Police as
but a means of reestablishing law and order. The detractors––Democrats––had looked on such a
move as but usurpation of authority from the hands of local civil authorities: the creation of “military despotism.” Resting too much muscle power in the hands of the governor, crowning him as
some sort of a supreme dictator, was intolerable to conservative-minded Democrats. Stooping to
a shameful shenanigan, the panicky Republican legislators had “several conservative senators
placed under arrest and excluded from the chamber while the vote was being taken.” That done,
at the end of the day, the state of Texas had both an authorized militia and a state police. Both
were placed under direct management of none other than Governor Davis, a man that would be
marked as leading the least popular gubernatorial administration during Texas’ formative years.
Unquestionably, the Texas State Police, during their short existence, did some good work. In
1872, the year before the Lampasas killings, they collectively had scooped up 1,204 badmen––or
alleged badmen––which netted them an average of 7.25 arrests per man that year. During the first
quarter of 1873, their enforcement actions had netted 403 prisoners, and according to Republicanleaning newspapers, “hundreds” of badmen were fleeing before them. There was, however, a downside. The thorn in the side of many Democrats who harangued anti-Texas State Police sentiment
was not clandestine, though one of their complaints was, by today’s standard, racially insensitive:
(Last night) considerable excitement prevailed and white citizens came to me [A. A. Parsons, Lt. Colonel, Texas State Militia, for Bell, Coryell, and Lampasas counties] blaming
the “nigger police” with it all. They have given me to understand several times that they
want the colored police to be sent away from Belton. . . . Every democrat I have seen
thus far condems [sic], denounces and blames the colored police. The mayor of the town
has urged upon me to dispense with colored police. Everything here indicates the most
violent hostility and prejudice against the colored police.
Adding perceived insult to injury for Democrats was another very real fact. The vast majority
of patronage appointments building the Texas State Police’s roster, not at all surprisingly, were
being filled by known Republicans or those fellows that avowed to be Republican. There were
exceptions, but not many. Understanding the times regarding racial attitudes is patently insightful but not defensible. Acknowledging that Democrats and Republicans were ruthlessly partisan
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and on the lookout for political advantage, no matter how outrageous, was certainly not a new
phenomenon then nor is it a dead one today. Governor Edmund J. Davis did, however, manage,
with a little help, to shoot himself in the foot with mismanagement and a few faux pas. Governor
Davis’ administration and oversight of the Texas State Police was rife with glitches. The missteps
played right into the hands of Democrats waiting to pounce.
Governor Davis’ adjutant general (preceding Frank L. Britton) and first chief of the Texas
State Police was an ex-Union Army officer, James Davidson. He embezzled $37,434.67 from the
state’s coffers, boarded a ship, and skipped to Belgium, avoiding prosecution altogether. One of
the governor’s very first appointed captains of the Texas State Police was John Marshall “Jack”
Helm, the “most noted brigand since the days of Quantrell” and a full-fledged terrorist and killer who
was kicked off the police force for summarily executing prisoners under the guise that they were
“escaping,” an alibi wholly refuted by evidence. Martial law had been declared in several counties––
unnecessarily, in Democrats’ minds or, at a minimum, prematurely On occasion, state policemen
acted in a highhanded and arbitrary manner, shelving habeas corpus, illegally searching homes,
and making arrest absent probable cause. Too, policemen themselves were often discharged for
“inefficiency and general worthlessness.” Despite any good work by the Texas State Police, the
conservative Democrats had a lengthy laundry list, and the radical Republicans did indeed own
a clothesline full of dirty duds.
Democrats had little trouble sustaining to their party affiliates a charge that Edmund J. Davis
was presiding over an administration that literally bordered on being “a carnival of crime and corruption.” Those same Democrats, however, would meet an obstinate and entrenched adversary
when it came time to oust Governor Davis from office. Coming to power in 1873, Democrats
gained control of both houses of the Texas Legislature. One of their first legislative concerns was
to repeal the act which had established the Texas State Police. On April 15, 1873, the bill was sent
to Governor Davis for a signature. Appealing for some sort of reconciliation but receiving no consideration whatsoever, Governor Davis promptly vetoed the legislation. On April 22, 1873, his veto
was overridden by an overwhelmingly lopsided vote; 58 to 7. The Texas State Police was no more:
The people of Texas are today delivered from an infernal engine of oppression as ever
crushed any people beneath the heel of God’s sunlight. The damnable police bill is ground
beneath the heel of an indignant legislature.
Evidence supports the fact, at least in most quarters, that the Texas State Police were unpopular
and undervalued because of the racial and political associations of its leadership and membership. The State Police became the victim of a political “backlash,” the deep-seated antipathy “an
expression of conservative resentment of Negro and Radical domination.” There was an immediate and foreseeable drawback to dissolution of the Texas State Police. Statewide lawlessness
went unchecked, enforcement of the law now wholly dependent on the capricious energy of local
authorities, namely the county sheriffs. At the time elected to office in two-year election cycles, the
sheriffs were ever attuned to constituents’ feelings. The sheriff that would soothe the right ruffled
feathers (the electorate––or the most powerful special interest group within that body of voters) in
many instances portended not exemplary examples of public service.
Just as there had been many good men on the Texas State Police membership rolls, there
were many good, if not simply outstanding, county sheriffs. They were men who would and did
sacrifice their very lives, upholding honorable principles while meting out evenhanded and impartial
enforcement of the state’s penal code. Even the first-rate sheriffs, however, were somewhat handiContents and design of the Texas Ranger Dispatch™ are copyrighted by the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum and other named copyright holders. Permission is granted to print copies or excerpts for personal use and educational coursework. Commercial use or redistribution requires written
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capped and hemmed in by that ever-niggling jurisdictional issue––the county line. A Democratic
legislature would now be forced to deal with such a complicated matter sooner or later. But while
the politics of policing were being continually played to advantage and bantered about at Austin,
other dealings were drawing no little attention.
Though modestly educated in the ways of reading and writing, Cicero Rufus “Rufe” Perry, an
import from Alabama, had by hard experience (and a few arrows puncturing his frame) earned a
graduate degree from Texas’ college of Indian fighting. Perry had participated in hard-fought expeditions against the Comanches as early as 1839. By several written accounts, he also battled
mightily with Comanches the following year after marauding Indians had dipped as far south as
the Texas Gulf Coast. Unfortunately, Mr. Perry rode his horse to death chasing after Indians and
missed out on the celebrated battle at Plum Creek. Later, taking his slaves (valued at $3,500) with
him, Perry moved to frontier Blanco County in the delightfully picturesque yet still perilous Texas
Hill Country. He settled on Flat Creek. In addition to being made of genuine grit and gristle, Rufe
Perry also drank from the cup of common sense, as exhibited by this minimally edited extraction
from his memoirs:
I then mooved to Blanco Co whar I have remaind ever Since[.] When I first wint thair was
Indions nearly evry light moon[.] I was oute verry often but never caught up with them but
once[,] thair was but 2 of us and 40 of them So wee dun the runing[.]
In that instance, Rufe Perry and his unnamed Comanche-hunting partner (probably Christopher H. “Kit” Acklin) had made a prudent decision: running away from painted warriors rather than
racing after them in a headlong but wrongheaded pursuit. Blanco County folks, indeed pioneering
folks all along the cutting edge of 1870s Texas, were dangerously exposed to raiding parties riding from concealed asylums on the largely unexplored Llano Estacado or the poorly supervised
reservations in Indian Territory. Comanches and Kiowas mercilessly striking isolated ranches for
reward, revenge, plunder and payback was par for business in frontline Blanco County.
A straw finally broke the proverbial camel’s back. Mr. Thomas Phelps and his wife had opted
to temporarily forego the day’s drudgery by relaxing along the banks of Cypress Creek, their anxiously baited hooks tempting the fish below. Leery catfish didn’t strike but Comanches did. The
pandemonium and screaming was snuffed in a heartbeat as Mr. and Mrs. Phelps were “stabbed
and horribly butchered.” Hurriedly, twenty warriors stripped the mutilated bodies and then raced for
the nearby ranch house of Benjamin Phelps, where they effortlessly rounded up a herd of grazing
horses. Extending their search for another target, the frenzied Comanches zeroed in on opportunity,
murdering the twenty-one-year-old Johnson boy at his ranch home. Capturing the dead Johnson’s
twelve-year-old brother as a living prize, the Comanches “tied him on a horse and departed.”
The alarm was sounded throughout the sparsely scattered settlements. Without delay, maddened men grabbed guns, saddled horses, organized into a loosely captained platoon, and gave
chase. Fleeing northwest but burdened with a captive and the pilfered horses, the Indians realized
they were losing ground. Hoping to slow at least part of the pursuit, the Comanches dumped their
prisoner and a portion of their plunder near Fort Mason. The sudden tactic in this case worked
brilliantly: “Having recaptured the boy, the Texans abandoned the chase and returned home, taking
with them a lot of captured horses.”
Daniel Webster “Dan” Roberts, a Blanco County resident at the time and a man who assumes
a remarkably relevant role in this volume, asserts that the brutal killing of Mr. and Mrs. Phelps was
a signal event in buttressing the settlers’ resolve:
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On the following Sunday [after the Phelps’ deaths] several of the young men of the neighborhood gathered at the home of my father, Alexander (Buck) Roberts. Repairing to the
shade of a little grove nearby, we held a council of war. The situation was too plain to
admit of a misunderstanding. The issue involved a matter of life and death and we faced
it fairly and squarely. The one resolution introduced and unanimously carried was that
the next time the Indians came into our neighborhood, we would follow and fight. There
was nothing heroic in our resolution; on the contrary, we were simply governed by the
law of self-preservation. If we remained at home and permitted the Indians to continue
unmolested in their raids, there was a strong probability that, family by family, nearly all
of us would be butchered; while if we engaged them in battle there was at least a fighting
chance that we could “get” some of them. We could do no worse than be killed in the fight
and that was a better prospect than being butchered as we slept.
Shortly thereafter––just a few days––Blanco County denizens learned that another band of
Indians was cutting across their regional neighborhood, heading south. Not sparing a wasted minute, Dan Roberts and his brother George Travis, along with Thomas and Joe Bird, John O. Biggs,
and Stanton Jolly, began their hunt for the Indians’ trail. Their lucky findings at Hickory Creek were
twofold: they discovered the Comanches’ tracks, and they were joined by reinforcements James
and William Ingram, Frank Waldrip, and “Cam” Davidson. Though in Roberts own words they were
all young and poorly equipped, each man in the party knew how to “ride hard and shoot straight.”
Unfortunately for the Roberts boys, so did the Comanches.
Soon, reality began dawning on the pale-skinned pursuers: this was no piddling party of
Comanches. Obsessively determined to overhaul and close with an enemy, the settlers throttled
forward. At Deer Creek (near present Kingsland, Llano County), the Blanco County boys found
what they were looking for. From the outset, they had all been bargaining for a fight, and they were
not shortchanged. Anticipating a killing contest, the Indians had taken advantage of the terrain,
shielding themselves in a “little draw or shallow ravine.” Undaunted, straight across open ground
the would-be Comanche fighters charged at the gallop. The Indians’ first volley cut down Dan
Robert’s brother George, who was wounded in the face. Dismounted, the posse began peppering shots into the Indians entrenchment. Impervious to the raining hellfire, Comanches deluged
bullets into their foe’s location, now a defensive position. During a “momentary lull in the firing,”
Dan Roberts foolishly stood up. A “big bullet” tore into his left thigh––blood spurting, not oozing
from the nasty wound. After Joe Bird was wounded in both shoulders, although slightly, the Blanco
County fellows decamped for safer ground and medical attention. Subsequently, Rufe Perry was
notified, and he gathered a respectable force of fighting men. By the time they finally managed to
negotiate tough ground and survey the battle site, however, the Indians had long since departed,
their time advantage a distance too far to overcome. Rufe Perry and his squadron returned to the
settlements sans any scrap with Indians. That the Comanche chasers had exhibited determination
and daring, there is no room for meaningful debate, at least in the eyes of Texans. Appreciatively,
on the motion of State Senator H. C. King, lawmakers at Austin awarded each of the Deer Creek
fight’s participants a spanking new Winchester Model 1873 rifle, .44 caliber. Inlaid into the highly
polished stock of Roberts’ rifle was a sterling silver plate, inscribed: “Presented to Dan W. Roberts
by the 13th Legislature of the State of Texas.”
During another August 1873 Texas Hill Country episode, Indians (Apaches in some accounts,
Comanches in others) once more made an incursion into Llano County, adjoining Blanco County’s
northern boundary. James R. Moss found one of his cows painfully bellowing, an arrow deeply
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Winchester Warriors
embedded in its side. No detective work was necessary—Indians were about! Seven other cowboys were, by luck, at the ranch: James’ brothers, William and Stephen D., along with Eli Lloyd,
Archer “Arch” Martin, Pinckney “Pink” Ayres, Robert Brown, George Lewis, and Elijah Deaver
Harrington. Hurriedly arming themselves with Spencer rifles and Colt’s six-shooters, they set off
in the direction of Packsaddle Mountain, the supposed lair of any lurking Indians. On a high but
secluded plateau, they locked up. The Indians’ first barrage cut down four cowboys, knocking them
out of the saddle. Three of them, seriously wounded, were rendered noncombatants. Twenty-one
Indians repeatedly charged the five remaining cowboys, only to be repulsed by grit and gunfire.
The Indians’ leader was determined not to bring any disgrace or dishonor upon himself. After failure
to dislodge the cowboys and failing to inspire his comrades to make another assault, the plucky
headman aggressively charged the cowboys single-handed, firing a Winchester as he advanced.
Bravery and boldness didn’t shield him from bullets, however, as six thumped into his chest, killing
him instantly. The remaining Indians vanished. Besides the apparent chief, two other warriors had
sacrificed their lives. The cowboys happily tallied the property left behind: horses, buffalo robes,
jerked meat, Navajo blankets, silver-mounted saddles, and bridles, along with a few Winchester
and Henry rifles added to the miscellaneous camp equipage.
Without bending to the temptation of defending or condemning diametrically at-odds cultural
differences, it may be avowed that the Texas frontier was aflame with fear of nonstop Indian sorties. By and large, the frontline settlements were unprotected. From the viewpoint of most Texans,
who by majority were conservative Democrats, federal Indian policy and federal Indian fighters––
the U.S. Army––were useless. In their minds, that had been more than amply proved prior to the
Civil War. They also believed that radical Republicans during the Reconstruction era had done
nothing to help curtail fierce Indians storming into the settlements “nearly every light moon.” The
Texans may not have been right, but they sure enough thought they were. To those unguarded
folks hanging on by a thread, raiding warriors slipping into their isolated ranch homes, killing their
families, stealing their livestock, and abducting their children was no joke. What was happening
at Austin wasn’t funny either––though the rest of the world might have found it comical were it not
so emblematic of Texas politics.
During the December 1873 election for governor, Richard Coke, a Democrat, handily defeated
the incumbent. Davis, however, didn’t want to give up his job. The intransigent governor of Texas
never had held second thoughts about impeding a majority’s wishes. This time was no different.
Edmund Davis resorted to legal technicalities in an effort to forestall forfeiting the governor’s chair.
The argument revolved around the placement of a semicolon in the Texas State Constitution. According to Davis’ attorneys, the punctuation mark, as it was placed, demonstrated that lawmakers
had clearly intended that election polls be opened for four successive days and that the vote was to
take place in the county seats only. That’s not what had happened. The other argument espoused,
as is the practice today, that elections could take place within separate county precincts, but that
all votes cast must be on a single day. That’s what had happened. Now it is almost incomprehensible, but the Texas Supreme Court found in favor of Governor Davis. The high court’s decision
was “obviously based more on politics than on punctuation . . .”
Davis was obstinate. He would hold the office of eminence and retain residence in the Governor’s Mansion––by force of arms if necessary. Davis had a problem, though. There were no
longer any Texas State Police officers to maneuver as political pawns. Furthermore, the recently
installed Democratic legislature had so amended the state’s Militia Law that it effectively emasculated a governor’s meddling with the militia. Governor Davis may have been a snarling tiger, but
46
Winchester Warriors
he was toothless.
In the realm of sometimes absurd Texas politics, not much should come as a surprise, certainly
not the governor’s next move. Davis, who was indeed a carpetbag governor, “barricaded himself
in the second story of the state house and undertook to hold his office by force until he could appeal to President Grant for military aid.” Not to be outdone, the Democrats were stubbornly intent
on inaugurating the popularly elected choice for governor, Richard Coke. They commandeered
the first floor, laying siege to the mulishness upstairs. The cavalry wasn’t allowed to ride to the
rescue, thanks to the good judgment of United States President Grant, who forbade the U. S. Army
involving itself in the Texas crisis and circus then underway. Grant’s perturbed words to Davis in a
January 1, 1874, telegram were plain and to the point, asking, “....would it not be prudent, as well
as right, to yield to the verdict of the people expressed by their ballots?” With absolutely no hope
of helpful intervention, Governor Davis finally capitulated, and “the people’s representatives again
took charge of their own public affairs.”
“If the Civil War emancipated the slaves, so did Reconstruction emancipate the Texans from
dependence on the federal arm, it made them ready at last to protect their own borders.” Texans
were weary, sick and tired of tritely lame excuses and sterile stabs at stopping broad-spectrum
lawlessness running rampant throughout the state. Mexican bandit raids along the Rio Grande and
the perennial but unchecked Indian raids only added to a perception of unrepressed bedlam. Governor Richard Coke had not any inclination to pussyfoot around, not when it came to taking action.
During his 1874 inaugural address, Governor Coke pressed both houses of the now Democraticallycontrolled Texas Congress to pass legislation designed to curb chaos. Putting aside nomenclature
of militia units to be held in reserve for extreme emergencies, Governor Coke’s recommendations
culminated in a pronged strategy, the creation of two semi-permanent and salaried quasi-military
units: a Special Force, and what would become known throughout Texas as the Frontier Battalion,
an administrative but not formally decreed designation.
The formal titling of the originating legislation is informative as well as being just plain interesting. The heading not only designs to justify the new 1874 law, but also sociologically reflects an
accurate snapshot of many Texans’ post-Reconstruction outlook. Contained in the General Laws
of the State of Texas, Fourteenth Legislative Session, was “Chapter LXVII: An Act to provide for the
protection of the Frontier of the State of Texas against the invasion of hostile Indians, Mexicans,
or other marauding or thieving parties.”
Though chronologically it wasn’t the first born, the Special Force will now be mentioned briefly.
Basically, it was to concentrate its hard-riding and hard-shooting activities in South Texas’ DeWitt
County and put a cap on the bloodletting Sutton-Taylor Feud then raging. Later, the unit would be
tasked with cleaning up the Mexican border area south of the Nueces River. There, they were to
assault banditos and eradicate rustlers plying their trade along the border, where some of those
mal hombres were creating migraine headaches for wealthy South Texas cattle barons. To head
the Special Force, Governor Coke had turned to a former Texas State Police captain, Leander
Harvey McNelly. Captain McNelly accepted the assignment, initially mustering adventure-minded
recruits in Washington County.
McNelly’s career is filled with the stuff of legend—and results. Along the Texas border, he and
his toughened men were known throughout the Spanish-speaking communities of the Rio Grande
as the diablos Tejanos (the Texas Devils). For the most part, according to his astutely tuned biographers, Leander McNelly had tunnel vision when it came to cattle rustlers, for that is where his
core enforcement efforts were centered. McNelly’s methodology was simple: ruthlessness with a
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capital R. If Mexican outlaws and cow stealers thought that they could export terrorism to Texas,
McNelly had no qualms about making them gulp a dose of their own medicine, though several would
be unable to swallow because of a tightened rope around their necks. Captain McNelly wasn’t at
all afraid to put on the payroll criminal informants (snitches and spies), use torture to squeeze out
information, summarily lynch prisoners, raid hideouts of alleged cow thieves (sometimes mistakenly), or invade Mexico’s sovereign soil. McNelly’s men weren’t sissies. They would fight tooth and
toenail, bullet to bayonet, six-shooter to saber; it made not a whit to them be they in the right—or
in the wrong! As the bandits soon discovered, a little terror could be exported from Texas.
McNelly did make a name for himself. Though his “tactics would not be tolerated today,” Leander McNelly did “recover stolen property and reduce the amount of lawlessness on the border.”
Most tolerantly, the record of McNelly’s life has been summarized as being admirable “in spite of
all its faults.” To think otherwise, at least for a native Anglo Texan, would border on sacrilege. Along
the muddy river’s banks, others may have held to a less charitable characterization. Undoubtedly,
and with some validation, many Mexicans and Tejanos might have looked at McNelly’s company
of lively rangers through an altogether dissimilar prism, one poles apart from the traditional Texas
mystique. That Leander McNelly’s Special Force was indeed Texas Rangers is for practical purposes
unarguable. “To consider them anything but Texas Rangers is merely wrangling over semantics.”
Governor Coke’s recommendation to the Texas Congress for dealing with the issue of raiding
Indians was to create the Frontier Battalion. Its composition, on paper, was to be of six 75-man
companies, each headed by a hand-picked captain, and the whole force commanded by a battalion major answerable to the adjutant general of Texas. The six companies, designated A through
F, were to be highly mobile, a light cavalry so to speak. Units were to be strategically deployed in
the western counties, forming a fluid north/south line on the frontier stretching from the Red River
to the Rio Grande. In conjunction with their designated Indian interdiction duties, the Frontier Battalion was to also serve as the state’s flexing law enforcement arm. Thanks to a legislative (not
executive) go-ahead, they were to cooperatively aid civil authorities with the suppression of crime
and the catching of crooks. It was a tall assignment.
John B. Jones of Corsicana, Navarro County, was Governor Coke’s choice to head up the
Frontier Battalion. At thirty-nine years of age, the former South Carolinian and Confederate veteran
was already a tested soldier and experienced leader. Though Jones forewent the use of alcohol
and tobacco, he did have a weakness: horses. At his ranch west of Corsicana, near the tiny settlement of Frost, John B. Jones raised first-class, blooded stock. Having received a formal college
education at Mount Zion College in Winnsboro, South Carolina, Jones was intellectually equipped
to face the challenges at hand. Unfettered by responsibilities of matrimony or a family, bachelor
Jones could burrow into the Frontier Battalion’s leadership role with undiluted energy. And he did.
On May 2, 1874, John B. Jones was officially commissioned as major of the Frontier Battalion.
Though its administrative designation for a full quarter century was the Frontier Battalion, even
then–and certainly now–the outfit is best known by its time-honored and widely accepted euphemism: those Frontier Battalion boys were Texas Rangers.
48
Assault on the Highway
from: First in Texas: Three Texans and Their Contributions to Texas History, 1821-1978. 1st ed.
Friendswood, Texas. Bob Arnold, 2011. ISBN: 9781450766098 Hardcover. $25.00
A ssault on the
Highway
by Bob Arnold
Chapter 22
The ring disturbed the silence of the night at just after four o’clock in the morning. A hand
reached toward the sound, quickly picking up the phone’s receiver before it could ring a second
time. [Texas Ranger] Red Arnold put the receiver to his ear and said hello. The voice on the other
end stated, “Red, this is Thomas Lilly at the Mount Pleasant Police Department. I just received a
call from the Pittsburg PD that there is a disturbance on the highway south of town and they need
some assistance.” Red replied, “I’ll be on the way in a few minutes,” and hung up the phone. He
quickly dressed and told his wife Aline that he did not know when he would be home. He got into
his car, sped down the country road toward Mount Pleasant, and called the police department
for additional details. When told that several Pittsburg policemen were being held captive by an
unknown number of men, Red asked that a backup unit be dispatched to assist him. “I will meet
them on the outskirts of Mount Pleasant, and they can follow me to Pittsburg.”
Meanwhile, Harold Rester received a phone call from Conrad Mars, a sergeant with the Mount
Pleasant Police Department. Rester was an inspector for the Texas Alcohol Beverage Commission
and lived at the south end of town. Mars asked him if he would be willing to go with him to assist
Red with some trouble near Pittsburg, and Rester said that he would. Mars picked him up in a
police car, and they waited on Red to arrive on that side of town. After meeting up a few minutes
later, the two cars sped south on Highway 271 to Pittsburg, about ten miles from Mount Pleasant.
49
On the way, Red got a radio call from Larry Efurd, who operated a wrecker business in Pittsburg.
He had heard all of the radio traffic between the two police departments and had gone to the area
where the policemen were being held captive. Efurd told Red that two white men were holding
Pittsburg Patrolman Loyd Penshorn, Camp County Sheriff J. L. Morgan, and Constable Dan Tubbs
at gunpoint. He added that one of the men was whipping Penshorn with a gun and belt buckle and
telling Penshorn that he was going to kill him.
The incident had begun about an hour earlier as Warren Foster was driving south on Highway
271 through Pittsburg to his home in Longview. About two miles south of Pittsburg, he had come
upon a blue pickup truck that was stopped in the middle of the highway. To avoid hitting the vehicle,
he had swerved his car to the right shoulder of the highway. He immediately glanced in his car’s
rearview mirror and saw two men in the pickup turn around in the highway, speed up to pass him,
and attempt to force him off the road.
Foster turned his car around and headed back into Pittsburg, where he encountered a police
car in town. He quickly reported the incident to Pittsburg patrolman Loyd Penshorn, who was making his nightly rounds through the town accompanied by Harold Attaway, the city night watchman.
The two men followed Foster through town, where they saw a pickup parked on the west side
shoulder of the highway approximately two miles south of the city limits.
Foster continued on his way south toward Longview while Penshorn and Attaway got out of
the police car and approached the pickup. Two men were there at the scene: Charles West, age
37, and his brother Andy, age 29. Both had several misdemeanor infractions, and Charles had also
been previously charged with vagrancy and aggressive assault with a motor vehicle. Andy was
standing next to the pickup while his brother Charles remained inside. Penshorn identified himself
and told Andy that he had received a report that he had tried to force a vehicle off the road. Andy
told him that he had pulled off the road to fix a flat tire and had not tried to run anyone off the road.
Penshorn asked Charles to get out of the vehicle and motioned both men to the front of his patrol
car, telling them to empty their pockets and to place their hands on the hood. Both men appeared
to be drunk. When he frisked Charles’s pockets, Penshorn found a knife and some keys, which
he removed and threw on top of the patrol car.
Penshorn instructed Attaway to hold the brothers at gunpoint while he got in his car to call the
police department for assistance. As Penshorn was talking to the office, Charles West grabbed
Attaway’s gun and told him that he was going to kill him. He went over to the patrol car, pointed
the gun at Penshorn’s head, and told him to get out of the vehicle. Charles ordered Penshorn to
give him the “damn keys” or he would kill him, too. Both Penshorn and Attaway were instructed to
remove their clothes, and Attaway asked if he could take his off on the other side of the highway.
Charles agreed to the request, but when Attaway got to the other side, he took off running toward
the nearest house and called both the city police department and the sheriff’s office for help.
A few minutes later, Sheriff Morgan arrived at the scene and immediately saw that Penshorn
was lying naked in the bed of the pickup. As Andy West approached the sheriff’s vehicle, he showed
his gun and told Morgan to leave his weapon in the car and get out with his hands up or he and
his brother would kill Penshorn. Morgan did as he was told. Andy told the sheriff not to run or he
would shoot his leg off, and for added measure, he shot at the sheriff’s feet several times. Andy
then told his brother to get Penshorn out of the bed of the truck and ordered both law officers to
the front of the police car. About that time, Constable Dan Tubbs drove up and noticed two men
holding guns on Sheriff Morgan and Patrolman Penshorn. The West brothers immediately pointed
their guns at Tubbs and instructed him to get out of his car. One of the brothers jerked the badge
50
from the sheriff’s shirt and hurled it at Tubbs, saying that the sheriff would not need the badge
anymore because they were going to kill him and Penshorn. Charles West then turned toward
Penshorn and began hitting him with the buckle end of his cowboy belt, which caused lacerations
and bruises on Penshorn’s back and legs. When he was not satisfied that he was hurting Penshorn
enough, Charles began hitting him with the butt of his rifle.
Red Arnold, Harold Rester, and Conrad Mars quietly arrived at the scene with their vehicle
headlights off. However, from the headlights of the other cars shining onto the highway, they were
able to see two men holding guns on three other men. Red grabbed his Remington rifle, the same
.351 Remington carbine he had used as a Highway Patrolman in the 1940 South Texas shootout
some thirty years before. As the officers met in the middle of the road, Rester asked Red what
the plan was. Red replied, “Hell, there s no plan! Either they will drop their guns or we will have
to shoot the bastards.” Whether it was his Marine Corps training or his many years of experience
as a police officer, Red’s instincts were to meet a dangerous situation head on and then react as
the circumstances unfolded. As he started walking down the middle of the highway toward the two
gun-wielding men, Rester took the right side of the road and Mars the left. Nearing the brothers,
Red crouched behind Constable Tubbs’s car, rose up, and aimed his rifle at Charles West, who
was the closest one. He shouted out to both men to drop their weapons.
Charles, who had been beating Patrolman Penshorn, jerked around at the sound of the Red’s
voice. He answered that he did not have a weapon, but the sheriff hollered back, “He’s lying. He’s
got a gun!” As Charles raised his rifle to fire, Red again demanded that the two brothers drop their
weapons, but they didn’t. Red shot Charles once and then twice more. The wounded man started
running toward the pickup, and Harold Rester shot him with his shotgun. Andy West then raised
a pistol to fire at the officers, and Red shot him once in his right side, causing him to slump down
next to his truck. The two brothers were quickly disarmed, an ambulance was called to take them
to the hospital, and Sergeant Mars cleared the traffic that had stopped on the highway to make
room for the ambulance. The brothers were taken to the hospital in Pittsburg, where Andy died
from his wounds early that morning. Charles was transferred to the Tyler Medical Center in critical
condition. After he recovered, he was charged with assault with intent to murder and convicted
in the 76th District Court at Pittsburg, Texas. He was given a two-year sentence in the county jail
and fined one thousand dollars.
The day following the incident, the Austin American-Statesman ran an article that read, in part:
Just when people are saying there is no such thing anymore as ‘one mob, one ranger,’
Ranger R. M. “Red” Arnold steps in near Pittsburg Tuesday after two young gunmen had
corralled an assortment of peace officers on the highway. He told them to drop their guns,
and then blazed away when they pointed their guns toward him…Had Ranger Arnold
waited a split second to see if the gunmen intended to squeeze their trigger fingers, the
newspaper account most likely would have been about another peace officer killed in
the line of duty.
Later, Red was informed by Captain Bob Crowder that he had been nominated by Colonel
Wilson Speir, director of the Department of Public Safety, for the Parade-International Association
of Chiefs of Police Service Award. This annual honor is given to deserving law enforcement officers throughout the nation who show extraordinary valor in the performance of their duties. After
being told of his nomination, Red replied in the true Ranger tradition, “Captain, I only did what any
other officer would have done.”
51

Texas Ranger Dispatch - Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum

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