[Illustration: SERGEANT J.B. GILLETT, TEXAS RANGER IN 1879]




 SIX YEARS WITH THE
 TEXAS RANGERS

 1875 TO 1881

 BY
 JAMES B. GILLETT

 Ex-Sergeant Company "A," Frontier Battalion

 [Illustration]

 Von Boeckmann-Jones Co., Publishers
 Austin, Texas




 Copyright 1921
 by
 James B. Gillett




 TO MY OLD RANGER COMRADES
 WHEREVER THEY MAY BE




FOREWORD


To write a true and complete history of the Texas Rangers as a state
organization would require much time and an able historian. I am not a
historian and could not undertake such an exhaustive treatise, which
would fill several volumes the size of this, and it is only at the
earnest solicitation of my children, frontier friends, and old comrades
that I have undertaken to write a short history of the rangers during
the years I served with them. This little volume, then, has only the
modest aim of picturing the life of the Texas Rangers during the years
1875-1881. I cannot, at this late date, recount in detail all the
scouts that were made while I was in the service. I have, therefore,
confined myself principally to the description of those in which I was
a participant. Naturally, I remember those the best.

It has been said that truth never makes very interesting reading. Of
the accuracy of this dictum I leave my readers to judge, for I have
told my story just as I remember it, to the very best of my ability and
without any effort to embroider it with imagination. If I can interest
any of my old ranger comrades or even just one little boy that loves
to read about a real frontier, I will feel amply repaid for all the
time, trouble and expense expended in presenting this work.

I wish sincerely to thank Miss Mary Baylor for placing at my disposal
all the books and papers of her distinguished father, Captain G.W.
Baylor. And I would be an ingrate, indeed, did I fail here to record
my obligation to my wife without whose inspiration and sympathetic
encouragement this book had never been written.

That I might show the training of the typical Texas Ranger, I have
ventured to include a short biography of my own life up to the time I
became a ranger, June 1, 1875.




TABLE OF CONTENTS


 Chapter                                                   Page

 I The Making of a Ranger                                   11

 II The Texas Rangers                                       29

 III I Join the Rangers                                     41

 IV My First Brush With the Indians                         55

 V The Mason County War                                     72

 VI Major Jones and His Escort                              81

 VII The Horrell-Higgins Feud                              103

 VIII Service With Reynolds, the Intrepid                  118

 IX Sam Bass and His Train Robber Gang                     155

 X A Winter of Quiet and a Transfer                        183

 XI The Salt Lake War and a Long Trek                      192

 XII Our First Fight With Apaches                          212

 XIII Scouting in Mexico                                   225

 XIV Treacherous Braves, a Faithful Dog, and a Murder      237

 XV Victorio Becomes a Good Indian                         251

 XVI Some Undesirable Recruits                             264

 XVII Last Fight Between Rangers and Apaches               278

 XVIII An International Episode                            293

 XIX Last Scoutings                                        309

 XX Fruits of Ranger Service                               322




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS




 Sergeant J.B. Gillett      Frontispiece

 General Jno. B. Jones           29

 Captain D.W. Roberts            41

 Captain Neal Coldwell          102

 Lieutenant N.O. Reynolds       118

 Captain Geo. W. Baylor         192

 Dallas Stoudenmire             322

 James B. Gillett               332




SIX YEARS WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS




CHAPTER I

THE MAKING OF A RANGER


The greatest shaping force in human life is heredity, and from my
father I inherited my love of the open frontier and its life of
danger and excitement. This inheritance was further strengthened by
environment and training, and finally led me to embrace the life of the
Texas Ranger. My father, James S. Gillett, was himself a frontiersman,
though born in the quieter, more settled east. At a very early age
his parents emigrated from his birthplace in Kentucky and moved to
Missouri. Here, after a short time, they died and the young orphan
lived with a brother-in-law. When still quite a youth my father, with
three other adventurous Missourians, set out on an expedition to Santa
Fe, New Mexico. While passing through Indian Territory, now the State
of Oklahoma, the little party was captured by the Osage Indians.
Fortunately for the youngsters, their captors did them no harm, but
turned them loose after two weeks' imprisonment in the redskin camp.

Despite this first setback my father persevered and reached Santa Fe.
Here he lived several years and mastered the Spanish language. Not long
afterward the emigrating fever again caught him up and he journeyed to
Van Buren, Arkansas. While living there he studied law and was admitted
to the bar. Shortly thereafter he removed to Paris, Texas, from which
he was elected to the Texas Legislature as representative for Lamar and
adjoining counties.

When Texas entered the Union and brought on the Mexican War with the
United States, my father enlisted in 1846 and rose to the rank of
major. In 1854 he was Adjutant-General of Texas. Between 1859 and 1860,
during the governorship of Sam Houston, my father was quartermaster of
a battalion of rangers, thus making it natural that I should also feel
drawn toward this famous organization.

At the beginning of the Civil War my father was beyond military
age,--he was born in 1810--but as the South became hard pressed for men
he enlisted in the spring of 1864 and served in Captain Carington's
company until the end of the war.

In 1850, a few years before he became Adjutant-General, my father
married Miss Bettie Harper, then a resident of Washington County,
Texas. My mother's father, Captain Harper, was a southern planter who
emigrated from North Carolina between 1846 and 1848, and, settling
in Washington County, established a Dixie plantation with a hundred
slaves. My mother was a highly cultivated and refined woman. On her
marriage she brought several negro servants with her to her new home
in Austin. Of her union with my father five children were born. The
first two, both boys, died in infancy. I was the fourth child born
to my parents, and first saw the light of day in Austin, Texas, on
November 4, 1856. An older sister, Mary, and a younger, Eva, survived
to adulthood.

At the close of the Civil War my father returned to his family pretty
well broken in health and probably also in spirit. His slaves were
all freed and his land holdings, about two hundred acres of cedar
land, some five or six miles from Austin, and a tract of pine land in
Grimes County, Texas, were not very productive. There was not much law
practice in Austin in the early post-war days, but my father set to
work resolutely to provide for his family. Though I did not realize
it then, I now know that he had a hard struggle. I was only eight
and a half years old when father returned to us from the Confederate
Army, but I remember he used to amuse himself by relating to us vivid
accounts of his Indian fighting and frontier adventures. What heredity
gave me a predilection for was strengthened by these narratives, and I
early conceived a passionate desire to become a frontiersman and live a
life of adventure.

In those early days in Texas there were no free schools in Austin,
so my father sent the three of us, Mary, Eva, and myself, to the pay
schools. None of these was very good, and I lost nearly two years at
a German school, trying to mix German and English. I have never been
of a studious nature--the great out of doors always called to me, and
I found the desk's dead wood particularly irksome. When school closed
in the early summer of 1868, like some of Christ's disciples, I went
fishing and never attended school an hour thereafter. For books I
substituted the wide-open volume of nature and began the life of sport
and freedom that was to prepare me later for service with the rangers.

As poor as he was my father always kept a pony, and I learned to ride
almost before I could walk. Raised on the banks of the Colorado River,
I learned to swim and fish so long ago that I cannot now remember when
I was unable to do either. I fished along the river with a few hand
lines and used to catch quantities of gaspergou or drums. These were
fine fish and sold readily on the streets of Austin, so I soon saved
money enough to buy a small skiff or fishing boat. I now bought a trot
line with a hundred hooks and began fishing in real earnest. About
five or six miles below Austin on the Colorado was Mathews' mill. Just
below the dam of this mill the fishing was always good, and here I made
my fishing grounds. I had a large dry goods box with inch auger holes
bored in it. This box, sunk in the river and secured by a rope tied to
a stob, made a capital trap, and into it I dropped my fish as they were
caught. In this way I kept them alive and fresh until I had enough to
take into town.

Many free negroes were farming along the banks of the Colorado, and
I would hire a pony of them for twenty-five cents a trip when I was
ready to take my catch into town. Many times I have left the river by
starlight and reached the Old Market House at Austin at dawn, spread
out a gunny sack, bunch my fish and be ready for the first early
marketers. I kept up my fishing until the fish stopped biting in the
fall of 1868.

Confederate soldiers returning home from the war brought with them many
old Enfield muskets. These were smooth bore and chambered one large
ball and three buckshot. These old guns, loaded with small shot, were
fine on birds and squirrels, but they had one serious objection--they
would kick like a mule. As the boys used to say, they "would get meat
at both ends!" A day's shooting with one of these muskets would leave
one's shoulder and arm black and blue for a week.

When fishing failed I decided to become a hunter, and bought one of
these old guns for $3.50. It was as long as a fence rail, and at my age
I could not begin to hold it out and shoot off hand, so I had to use a
rest. The Enfield musket had the longest barrel I ever saw on a gun,
and the hammer was as long as a man's hand. I could cock my gun with
both hands, but if I failed to get a shot I was not strong enough to
let the hammer down without letting it get away, so I had to carry it
cocked to keep from losing the cap. I would take it off the tube and
put it in my pocket until I had a chance for another shot. I remember
once when I cocked my musket I could see no cap on the tube and,
thinking it had fallen off, I pulled the trigger. The cap had stuck up
in the old hammer and the gun roared like a cannon. I was always sure
to look for the cap after this. I did not make much headway using this
kind of weapon, but it taught me the use and danger of firearms,--a
knowledge I was to find very useful in later years.

When fishing opened up in the spring of 1869 I returned to my fishing
lines, and in the fall of the same year I bought a double-barreled
shotgun for $12. With it I killed quail, ducks and other small game,
all of which I sold on the streets of Austin. By the fall of 1870 I was
fourteen years old and could handle a gun rather well for one of my age.

Early that winter wild geese came south by the hundreds. I used to hunt
them down the Colorado River, ten or twelve miles below Austin. The
birds would feed in the corn fields in the early morning, then flock
to the sand bars in the river during the middle of the day. There was
nothing silly about those geese, for they were smart enough to frequent
only the big islands, three or four hundred yards from any cover. It
was impossible to reach them with any kind of a shotgun. I used to
slip up to them as close as I could and watch them for hours, trying
to think of some plan to get within gun shot of them. I saw as many
as a thousand geese on those bars at a single time. I have thought
regretfully of those birds many times since, and have wished I could
have shot into one of those flocks with a modern rifle--I could have
killed a dozen geese at a shot.

In the spring of 1871 I had my first trip to the frontier of Texas. My
father traded some of his Grimes County pine land for a bunch of cattle
in Brown County, and took me with him when he went to receive the
herd. This was the first time I had ever been twenty-five miles from
Austin. I was delighted with the trip, the people, and the country.
Those big, fine frontiersmen, each wearing a pair of sixshooters and
most of them carrying a Winchester, fired my boyish imagination. Their
accounts of frontier life and their Indian tales fascinated me. I
wanted to stay right there with them and lost all interest in ever
living in town again. During the same year my father drove several
bunches of cattle to Austin and I helped him on those drives. Thus I
began to be a cowboy,--my first step toward the life of the open, upon
which I had set my heart.

In the summer of 1872 my mother's health began to fail and my father
took her to Lampasas Springs. The water seemed to help her so much that
he decided to make Lampasas our home. At that time Lampasas County was
strictly a cattle country, but there was not much cow hunting during
the winter in those days. The cattlemen and the cowboys spent a good
deal of time in town just having a good time. During this period I
became well acquainted with them. In the spring of 1873 my father made
a trip back to Austin on some business. The frontier had been calling
to me ever since my first visit there, and I now took advantage of my
father's absence to slip out to Coleman County, at that time on the
frontier of Texas.

Monroe Cooksey and Jack Clayton had bought a bunch of cattle in Coleman
County and I saw the outfit when it left Lampasas. I was slightly
acquainted with most of the men in this outfit, so I decided to follow
it and try to get work. It was an Indian country every step of the way,
and I was afraid to make the trip alone. In a day or two I met a man
named Bob McCollum. He was hauling a load of flour to Camp Colorado and
let me travel with him. I bade my mother and sisters good bye and did
not see them again until the next December.

We reached old Camp Colorado without mishap in about five days. Clayton
and Cooksey's outfit was there loading up supplies for the spring work.
I stood around watching the cowboys making their preparations, but
lacked the courage to ask them for work. Finally, the outfit started
down on Jim Ned Creek to camp for dinner. I went with the men and at
last got up spunk enough to ask Mr. Monroe Cooksey for a job. He looked
at me for a minute and then asked, "What kind of work can a boy of your
size do?"

I told him I was willing to do anything a boy of my age could do. He
made no reply and we went on and camped for dinner. After dinner the
men made ready to go over on Hoard's Creek to camp for the night. The
boys made a rope corral and began to catch their mounts. I just stood
there like an orphan watching them. Presently Mr. Cooksey dashed his
rope on a heavy set bay horse. The animal showed the whites of his
eyes, made a rattling noise in his nose and struggled so violently that
it took three men on the rope to hold him. Mr. Cooksey then turned
to me and said, "Here, boy, if you can ride this * * * (giving an
unmentionable name to the horse) you have a job cinched."

I turned, grabbed my saddle, bridle and blanket and started to the
animal. An elderly man in the outfit headed me off.

"Young man," he said, "this is an old spoiled horse, and unless you are
a mighty good rider you had better not get on him."

I brushed him aside.

"Pshaw, I'm hunting work, and while I'm not a broncho buster, I will
make a stab at riding him if he kills me."

By this time one of the boys had caught the horse by both ears and was
holding him fast. They threw my saddle on him, tightened up the cinch,
and finally, after much trouble, got the bridle on him and lifted me
into the saddle. When I had fixed myself as best I could they let the
animal go. He made two or three revolting leaps forward and fell with
his feet all doubled up under him.

Mr. Cooksey seemed to realize the danger I was in, and shouted to me to
jump off. Before I could shake myself loose the old horse had scrambled
to his feet and dashed off in a run. I circled him around to the remuda
and rode him until night without further trouble. I had won my job, but
it was a dirty trick for a lot of men to play on a boy, and a small boy
at that. However, to their credit, I wish to say they never put me on a
bad horse again but gave me the best of gentle ponies to ride.

Our first work was to gather and deliver a herd of cattle to the
Horrell boys, then camped on Home Creek. We worked down to the Colorado
River, and when we were near old Flat Top ranch the men with the outfit
left me to drive the remuda down the road after the mess wagon while
they tried to find a beef. I had gone only a mile or two when I saw a
man approaching me from the rear. As he came up I thought he was the
finest specimen of a frontiersman I had ever seen. He was probably six
feet tall, with dark hair and beard. He was heavily armed, wearing two
sixshooters and carrying a Winchester in front of him and was riding
a splendid horse with a wonderful California saddle. He rode up to me
and asked whose outfit it was I was driving. I told him Cooksey and
Clayton's. He then inquired my name. When I told him he said, "Oh, yes;
I saw your father in Lampasas a few days ago and he told me to tell you
to come home and go to school."

I made no reply, but just kept my horses moving. The stranger then
told me his name was Sam Gholston. He said it was dangerous for one so
young to be in a bad Indian country and unarmed, that the outfit should
not have left me alone, and counselled me to go back to my parents. I
would not talk to him, so he finally bade me good bye and galloped off.
His advice was good, but I had not the least idea of going home--I had
embraced the frontier life.

The Cooksey and Clayton outfit did not stay in the cow business long.
After filling their contract with the Horrell boys they sold out to
Joe Franks. I suppose I was sold along with the outfit, at least I
continued to work for Mr. Franks. A kinder heart than that of Joe
Franks never beat in a human breast. He was big of stature and big
of soul. He seemed to take an interest in his youthful cow-puncher,
and asked me where I was raised and how I came to be away out on the
frontier. As cold weather came on that fall he gave me one of his top
coats. It made a pretty good overcoat for me and came down quite to
my knees. The sleeves were so long I could double them up and hold my
bridle reins, and in one garment I had both coat and gloves.

During the summer of 1873 John Hitsons, Sam Gholston and Joe Franks
were all delivering cattle to old John Chislom, whose outfit was camped
on the south side of the Concho River, about where the town of Paint
Rock now stands. The other outfits were scattered along down the river
about half a mile apart. There were probably seventy-five or a hundred
men in the four camps and at least five hundred horses. One evening
just after dark the Indians ran into Gholston's outfit, captured about
sixty head of horses and got away with them. The redskins and the
cowboys had a regular pitched battle for a few moments, probably firing
two hundred shots. This fight was in plain view of our camp and I saw
the flash of every gun and heard the Indians and the cowboys yelling.
One of Mr. Gholston's men received a flesh wound in the leg and several
horses were killed. Two nights later the Indians ran upon Franks'
outfit and tried to take our horses. Bob Whitehead and Pete Peck were
on guard and stood the redskins off. We saved our horses by keeping
them in a pen for the remainder of the night. I was beginning to get a
taste of frontier life early in the game.

For years cattle had drifted south into Menard and Kimble Counties,
and Joe Franks was one of the first of the Coleman County outfits to
go south into the San Saba and Llano country. He worked the Big and
Little Saline Creeks, the Llano and San Saba Rivers and found many of
his cattle down there. By the last of November he had about finished
work for the year, and, gathering three hundred fat cows to drive to
Calvert, Texas, he left John Banister down on the Big Saline to winter
the horses.

I passed through Lampasas with these cows, and saw my mother and
sisters for the first time in nine months. When we reached Bell County
a cow buyer met us and bought the cows at $10 per head. He just got
down off his horse, lifted a pair of saddle bags off and counted out
three thousand dollars in twenty dollar gold pieces, and hired some
of the boys to help him drive the cattle into Calvert. Mr. Franks,
with most of the outfit, turned back to Lampasas. When he settled with
me Mr. Franks owed me just $200, and he handed me ten twenty dollar
gold pieces. It was the most money I had ever earned and almost the
greatest amount I had seen in my life.

I spent December and January at home, and early in February, 1874, I
started back to Menard County with Mr. Franks, as he was anxious to
begin work as early in the spring as possible. When we reached Parsons
Ranch on the Big Saline we learned that the Indians had stolen all his
horses,--seventy-five or eighty head, and he had left only eight or ten
old ponies. Mr. Franks sent Will Banister and myself back to Coleman
County to pick up ten or twelve horses he had left there the year
before, while he himself returned to Lampasas and Williamson Counties
to buy horses.

This trip from Menard County to Coleman County, a distance of about one
hundred and fifty miles, was rather a hazardous trip for two boys to
make alone. However, we were both armed with new Winchesters and would
have been able to put up a stiff fight if cornered. Our ponies were
poor and weak, so that it would have been impossible for us to have
escaped had we met a band of Indians. And this is what we came very
near doing.

There was no road from Menard to Coleman at that time, so we just
traveled north. I had cow hunted over most of that country the year
before and knew by landmarks pretty well how to go. We reached the
head of Big Brady Creek one evening while a cold north wind was
blowing. We camped for the night right down in the bed of a dry creek
to get out of the wind. We saddled up next morning and had not gone
more than a hundred and fifty yards from camp before we discovered
where sixteen or seventeen Indians had just gone along,--at least there
was that number of pony tracks. These redskins had hopped a skunk,
gotten down and killed it with a chunk of wood. When we found the body
it had scarcely quit bleeding. We saw moccasin tracks as if the savages
had all gotten off their ponies for a few moments. Banister and I made
the trip safely, and returned to Menard County early in March. Mr.
Franks soon came with a new bunch of horses, and we went right to work
gathering and delivering cattle.

About the first of June, Bee Clayton came to the outfit from Lampasas
County and told me my father had been dead more than a month. Mr.
Franks settled with me and I started for home the next day. Upon
reaching Lampasas I began work with Barrett and Nicholls' outfit. They
were the biggest cattle owners in that country and ran three large
outfits, one in Llano County, one in San Saba County, and another in
Lampasas. I worked with the last mentioned outfit that I might be near
my mother and sisters.

I had now become familiar with most aspects of frontier life. I had cow
punched and seen Indian raids, but I had not yet met the Texas "bad
man"--the murderer and the bandit. My education was not long neglected,
for it was while working with Barrett and Nicholls that I made my
acquaintance with gentry of that ilk. One day five or six of our boys
were sitting down in a circle eating on a side of calf ribs. One of the
men, Jack Perkins, suddenly became involved in an altercation with Levi
Dunbar, and, without warning, jerked out his six-shooter and shot him
to death. In rising to my feet I had my right shoulder powder burned.

I stayed with Barrett and Nicholls until they quit work about December
1, 1874. In those days cattle were not worked much in the winter
months, so I spent the winter at home. By spring I had become as
restless as a bear and longed to get back to the frontier. Finally
I could stand the idleness no longer and told my mother I was going
back to Menard County to work for Mr. Franks. I reached the town of
Menardville early in March, 1875. There I learned that Joe Franks was
then at work on South Llano in Kimble County, about sixty miles from
Menard. Wess Ellis had just bought the Rufe Winn stock of cattle
and was ready to start on a cow hunt. He wanted me to work for him,
declaring he could pay me as much as Joe Franks or anybody else, so I
hired to him for $30 a month,--the top wages for a cowboy at that time.

During the year I was at home a company of Texas Rangers commanded
by Captain Dan W. Roberts had been stationed over on Little Saline.
This company received its mail at Menardville, and I became acquainted
with this famous organization. Their free, open life along the
frontier had fired me with longing to become one of them and join in
their adventurous lives. In the spring of 1875 the Governor of Texas
authorized Captain Roberts to increase his command to fifty men. Almost
immediately Captain Roberts announced in Menardville and vicinity that
he would enlist twenty good men on June 1st to bring his company to
full strength. Here was my opportunity, and I decided I would be one of
those twenty recruits.

[Illustration: _Jno. B. Jones_]




CHAPTER II

THE TEXAS RANGERS


The Texas Rangers, as an organization, dates from the spring of 1836.
When the Alamo had fallen before the onslaught of the Mexican troops
and the frightful massacre had occurred, General Sam Houston organized
among the Texan settlers in the territory a troop of 1600 mounted
riflemen. This company, formed for the defense of the Texan borders,
was the original Texas Ranger unit, and it is interesting to note
that the organization from its very inception to the present moment
has never swerved from that purpose--the protection of Texan borders,
whether such protection be against the Indian, the bandit or marauding
Mexicans from beyond the Rio Grande. This little troop of rangers won
everlasting laurels in its stand against Santa Anna at the battle of
San Jacinto.

When the Republic of Texas was organized in December, 1837, the new
state found herself with an enormous frontier to protect. To the south
was the hostile Mexico while to the west and northwest roved the Indian
and the bandit. To furnish protection against such enemies and to form
the nucleus of a national standing army the ranger troop was retained.
During the seven years that Texas had to maintain her own independence
before she was admitted into the American Union, her rangers repelled
hordes of Mexicans, fought the murderous Apaches, Comanches, and
Kiowas, and administered justice on a wholesale plan to a great number
of outlaws and ruffians that had flocked pell mell into the new
Republic from the less attractive parts of the United States.

So vital was the service rendered by the rangers in protecting the
lives and property of the settlers along the frontiers of the state
that Texas retained twelve hundred rangers as mounted police for
patrol of the Mexican border and as a safeguard against the savage
redskins of the southwest. When the Civil War broke out between the
North and the South, Texas was drawn into the conflict on the side
of the Confederacy. General Con Terry, an old ranger, organized the
famous body of men known as Terry's Texas Rangers. This command was
composed almost exclusively of ex-rangers and frontiersmen. From Bull
Run to Appomattox this ranger troop rendered gallant service, and lost
seventy-five per cent of its original muster roll. General Sherman, in
his memoirs, speaks admiringly of the bravery of the rangers at the
battle of Shiloh.

Return to peace and the days of reconstruction did not do away with
the necessity for the service that could only be rendered by the
ranger. Banditry, Indian uprisings and massacres, cattle thievery,
all flourished, for the bad man confidently expected the post-war
turmoil would protect him from punishment for his misdeeds. He was to
be undeceived, for the rangers effectively taught him that they were
in the state for the purpose of protecting lives and property, and
right royally did they perform that duty. From 1868 to 1873 the ranger
companies were gradually reduced from one thousand to about three
hundred men.

The Federal Government adopted a most unfortunate policy toward the
Indians after the war. The tribes were removed to reservations and
rationed as public charges. Unscrupulous dealers, in their desire for
gain, illegally sold firearms to the Indians, and whenever a redskin
massacred a frontiersman he was sure to capture good weapons, so that
they soon became well armed and very expert in handling their new
weapons. As no attempt was made to confine them to the reservation
limits, the redskins, under their native chiefs, were always sneaking
off and raiding West Texas. These marauders stole thousands of horses
and cattle, and did not hesitate to murder and scalp the defenseless
people along the frontier. Numbers of women and children were carried
off as captives, a very small proportion of which were subsequently
ransomed. Repeated complaints to Washington brought no redress. Indeed,
some of the government officials calmly declared that the Indians were
doing no harm--it was white men disguised as redskins that caused the
trouble!

In 1874 conditions along the frontier had become so acute that the
need for an organized mounted police for the protection of the
settlers against the continued Indian raids became apparent. As in
the past the state looked again to her rangers. Early in 1874, during
the administration of Governor Richard Coke, the first Democratic
governor since secession, the Legislature appropriated $300,000 for
frontier defense, thus authorizing the formation of the Texas Rangers
as now constituted. The governor immediately issued a call for four
hundred and fifty volunteers. These were formed into six companies of
seventy-five men each. Each of these units was officered by a captain
and a first and second lieutenant. The companies were designated A,
B, C, D, E, and F, and received the official name of the Frontier
Battalion of Texas Rangers. Major John B. Jones of Corsicana, Texas,
was commissioned major of the command. At this time the captains
received a salary of $100 per month, lieutenants $75, sergeants $50,
and corporals and privates $40. Subsequently, as the Legislature
continually sliced into the ranger appropriation, the pay of the
private was reduced to only $30 a month, a mere pittance for the
hazardous service demanded of them.

Early in 1874 the force took the field, and each company was assigned
a definite territory along the frontier. Company "A," being the
northernmost company, was camped on the main fork of the Brazos River;
Company "F," the southernmost, was stationed on the Nueces River. The
remaining four companies were posted along the line between the two
commands mentioned about one hundred and twenty-five miles apart, so
that the battalion of four hundred and fifty men was required to cover
a frontier of between five and six hundred miles.

Major Jones was a very able commander, and quickly won the confidence
of his men and of the people along the border he was sent to protect.
The frontiersmen cooperated with him in every way possible, sending
runners to the various ranger camps whenever an Indian trail was found
or a bunch of horses stolen. During the very first six months of its
existence nearly every company in the battalion had had an Indian
fight and some of them two or three. This command finally cleared
the Texas frontier of the redskins and then turned its attention to
the other pests of the state,--thieves, bandits, and fugitives from
justice. In this work the ranger rendered service second to none,
and became in an incredibly short time the most famous and the most
efficient body of mounted police in the world.

Between 1865 and 1883 the Texas Rangers followed one hundred and
twenty-eight Indian raiding parties, and fought the redskins in
eighty-four pitched battles. During this same period they recovered six
thousand stolen horses and cattle and rescued three citizens carried
off by Indians. In this period twelve rangers were killed. Despite this
record of service, the Legislature at Austin could not always be made
to see the advantages,--nay, the necessity,--for a ranger force, and it
was continually tinkering with the appropriations for the support of
the force. When the appropriation was small the command was reduced to
keep within the expenditure doled out by the parsimonious solons, and
recruited to full strength whenever the lawmakers could be prevailed
upon to increase the annual ranger budget.

By 1885 conditions had changed. Texas was no longer endangered by
Indians, for the rangers had done much to convert the red devils into
good Indians,--that is, into dead ones. Although the Indians had
utterly disappeared from the state, the activities of the rangers did
not cease. The white "bad man" who had stirred up the first Indian
troubles now began to plunder and murder his own race and indulge in
every form of lawlessness. From hunting the murderous redskins the
rangers became now stalkers of the man-killers and those who despoiled
their neighbors of their property. The local legal authorities could
not or would not handle this task themselves, so the rangers were
made peace officers and given the right of arrest without warrant in
any part of the state. They then became mounted constables to quell
disorder, prevent crime and bring criminals to justice and assist the
duly constituted authorities in every way possible. This new work was
less romantic than the old Indian warfare, but it was every bit as
dangerous and as necessary in the building up of the fast developing
state. As in every other task assigned him the ranger did his duty
fearlessly and well. Between 1889 and 1890 the rangers made five
hundred and seventy-nine arrests, among them seventy-six murderers.
With the coming of the railroads the rangers began to use them, as
they permitted speed and the covering of greater distances than were
possible on horseback. Moreover, commands could be dispatched from
one part of the state to another as occasion demanded. This greater
mobility led to larger usefulness and increasing number of arrests by
the ranger forces.

The outbreak of the Spanish-American War found the ranger ready and
anxious for service in the defense of the Union. Large numbers of them
were enlisted in the world famous Rough Riders.

"I have heard from the lips of reliable rangers," declared General
Miles, in speaking of the ranger service in Cuba, "tales of daring that
are incomparable. It is indeed too bad that the world knows so little
about those marvelous men. There have been hosts of men among the Texas
Rangers who were just as nervy as Davy Crockett, Travis, or Bowie at
the Alamo."

Thanks to her rangers, Texas is now one of the most law-abiding, most
orderly states in the Union. And, today, more than forty-six years
since the organization of the battalion, the state still maintains
a tiny force of rangers numbering sixty-three officers and men. In
1920-21, the battalion was composed of a headquarters company and
Companies A, C, D, E, and F. As in the beginning of its history, the
force is stationed along the frontier. The headquarters company, under
command of Captain J.P. Brooks, was stationed at Austin and used for
emergency calls. Company "A," stationed at Presidio, and commanded
by Captain Jerry Gray, patrols the border between El Paso, Presidio,
and Jeff Davis Counties and the back country southward. Company "E,"
Captain J.L. Anders, patrols the line of Presidio and Brewster Counties
to the line of Terrell and Val Verde Counties and eastward. Company
"F," under Captain W.W. Davis, was stationed at Del Rio and covered the
line from Terrell and Val Verde Counties down the river to the line
between Maverick, Dimmit and Webb Counties and the back country. Under
the command of Captain William Ryan, Company "C" was located at Laredo
and patrolled the line of Maverick, Dimmit and Webb Counties to the
line of Zapata and Starr Counties and the back country, while Company
"D," stationed at Brownsville, under Captain W.L. Wright, patrols from
the line of Zapata and Starr Counties down the Rio Grande to its mouth
and the adjacent back country.

Sketchy as has been this history, it will show a ranger record of
continuous duty throughout the forty-six years of its existence in
guarding the lives, the liberty and the property of Texas citizens. And
the ranger has been content to perform his duty unheralded and almost
unsung. Performance of duty, it matters not where it may lead him, into
whatever desperate situation or howsoever dangerous the thing demanded,
has always been the slogan of the organization. For courage, patriotic
devotion, instant obedience and efficiency, the record of the Texas
Ranger has been equalled by no body of constabulary ever mustered.

Though formed into military units and officered as a soldier, the
ranger is not a military man, for scant attention is paid to military
law and precedent. The state furnished food for the men, forage for
their horses, ammunition and medical attendance. The ranger himself
must furnish his horse, his accoutrements and his arms. There is, then,
no uniformity in the matter of dress, for each ranger is free to dress
as he pleases and in the garb experience has taught him most convenient
for utility and comfort. A ranger, as any other frontiersman or cowboy,
usually wears good heavy woolen clothes of any color that strikes
his fancy. Some are partial to corduroy suits, while others prefer
buckskin. A felt hat of any make and color completes his uniform.
While riding, a ranger always wore spurs and very high-heeled boots to
prevent his foot from slipping through the stirrup, for both the ranger
and the cowboy ride with the stirrup in the middle of the foot. This
is safer and less fatiguing on a long ride. For arms, the ranger after
1877 carried a Winchester rifle or carbine, a Colt's .45 revolver, and
a Bowie knife. Two cartridge belts, one for Winchester and one for
revolver ammunition, completed his equipment, and so armed he was ready
to mount and ride.

"We live in the saddle and the sky is our roof," say the old rangers,
and this is literally true. The rangers are perfect centaurs and almost
live in the saddle. They take horse where they will and may arrest or
search in any part of the state. There is very little of what a West
Point graduate would call drill. A ranger is expected simply to be a
good rider and a quick and accurate shot. Every one of them are skilled
horsemen and crack shots. No crack cavalryman in any army can mount
a horse more quickly or more expertly than a ranger, and he can keep
a constant stream of fire pouring from his carbine when his horse is
going at top speed and hit the mark nine times out of ten! Should a
ranger drop anything on the ground that he wants he does not even check
the speed of his horse, but, bending from the saddle as if he were made
of India rubber, he picks up the object in full gallop.

While not on active duty the rangers amuse themselves in various
ways. Some play cards, others hunt, while the studious spend their
time over books and good literature. Horse racing is popular, and the
fastest horse in the company is soon spotted, for the rangers match
their mounts one against the other. At night around their camp fires
the men are constantly telling stories of their own or some comrade's
adventures that put to shame all the inventions of the imaginative
fiction writers. But when on duty all this is changed. No pace is too
quick, no task too difficult or too hazardous for him. Night and day
will the ranger trail his prey, through rain and shine, until the
criminal is located and put behind the bars where he will not again
molest or disturb peaceful citizens. For bravery and endurance and
steadfast adherence to duty at all times the ranger is in a class all
to himself. Such was the old ranger, and such is the ranger of today.
Is it surprising, then, that I was early attracted to the force and
wished to join them in their open, joyous and adventurous life?

[Illustration: _D.W. Roberts_]




CHAPTER III

I JOIN THE RANGERS


The fame of the Texas Rangers had, of course, become common knowledge
among all Texans. Their deeds of adventure and their open, attractive
life along the frontier, had always appealed to me, and I had long
cherished the desire to enlist in the battalion. But the enlistment, as
announced by Captain Roberts, would not be made until June 1, 1875, and
I reached Menardville early in March. I had intended going on to join
Mr. Franks' outfit, but, as explained in a previous chapter, I hired
out to Mr. Ellis until I could enlist in Captain Roberts' company.

About the middle of May, 1875, Joe Franks had worked back over into
Menard County. I wished to see my old friends in his outfit, and so
went over to meet them. While there I mentioned that I was going to
join the rangers. A cowboy named Norman Rodgers, who was working for
Mr. Franks, said he would also like to join, so we decided we would
go over to Captain Roberts together and see if we couldn't get him to
recruit us into his company.

Rodgers and I rode over to the ranger camp beyond Menardville. Neither
of us had ever been in such a camp before nor did we know anyone in the
company. Of the first ranger we met we inquired where we could find the
captain. His tent was pointed out to us and we went toward it.

"Jim," said Norman as we approached the tent, "you will have to do the
talking."

Captain Roberts met us as we came up and invited us to be seated. I
told him at once that we had come to enlist as rangers. He asked us our
names, where we were working, and finally inquired if we had anyone
that would recommend us. We had not thought of references, but told him
that probably Mr. Franks or Mr. Ellis would stand for us, as they were
well known and prominent cattlemen for whom we had worked.

Captain Roberts looked straight at me and said, "Did you say your name
was Gillett?"

"Yes, Jim Gillett," I replied.

He then asked me where I was born, and I told him at Austin, Texas.

"Are you a son of James S. Gillett who was Adjutant-General under
Governor Sam Houston?"

I told him I was.

"I have often heard my father, Buck Roberts, speak of your father," he
said in a friendly tone.

Captain Roberts then asked us what kind of horses we had, telling
us that a ranger was required to have a good mount, for each man was
allowed to have only one horse, which had to be a good one, that could
be ridden every day for a month if necessary. I told the captain I had
two good pony mares. He burst out laughing, and said a mare was not
allowed in the service. He then told us to go and see what kind of a
mount we could get, come back and let him inspect the animals. The
captain never once said he would enlist us, but, as the interview was
now over and he had not refused us, we went back to camp feeling very
hopeful we would soon be rangers.

I secured a big black pony and Norman a gray one, not so large as mine
but a much prettier horse. We returned to the ranger camp a few days
later mounted on these ponies. The captain looked them over, said they
were rather small but that he would accept them, and told us to be at
his camp by May 31st to be sworn into the service. We left camp that
evening all puffed up at the prospect of being Texas Rangers.

The last day of May arrived. Norman Rodgers and myself with many other
recruits we had never seen before were at the ranger camp. On June 1,
1875, at 10 o'clock, we were formed in line, mounted, and the oath of
allegiance to the State of Texas was read to us by Captain Roberts.
When we had all signed this oath we were pronounced Texas Rangers.
This was probably the happiest day of my life, for I had realized one
of my greatest ambitions and was now a member of the most famous and
efficient body of mounted police in the world.

Immediately upon being sworn in the men were divided into messes, ten
men to the mess, and issued ten days' rations by the orderly sergeant.
These rations consisted of flour, bacon, coffee, sugar, beans, rice,
pepper, salt and soda. No potatoes, syrup or lard was furnished,
and each man had to supply his own cooking utensils. To shorten our
bread we used bacon grease. Beef was sometimes supplied the men, but
wild game was so plentiful that but little other meat was required.
Furthermore, each recruit was furnished a Sharps carbine, .50 caliber,
and one .45 Colt's pistol. These arms were charged to each ranger,
their cost to be deducted from our first pay. Our salary of $40 per
month was paid in quarterly installments. The state also supplied
provender for the horses.

Though a ranger was forced to supply his own mount, the state undertook
to pay for the animal if it were killed or lost in an Indian fight. To
establish the impartial value of our animals, Captain Roberts marched
us into Menardville and asked three citizens of the town to place a
value on each man's mount. This was done, and I was highly gratified
when old Coley, my mount, was appraised at $125. This formality over,
the company was moved from Little Saline to Camp Los Moris, five miles
southwest of Menardville, Texas. We were now ready to begin scouting
for Indians.

As is usual under the same circumstances the new recruits came in for
their share of pranks and mishaps. One raw rooky in my mess, fired with
love of economy, undertook to cook ten days' rations for the whole mess
at one time. He put a quantity of rice on the fire. Soon it began to
boil and swell, and that surprised ranger found his rice increasing
in unheard of proportions. He filled every cooking vessel in the mess
with half-cooked rice, and still the kettle continued to overflow. In
desperation he finally began to pour it on the ground. Even then he had
enough rice cooked to supply the entire company.

Another recruit, anxious to test his new weapons, obtained Captain
Roberts' permission to go hunting. He had not gone far from camp before
he began firing at some squirrels. One of his bullets struck the limb
of a tree and whizzed close to camp. This gave an old ranger an idea.
He hastened after the hunter and gravely arrested him, declaring that
the glancing bullet had struck a man in camp and that Captain Roberts
had ordered the careless hunter's arrest. The veteran brought in a pale
and badly scared recruit.

One of the favorite diversions of the old rangers was to make a
newcomer believe that the state furnished the rangers with socks
and start him off to the captain's tent to demand his share of free
hosiery. The captain took these pranks in good part and assured the
crestfallen applicant that the rangers were only playing a joke on him,
while his tormentors enjoyed his discomfiture from a safe distance.

When they had run out of jokes the rangers settled down to the regular
routine of camp. Each morning the orderly sergeant had roll call, at
which time he always detailed six or eight men with a non-commissioned
officer to take charge of the rangers' horses and the pack mules until
relieved the following morning by a new guard. The guard was mounted
and armed and drove the loose stock out to graze. The horses were never
taken far from camp for fear of being attacked by Indians, and also to
keep them near at hand in case they were needed quickly.

The rangers not on guard spent their time as they wished when not on
duty, but no man could leave the camp without the captain's permission.
The boys played such games as appealed to them, horse-shoe pitching and
cards being the favorite diversions. As long as it did not interfere
with a man's duty as a ranger, Captain Roberts permitted pony racing,
and some exciting contests took place between rival horse owners. And
hunting and fishing were always available, for woods and streams were
stocked with game and fish.

I soon had cause to congratulate myself on my enlistment in Company
"D," for I found Captain D.W. Roberts the best of company commanders.
At the time I joined his command he was just thirty-five years of age,
very slender and perhaps a little over six feet tall. His beard and
hair were dark auburn. He was always neatly dressed and was kind and
affable in manner,--looking more like the dean of an Eastern college
than the great captain he was.

Captain Roberts was a fine horseman and a good shot with both pistol
and rifle. He was also a fine violinist and often played for the boys.
He had been raised on the frontier and had such a great reputation as
an Indian fighter that the Fourteenth Legislature of Texas presented
him with a fine Winchester rifle for his gallantry in fighting the
redskins. The captain had made a close study of the habits and actions
of the Indians and had become such an authority that their life was
an open book to him. This, of course, gave him a great advantage in
following and fighting them, and under his able leadership Company "D"
became famous. There was not a man in the company that did not consider
it a compliment to be detailed on a scout with Captain Roberts.

In the latter part of the summer or early fall of 1875, Captain Roberts
visited Colorado County, Texas, and returned with a bride, a Miss Lou
Conway. Mrs. Roberts was a very refined and elegant lady, and soon
adapted herself to the customs of the camp. She was with her husband
on the San Saba River during the winter of 1875-76 and soon became as
popular with the company as Captain Roberts himself.

Most people consider the life of the Texas Ranger hard and dangerous,
but I never found it so. In the first place, the ranger was always with
a body of well armed men, more than a match for any enemy that might be
met. Then, there was an element of danger about it that appealed to any
red-blooded American. All of western Texas was a real frontier then,
and for one who loved nature and God's own creation, it was a paradise
on earth. The hills and valleys were teeming with deer and turkey,
thousands of buffalo and antelope were on the plains, and the streams
all over Texas were full of fish. Bee caves and bee trees abounded.
In the spring time one could travel for hundreds of miles on a bed
of flowers. Oh, how I wish I had the power to describe the wonderful
country as I saw it then. How happy I am now in my old age that I am
a native Texan and saw the grand frontier before it was marred by the
hand of man.

The Lipans, Kickapoos, Comanches, and Kiowa Indians used to time their
raids so as to reach the Texas settlements during the light of the
moon so they would have moonlight nights in which to steal horses and
make their get-away before they could be discovered. By morning, when
their thefts became known, they would have a long lead ahead and be
well out on their way into the plains and mountains. The captains of
the ranger companies knew of this Indian habit, and accordingly kept
scouts constantly in the field during the period of the raids. The
redskins coming in from the plains where water was scarce generally
took the near cut to the headwaters of the Colorado, Concho, San Saba,
Llanos, Guadalupe, and Nueces Rivers. By maintaining scouts at or near
the heads of these streams the rangers frequently caught parties of
Indians going in or coming out from the settlements, and destroyed them
or recaptured the stolen stock.

The first light moon in June Captain Roberts ordered a detail of
fifteen men in command of Sergeant James B. Hawkins to make a ten
days' scout toward the head waters of the North Llano River. He was to
select a secluded spot near old abandoned Fort Territ and make camp
there. Each morning a scout of one or two men would be sent out ten or
fifteen miles south and another party a like distance toward the north
to hunt for Indian trails. The main body of rangers, keeping carefully
concealed, was in readiness to take up an Indian trail at a moment's
notice should one be found by the scouts.

One morning Sergeant Hawkins ordered me to travel south from camp to
the head draws of the South Llano and watch for pony tracks.

"Suppose the Indians get me?" I asked laughingly as I mounted my pony.

"It's your business to keep a sharp lookout and not let them catch
you," he replied.

However, though I watched very carefully I could find no pony tracks or
Indian trails.

We had with us on this scout Mike Lynch, a pure Irishman. Though he was
old and gray-headed, he was a good ranger, and had much native wit.
One morning it was Uncle Mike's turn to go on scout duty, but in a
few hours he was seen coming into camp with his horse, Possum, on the
jump. He reported a fresh Indian trail about ten miles north of our
camp. When asked how many pony tracks he had counted, Lynch at once
declared he had counted seventeen and thought there were more. As the
Indians usually came in on foot or with as few ponies as they could
get by on until they could steal others, Sergeant Hawkins suspected
the tracks Lynch had seen were those of mustangs. The excited scout
declared vehemently that the tracks were not those of wild horses but
of Indians. The sergeant was just as positive that no Indian party was
responsible for the trail, and the two had quite a heated argument over
the tracks.

"But how do you know it is an Indian trail?" demanded Hawkins.

"Because I know I know," cried out Lynch in a loud voice.

That settled it. Horses were saddled and mules packed as quickly as
possible, and the rangers marched over to the suspicious trail. When
Sergeant Hawkins examined the trail he soon discovered that the sign
had been made by mustangs but could not convince the hard-headed
Irishman until he followed the trail two or three miles and showed him
the mustang herd quietly grazing under some shade trees. Uncle Mike did
not mention Indian trail any more on that scout.

Though we did not find any trails or Indians the scouting party killed
two black bear, several deer and about fifteen wild turkey.

Early in September, 1875, Captain Roberts again ordered Sergeant
Hawkins to take fifteen men and make a ten days' scout on the Brady
Mountains. To my great joy I was detailed on this expedition. When
near the head of Scalp Creek, Menard County, on our return trip, the
sergeant told the boys to keep a sharp lookout for a deer, as we would
reach the San Saba by noon and would camp on that stream for the night.
We had not traveled far before Ed Seiker killed a nice little spiked
buck. We strapped him on one of the pack mules, and when we arrived
at the river we came upon a flock of half-grown wild turkeys. Bill
Clements leaped from his horse and killed six of them.

We then camped, hobbled and sidelined our horses and put a strong guard
with them. While some of the boys were gathering wood for our fire they
found an old elm stump ten to twelve feet high with bees going in at
the top. One of the rangers rode over to Rufe Winn's ranch and borrowed
an ax and a bucket. When he returned we cut the tree and got more
honey than sixteen men could eat, besides filling the bucket with nice
sealed honey, which we gave to Mrs. Winn in return for the use of her
ax. Then, after dinner, out came fishing tackle and, using venison for
bait, we caught more catfish than the entire crowd could eat.

Hunting conditions in those days were ideal. I have known a single
scout to kill three or four bears on a single trip. The companies to
the north of us were never out of buffalo meat in season. Then, in the
fall, one could gather enough pecans, as fine as ever grew, in half a
day to last the company a month. I have seen hundreds of bushels of
the nuts go to waste because there was no one to gather them--besides
they sold on the market for fifty cents per bushel. No wonder that a
boy that loved the woods and nature was charmed and fascinated with the
life of the Texas Ranger. It was a picnic for me from start to finish,
and the six years I was with the battalion were the happiest and most
interesting of my life.

But hunting and fishing and vacation scouts were not the sole duties of
a ranger. Pleasure was abundant, but there were times when all these
were laid aside. For the game guns and the fishing rod we exchanged our
carbines and our sixshooters and engaged in hazardous expeditions after
marauding redskins. I was soon to see this latter aspect of ranger
life, for in the latter part of August, 1875, I became a real ranger
and entered upon the real work of our battalion--that of protecting
the frontier against the roving Indians and engaging them in regular
pitched battles.




CHAPTER IV

MY FIRST BRUSH WITH INDIANS


The latter part of August, 1875, Private L.P. Seiker was sent on
detached service to Fort Mason, about fifty miles due east of our camp.
While there a runner came in from Honey Creek with the report that a
band of fifteen Indians had raided the John Gamble ranch and stolen
some horses within twenty-five steps of the ranch house. The redskins
appeared on their raid late in the evening and the runner reached Mason
just at dark.

Lam Seiker had just eaten his supper and was sitting in the lobby of
the Frontier Hotel when the message came. He hurried to the livery
stable, saddled his horse, Old Pete, and started on an all-night ride
for the company. The nights in August are short, but Seiker rode
into our camp about 8 o'clock the following morning and reported the
presence of the Indians.

The company horses were out under herd for the day, but Captain Roberts
sent out hurry orders for them. Sergeant Plunk Murray was ordered
to detail fifteen men, issue them ten days' rations and one hundred
rounds of ammunition each. Second Sergeant Jim Hawkins, Privates Paul
Durham, Nick Donnelly, Tom Gillespie, Mike Lynch, Andy Wilson, Henry
Maltimore, Jim Trout, William Kimbrough, Silas B. Crump, Ed Seiker,
Jim Day, John Cupps and myself, under command of Captain Roberts,
were selected as the personnel of the scout. As can be imagined I was
delighted with my good fortune in getting on the party and looked
forward with intense satisfaction to my first brush with Indians.

The mules were soon packed and by the time the horses reached camp the
scout was ready. Sergeant Hawkins, as soon as the men had saddled their
horses, walked over to the captain, saluted and told him the scout was
ready. Before leaving camp Captain Roberts called to Sergeant Murray
and told him that he believed the Indians had about as many horses as
they could well get away with, and that they would probably cross the
San Saba River near the mouth of Scalp Creek and follow the high divide
between the two streams on their westward march back into the plains.
If the redskins did not travel that way the captain thought they would
go out up the Big Saline, follow the divide between the North Llano
and San Saba Rivers westward and escape, but he was confident the band
would travel up the divide north of Menardville. He determined to scout
that way himself, and instructed Murray to send two rangers south over
to the head waters of Bear Creek to keep a sharp lookout for the trail.
These two scouts were to repeat their operations the next day, and if
they discovered the Indian trail Murray was to make up a second scout
and follow the redskins vigorously.

His plan outlined, Captain Roberts gave the order to mount, and we
rode toward Menardville, making inquiry about the Indians. All was
quiet at this little frontier village, so we crossed the San Saba River
just below the town, and after passing the ruins of the Spanish Fort,
Captain Roberts halted his men and prepared to send out trailers. Two
of the best trailers in the command were ordered to proceed about four
hundred yards ahead of the party and keep a close watch for pony tracks
while they traveled due north at a good saddle horse gait. The main
body of men, under the captain himself, would follow directly behind
the outposts.

Our party had traveled about eight or nine miles when Captain Roberts'
keen eyes discovered a lone pony standing with his head down straight
ahead of us. He sighted the animal before the trailers did, and
remarked to us that there the trail was. The outposts halted when they
saw the pony and waited for us to come up. Sure enough, here was the
Indian trail probably twenty yards wide. Captain Roberts dismounted
and walked over the sign, scrutinizing every pony track, bunch of
grass and fallen leaf. He then examined the old pony. The animal was
cut with a lance, with his back sore and his feet all worn out. It was
then between 12 and 1 o'clock, and the captain thought the Indians had
passed that way about sunrise, for the blood and sweat on the horse was
now dry. The trail showed the raiders were driving rather fast and were
probably thirty-five or forty miles ahead of us. The captain decided it
would be a long chase and that we would just have to walk them down if
we caught them at all.

There was no water on this divide so we took the trail without stopping
for dinner. Captain Roberts had a fine saddle horse, Old Rock, and we
followed the trail at a steady gait of five or six miles an hour. At
sundown we reached the old government road that runs from Fort McKavett
to Fort Concho. We were then about twelve or fifteen miles south of
Kickapoo Springs, so we turned up the road, reaching the springs late
at night. The horses had not had a drop of water since leaving the San
Saba that morning, and, facing a hot August sun all day, the men were
pretty well tired out when they reached camp, had supper and gotten to
bed. We estimated we had ridden about sixty miles since leaving camp.
During the day Captain Roberts' horse cast a shoe, so Tom Gillespie
shod him by firelight, as it was the captain's intention to resume the
trail at daylight.

The following morning Captain Roberts took a southwest course from
Kickapoo Springs and paralleled the Indian trail we had left the
evening before. It was late in the day before we picked the trail up
again, and many of the boys were afraid we had lost it altogether, but
the captain laughed at their fears and never doubted that we should
find it again. The Indians, as their trail showed, were now traveling
over a tolerably rough country, which made our progress slow. About
noon we found some rain water, and, as it was fearfully hot, we camped
for dinner and to give the horses a short rest.

When the boys went out to catch their mounts we found that we had
camped right in a bed of rattlesnakes. Two of our horses had been
bitten. Jim Day's Checo had a head on him as big as a barrel, while
the captain's horse, Old Rock, had been bitten on his front leg just
above the ankle, and it had swollen up to his body. Neither of the
animals was able to walk. Jim Day could not be left alone in that
Indian country, so Captain Roberts detailed Private Cupps to stay with
Day until the horses died or were able to travel,--in either case they
were then to return to camp. The animals soon recovered and Day and
Cupps beat us back to camp.

The pack loads were now doubled on one mule so Captain Roberts could
ride the other. Reduced to thirteen men, we followed the Indians until
night. It was a hard day on both men and beasts, so we camped where
we found a little water in a draw that drained into the South Concho
River. Considering the way we had come the captain thought we had
covered sixty miles during the day's ride. We had two rather old men
on the scout, Mike Lynch and Andy Wilson, and they were nearly all in.
I awoke Andy at 2 a.m. to go on guard. The poor fellow was so stiff he
could hardly stand, and I tried to get him to go back to bed, telling
him I would stand his guard, but he was game, and in a few minutes
hobbled out to the horses and relieved me.

Early in the morning we were up and traveling. The mule Captain Roberts
was riding did not step out as fast as Old Rock had done, and the boys
had an easier time keeping up. We camped at noon on just enough rain
water to do us and took up the trail again after dinner. The trailers
stopped suddenly, and as we rode up Captain Roberts asked what was the
matter. They said it seemed as though the Indians at this point had
rounded up the horses and held them for some cause or other.

The captain dismounted and swept the country with his field glasses.
He circled around where the horses had been standing and found where
a lone Indian had walked straight away from the animals. He followed
the tracks to an old live oak tree that had been blown down. Then the
reason for the stop became apparent: the Indians had sighted a herd
of mustangs grazing just beyond this tree and the redskin had slipped
up on them and killed a big brown mare. Captain Roberts picked up the
cartridge shell the old brave had used and found it to be from a .50
caliber buffalo gun. We also found the mustang, from which the Indians
had cut both sides of ribs and one hind quarter.

Captain Roberts was much elated.

"Boys," he said with a smile, "we now have ninety-five chances out of
a hundred to catch those Indians. They will not carry this raw meat
long before stopping to cook some. We have followed them now over one
hundred and fifty miles, and they have never stopped to build a fire.
They are tired and hungry and probably know where there is water not
far away."

He spoke with such confidence that I marveled at his knowledge of the
Indian habits.

We were now on the extreme western draw of the South Concho River, far
above the point at which the water breaks out into a running stream.
Finally the trail led out on that level and vast tract of country
between the head of South Concho and the Pecos on the west. These
Indians turned a little north from the general direction they had been
traveling, and all of a sudden we came to some rock water holes.

Here the redskins had built three fires, cooked both sides of the
mustang ribs and had picked them clean. From this high table land they
could look back over their trail for fifteen miles. The captain thought
they had been there early in the morning, as the fires were out and
the ashes cold. We did not lose any time at this camp, but hurried on,
following the trail until late in the evening, when the trailers again
halted. When we came up we found that the trail that had been going
west for nearly two hundred miles had suddenly turned straight north.

Captain Roberts seemed to be puzzled for a time, and said he did not
understand this move. About one mile north there was a small motte of
mesquite timber. This he examined through his glasses, seeming to me
to examine each tree separately. The trail led straight into these
trees, and we followed it. In the mesquite timber we found the Indians
had hacked some bushes partly down, bent them over, cut up the horse
meat they had been carrying with them into tiny strips, strung it on
the bushes and, building a fire beneath them, had barbecued their
flesh. The redskins had made the prettiest scafelo for meat cooking I
ever saw. We found plenty of fire here, and the captain was sure we
would have an Indian fight on the morrow.

From the trees the trail swung west again. The redskins were traveling
slowly now, as they evidently thought they were out of danger. Just
before sundown the scout halted, and we were ordered not to let any
smoke go up lest the band we were trailing should spot it and take
alarm. As soon as we had cooked our supper Captain Roberts had the
fires carefully extinguished. It had been a good season on the table
lands and there were many ponds filled with water, some of them one
hundred yards wide. We camped right on the edge of one of these big
holes and where the Indians had waded into it the water was still
muddy. The boys were cautioned not to strike a match that night as we
were certain the Indians were not far ahead of us. We covered between
forty and fifty miles that day.

Camp was called at daybreak. We dared not build a fire, so we could
have no breakfast. We saddled our horses and again took the trail.
Old Jennie, the pack mule, was packed for the last time on earth, for
she was killed in the fight that shortly followed. As soon as it was
light enough to see a pony track two of the boys traced it on foot
and led their horses, the remainder of our party coming along slowly
on horseback. By sunrise we were all riding and following the trail
rapidly, eager to sight the marauding thieves. We had traveled some
five or six miles when Paul Durham called Captain Roberts' attention
to a dark object ahead that looked as if it were moving. The captain
brought his field glasses to bear on the object specified and exclaimed
it was the Indians.

He ordered the boys to dismount at once, tighten their cinches, leave
their coats and slickers and make ready to fight. As we carried out
this order a distressing stillness came over the men. Captain Roberts
and Sergeant Hawkins were the only ones of our party that had ever
been in an Indian fight, and I suppose the hearts of all of us green,
unseasoned warriors beat a little more rapidly than usual at the
prospect of soon smelling powder. Captain Roberts called out to us in
positive tones not to leave him until he told us to go, and not to draw
a gun or pistol until ordered, declaring that he wanted no mistake on
the eve of battle. He ordered the pack mule caught and led until we
went into the fight, when she was to be turned loose.

The Indians were out on an open prairie dotted here and there with
small skirts of mesquite timber. The captain thought our only chance
was to ride double file straight at them in the hope they would not
look back and discover us. We moved forward briskly, and as luck would
have it, we got within four or five hundred yards of the redskins
before they sighted us.

At once there was a terrible commotion. The Indians rounded up their
stock and caught fresh mounts almost in the twinkling of an eye. Then,
led by their old chief, they took positions on a little elevated ground
some two hundred yards beyond the loose horses. The redskins stationed
themselves about fifteen or twenty feet apart, their battle line when
formed being about one hundred yards wide. As each warrior took his
station he dismounted, stood behind his horse and prepared to fire when
given the signal.

The captain with a smile turned to us and said, "Boys, they are going
to fight us. See how beautifully the old chief forms his line of
battle."

From a little boy I had longed to be a ranger and fight the Indians. At
last, at last, I was up against the real thing and with not so much as
an umbrella behind which to hide. I was nervous. I was awfully nervous.

We were now within one hundred steps of the redskins. Then came the
order to dismount, shoot low and kill as many horses as possible. The
captain said as we came up that every time we got an Indian on foot in
that country we were sure to kill him. With the first shot everybody,
Indian and ranger, began firing and yelling.

In a minute we had killed two horses and one Indian was seen to be
badly wounded. In another minute the redskins had mounted their horses
and were fleeing in every direction. Captain Roberts now ordered us to
mount and follow them. The roar of the guns greatly excited my pony
and he turned round and round. I lost a little time in mounting, but
when I did get settled in the saddle I saw an Indian running on foot.
He carried a Winchester in his hand and waved to another Indian who
was riding. The latter turned and took the one on foot up behind him.
As they started away for a race I thought to myself that no grass
pony on earth could carry two men and get away from me and Old Coley.
The Indians had a good animal, but I gradually closed on them. The
redskin riding behind would point his gun back and fire at me, holding
it in one hand. I retaliated by firing at him every time I could get
a cartridge in my old Sharps carbine. I looked back and saw Ed Seiker
coming to my aid as fast as old Dixie would run. He waved encouragement
to me.

Finally the old brave ceased shooting, and as I drew a little closer
he held out his gun at arm's length and let it drop, probably thinking
I would stop to get it. I just gave it a passing glance as I galloped
by. He then held out what looked to be a fine rawhide rope and dropped
that, but I never took the bait. I just kept closing in on him. He now
strung his bow and began using his arrows pretty freely. Finally he
saw I was going to catch him, and turned quickly into a little grove
of mesquite timber. I was considered a fairly good brush rider, and
as we went in among the trees I drew right up within twenty steps of
the brave, jumped from my mount and made a sort of random shot at the
horse, Indian and all. The big .50 caliber bullet struck the Indian
pony just where its head couples on its neck, passed through the head
and came out over the left eye. It killed the horse at once and it
fell forward twenty feet.

The old warrior, hit the ground running, but I jumped my horse and ran
after him. As I passed the dead horse I saw the front rider struggling
to get from under it. To my surprise I saw he was a white boy between
fifteen and sixteen years old with long bright red hair.

By this time Ed Seiker had arrived and was dismounting. The fugitive
warrior now peeped from behind a tree and I got a fine shot at his face
but overshot him six inches, cutting off a limb just over his head. He
broke to run again, and as he came into view Ed placed a bullet between
his shoulders. He was dead in a minute. As Ed and I walked up to the
dead Indian we found he had also been shot in one ankle and his bow had
been partly shot in two. In his quiver he had left only three arrows.

Seiker and I hurried back to the dead horse to help the white boy, but
he had extricated himself and disappeared. We then returned to the
dead warrior and Seiker scalped him. We took the Indian's bow shield
and a fine pair of moccasins. I also found a fine lance near where the
horse fell, and I presume it was carried by the white boy. We found the
redskin had no Winchester cartridges, and this was why he dropped the
gun--he could not carry it and use his bow. We went back over the trail
but were unable to find the gun the brave had dropped as a bait.

By noon that day the boys had all returned to where the fight had
begun and the Indian horses had been left. Jim Hawkins and Paul Durham
captured a Mexican boy about fifteen years old. He looked just like
an Indian, had long plaited hair down his back, was bare headed, wore
moccasins and a breech-clout. Had he been in front of me I would surely
have killed him for a redskin. Captain Roberts spoke Spanish fluently,
and from this boy he learned that the Indians were Lipans that lived in
Old Mexico. He was taken back to our camp and finally his uncle came
and took him home. He had been captured while herding oxen near old
Fort Clark, Texas, and an elder brother, who was with him at the time,
had been killed.

The boys were then sent back by Captain Roberts to find the white lad
that had been with the Indian Seiker had killed. Though we searched
carefully we could find no trace of the mysterious youngster. Some
years later I learned that this boy's name was Fischer and that his
parents went into Old Mexico and ransomed him. He was from Llano
County, and after his return he wrote, or had written, a small
pamphlet that contained an account of his life with the Indians. He
told of being with old Chief Magoosh in this fight. He declared he hid
in the grass within sight of the rangers while they were hunting him,
but was afraid to show himself for fear of being killed.

When the rangers had all gathered after the fight our pack mule,
Jennie, was missing. We supposed in the run that she had followed the
Indians off. Six months later Ed Seiker was detailed to pilot a body of
United States soldiers over that same country to pick out a road to the
Pecos River. He visited our old battlefield and found Jennie's carcass.
She had a bullet hole in the center of her forehead. The Indians in
shooting back at their attackers probably hit her with a chance shot.
The pack saddle was still strapped to her body, but wolves had eaten
all the supplies. Five hundred rounds of ammunition were still with
her, showing that no one had seen her since the day of her death.

Lacking Jennie's supplies, we did not have a blooming thing to eat but
the barbecued horse meat we had captured from the Indians. This had no
salt on it, and I just could not swallow it. In the fight we killed
three horses and one Indian and captured the Mexican lad. At least two
redskins were badly wounded, and as victors we captured fifty-eight
head of horses and mules, several Indian saddles and bridles and many
native trinkets. Not a man or a horse of our party was hurt, the pack
mule being our only fatality. All voted Captain Roberts the best man in
the world.

We turned our faces homeward, hungry and tired but highly elated over
our success. The second day after the fight we reached Wash Delong's
ranch on the head waters of the South Concho River. Mr. Delong, a fine
frontiersman, killed a beef for us and furnished us with flour and
coffee without cost. Three days later we were back at our camp at Los
Moris. The stolen stock was returned to their owners, and thus ended my
first campaign against the Indians.




CHAPTER V

THE MASON COUNTY WAR


Soon after our return from our first brush with Indians we were
introduced to yet another phase of ranger activity--the quieting
of feuds, for not only were the rangers employed in protecting the
frontiers against the Indians, but they were also frequently called
upon to preserve law and order within the towns and cities of the
state. In those early days men's passions were high and easily aroused.
In a country where all men went armed, recourse to fire arms was
frequent, and these feuds sometimes led to active warfare between the
adherents of each party to the great discomfort of the citizens among
whom such a miniature war was staged.

Mason and the adjoining county, Gillespie, had been settled by Germans
in the early history of the state. These settlers were quiet, peaceful
and made most excellent citizens, loyal to their adopted country
and government when undisturbed. Most of these Germans engaged in
stock raising and were sorely tried by the rustlers and Indians that
committed many depredations upon their cattle.

In the latter part of September, 1875, Tim Williamson, a prominent
cattleman living in Mason County, was arrested on a charge of cattle
theft by John Worley, a deputy sheriff of that county. Previous to that
time there had been a number of complaints about loss of cattle, and
the Germans charged that many of their cattle had been stolen and the
brands burned. Much indignation had been aroused among the stockmen of
the county and threats of violence against the thieves were common.

As soon as the news of Williamson's arrest on charge of cattle thieving
became known a large mob formed and set out in pursuit of the deputy
sheriff and his prisoner. On his way to Mason, Worley was overtaken
by this posse. When he saw the pursuing men Williamson divined their
purpose and begged the sheriff to let him run in an effort to save his
life. Worley refused and, it is said, drew his pistol and deliberately
shot Williamson's horse through the loin, causing it to fall. Unarmed
and unmounted Williamson was killed without a chance to protect himself
and without any pretense of a trial. After the murder Worley and the
mob disappeared.

Whether or not Williamson was guilty of the charge against him, he had
friends who bitterly resented the deputy sheriff's refusal to allow
the murdered man a chance for his life and his death caused a great
deal of excitement and bitter comment in the county. A man named Scott
Cooley, an ex-ranger of Captain Perry's Company "D," was a particular
friend of Williamson and his family. Cooley had quit the ranger service
at the time of his friend's murder and was cultivating a farm near
Menardville. He had worked for the dead man and had made two trips up
the trail with him. While working with the murdered cattleman Cooley
had contracted a bad case of typhoid fever and had been nursed back to
health by Mrs. Williamson's own hands.

When the news of Tim Williamson's murder reached Scott Cooley he was
much incensed, and vowed vengeance against the murderers of his friend.
He left his farm at once and, saddling his pony, rode into the town
of Mason heavily armed. He had worked out a careful plan of his own
and proceeded to put it into execution immediately on his arrival.
Stabling his horse in a livery stable, he registered at the hotel. As
he was entirely unknown in Mason, Cooley remained in town several days
without creating any suspicion. He proved himself a good detective, and
soon discovered that the sheriff and his deputy were the leaders in
the mob that had killed his friend. Biding his time and pursuing his
investigations he soon learned the names of every man in the posse that
murdered Williamson.

His information complete, Cooley decided upon action. He mounted his
pony and rode out to the home of John Worley, the deputy sheriff
that had refused Williamson a chance to flee for his life. Cooley
found Worley engaged in cleaning out a well. The avenger dismounted,
asked for a drink of water and entered into conversation with the
unsuspecting man. Finally, as Worley was drawing his assistant out of
the well, Cooley asked him if his name was John Worley. The deputy
sheriff replied that it was. Cooley then declared his mission and shot
the sheriff to death.

At the first crack of Cooley's pistol Worley let the windlass go, and
the man he was drawing up out of the well fell back about twenty-five
feet into it. Cooley deliberately stooped down, cut off both of
Worley's ears, put them in his pocket, and galloped off. Victim number
one was chalked up to Williamson's credit. Making a quick ride across
Mason County to the western edge of Llano County, Cooley waylaid and
killed Pete Brader, the second on his list of mob members.

These two murders struck terror into the hearts of nearly every citizen
of Mason County. No one could tell who would be the next victim of
the unerring aim of Scott Cooley's rifle. The whole county rose up in
arms to protect themselves. Terrified lest he be the next victim of
the avenger, Cooley, the sheriff of Mason County promptly left Mason
and never returned. Tim Williamson had other friends anxious to avenge
him, and the killing of Brader was their rallying signal. John and Mose
Beard, George Gladden, and John Ringgold immediately joined Cooley in
his work of vengeance. The gang rode into the town of Mason, and in a
fight with a posse of citizens, killed another man.

Fearing the outbreak of a real feud war in Mason, the Governor of Texas
ordered Major Jones to the relief of the frightened citizens. The order
reached Major Jones while he was on his way down the line near the head
of the Guadalupe River. He at once turned his company back, and with
a detachment of ten men from Company "D" he marched to Mason. Company
"A," Major Jones' escort, was then commanded by Captain Ira Long, and
the thirty men in that company and the ten boys of Company "D" gave the
major forty men for his relief expedition.

Before the rangers could reach Mason, the sheriff's party had a fight
with Cooley's gang down on the Llano River and killed Mose Beard. On
his arrival in Mason, Major Jones sent scouts in every direction to
hunt Cooley. He kept this up for nearly two weeks but without result.
He finally learned that nearly the whole of his command, especially
the Company "D" boys that had ranged with Cooley, was in sympathy with
the outlaw and was making no serious attempt to locate or imperil him.
It was even charged that some of the Company "D" rangers met Cooley at
night on the outskirts of Mason and told him they did not care if he
killed every d--d Dutchman in Mason County that formed part of the mob
that had murdered Williamson.

Major Jones saw he would have to take drastic steps at once. He drew up
his whole force of forty men and made them an eloquent speech. He said
he had a special pride in the Frontier Battalion and was making it his
life's study and that he personally had a kindly feeling for every man
in the service. He then reminded the men in the most feeling manner
of the oath they had taken to protect the State of Texas against all
her enemies whatsoever,--an oath every true man was bound to honor. He
declared he knew many of the command had a friendly feeling for Scott
Cooley, especially those boys who had shared the life of a ranger with
him, and that he, himself, felt keenly the position in which they were
placed. While Tim Williamson had met a horrible death at the hands of
a relentless mob, that did not justify Cooley in killing people in a
private war of vengeance in defiance of the law and the rangers.

As the climax of his speech the major said, "Men, I now have a
proposition to make to you. If every man here who is in sympathy with
Scott Cooley and his gang and who does not wish to pursue him to
the bitter end will step out of ranks I will issue him an honorable
discharge and let him quit the service clean."

The major paused and about fifteen men stepped to the front.

"Gentlemen," continued Major Jones, "those who do not avail themselves
of this opportunity I shall expect to use all diligence and strength in
helping me to break up or capture these violators of the law."

After the discharge of the Cooley sympathizers, the rangers went to
work with a new vigor, and finally captured George Gladden and John
Ringgold. Gladden was sent to the state penitentiary for twenty-five
years, while Ringgold received a life sentence. Probably Scott Cooley
was informed of Major Jones' appeal to the rangers, for he became less
active around Mason after this. John Beard, it was reported, skipped
Texas and went to Arizona.

Soon after Cooley killed John Worley, Norman Rodgers got permission
from Captain Roberts to ride over to Joe Franks' cow outfit to exchange
his horse for a better one. When Rodgers rode into the cowboy camp he
noticed a man resting under a tree near the fire. The stranger called
one of the cowboys and asked him who Norman was. As Rodgers left camp
this man followed him and asked if he were one of Roberts' rangers and
if he knew "Major" Reynolds. Rodgers replied that he knew Reynolds very
well.

The man then declared he was Scott Cooley and, reaching into his
pocket, he pulled out John Worley's ears.

"You take these ears to 'Major' Reynolds with my compliments, but don't
you tell anybody you saw me."

Rodgers duly delivered the ears and Reynolds cautioned him to say
nothing about them. Forty years afterward, at an old settlers reunion
in Sweetwater, Norman Rodgers mentioned this incident in a speech--he
had kept his promise to Cooley and Reynolds all those years.

Having lost his friends and his sympathizers in the rangers, Cooley
returned to Blanco County, where he had formerly lived. Here he was
stricken with brain fever, and though tenderly nursed, shielded by his
friends, he died without ever being brought to trial for his killings.
This ended the Mason County War, but before the feud died some ten or
twelve men were killed and a race war narrowly averted.




CHAPTER VI

MAJOR JONES AND HIS ESCORT


Despite their usefulness in protecting the frontiers and in maintaining
law and order, the Texas Rangers have always had to fight more or less
strenuously to obtain the necessary appropriation for their annual
maintenance from the State Legislature. Whenever the appropriation is
small there is but one remedy,--reduce the personnel of each company to
the lowest limits possible. In the fall of 1875 the Adjutant-General
notified the captains all along the line to reduce their companies to
twenty men each for the winter at the end of the current quarter. As
the day for reduction arrived there were some anxious moments among the
men of Company "D" as no one knew just who was to be retained in the
service.

On December 1st Captain Roberts formed the command in line and
explained it was his sad duty to reduce the company to twenty men, and
announced that the orderly sergeant would read the names of those to be
retained in the company. The sergeant then stepped forward and began
to read. First Sergeant Plunk Murray, Second Sergeant James Hawkins,
First Corporal Lam Seiker, Second Corporal Tom Griffin, and Privates
Charles Nevill, Tom Gillespie, Nick Donley, Jim Trout, Henry Maltimore,
Kit Maltimore, Jack Martin, W.T. Clements, Ed Seiker, Andy Wilson, J.W.
Bell, Norman Rodgers, Dock Long, Tom Mead, Frank Hill, and Jim Gillett
were the lucky ones to be retained in the command. The remainder of the
company was thereupon discharged. My relief may be imagined when my
name was read out, for I had learned to love the ranger life and was
loth to quit it.

After reduction we went into winter camp in a bend of the San Saba
River about three miles east of Menardville. In the river bottom was
plenty of good timber, so each mess of five men built a log cabin,
sixteen to eighteen feet square, for their occupancy. These cabins,
each with a chimney and a fireplace, formed the western side of our
horse corral and made most comfortable winter abodes. During the winter
the boys played many tricks upon each other, for there were no Indian
raids during the time we were in this winter camp. One of the favorite
stunts was to extract the bullet from a cartridge, take out the powder
and wrap it in a rag, and then, while the inmates of a given cabin
would be quietly smoking or reading or talking around their fire, climb
upon the roof and drop the rag down the chimney. When the powder
exploded in the fire the surprised rangers would fall backward off
their benches,--to the huge glee of the prank player. At other times a
couple of rangers would post themselves outside a neighbor's cabin and
begin to yell, "Fire! Fire!!" at the top of their lungs. If the cabin
owners did not stand in the doorway to protect it all the rangers in
camp would rush up and throw bedding, cooking utensils, saddles and
bridles, guns and pistols outside as quickly as they could. In a jiffy
the cabin would be cleaned out and the victims of the joke would have
to lug all their belongings back in again.

But not all our time was spent in practical joking. There were many
rangers of a studious mind, and during the long winter evenings they
pored over their books. Several of our boys, by their study here and
at other leisure hours, qualified themselves for doctors, lawyers, and
professional callings. And there were several writers in camp that
contributed more or less regularly to the magazines and newspapers.

One of the rangers, Nick Donley, was a baker by trade, and he soon
built a Dutch oven and made bread for the rangers. We pooled our flour
and had fresh, warm bread every morning. This was so good and we ate so
much of it that our allowance of flour would not last for the period
issued, and Captain Roberts was compelled to order the bake oven torn
down. Thereafter the boys baked their own bread and the flour lasted.

Some of the rangers had captured young bear cubs, and we had them in
camp with us as pets. They grew rapidly and were soon big fellows and
immensely popular with the boys. Sometimes a bear would break loose
from its chain, and then all of us would turn out to hunt the escaped
pet. Most often we would soon find him seated in a tree which he had
climbed as soon as he had broken his shackles. And I cannot here
forbear mentioning the useful little pack mules that served the rangers
so long and so well. When the battalion was formed in 1874 a number
of little broncho mules were secured for packing. They soon learned
what was expected of them and followed the rangers like dogs. Carrying
a weight of one hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds, they would
follow a scout of rangers on the dead run right into the midst of the
hottest fight with Indians or desperadoes. They seemed to take as much
interest in such an engagement as the rangers themselves.

These little pack animals had as much curiosity as a child or a pet
coon. In traveling along a road they sometimes met a bunch of horses
or several campers along the highway. Immediately they would run over
for a brief visit with the strangers and when the rangers had gone on
a thousand yards or more would scamper up to us as fast as they could
run. Later, when the rangers drew in from the frontier and scouted
in a more thickly settled country the mules with their packs would
march right up to strange horses and frighten them out of their wits.
Once, in Austin, one of our mules calmly trotted up to a mule that was
pulling a street car. As the pack burro would not give right of way the
street car mule shied to one side and pulled its conveyance completely
off the track to the surprise of its driver. The tiny animals pulled
off several stunts like this and caused so much complaint that
Adjutant-General Jones issued an order for all rangers to catch and
lead their pack mules when passing through a town.

As soon as we were located in the new camp, Privates Nevill, Bell and
Seiker obtained permission from Captain Roberts to visit Austin to buy
a case of ten Winchesters. Up to this time the company was armed with
a .50 caliber Sharps carbine. These guns would heat easily and thus
were very inaccurate shooters. The state furnished this weapon to its
rangers at a cost of $17.50, and at that time furnished no other class
of gun. The new center fire 1873 model Winchester had just appeared
on the market and sold at $50 for the rifle and $40 for the carbine. A
ranger who wanted a Winchester had to pay for it out of his own pocket
and supply his own ammunition as well, for the State of Texas only
furnished cartridges for the Sharps gun. However, ten men in Company
"D," myself included, were willing to pay the price to have a superior
arm. I got carbine number 13,401, and for the next six years of my
ranger career I never used any other weapon. I have killed almost every
kind of game that is found in Texas, from the biggest old bull buffalo
to a fox squirrel with this little .44 Winchester. Today I still
preserve it as a prized memento of the past.

The boys were all anxious to try their new guns, and as Christmas
approached we decided to have a real Yule-tide dinner. Ed Seiker and
myself visited a big turkey roost on the head of Elm Creek and killed
seven big wild turkeys, and on our return Seiker bagged a fine buck
deer. J.W. Bell hunted on the San Saba and brought in six or eight
wild geese and about a dozen mallard ducks. Donley, the baker, cooked
up the pies, while Mrs. Roberts, wife of the captain, furnished the
fruit-cake. Some of the boys made egg-nog, and altogether we had the
finest Christmas dinner that ever graced the boards of a ranger camp.
The little frontier village of Menardville was not far away, and most
of the rangers visited it during Christmas week for the dancing. Jack
Martin once remarked to Mrs. Roberts that there was very little society
about a ranger camp. She told the joke on him and thereafter as long as
he lived he was known as "Society Jack."

During the winter we laid out a race course and had much sport with our
horses. But there was work as well as play that winter. Though Captain
Roberts kept scouts in the field during the entire winter they never
discovered any Indian trails. The rangers had not yet turned their
attention to outlaws, so we were not burdened with chained prisoners as
we were in after years. This winter camp on the San Saba was the most
pleasant time in my service with the rangers.

The first week in April, 1876, we moved out of our winter quarters
to a camp some six or seven miles above Menardville and located in a
pecan grove on the banks of the San Saba. We were all glad to get into
our tents again after four months spent in log cabins. I remember our
first night at the new camp. The boys set out some hooks and caught
four or five big yellow catfish weighing twenty-five or thirty pounds
each--enough fish to last the twenty men several days.

As the spring opened, Captain Roberts began sending out scouts to
cut signs for Indians. I remember I was detailed on a scout that was
commanded by a non-commissioned officer. We were ordered to scout
as far north as the union of the Concho and Colorado Rivers. After
crossing the Brady Mountains we struck a trail of Indians going out.
The redskins had probably been raiding in San Saba or McCulloch
Counties. Their trail led west as straight to San Angelo as a bird
could fly. Though the Indians were not numerous and had only a few
horses, the trail was easily followed. As well as we could judge the
redskins had passed on a few days before we discovered their sign. We
found where they had stolen some horses, for we picked up several pairs
of hobbles that had been cut in two and left where they got the horses.
At that time there were several big cattle ranches in the Fort Concho
country, and in going to and from water the cattle entirely obliterated
the trail. We worked hard two days trying to find it and then gave up
the hunt. We needed the genius of Captain Roberts to help us out that
time.

On June 1, 1876, the company was increased to forty men. Some of
the boys that had quit at Mason the fall before now re-entered the
service. Especially do I remember that "Mage" Reynolds enlisted with
Company "D" once more.

During the summer of 1876, Major Jones planned a big scout out on the
Pecos to strike the Lipans and Kickapoos a blow before they began
raiding the white settlements. This scout started from Company "D" in
July. The major drafted about twenty men from my company, his whole
escort Company "A" of thirty men and marched into Kerr County. Here he
drafted part of Captain Coldwell's Company "F," making his force total
about seventy men with three wagons and about twenty pack mules.

The column traveled down the Nueces, then by Fort Clark up the Devil's
River to Beaver Lake. Here Captain Ira Long with twenty men and the
wagon train was sent up the San Antonio and El Paso road to old Fort
Lancaster on the Pecos, where he was to await the arrival of Major
Jones with the main force.

From Beaver Lake, the major with fifty men and the twenty pack mules
turned southwest and traveled down Johnston's Run to the Shafer
Crossing on the Pecos. From this crossing we scouted up the Pecos to
the mouth of Independence Creek. The country through this section was
very rough but very beautiful. We saw several old abandoned Indian
camps, especially at the mouth of the creek. Here we found the pits
and the scaffolds upon which the redskins had dried their meat, also
evidence that many deer hide had been dressed and made into buckskin.
Bows and arrows had also been manufactured in these camps. From this
section the Indians had been gone probably a month or more.

After ten days of scouting we joined Captain Long at Fort Lancaster and
marched up Live Oak Creek to its head. Here we prepared to cross that
big stretch of table land between the Pecos and the head waters of the
South Concho. We filled what barrels we had with water, topped out from
the creek--and made about ten miles into the plains by night and made
a dry camp. We got an early start next day and traveled until night
without finding water. The stock suffered greatly from thirst and the
men had only a little water in their canteens. All the land ponds had
been dry two weeks or more, and I saw twelve head of buffalo that had
bogged and died in one of them. Here we found an old abandoned Indian
camp, where the redskins had dressed many antelope hides. At one old
bent mesquite tree the antelope hair was a foot deep, with thirty or
forty skulls scattered about.

By the second morning both men and horses were suffering a great deal
from thirst, and Major Jones gave orders to begin march at 4 a.m. We
got away on time and reached water on the South Concho at 2 p.m., the
third day out from Live Oak Creek. As soon as we got near the water we
found a number of straggling buffalo, and killed two, thus securing a
supply of fresh meat. We camped two days at this water and then marched
back to Company "D" by easy stages. Here Major Jones turned back up the
line with his escort after being out on this scout about a month.

On his return toward the Rio Grande, Major Jones reached Company
"D" the last week in August and camped with us until September 1st,
the end of the fiscal year for the rangers. On this date many men
would quit service to retire to private life, while some would join
other companies and new recruits be sworn into the service. This
reorganization usually required two or three days.

Nearly every ranger in the battalion was anxious to be at some time
a member of Major Jones' escort company. The escort company was not
assigned a stationary post nor did it endeavor to cover a given strip
of territory. Its most important duty was to escort the major on his
periodic journeys of inspection to the other companies along the
line. The escort always wintered in the south and made about four
yearly tours of the frontier from company to company, taking part
in such scouts as the major might select and being assigned to such
extraordinary duty as might arise. In 1874, when the Frontier Battalion
was first formed, Major Jones recruited his escort from a detail of
five men from each of the other companies. However, in practice, this
led to some confusion and envy in the commands, so Major Jones found
it expedient to have a regular escort company, so he selected Company
"A" for that purpose. This remained his escort until he was promoted to
Adjutant-General.

In September, 1876, there were several vacancies in Major Jones'
escort, and several old Company "D" boys, among them "Mage" Reynolds,
Charles Nevill, Jack Martin, Bill Clements, and Tom Gillespie, wished
to enlist in Company "A." They wanted me to go with them, but I
hesitated to leave Captain Roberts. My friends then explained that
we could see a lot more country on the escort than we could in a
stationary company; that we would probably be stationed down on the
Rio Grande that winter, and going up the line in the spring would see
thousands of buffalo. This buffalo proposition caught me, and I went
with the boys. After fifteen months' ranging with Captain Roberts I
now joined Company "A."

Early in September Major Jones marched his escort down to within five
or six miles of San Antonio and camped us on the Salado while he went
in to Austin. By the first of October he was back in camp and started
up the line on his last visit to the different companies before winter
set in.

At that time Major John B. Jones was a small man, probably not more
than five feet seven inches tall and weighed about one hundred and
twenty-five pounds. He had very dark hair and eyes and a heavy dark
moustache. He was quick in action, though small in stature, and was an
excellent horseman, riding very erect in the saddle.

The major was born in Fairfield District, South Carolina, in 1834,
but emigrated to Texas with his father when he was only four years
old. He was prominent in Texas state affairs from a very early age
and served gallantly with the Confederate Army during the Civil
War. On the accession of Governor Coke in 1874 he was appointed to
command the Frontier Battalion of six companies of Texas Rangers.
From his appointment until his death in Austin in 1881, Major Jones
was constantly engaged in repulsing bloody raids of Indians, rounding
up outlaws and making Texas secure and safe for the industrious and
peaceful citizen. In this work his wonderful tact, judgment, coolness
and courage found ample scope.

From the organization of the battalion in 1874 until Major Jones was
made Adjutant-General, Dr. Nicholson was always with him. The doctor
was a quaint old bachelor who loved his toddy. The boys would sometimes
get him as full as a goose, and the major would give the doctor some
vicious looks at such times. Dr. Nicholson was a great favorite with
all the men, and it is said he knew every good place for buttermilk,
butter, milk, and eggs from Rio Grande City to Red River, a trifling
distance of eight hundred miles. The doctor always messed with Major
Jones, and, mounted on a fine horse, traveled by his side. I don't
think Dr. Nicholson ever issued a handful of pills to the boys during
the year--he was just with us in case he was needed. When the escort
was disbanded he retired to private life at Del Rio, Texas, and finally
died there.

This inspection tour was a wonderful experience for me. The weather was
cool and bracing, and the horses had had a month's rest. We had with us
a quartet of musicians, among them a violinist, a guitar player and a
banjo picker, and after the day's march the players would often gather
around the camp fire and give us a concert. The major would frequently
walk down and listen to the music. Nor was music our only amusement.
Major Jones had provided his escort with a fish seine, and when we were
camped on a big creek or river the boys would unroll the net, make a
haul and sometimes catch enough fish to supply the thirty men several
days.

When recruited to its full strength Company "A" consisted of a captain,
orderly sergeant, second sergeant, first and second corporals, and
twenty-six privates. Two four-mule wagons hauled the camp equipage,
rations for the men and grain for the horses. One fight wagon drawn
by two mules and driven by George, the negro cook, carried the mess
outfit, bedding, tent, etc., of Major Jones and Dr. Nicholson.

Each morning at roll call the orderly sergeant detailed a guard of nine
men and one non-commissioned officer to guard for twenty-four hours.
When ready to begin our day's journey the company was formed in line
and the men counted off by fours. On the march Major Jones and Dr.
Nicholson rode in front, followed by the captain of the company, the
orderly sergeant and the men in double file. Following these came the
wagons. An advance guard of two men preceded the column about one-half
mile. Four men, known as flankers, two on each side of the company,
paralleled the column at a distance of one-half to one mile, depending
on the nature of the country. In a rough, wooded section the flankers
traveled close in, but in an open country they sometimes spread out
quite a distance. The non-commissioned officer with the remaining guard
covered the rear and brought up the pack mules. Thus protected it was
almost impossible for the command to be surprised by Indians.

At one time Major Jones had with him two Tonkawa Indians as guides. For
protection this tribe lived near Fort Griffin, a large military post.
One of these old braves known as Jim had been given an old worn out
army coat with the shoulder straps of a general upon it. Jim wore this
coat tightly buttoned up and marched at the head of the column with as
much dignity and importance as a general-in-chief. His companion wore
a high crowned beaver stove-pipe hat with the top gone, and carried an
old umbrella that someone had given him. Fitted out in this ridiculous
and unique manner he marched for days with the umbrella over him. Think
of an Indian shading himself from the sun!

Major Jones never paid much attention to these Indians unless he wished
to inquire the lay of the country or the distance to some water hole.
They did pretty much as they pleased, sometimes riding in front with
the major, sometimes with the guard and at others with the men. These
old redskins were a constant source of amusement to the boys. Jim and
his pal were good hunters but as lazy as could be. They got into the
habit of killing a buffalo late in the evening when they knew it was
almost time to pitch camp, cutting out just enough meat for themselves
and letting the remainder go to waste. The major told these lazy-bones
when they killed a buffalo he wanted to know of it so he could secure
the meat for the company. The Tonks paid no attention to this request
and late one evening came into camp with five or six pounds of buffalo
meat.

The orderly sergeant spied them, so he walked over to Major Jones and
said, "Major, those two old Tonkawas are back in camp with just enough
meat for themselves."

"Sergeant, you get a pack mule, take a file of men with you and make
those Indians saddle their horses and go with you to get that buffalo,"
the major commanded, determined that his order should be obeyed by the
Indians.

The sergeant went to the Indians, who were busy about the fire roasting
their meat, and told them what the major had said. Jim declared that
he was tired and did not wish to go. The non-commissioned officer
replied that that made no difference and commanded him and his pal to
get their ponies and lead the way to the dead buffalo.

"Maybe so ten miles to buffalo," protested Jim, trying to avoid going.

The sergeant knew they were lying, for of all the Indians that ever
inhabited Texas the Tonkawas were the biggest cowards. Just mention
the Comanches or Kiowas to them and they would have a chill. It was
well known that the Tonks would not venture very far away from the
protection of the rangers for fear of being killed by their enemies. As
soon as they knew they had to do as ordered, they mounted their ponies
and led the sergeant over a little hill, and in a valley not more
than half a mile from camp, was the fine, fat buffalo the Indians had
killed. The animal was soon skinned and brought into camp, where all
had plenty of fresh meat.

These Tonks were as simple as children and as suspicious as negroes.
The weather had been hot and dry for several days. Old Jim thereupon
killed some hawks with his bow and arrows, plaited the long tail and
wing feathers into his pony's mane and tail, and said it would make
"heap rain." Sure enough, in three or four days a hard thunder shower
came up and thoroughly wet everybody on the march. Jim, with only his
old officer's coat for protection, was drenched to the skin, and his
pony looked like a drowned rat. The wood, grass, everything was wet.
Jim stood by, shivering with the cold and watched the boys use up
almost their last match trying to make a fire. Suddenly, with a look of
disgust, he ran up to his horse, which was standing near, and plucked
every hawk feather out of the animal's tail and mane and, throwing them
on the ground, stamped upon them violently as if that would stop the
rain.

After the escort had crossed the Colorado River on its way northward we
found an advance guard of buffalo on its way south, and it was an easy
matter to keep the company in fresh meat. We spent about one week with
Company "B" on the upper Brazos, then turned south again to make our
winter camp near Old Frio Town in Frio County. It was November now and
freezing hard every night.

The last guard would call the camp early, so we generally had breakfast
and were ready to move southward by daylight. We did not stop a single
time for dinner on this return trip, just traveled at a steady gait
all day long without dinner until nearly night. We all wondered why
we marched the live-long day without dinner, but it was not until many
years afterward when I became a Mason that I learned the reason for
our forced marches. Major Jones was in line to be made Most Worshipful
Grand Master of Masons in Texas and he had to be in Houston on the
first Tuesday in December for the annual meeting of the Most Worshipful
Grand Lodge of Texas. If there were other Masons in the company besides
Major Jones I never knew it.

At this time we had for commander of the escort, Lieutenant Benton. He
was in bad health and rode most of the way back in one of the wagons.
On arriving at the end of the line he tendered his resignation and was
succeeded by Captain Neal Coldwell. The company camped for the winter
on Elm Creek, three miles southwest of Old Frio Town.

Captain Neal Coldwell was born in Dade County, Missouri, in May, 1844,
and served gallantly throughout the Civil War in the Thirty-second
Regiment, Texas Cavalry, commanded by Col. W.P. Woods. At the
organization of the Frontier Battalion in 1874, Neal Coldwell was
commissioned captain of Company "F."

It is difficult, in a single sketch, to do Captain Coldwell justice or
convey any correct idea of what he accomplished as a Texas Ranger. The
station of Company "F," the southernmost company of the line, was the
most unfavorable that could well be given him. His scouting grounds
were the head of the Guadalupe, Nueces, Llanos, and Devil's Rivers--the
roughest and most difficult part of South Texas in which to pursue
Indians, yet he held them in check and finally drove them out of that
part of the state.




CHAPTER VII

THE HORRELL-HIGGINS FEUD


By the end of the year 1876 the Indians had been pretty well pushed
back off the frontier, so that there were very few fights with the
redskins after 1877. From the spring of 1877 onward the rangers were
transformed into what might properly be called mounted state police,
and accordingly turned their attention to ridding the frontier of the
outlaws that infested nearly every part of Texas. During the winter
of 1876-77 Captain Neal Coldwell broke up a band of thieves that was
operating in the northwestern part of Atascosa County. I remember
helping him capture a man named Wolf. He was wanted for murder, and we
made several scouts after him before we succeeded in landing him safely
in irons.

In April, 1877, Major Jones reached Coldwell's company and at once
made arrangements to march up the line on a visit of inspection. When
the major reached the headwaters of the South Llano River he halted
his escort and detailed several small scouting parties of five or six
men, each with orders to arrest every man that could not give a good
account of himself. One scout was sent down the South Llano, a
second down Johnson's Fork, while a third was ordered over the divide
with instructions to hit the head of the North Llano and sweep down
that river,--all three parties to rejoin Major Jones and the main
escort near where Junction City now stands. In these outlaw raids some
fifty or sixty men were arrested and brought in. Many of the suspects
were released upon examination, but I remember one scout brought in two
escaped convicts who had been captured up on Copperas Creek. We bagged
several men wanted for murder and some horse and cattle thieves. Old
Kimble County never had such a clean-up of bandits in her history.

[Illustration: _Neal Coldwell_]

While these prisoners were being held in camp other scouts were sent
out in the northern part of the county with orders to sweep Bear Creek,
Gentry, Red Creek, Big and Little Saline, to cross the San Saba River
in Menard County and sweep up that stream from old Peg Leg Station to
Menard. Many more suspects were caught in this haul.

With a party of scouts I was detailed on a mission to Fort McKavett,
at that time one of the big military posts on the frontier. Many hard
characters and gamblers gathered about these posts to fleece the
soldiers out of their easy-made money. We made several arrests here,
and camped for noon one mile below the government post on the San
Saba River. During the dinner hour my horse, a gray, in lying down to
wallow, rolled on some broken beer bottles and cut his back so badly
that he was unfit for use for some time. When the escort moved north
I was left with old Company "D" until the return of Company "A" on
its return march some six weeks later. I thereby missed some of the
exciting scouts that took place on the march north.

When Major Jones reached Coleman City he found orders from Governor
Coke to send a scout of rangers to Lampasas County to help the civil
authorities suppress a war known as the Horrell-Higgins feud. Second
Sergeant N.O. Reynolds was detached from Company "A" and with ten men
ordered to proceed to Lampasas and report to the sheriff of that county.

After leaving Coleman, Major Jones visited the northernmost ranger
company and began his return march. This was to be his last trip
with his escort, for immediately upon his return to Austin he was
commissioned Adjutant-General of Texas. As there was no longer a major
of the battalion, there was no need of an escort, so old Company "A"
took its place on the line as a stationary company. Captain Neal
Coldwell was ultimately made quartermaster of the battalion, and I
believe ranked as major.

I was picked up at Company "D" by the escort on their return march and
was with Company "A" when it was made a stationary command and located
in Frio County.

In the latter part of 1877--during the late summer--a party of
filibusters under command of a Mexican general named Winkler assembled
in Maverick County, near Eagle Pass, and prepared to invade Mexico.
Captain Coldwell, then commanding Company "A," was ordered to the Rio
Grande to break up the expedition. This he did by arresting more than
fifty participants. I was with him on this expedition and saw much
border service during this summer.

I remember a scout I was called upon to make with Captain Coldwell
over in Bandera County. The captain took with him John Parker, Hawk
Roberts, and myself. In one week's time we caught some ten or twelve
fugitives from justice and literally filled the little old jail at
Bandera. Captain Coldwell detailed Hawk Roberts and myself to capture
an especially bad man wanted in Burnet County for murder. The captain
warned us to take no chances with this man--that meant to kill him if
he hesitated about surrendering. I can't remember this murderer's name
at this late date, but I recall perfectly the details of his capture.
Sheriff Jack Hamilton of Bandera County sent a guide to show us where
this fugitive lived. The guide led us some fifteen miles northwest of
Bandera and finally pointed out the house in which the murderer was
supposed to be. He then refused to go any farther, saying he did not
want any of this man's game, for the fellow had just stood off a deputy
sheriff and made him hike it back to Bandera.

It was almost night when we reached the house, so Roberts and I decided
to wait until morning before attempting the arrest. We staked our
horses, lay down on our saddle blankets without supper, and slept
soundly till dawn. As soon as it was daylight we rode over near the
house, dismounted, slipped up, and, unannounced, stepped right inside
the room. The man we wanted was sleeping on a pallet with a big
white-handled .45 near his head. Hawk Roberts kicked the pistol out
of the man's reach. The noise awakened the sleeper and he opened his
eyes to find himself looking into the business ends of two Winchesters
held within a foot of his head. Of course he surrendered without fight.
His wife, who was sleeping in a bed in the same room, jumped out of
it and heaped all kinds of abuse on us for entering her home without
ceremony. She was especially bitter against Sheriff Hamilton, who, she
said, had promised to notify her husband when he was wanted so he could
come in and give himself up. She indignantly advised her husband to
give old Sheriff Hamilton a d--d good whipping the first chance he had.

While Company "A" was rounding up outlaws along the border, Sergeant
Reynolds was covering himself with glory in the north. Upon reaching
Lampasas and reporting to the sheriff as ordered by Major Jones, the
sergeant was told that the Horrell boys were living on the Sulphur Fork
of the Lampasas River and were defying the authorities to arrest them.

The Horrells were native Texans and had been raised on the frontier.
These brothers, of which five were involved in the feud (the sixth,
John Horrell, had been killed at Las Cruces, New Mexico, previously)
were expert riders, and, having grown up with firearms in their
hands, were as quick as chained lightning with either Winchester or
pistol. Sam Horrell, the eldest, was married and had a large family of
children. He was a farmer and lived a quiet life over on the Lampasas
River. The other four boys, Mart, Tom, Merritt, and Ben, were all
cattlemen. They stood well in the community, but were considered
dangerous when aroused.

At this time Lampasas was a frontier town and wide open as far as
saloons and gambling were concerned. The Horrells, like most cattlemen
of the period, loved to congregate in town, go to the saloons and have
a good time, perhaps drink too much and sometimes at night shoot up
the town for fun, as they termed it. Some of the more pious and more
settled citizens of the town did not approve of these night brawls, and
called upon Governor Edmund J. Davis, Provisional Governor in 1873,
to give them protection. Governor Davis had formed in Texas a State
Police. Naturally they were rank Republicans, and many of them were
termed carpetbaggers. This body was never popular in Texas, especially
as many of the force were negroes.

In answer to the call of the citizens, Governor Davis dispatched
Captain Williams with three white men and one negro to Lampasas. On
the way up Captain Williams met several freighters going to Austin and
stopped one of them, Tedford Bean, to ask the distance to Lampasas. The
captain had been drinking, and he told Mr. Bean he was going to town to
clean up those damn Horrell boys.

The little squad of police reached Lampasas about 3 p.m., hitched its
horses to some live oak trees on the public plaza, left the negro to
guard them, and then made a bee line to Jerry Scott's saloon on the
west side of the square. Mart, Tom, and Merritt Horrell, with some ten
or fifteen cow men, were in the saloon drinking, playing billiards and
having a good time generally. One man was picking a banjo and another
playing a fiddle. Captain Williams, an exceedingly brave but unwise
man, took in the situation at a glance as he walked up to the bar and
called for drinks.

He turned to Bill Bowen, a brother-in-law to Merritt Horrell, and said,
"I believe you have a six-shooter. I arrest you."

"Bill, you have done nothing and need not be arrested if you don't want
to," interrupted Mart Horrell.

Like a flash of lightning Captain Williams pulled his pistol and fired
on Mart Horrell, wounding him badly. The Horrell boys drew their guns
and began to fight. Captain Williams and one of his men, Dr. Daniels,
were shot down in the saloon. William Cherry was killed just outside
the door, and Andrew Melville was fatally wounded as he was trying to
escape. He reached the old Huling Hotel, where he died later. At the
first crack of a pistol the negro police mounted his horse and made a
John Gilpin ride for Austin. Thus, within the twinkling of an eye,
four state police were killed and only one of the Horrells wounded.

Tom and Merritt Horrell carried the wounded Mart to their mother's
home, some two hundred yards from Scott's saloon, then mounted their
horses and rode away. Great excitement prevailed in the town. The state
militia was called out, and Governor Davis hurried other state police
to Lampasas. They scoured the country for the Horrell boys, but to no
avail.

Mart Horrell and Jerry Scott were arrested and carried to Georgetown,
Williamson County, and placed in jail. Mart Horrell's wife went to the
jail to nurse her husband and, of course, kept her brothers-in-law
informed as to Mart's condition. As soon as he was well the Horrell
boys made up a party and rode to Williamson County and assaulted the
jail at night. The citizens and officers of Georgetown, taken unawares,
put up a stiff fight, but the Horrells had ten or fifteen well
organized and armed men with them. They took stations at all approaches
to the jail and kept up a steady fire with their Winchesters at anyone
who showed up to oppose them. Mr. A.S. Fisher, a prominent lawyer of
the town, took an active hand in the fight and was badly wounded. Bill
Bowen was slightly hurt while battering in the jail door with a sledge
hammer. Mart Horrell and Jerry Scott were liberated and rode off with
their rescuers.

By the next evening the Horrells were back on Lucies Creek. They at
once made arrangements to leave the country and go to New Mexico. They
had gathered about them Bill and Tom Bowen, John Dixon, Ben Turner, and
six or eight other men as desperate and dangerous as themselves. They
were so formidable that they no longer attempted to hide but openly and
without hindrance gathered their cattle, sold the remnant to Cooksey
and Clayton to be delivered to them in Coleman County. They even
notified the sheriff of Lampasas County just what day they would pass
with their herd through Russell Gap, but they were not molested.

As a cowboy I had worked for Cooksey and Clayton, and was with them
when they delivered cattle to the Horrell boys on Home Creek, Coleman
County. I had dinner in camp with the outlaws and they made no effort
to hide from the authorities. I remember they sat about their camps
with Winchesters across their laps.

When all was ready the Horrells moved slowly out of the country with
their families and cattle and finally reached New Mexico, settling on
the head of the Hondo River in Lincoln County. They had not been at
their new home many months before Ben Horrell was shot and killed at a
fandango near old Fort Stanton. Ben's brothers at once repaired to the
dance hall and killed eight Mexicans and one woman.

This brought on a war between the Horrell boys and the Mexican
population along the Hondo River, and it is said that in the fights
that followed thirty or forty Mexicans were killed between Fort Stanton
and Roswell. In one of those pitched battles Ben Turner was killed.
Turner was prominent in all of the fights staged by the Horrells,
was with them when Captain Williams was killed and was one of the
assaulting party on the Georgetown jail. His death was keenly felt by
his companions.

Having now outlawed themselves in New Mexico, the Horrells could no
longer stay in that country. They turned back to Texas, and next year
showed up at their old haunts in Lampasas County. The shock of the
Civil War was beginning to subside and the State of Texas was then
under civil government with a Democratic governor in office. The
friends of the Horrells advised them to surrender to the authorities
and be tried for the killing of Captain Williams and his men. They
were assured a fair trial by the best citizens of Lampasas County.
Accordingly, the Horrells gave up, and upon trial were acquitted of the
charges against them.

The Horrells had not long been at ease before Merritt, the youngest of
the brothers, was accused by Pink Higgins of unlawfully handling his
cattle. Shortly afterward, while Merritt was seated unarmed in a chair
in the old Jerry Scott saloon, Pink Higgins stepped to the back door of
the place and shot him to death. Thus Merritt met his death in the same
saloon where four years before he had been a party to the killing of
Captain Williams. At this time Mart and Tom Horrell were living down on
Sulphur Fork of Lampasas River. The news of their brother's death was
quickly carried to them. They armed themselves and started in a run for
Lampasas.

This move had been anticipated by the Pink Higgins party. They waylaid
the Horrell boys outside the town and at their first fire killed Tom
Horrell's horse and badly wounded Mart. Tom advanced single handed on
the attackers and put them to flight. He then partly supported and
partly carried his brother to the home of Mr. Tinnins, a neighbor,
where a doctor was hurried to the wounded man.

Thus old Lampasas County was again the scene of war with Mart, Tom and
Sam Horrell, Bill and Tom Bowen, John Dixon and Bill Crabtree on one
side and Pink Higgins, Bob Mitchell and their friends on the other.
These two factions met in the town of Lampasas and a furious battle
followed. A man was killed on each side and the population greatly
endangered. Hence the governor's order to Major Jones to send rangers
to the aid of the officers at Lampasas.

When Sergeant N.O. Reynolds reported to the sheriff of Lampasas he was
informed that the Horrell boys were living ten miles east of Lampasas
and had ten or twelve desperate men with them, so that it meant certain
death to anyone making an attempt to capture them.

"But, Mr. Sheriff, I am sent here to effect the capture of all
offenders against the law, and it is my duty to at least make the
attempt," replied the brave Reynolds.

"These men have never been arrested," declared Sheriff Sweet, "and it
is my honest opinion they cannot be."

Reynolds then asked if the sheriff would send a guide to show him
where the Horrells lived. The rangers under the intrepid Reynolds
left Lampasas late in the night and finally the guide pointed at a
flickering light about a mile off.

"There is where the Horrell boys live. I am going back to town," he
said.

When asked if he would not accompany the rangers to the house, the
guide replied, "No, not for a million dollars!"

With that he turned his horse and rode away.

Reynolds thought it would be best to wait until daylight before
attempting the arrest. He planned to surprise the outlaws, if such
a thing were possible, but if the rangers were discovered and an
engagement came on they were to fight to the last man. As soon as dawn
broke the rangers wended their way on foot to the Horrell brothers'
ranch. It was a moment of great anxiety as they approached the house,
but not a sound was heard, not a dog barked.

Sergeant Reynolds and his men tiptoed right into the room in which the
Horrells were sleeping. Some of the men were on pallets on the floor,
while others slept in beds in the one big room. Each ranger pointed
a cocked Winchester at the head of a sleeper. Reynolds then spoke to
Mart Horrell. At the sound of his voice every man sat up in bed and
found himself looking into the muzzle of a gun. The sergeant quickly
explained that he was a ranger and had come to arrest them. Mart
replied they could not surrender, and Tom Horrell said it would be
better to die fighting than to be mobbed.

This gave Reynolds his cue. He warned the outlaws that if anything was
started there would be a dozen dead men in that house in one minute and
advised them to listen to what he had to say. He then guaranteed the
Horrells upon his honor that he would not turn them over to the sheriff
to be put in jail and mobbed, but promised he would guard them in his
camp until they could secure a preliminary examination and give bond.

"Boys, this seems reasonable," said Mart Horrell, rising to his feet.
"I believe these rangers can be relied upon to protect us. Besides this
fight has been thrust upon us. If we can get a hearing we can give
bond."

They all agreed finally to this proposition of Sergeant Reynolds and
laid down their arms, mounted their horses and under guard of the
rangers were marched into the town of Lampasas.

The news of the capture of the Horrells spread like wildfire through
the town and county. Hundreds of people flocked to Lampasas to see
Sergeant Reynolds, the man that had accomplished the impossible in
rounding up the most desperate band of men that ever lived. The news
was rushed to Austin, and General Jones himself hurried to the scene.
This act of Sergeant Reynolds covered him with glory and brought to his
name imperishable renown. He was at once commissioned First Lieutenant,
commanding Company "E."

The Horrell boys were admitted to bond after a preliminary hearing.
After their release Mart Horrell came to Lieutenant Reynolds and
feelingly thanked him for carrying out his promise. With tears
streaming down his face he grasped the lieutenant's hand and said, "You
are undoubtedly the bravest man in the world today." These unfortunate
men were later shot to death in the Meridian jail. The Higgins and
Mitchell parties surrendered to the authorities. Pink Higgins was tried
and acquitted of the murder of Merritt Horrell. This ended the feud,
but it started Lieutenant Reynolds on a new and important phase of his
career as a ranger.




CHAPTER VIII

SERVICE WITH REYNOLDS, THE INTREPID


As soon as Sergeant Reynolds was commissioned first lieutenant he was
placed in command of Company "E," then stationed in Coleman County, but
immediately ordered to Lampasas. At this time Captain Sparks resigned
the command of Company "C," and this company was also ordered to
report to Lieutenant Reynolds at the same town. Late in August the two
commands went into camp at Hancock Springs. Major Jones then authorized
Lieutenant Reynolds to pick such men as he desired from these two
companies for his own company and either discharge or transfer the
remainder to other commands. No other officer in the battalion, I
believe, was ever accorded this privilege.

Lieutenant Reynolds had a week or ten days in which to make his
selection, so he studied the muster rolls of the companies carefully.
He had ranged under such great captains as Perry, D.W. Roberts,
Neal Coldwell, and with Major Jones himself. He knew what qualities
were needed in a good ranger and made his selections accordingly.
From old Company "A" Reynolds selected C.L. Nevill, Tom Gillespie,
Shape Rodgers, Jack Martin, John Gibbs, W.T. Clements, and four
others whose names I do not now remember. These were the scouts that
had helped him capture the Horrells and naturally were his first
choice. From Company "E" came Dick Ware, who one year later killed
the noted train robber, Sam Bass, then served Mitchell County as
its first sheriff for many years, and finally became United States
marshal for the Western District of Texas under President Cleveland's
administration. Henry Thomas, Miller Mourland, George Arnett, and other
Company "E" boys were selected. Henry Maltimore, Ben and Dock Carter,
Bill Derrick, Chris Connor, Henry McGee, Abe Anglin, J.W. Warren, Dave
Ligon, Lowe Hughes, George (Hog) Hughes, and others were picked from
Company "C."

[Illustration: _N.O. Reynolds_]

When he had exhausted the two companies Reynolds turned to General
Jones and said, "There is a ranger down on the Rio Grande in Neal
Coldwell's company that I want."

"Who is it?" asked the general.

"Private Jim Gillett."

"You shall have him," promised General Jones. "I will send an order to
Captain Coldwell tonight to have Gillett report to you here."

It was late in the evening when Company "A's" mail came in from Frio
Town, but Captain Coldwell sent for me as soon as General Jones' order
arrived, and told me that I must leave the company next morning and
report to the Adjutant-General at Austin. I was nonplussed, for I did
not know what the order meant. Out on the frontier where we then were
operating we seldom read newspapers or heard what the other companies
were doing, so I did not even know that Reynolds had captured the
Horrell boys and had been commissioned to command Company "E." The
following morning I bade Captain Coldwell and the Company "A" boys
goodbye and started on my long ride to Austin.

As I jogged along I asked myself many hundred times why I was ordered
to report at Austin, and, boy-like, it made me nervous and uneasy. It
took me two days to reach San Antonio and three more to get to Austin.
I arrived in the latter town just at nightfall, but I was at the
Adjutant-General's office as soon as it was opened next morning.

Presently General Jones entered with some officers of the State
Militia. He shook hands with me and invited me to be seated, saying
he had some business to attend to for the moment. It was probably an
hour before the officers left and the general could turn to me. He
very kindly inquired as to my trip and asked about Captain Coldwell
and the company. He then told me about the arrest of the Horrell boys
and Sergeant Reynolds' commission as first lieutenant commanding
Company "E," vice Lieutenant Foster resigned. He explained Reynolds had
requested that I be attached to his command, and ordered me to report
to my new commander in Lampasas without delay.

I excused myself at once and lost no time in getting my horse out of
the livery stable and resuming my way. A great load was lifted from my
mind, and I was about as happy as a boy could be. I sang and whistled
all the way to Liberty Hill, thirty miles from Austin. The following
day about 2 p.m. I rode into Reynolds' camp at Hancock Springs.

I attracted some attention as I rode in, for I wore a big Mexican hat
mounted with silver, a buckskin jacket fringed from shoulder to elbow
with a bunch of flowers braided in highly colored silk on its back. On
my heels were enormous Mexican spurs. I never saw a ranger sent to the
Rio Grande for the first time that did not rig himself out in some such
outlandish attire, only to discard it a few weeks later, never to wear
it again. I was no exception, and I think every man in camp tried on my
hat.

Lieutenant Reynolds selected C.L. Nevill for first sergeant, Henry W.
McGee as second sergeant, and J.W. Warren and L.W. Conner, first and
second corporals, respectively. On September 1, 1877, the company was
sworn in. The new command was the most formidable body of men I had
ever seen. Our commander, Lieutenant Reynolds, was over six feet tall
and weighed probably one hundred and seventy-five pounds. He was a very
handsome man, a perfect blond, with steel blue eyes and a long, light
moustache. At that time he was about thirty years of age, vigorous in
mind and body, and had a massive determination to succeed as a ranger.
His mind was original, bold, profound and quick, with a will that
no obstacle could daunt. He was the best ranger in the world--there
was never another like him. The lieutenant was a native of Missouri,
and was always known as "Major" or "Mage" Reynolds. It was said that
Reynolds, though a mere boy, had served with the Confederates in the
latter part of the Civil War. He was one of a party that captured a
troop of Federal cavalry, the major of which was well supplied with
clothing. The captors, however, were very scantily clad and Reynolds
appropriated the major's uniform, hence his nick-name "Mage." In later
years when I had grown more intimate with him and was probably closer
to him than any other I mentioned this story. He neither affirmed nor
denied it, declaring he was a Missourian by birth, a bootmaker by
trade, and that his early history could interest no one.

First Sergeant Nevill was six feet and one inch in height and weighed
one hundred and eighty-five pounds. All the non-commissioned officers
were at least six feet tall and built in proportion, and many of the
privates were from five feet eleven inches to six feet in height. I was
probably the lightest man in the company, being only five feet nine
inches and weighing but one hundred and forty pounds.

When the company's roster was complete Lieutenant Reynolds had but
twenty-eight men,--lacking two of his full complement of thirty. The
company was then ordered to Austin, but before being assigned to
its position on the frontier the lieutenant enlisted John and Will
Bannister, two celebrated frontiersmen. They were old cowboys, splendid
shots, and well acquainted with every part of Kimble, Menard, Mason,
and Kerr Counties, in which Company "E" was destined to operate. In
appearance and ability this company compared favorably with any thirty
rangers ever sent to the Texas frontier. Nearly every member of the
company had had more or less experience as an officer, and all were
exceedingly fine marksmen. Sergeant Henry McGee had been marshal of
Waco and had figured in several pistol duels in that city. Dave Ligon,
the oldest man in the command, had been a Confederate soldier and had
served with General Forrest's cavalry.

In the summer of 1877, Lieutenant Armstrong of Captain Hall's
company, assisted by Detective Jack Duncan of Dallas, Texas, captured
the notorious John Wesley Hardin. It has been said that Texas, the
largest state in the Union, has never produced a real world's champion
at anything. Surely, such critics overlooked Hardin, the champion
desperado of the world. His life is too well known in Texas for me to
go into detail, but, according to his own story, which I have before
me, he killed no fewer than twenty-seven men, the last being Charley
Webb, deputy sheriff of Brown County, Texas. So notorious had Hardin
become that the State of Texas offered $4000 reward for his capture.
Hardin had left Texas and at the time of his capture was in Florida.
His captors arrested and overpowered him while he was sitting in a
passenger coach.

In September, 1877, Sheriff Wilson of Comanche County, in whose
jurisdiction Hardin had killed Webb, came to Austin to convey the
prisoner to Comanche for trial. Wilson requested the governor for an
escort of rangers. Lieutenant Reynolds' company, being in Austin at
the time, was ordered to accompany Wilson and protect Hardin from mob
violence. This was the first work assigned Company "E" under its new
commander.

The day we left Austin between one and two thousand people gathered
about the Travis County jail to see this notorious desperado. The
rangers were drawn up just outside the jail, and Henry Thomas and
myself were ordered to enter the prison and escort Hardin out. Heavily
shackled and handcuffed, the prisoner walked very slowly between us.
The boy that had sold fish on the streets of Austin was now guarding
the most desperate criminal in Texas; it was glory enough for me.

At his trial Hardin was convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years
in the penitentiary. He appealed his case and was returned to Travis
County for safekeeping. The verdict of the trial court was sustained,
and one year later, in September, 1878, Lieutenant Reynolds' company
was ordered to take Hardin back to Comanche County for sentence. There
was no railroad at Comanche at that time, so a detachment of rangers,
myself among them, escorted Hardin to the penitentiary. There were ten
or twelve indictments still pending against him for murder in various
counties, but they were never prosecuted.

Hardin served seventeen years on his sentence, and while in prison
studied law. Governor Hogg pardoned him in 1894 and restored him to
full citizenship.

In transmitting him the governor's pardon, Judge W.S. Fly, Associate
Justice of the Court of Appeals, wrote Hardin as follows:

  Dear Sir: Enclosed I send you a full pardon from the Governor of
  Texas. I congratulate you on its reception and trust that it is
  the day of dawn of a bright and peaceful future. There is time to
  retrieve a lost past. Turn your back upon it with all its suffering
  and sorrow and fix your eyes upon the future with the determination
  to make yourself an honorable and useful member of society. The hand
  of every true man will be extended to assist you in your upward
  course, and I trust that the name of Hardin will in the future be
  associated with the performance of deeds that will ennoble his family
  and be a blessing to humanity.

  Did you ever read Victor Hugo's masterpiece, "Les Miserables"? If
  not, you ought to read it. It paints in graphic words the life of
  one who had tasted the bitterest dregs of life's cup, but in his
  Christian manhood rose about it, almost like a god and left behind
  him a path luminous with good deeds.

  With the best wishes for your welfare and happiness, I am,

 Yours very truly,
 W.S. Fly.

Despite all the kind advice given him by eminent lawyers and citizens,
Hardin was unequal to the task of becoming a useful man. He practiced
law for a time in Gonzales, then drifted away to El Paso, where he
began drinking and gambling. On August 19, 1895, Hardin was standing
at a bar shaking dice when John Selman, constable of Precinct No.
1, approached him from behind and, placing a pistol to the back of
Hardin's head, blew his brains out. Though posing as an officer Selman
was himself an outlaw and a murderer of the worst kind. He killed
Hardin for the notoriety it would bring him and nothing more.

After delivering Hardin to the sheriff of Travis County in 1877,
Lieutenant Reynolds was ordered to Kimble County for duty. Of all the
counties in Texas at that time Kimble was the most popular with outlaws
and criminals, for it was situated south of Menard County on the North
and South Llano Rivers, with cedar, pecan and mesquite timber in which
to hide, while the streams and mountains furnished abundance of fish
and game for subsistence.

Up on the South Llano lived old Jimmie Dublin. He had a large family
of children, most of them grown. The eldest of his boys, Dick, or
Richard, as he was known, and a friend, Ace Lankford, killed two men
at a country store in Lankford's Cove, Coryell County, Texas. The state
offered $500 for the arrest of Dublin and the County of Coryell an
additional $200. To escape capture Dick and his companion fled west
into Kimble County. While I was working as cowboy with Joe Franks
in the fall of 1873 I became acquainted with the two murderers, for
they attached themselves to our outfit. They were always armed and
constantly on the watchout for fear of arrest. Dublin was a large man,
stout, dark complected, and looked more like the bully of a prize ring
than the cowman he was. I often heard him say he would never surrender.
While cow hunting with us he discovered that the naturally brushy
and tangled county of Kimble would offer shelter for such as he, and
persuaded his father to move out into that county.

Dublin had not lived long in Kimble County before another son, Dell
Dublin, killed Jim Williams, a neighbor. Thus two of the Dublin boys
were on the dodge charged with murder. They were supposed to be hiding
near their father's home. Bill Allison, Starke Reynolds and a number
of bandits, horse and cattle thieves and murderers, were known to be
in Kimble County, so Lieutenant Reynolds was sent with his company to
clean them up.

It was late in October, 1877, before the company reached its
destination and camped on the North Llano River below the mouth of Bear
Greek. As soon as our horses had rested and camp was fully established
for the winter we began scouting. Several men wanted on minor charges
were captured. We then raided Luke Stone's ranch, which was about ten
miles from our camp, and captured Dell Dublin. He was fearfully angry
when he found escape impossible. He tore his shirt bosom open and
dared the rangers to shoot him. While he was being disarmed his elder
brother, Dick, rode out of the brush and came within gun shot of the
ranch before he discovered the presence of the rangers. He turned his
horse quickly and made his escape, though the rangers pursued him some
distance. When Dick learned that the Banister boys and myself were with
Lieutenant Reynolds' company and hot on his trail he declared he would
whip us with a quirt as a man would a dog if he ever came upon us, for
he remembered us as beardless boys with the Joe Franks' cow outfit.
However, despite his threat, he never attempted to make it good, but
took very good care to keep out of our way until the fatal January 18,
1878.

There was no jail in Kimble County, so with a detachment of rangers I
took Dell Dublin and our other prisoners to Llano County lockup.

Shortly afterward Reynolds selected Sergeant McGee, Tom Gillespie,
Dick Harrison, and Tim McCarthy and made a scout into Menard County.
He also had with him his negro cook, George, to drive his light wagon.
On the return toward Bear Creek the scout camped for the night at
Fort McKavett. At that time each frontier post had its chihuahua or
scab town, a little settlement with gambling halls, saloons, etc., to
catch the soldiers' dollars. At Fort McKavett were many discharged
soldiers, some of them negroes from the Tenth Cavalry. These blacks
had associated with white gamblers and lewd women until they thought
themselves the equals of white men, and became mean and overbearing.

On this particular night these negro ex-soldiers gave a dance in scab
town, and our negro, George, wanted to go. He was a light mulatto,
almost white, but well thought of by all the boys in the company. He
obtained Lieutenant Reynolds' permission to attend the dance, and
borrowed Tim McCarthy's pistol to carry to it. When George arrived at
the dance hall the ex-soldiers did not like his appearance, as he was
allied with the rangers, whom they despised. They jumped on George,
took his pistol and kicked him out of the place. The boys were all in
bed when George returned and told McCarthy that the negroes at the
dance hall had taken his pistol from him.

Lieutenant Reynolds was sleeping nearby and heard what George said. He
raised up on his elbow and ordered Sergeant McGee to go with McCarthy
and George and get the pistol. The negroes saw McGee coming and,
closing the door, defied him to enter the dance hall.

McGee was cool and careful. He advised the negroes to return
the pistol, but they refused, saying they would kill the first
white-livered s-- o-- b-- that attempted to enter the house. The
sergeant then stationed himself at the front door, ordered McCarthy
to guard the back entrance of the place, and sent George for the
lieutenant. Reynolds hurried to the scene, taking with him Tom
Gillespie and Dick Harrison. The lieutenant knocked on the door and
told the blacks he was the commander of the rangers and demanded
their surrender. They replied with an oath that they would not do so.
Reynolds then ordered the house cleared of women and gave the negroes
just five minutes in which to surrender.

Up to this time the women had been quiet, but they now began to scream.
This probably demoralized the negro men. One of them poked McCarthy's
pistol, muzzle foremost, out of a window.

"Here, come get your d--n pistol," he said.

McCarthy, a new man in the service, stepped up and grasped it. The
instant the negro felt the touch of McCarthy's hand on the weapon he
pulled the trigger. The ball pierced McCarthy's body just above the
heart, giving him a mortal wound.

At the crack of the pistol the rangers opened fire through the doors
and windows on the negroes within the house. Reynolds and his men then
charged the place, and when the smoke of battle cleared they found
four dead negro men and a little negro girl that had been killed by
accident. Only one black escaped. He was hidden under a bed, and as
the rangers came in, made a dash to safety under cover of darkness.
McCarthy died the following day and was buried near old Fort McKavett.
Negro George fought like a tiger and won the boys' praise.

A few days afterward the sheriff of Tom Green County, following the
trail of a bunch of stolen cattle from San Angelo, came into our
camp. Lieutenant Reynolds sent Sergeant Nevill and a scout of rangers
with the sheriff. The trail led over to the South Llano, where the
cattle were recovered. While scouting around the herd, Sergeant
Nevill discovered a man riding down the trail toward him. He and his
men secreted themselves and awaited the stranger's approach. It was
getting quite dark, and when the newcomer had ridden almost over
the concealed rangers without noticing their presence they rose up,
presented their guns and ordered him to halt.

"Yes,--like hell!" he exclaimed, and, turning his horse, dived into a
cedar brake. A shower of bullets followed, but failed to strike the
fugitive. This was the notorious Dick Dublin with a $700 reward on his
head.

Sergeant Nevill returned to camp with about fifty head of burnt cattle,
but let the most notorious criminal in the county escape. Lieutenant
Reynolds was disappointed at this, and said he did not understand how
four crack rangers could let a man ride right over them and then get
away. He declared his negro cook could have killed Dublin had he been
in their place. This mortified the boys a great deal.

The latter part of December, 1877, Lieutenant Reynolds sent a scout
out on Little Saline, Menard County. On Christmas day this detail had
a running fight with four men. John Collins, the man who stole a yoke
of oxen at Fredericksburg and drove them up to within two miles of our
camp, was captured, as was also John Gray, wanted for murder in one of
the eastern counties. Jim Pope Mason, charged with the murder of Rance
Moore, was in this skirmish, but escaped.

One cold morning about the middle of January Corporal Gillett, with
Privates John and Will Banister, Tom Gillespie, Dave Ligon, and Ben
Carter, was ordered on a five days' scout. We saddled our horses and
packed two mules. When all was ready I walked over to Lieutenant
Reynolds. He was sitting on a camp stool before his tent and seemed in
a brown study. I saluted and asked for orders.

"Well, Corporal," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "it is a
scout after Dick Dublin again. That man seems to be a regular Jonah
to this company. He lives only ten miles from here and I have been
awfully disappointed at not being able to effect his capture. It is a
reflection on all of Company 'E.' There is one thing sure if I can't
capture him I will make life miserable for him. I will keep a scout in
the field after him constantly."

I then asked if he had any instructions as to the route I should travel.

"No, no," he replied. "I rely too much on your judgment to hamper you
with orders. After you are once out of sight of camp you know these
mountains and trails better than I do. Just go and do your best. If you
come in contact with him don't let him get away."

After riding a half mile from camp the boys began inquiring where we
were going and who we were after. I told them Dick Dublin. We quit the
road and traveled south from our camp over to the head of Pack Saddle
Creek. Here we turned down the creek and rounded up the Potter ranch,
but no one was at home, so we passed on into the cedar brake without
having been seen.

On the extreme headwaters of South Llano River some cattlemen had built
a large stock pen and were using it to confine wild cattle. This was
far out beyond any settlement and probably fifty or sixty miles from
our camp. I thought it possible that Dick Dublin might be hanging
around the place, so we traveled through the woods most of the way to
it. Here I found that the cattlemen had moved.

The scout had now been out two days, so we began our return journey. We
traveled probably twenty-five miles on the third day. On the fourth day
I timed myself to reach the Potter ranch about night. Old man Potter,
a friend and neighbor of Dublin's, lived here with two grown sons. It
was known that Dublin frequented the place, and I hoped to catch him
here unawares. About sundown we were within a mile of the ranch. Here
we unsaddled our horses and prepared to round up the house. If we
met with no success we were to camp there for the night. I left John
Banister and Ligon to guard camp while Gillespie, Will Banister, and
Ben Carter, with myself, approached the ranch on foot. If I found no
one there I intended to return to our camp unseen and round up the
ranch again the following morning.

We had not traveled far before we discovered a lone man riding slowly
down the trail to the Potter ranch. We remained hidden and were able
to approach within fifty yards of the house without being seen. We now
halted in the bed of a creek for a short consultation. The one-room
cabin had only a single door, and before it was a small wagon. The
Potters cooked out of doors between the house and the wagon. We
could see a horse tied to the south side of the vehicle, but could
not see the camp fire for the wagon and the horse. To our right and
about twenty-five steps away old man Potter and one of his sons were
unloading some hogs from a wagon into a pen.

We knew the moment we left the creek bed we would be in full view
of the Potters and the ranch house. We decided, then, that we would
advance on the house as fast as we could run and so be in good position
to capture the man who had ridden into the camp. We rose from the creek
running. Old man Potter discovered us as we came in view and yelled,
"Run, Dick, run! Here comes the rangers!"

We then knew the man we wanted was at the camp. We were so close upon
Dublin that he had no time to mount his horse or get his gun, so he
made a run for the brush. I was within twenty-five yards of him when
he came from behind the wagon, running as fast as a big man could. I
ordered him to halt and surrender, but he had heard that call too many
times and kept going. Holding my Winchester carbine in my right hand I
fired a shot directly at him as I ran. In a moment he was out of sight.

I hurried to the place where he was last seen and spied him running
up a little ravine. I stopped, drew a bead on him, and again ordered
him to halt. As he ran, Dublin threw his hand back under his coat as
though he were attempting to draw a pistol. I fired. My bullet struck
the fugitive in the small of the back just over the right hip bone and
passed out near his right collarbone. It killed him instantly. He was
bending over as he ran, and this caused the unusual course of my ball.

The boys, whom I had outrun, now joined me, and Carter fired two shots
at Dublin after he was down. I ordered him to desist as the man was
dead. I examined the body to make sure it was Dublin, for I knew him
intimately, as I had cow hunted with him before I became a ranger. We
found him unarmed, but he had a belt of cartridges around his waist.
He was so completely surprised by our sudden appearance he could do
nothing but run. The $700 reward on him could never be collected, as it
was offered for his arrest and conviction. Dublin's brothers, Role and
Dell, swore vengeance against myself and the Banister boys, but nothing
ever came of the oath.

In the month of February, 1878, Lieutenant Reynolds started to Austin
with five prisoners we had captured in Kimble and Menard Counties.
They were chained together in pairs, John Stephens, the odd man, was
shackled by himself. As guard for these prisoners Reynolds had detailed
Will and John Banister, Dave Ligon, Ben Garter, Dick Ware, and myself.

On the Junction City and Mason road, some ten miles east of our camp,
was the small ranch of Starke Reynolds, a fugitive from justice,
charged with horse stealing and assault to kill. Company "E" had
scouted for him in Kimble County and had rounded up his ranch many
times. We knew he was in the county, but he always managed to escape
us. As we passed this ranch, Lieutenant Reynolds, Privates Ware,
Carter, Ligon, and myself were marching in front, with a four-mule
wagon following us, in which were the chained prisoners. Behind it
came the Banisters, who were on guard that day and detailed to keep a
constant watch on the captive outlaws.

We passed the Starke Reynolds' home about 10 o'clock in the morning,
and Lieutenant Reynolds remarked that it was hardly worth while to
round up the house as he had done so many times in the past without
result, but that he would surely like to capture the fellow. We had
not ridden more than half a mile beyond the ranch when we came face to
face with Starke himself. He was a small man and riding an exceedingly
good brown pony. We were about four hundred yards apart and discovered
each other at the same instant. The outlaw was carrying a small sack of
flour in front of him. He immediately threw this down, turned his horse
quickly and made a lightning dash for the Llano bottoms, some three
miles away.

At that point the Junction City and Mason road winds along a range of
high mountains with the country sloping downward to the Llano River.
This grade was studded with scrubby live oak and mesquite brush not
thick enough to hide a man but sufficiently dense to retard his flight
through it. We gave chase at once and for a mile and a half it was the
fastest race I ever saw the rangers run. We were closely bunched the
entire distance, with Lieutenant Reynolds--he was riding a fast race
horse--always slightly in the lead. He finally got close enough to the
fugitive to demand his surrender. Starke only waved his gun defiantly
and redoubled his speed. Lieutenant Reynolds then drew his six-shooter
and began firing at the outlaw. After emptying his pistol he began
using his Winchester.

The Llano bottoms were now looming right up in front of us. The race
had been fast enough to run every horse into a big limber. Carter,
Ware, and Ligon dropped out of the race. Up to this time I had
contented myself by trying to keep up with Lieutenant Reynolds, for it
is always easier to follow a man through the brush than to run in the
lead. I had a good grip on my bridle reins and was trying to steady my
pony as best I could. I now saw that the outlaw was beginning to gain
on us. I ran up beside the lieutenant and said, "He is getting away
from us. Must I go after him?"

Lieutenant Reynolds turned and looked at me with the wildest look
on his face that I ever saw. His hat was gone, his face was badly
scratched by the brush with the blood running down over his white shirt
bosom.

"Yes, G-- d--n him; stop or kill him!"

I changed the bridle reins to my left hand, drew my gun with my right
and, digging my spurs deep into my pony's side, I was out of sight of
the lieutenant in three hundred yards. The fugitive saw that I was
alone and that I was going to overhaul him. He suddenly brought his
pony to a standstill, jumped down, took shelter behind the animal and
drew a bead on me with his gun.

"G-- d--n you, stop, or I'll kill you!" he cried.

I tried to obey his order, but my pony was running down hill and ran
straight at him for twenty-five yards more before I could stop. I
jumped down from my horse and made ready to fight, but Starke broke for
a thicket on foot. As soon as he ran out from behind his pony I fired
at him. The bullet must have come rather close to him, for he turned
quickly and took shelter behind his mount again. As he peeped over his
saddle at me I attempted to draw a bead on his head, but I was tired,
nervous and unsteady. Before I could shoot Dave Ligon galloped right up
to the outlaw, ordered him to surrender and drop his gun, which Starke
did at once. The boys had heard me shoot and in five minutes were all
upon the scene.

The captive was searched and ordered to remount his pony. With one
of the boys leading Starke's mount we started back to the wagon,
nearly three miles away. As soon as the outlaw was a prisoner and
knew he would not be harmed no matter what he said, he began a tirade
against the rangers. He declared the whole battalion was a set of d--d
murderers, especially Company "E," and said it was curbstone talk in
Menard, Mason and Kimble Counties that Lieutenant Reynolds' men would
kill a man and then yell for him to throw up his hands. He kept up this
running talk until he exhausted Lieutenant Reynolds' patience. The
latter then ordered Starke to shut up, and declared the speaker was a
d--d liar, for Company "E" never killed a man without first giving him
a chance to surrender. Lieutenant Reynolds then said that with the last
old brier-breaker captured he had accomplished the task set him and was
now ready to go elsewhere.

As we rode along one of the boys remarked that my pony was limping
badly.

"I wish his leg would come right off up to his shoulder," declared
Starke in disgust. "If it hadn't been for him I would have made it to
the bottoms and escaped."

On approaching the wagon the prisoner Stephens, a man of some
intelligence and humor, stood up and called out to Starke, "By G--, old
man, they got you! They rode too many corn fed horses and carried too
many guns for you. I don't know who you are, but I'm sorry for you.
While they were chasing you I got down on my knees here in this wagon
and with my face turned up to the skies I prayed to the Almighty God
that you might get away."

Starke was chained to this good-natured liar, and now, for the first
time, our prisoner seemed to realize his condition. He asked Lieutenant
Reynolds to send word to his family that he had been captured. The
lieutenant thereupon sent one of the boys to Starke's home to tell Mrs.
Reynolds that the rangers would camp on Red Greek for dinner, and if
she wished to see her husband we would be there probably two hours.

Presently Starke's old gray-haired father came to our midday camp. When
he saw his son chained he burst out crying, saying, "My son, it is not
my fault that you are in this condition. I did my best to give you good
advice and tried to raise you right."

After dinner we resumed our march toward Austin. Starke Reynolds was
finally turned over to the sheriff of Tarrant County. He was admitted
to bail and gave bond, but before he came to trial he was waylaid and
killed, supposedly by relatives of the man he had previously attempted
to murder.

Early in the spring of 1878 a ranchman living five miles above our
camp saw a bunch of Indians on Bear Creek, Kimble County, and at once
reported to Lieutenant Reynolds. The redskins had been seen late in
the evening, and by the time a scout could be started after them it
was almost night. The lieutenant, however, followed the trail until it
entered a cedar brake. It was then too dark to work farther, so the
scout returned to camp to make arrangements to resume the trail the
following morning. On the march back to camp the rangers picked up a
paint pony with an arrow sticking in its hip. The Indians had probably
tried to catch the horse and, failing to do so, had shot it, as was
their custom.

Just after dark a runner from Junction City came in and reported a
bunch of redskins had been seen near the town stealing horses. It was
a beautiful moonlight night and a close watch was kept on our horses.
Just at midnight John Banister, an alert man on guard, noticed that one
of our pack mules hitched at the end of our picket line was pulling
back on its rope and looking over a brush fence that enclosed the camp.
With Winchester in hand Banister passed through a gate, walked slowly
down the fence and into some small underbrush near the mule.

Suddenly a man rose to his feet and fired on Banister at a distance of
not more than ten steps, then broke and ran. Banister at once opened
fire on the Indian. The very first report of a gun brought every man
in camp out of his bed. We could see the flashes of Banister's gun and
went to his aid in our night clothes and barefooted. I ran down by the
picket line of horses and jumped the fence where the mule had seen the
redskin. By moonlight I could glimpse the Indian running down the river
bank. I shot at him nine times as he ran, but without effect. Some two
hundred yards below our camp was a ford on the Llano and the fugitive
was making for it.

Just as soon as the Indian reached the crossing and plunged into the
river, eight or nine of the rangers that had followed Banister on the
high ground were in a position to shell the swimmer as he crossed.
There were probably a hundred shots fired at him, but he finally
disappeared in the brush on the south side of the river. Investigation
of the place where he crossed showed the timber cut all to pieces but,
strange to say, not a shot hit the Indian as far as we ever knew. We
found a blanket where the savage had risen and shot at Banister and,
measuring the ground, found that the ranger was just twelve short steps
from the Indian when fired upon by the redskin. It was a miracle that
Banister was not killed; the bullet, a .45 caliber, buried itself in
some sacks of corn in a tent just back of him.

The next morning we found where ten or twelve Indians had waited under
some large pecan trees while this scout slipped up to our camp to
investigate and steal a horse. The trees were about four hundred yards
from camp and on the opposite side of the river. Some of the rangers
jokingly said those old braves must have thought this lone one stirred
up hell at the ranger camp.

On account of the range cattle and horses along the Llano River,
Lieutenant Reynolds lost some eight or ten hours the next morning
before picking up the Indian trail. This gave the redskins ten or
twelve hours start, as they were at our camp just at midnight. The
trail passed out west between North and South Llano Rivers and followed
a rough mountain country that made pursuit difficult and slow. We
followed the savages five or six days and finally abandoned the trail
near the head of Devil's River after a heavy rain.

While we had been active in rounding up the numerous outlaws and cattle
thieves that infested Kimble County, we had not been able to clean up
the mystery of the Peg Leg stage robbers, which had long baffled the
best detectives, sheriffs, and rangers. Peg Leg was a small stage
station on the San Saba in the midst of a rough and very mountainous
country. Here the stage was repeatedly held up and as repeatedly the
robbers escaped. The scene of the hold-up was many times examined and
parties made determined efforts to trail the bandits but always without
success, for the trail was quickly lost in the rough mountains. One
of the features that proved particularly puzzling was the constant
recurrence of an exceedingly small footprint at each robbery. These
marks were so very small they convinced many observers that a woman
from Fort McKavett or Fort Concho was operating with the bandit gang.
Naturally the rangers were anxious to round up this group of outlaws
and put a stop to their depredations.

In May, 1878, Sergeant Nevill made a scout up on the South Llano and
captured Bill Alison, a son-in-law of old Jimmie Dublin, father of the
bandit, Dick Dublin. Alison was wanted on several charges of cattle
theft, and was taken to Austin for safekeeping. After remaining in
the Travis County jail for nearly a year without being able to give
bond, Alison became discouraged. He believed his brothers-in-law,
the Dublins, were not aiding him to get bond and became bitter and
resentful toward them. This antagonism finally led to the unveiling of
the Peg Leg mystery.

In the spring of 1879 Dick Ware and myself took some prisoners to the
Austin jail. Bill Alison saw us and called out to me. He and I had been
cowboys together long before I became a ranger.

"Jim," said Alison, "you know I have been cooped up here in this jail
for nearly a year. People who ought to be my friends have evidently
abandoned me and I am not going to stand it any longer. I can put the
Peg Leg stage robbers behind the bars, and I am going to do it."

Ware, who was something of a diplomat, said, "Hold on, Bill. If you
have anything to confess we will get an order from the sheriff to take
you to see General Jones so you can talk to him."

The general at once wrote a note to Dennis Corwin, sheriff of Travis
County, and asked that he let Alison accompany us to his office. The
sheriff turned his prisoner over to us and we took him to General
Jones, who had a private interview with him for over an hour. What
Alison confessed we did not know, but we returned him to the jail.

General Jones moved quickly, for the very next day a scout of rangers
from Company "E" was sent back to Kimble County. I was just preparing
to go west to El Paso with Colonel Baylor, so I missed this last and
most important scout back into Kimble County. However, this final
expedition was so successful I cannot omit it from a history of the
rangers.

Arriving at Kimble County the Company "E" detail arrested Role and
Dell Dublin, Mack Potter and Rube Boyce. In the running fight that
resulted in their capture Role received a bad wound in the hip. The
two Dublin brothers and Mack Potter when arraigned in Federal court
plead guilty to stage robbery and were sentenced to fifteen years at
hard labor. During their trial the mystery of the Peg Leg robberies
was finally cleared up. The Dublin boys were the guiding spirits in
the hold-ups and worked with great cleverness. Old man Jimmie Dublin's
ranch on the South Llano was their headquarters. From the ranch to
Peg Leg Station on the San Saba was not more than sixty miles across
a rough, mountainous country. As there were no wire fences in those
days the robbers would ride over to the station, rob the stage and in
one night's ride regain their home. Traveling at night they were never
observed. Dick Dublin, whose death while resisting capture has already
been described, was the leader of the bandit gang. Even the mystery of
the tiny footprints was disclosed; they were made by Mack Potter, who
had an unusually small foot for a man.

While Rube Boyce was confined in the Travis County jail he made one of
the most sensational jail escapes in the criminal annals of Texas. Mrs.
Boyce called at the prison with a suit of clean underclothes for her
husband. The basket in which she carried them was examined and she was
admitted into the cell of her husband. However, she had hidden a big
.45 Colt's revolver about her person and smuggled it in. Rube changed
his underwear, put the soiled garments in the basket and hid the pistol
under them.

At the end of her visit Mrs. Boyce started out and Rube accompanied her
down the corridor to the door. Mr. Albert Nichols, the jailer, opened
the door with his left hand to let the woman pass out, at the same
time holding his pistol in his right hand. As the door swung open Rube
reached into the basket he was carrying for his wife, whipped out the
hidden pistol, thrust it into the jailer's face and ordered him to drop
his .45 and step within the jail. Realizing that a second's hesitation
would mean his death, Nichols complied and was locked in by the outlaw.

Boyce then ran out of the back yard of the jail, mounted a pony that
had been hitched there for him and galloped out of Austin, firing his
pistol as he ran. He made a complete get-away. Three or four years
later he was arrested at Socorro, New Mexico, and returned to Austin.
At his trial for participation in the Peg Leg stage robberies he was
acquitted, and perhaps justly so, for Bill Alison declared to me that
Dick Dublin with his brothers Dell and Role and Mack Potter were the
real robbers.

The arrest and conviction of the Dublins, together with the other men
Lieutenant Reynolds had captured or killed completely cleaned out the
stage robbers, cattle and horse thieves and murderers that had made
Kimble County their rendezvous. Today Kimble County is one of the
most prosperous and picturesque counties in the state. Its citizens
are law-abiding and energetic. Junction City, the county seat, is a
splendid little city of probably twenty-five hundred inhabitants.

Forty years ago, the time of which I write, there were no courthouses
in Kimble County. The first district courts were held under the
spreading boughs of a large oak tree. The rangers, of which I was
frequently one, guarded the prisoners under another tree at a
convenient distance from the judge and his attendants.

Late in the spring or early summer of 1878 at a session of the County
Court of San Saba County, Billy Brown was being prosecuted by County
Attorney Brooks for a violation of the prohibition laws. Brown took
offense at a remark of the prosecuting attorney and attempted to draw
his six-shooter on him. T.J.T. Kendall, a law partner of Brooks, saw
Brown's move and quickly whipping out his own pistol, he killed Brown
in the courtroom. Then, fearing a mob if captured, Kendall fortified
himself in a second story of the courthouse and refused to surrender.
He held the whole town at bay while his wife administered to his wants.
Meantime, he sent a hurry call to the nearest rangers asking for
protection against mob violence. Captain Arrington received the message
and sent a detachment from Coleman to San Saba to preserve order.

General Jones was notified and ordered Lieutenant Reynolds at Junction
City to march to San Saba with his company, take charge of Kendall and
relieve Captain Arrington's men. It was probably two weeks after the
killing before Company "E" reached San Saba, but Mr. Kendall was still
holding fort in the upper story of the courthouse.

On the arrival of Reynolds' company, Kendall asked the court for a
preliminary examination. When court convened, the prisoner waived
examination and asked for transference to the Travis County jail at
Austin. The court, realizing the feeling against Kendall, ordered his
removal thither.

When the time came for Kendall's removal a hack was driven up to the
courthouse door, where a great crowd had assembled to see the prisoner.
Jim Brown, sheriff of Lee County, Texas, and brother of Bill Brown,
heavily armed, had taken his station within ten feet of the prison
door. Just before Mr. Kendall descended the courthouse steps Lieutenant
Reynolds ordered the crowd to fall back fifty feet from the hack. The
people immediately obeyed with the exception of Jim Brown, who sat
perfectly still on his horse. The lieutenant looked at Brown for a
minute, then turned to his rangers and ordered them to draw their guns
and move everyone fifty yards from the courthouse. Like a flash every
ranger drew his gun, dismounted and waved the crowd back.

Brown turned to Reynolds and said, "I am going to Austin with you."

"If you do, you will go in irons. Move back!"

Brown, who had killed several men, slowly turned his horse and rode
away. He did not know the man with whom he was dealing. Lawyer Kendall
was thereupon carried to Austin without incident.

When we reached Austin, Jim Brown met Lieutenant Reynolds on the street
and apologized for the way he had acted at San Saba. He said he fully
intended to kill Kendall as he approached the hack, but the presence
of so many rangers caused him to change his mind. Lieutenant Reynolds
declared he was anticipating just such a move and had instructed his
men to shoot Brown into doll rags at his first move.

Soon after this Lieutenant Reynolds moved Company "E" down on the San
Saba in a beautiful pecan grove, an ideal summer camp, about two miles
from the town of San Saba. From this point we scouted all over Llano,
Lampasas, Burnet and San Saba Counties at our favorite pursuit of
rounding up bad men. It was from this camp that we made our sensational
ride to Round Rock after Sam Bass, the notorious train robber.




CHAPTER IX

SAM BASS AND HIS TRAIN ROBBER GANG


Sam Bass, the noted train robber, was born in Indiana, July 21, 1851.
He came to Texas while quite a youth and worked for Sheriff Everhart of
Denton County until he reached manhood. While still an exemplary and
honest young man, Bass came into possession of a small race pony, a
little sorrel mare. On Saturday evenings, when most of the neighborhood
boys met in Denton, Bass raced his pony with much success. Mr. Everhart
soon noticed that Sam was beginning to neglect his work because of his
pony and, knowing only too well what this would lead to, he advised
Sam to sell his mare. Bass hesitated, for he loved the animal. Finally
matters came to such a point that Mr. Everhart told Sam he would have
to get rid of the horse or give up his job. Thereupon Bass promptly
quit, and this was probably the turning point in his life.

Bass left Denton County in the spring of 1877 and traveled to San
Antonio. Here many cattlemen were gathered to arrange for the spring
cattle drive to the north. Joel Collins, who was planning to drive a
herd from Uvalde County to Deadwood, Dakota, hired Bass as a cowboy.
After six months on the trail the herd reached Deadwood and was sold
and all the cowboys paid off by Mr. Collins.

At that period Deadwood was a great, wide open mining town.
Adventurers, gamblers, mining and cattlemen all mingled together.
Though Joel Collins had bought his cattle on credit and owed the
greater part of the money he had received for them to his friends in
Texas, he gambled away all the money he had received for the herd.
When he sobered up and realized all his money was gone he did not have
the moral courage to face his friends and creditors at home. He became
desperate, and with a band of his cowboys held up and robbed several
stage coaches in the Black Hills. These robberies brought Collins very
little booty, but they started Sam Bass on his criminal career.

In the fall of 1877, Collins, accompanied by Bass, Jack Davis, Jim
Berry, Bill Heffridge, and John Underwood, better known as Old
Dad, left Deadwood and drifted down to Ogallala, Nebraska. Here he
conceived, planned and carried into execution one of the boldest train
robberies that ever occurred in the United States up to that time.
When all was ready these six men, heavily armed and masked, held up
the Union Pacific train at Big Springs, a small station a few miles
beyond Ogallala. The bandits entered the express car and ordered the
messenger to open the safe. The latter explained that the through safe
had a time lock and could only be opened at the end of the route. One
of the robbers then began to beat the messenger over the head with a
six-shooter, declaring he would kill him if the safe were not opened.
Bass, always of a kindly nature, pleaded with the man to desist,
declaring he believed the messenger was telling the truth. Just as the
robbers were preparing to leave the car without a cent one of them
noticed three stout little boxes piled near the big safe. The curious
bandit seized a coal pick and knocked off the lid of the top box. To
his great joy and delight he exposed $20,000 in shining gold coin! The
three boxes each held a similar amount, all in $20 gold pieces of the
mintage of 1877.

After looting these boxes the robbers went through the train, and in
a systematic manner robbed the passengers of about $5000. By daylight
the bandits had hidden their booty and returned to Ogallala. They
hung around town several days while railroad officials, United States
marshals and sheriffs' parties were scouring the country for the train
robbers.

While in Ogallala before and after the robbery, Collins and his men
frequented a large general merchandise store. In this store was a
clerk who had once been an express messenger on the Union Pacific and
who was well acquainted with the officials of that company. I have
forgotten his name, but I will call him Moore for the sake of clearness
in my narrative. Of course the great train robbery was the talk of the
town. Moore conversed with Collins and his gang about the hold-up, and
the bandits declared they would help hunt the robbers if there was
enough money in it.

Moore's suspicions were aroused and he became convinced that Collins
and his band were the real hold-up men. However, he said nothing to
anyone about this belief, but carefully watched the men. Finally,
Collins came to the store and, after buying clothing and provisions,
told Mr. Moore that he and his companions were going back to Texas and
would be up the trail the following spring with another herd of cattle.
When Collins had been gone a day's travel, Mr. Moore hired a horse and
followed him. He soon found the route the suspects were traveling,
and on the second day Moore came upon them suddenly while they were
stopping at a roadside farmhouse to have some bread cooked. Moore
passed by without being noticed and secreted himself near the highway.
In a short time Collins and his men passed on and Moore trailed them
until they went into camp. When it was dark the amateur detective
crept up to the bandits, but they had gone to sleep and he learned
nothing.

The next day Moore resumed the trail. He watched the gang make
their camp for the night and again crept up to within a few yards
of his suspects. The bandits had built a big fire and were laughing
and talking. Soon they spread out a blanket, and to Moore's great
astonishment brought out some money bags and emptied upon the blanket
sixty thousand dollars in gold. From his concealed position the trailer
heard the robbers discuss the hold-up. They declared they did not
believe anyone had recognized or suspected them and decided it was now
best for them to divide the money, separate in pairs and go their way.
The coin was stacked in six piles and each man received $10,000 in $20
gold pieces. It was further decided that Collins and Bill Heffridge
would travel back to San Antonio, Texas, together; Sam Bass and Jack
Davis were to go to Denton County, Texas, while Jim Berry and Old Dad
were to return to the Berry home in Mexico, Missouri.

As soon as Mr. Moore had seen the money and heard the robbers' plans
he slipped back to his horse, mounted and rode day and night to reach
Ogallala. He notified the railroad officials of what he had seen, gave
the names and descriptions of the bandits and their destinations.
This information was sent broadcast over southern Nebraska, Kansas,
Indian Territory, and Texas. In the fugitive list sent to each of
the companies of the Frontier Battalion of rangers Sam Bass was thus
described: "Twenty-five to twenty-six years old, 5 feet 7 inches high,
black hair, dark brown eyes, brown moustache, large white teeth, shows
them when talking; has very little to say."

A few days after the separation of the robbers, Joel Collins and Bill
Heffridge rode into a small place in Kansas called Buffalo Station.
They led a pack pony. Dismounting from their tired horses and leaving
them standing in the shade of the store building, the two men entered
the store and made several purchases. The railroad agent at the place
noticed the strangers ride up. He had, of course, been advised to be
on the lookout for the train robbers. He entered the store and in a
little while engaged Collins in conversation. While talking the robber
pulled his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and exposed a letter
with his name thereon. The agent was a shrewd man. He asked Collins if
he had not driven a herd of cattle up the trail in the spring. Collins
declared he had, and finally, in answer to a direct question, admitted
that his name was Joel Collins.

Five or six hundred yards from Buffalo Station a lieutenant of the
United States Army had camped a troop of ten men that was scouting
for the train robbers. As soon as Collins and Heffridge remounted and
resumed their way the agent ran quickly to the soldiers' camp, pointed
out the bandits to the lieutenant and declared, "There go two of the
Union Pacific train robbers!"

The army officer mounted his men and pursued Collins and Heffridge.
When he overtook the two men he told them their descriptions tallied
with those of some train robbers that he was scouting for, and declared
they would have to go back to the station and be identified. Collins
laughed at the idea, and declared that he and his companion were
cattlemen returning to their homes in Texas. They reluctantly turned
and started back with the soldiers. After riding a few hundred yards
the two robbers held a whispered conversation. Suddenly the two pulled
their pistols and attempted to stand off the lieutenant and his troop.
The desperadoes were promptly shot and killed. On examining their packs
the soldiers found tied up in the legs of a pair of overalls $20,000 in
gold, 1877 mintage. Not a dollar of the stolen money had been used and
there was no doubt about the identity of the men.

Not long after the divide up in Nebraska Jim Berry appeared at his home
in Mexico, Missouri. At once he deposited quite a lot of money in the
local bank and exchanged $3000 in gold for currency, explaining his
possession of the gold by saying he had sold a mine in the Black Hills.
In three or four days the sheriff of the county learned of Berry's
deposits and called at the bank to see the new depositor's gold. His
suspicion became a certainty when he found that Berry had deposited $20
gold pieces of 1877.

At night the sheriff with a posse rounded up Berry's house, but the
suspect was not there. The home was well provisioned and the posse
found many articles of newly purchased clothing. Just after daylight,
while searching about the place the sheriff heard a horse whinny in
some timber nearby. Upon investigating this he suddenly came upon Jim
Berry sitting on a pallet. Berry discovered the officer at about the
same time and attempted to escape by running. He was fired upon, one
bullet striking him in the knee and badly shattering it. He was taken
to his home and given the best of medical attention, but gangrene set
in and he died in a few days. Most of his $10,000 was recovered. Old
Dad evidently quit Berry somewhere en route, for he made good his
escape with his ill-gotten gain and was never apprehended.

Sam Bass and Jack Davis, after the separation in Nebraska, sold their
ponies, bought a light spring wagon and a pair of work horses. They
placed their gold pieces in the bottom of the wagon, threw their
bedding and clothes over it, and in this disguise traveled through
Kansas and the Indian Territory to Denton County, Texas. During their
trip through the Territory Bass afterward said he camped within one
hundred yards of a detachment of cavalry. After supper he and Davis
visited the soldiers' camp and chatted with them until bedtime. The
soldiers said they were on the lookout for some train robbers that had
held up the Union Pacific in Nebraska, never dreaming for a moment that
they were conversing with two of them. The men also mentioned that two
of the robbers had been reported killed in Kansas.

This rumor put Bass and Davis on their guard, and on reaching Denton
County they hid in the elm bottoms until Bass could interview some
of his friends. Upon meeting them he learned that the names and
descriptions of every one of the Union Pacific train robbers were in
the possession of the law officers; that Collins, Heffridge, and Berry
had been killed; and that every sheriff in North Texas was on the
watch for Davis and himself. Davis at once begged Bass to go with him
to South America, but Bass refused, so Davis bade Sam goodbye and set
out alone. He was never captured. On his deathbed Bass declared he had
once received a letter from Jack Davis written from New Orleans, asking
Bass to come there and go into the business of buying hides.

Bass had left Denton County early in the spring an honest, sincere and
clean young man. By falling with evil associates he had become within
a few months one of the most daring outlaws and train robbers of his
time. Before he had committed any crime in the state the officers of
North Texas made repeated efforts to capture him for the big reward
offered by the Union Pacific and the express company but, owing to the
nature of the country around Denton and the friends Bass had as long as
his gold lasted, met with no success.

Bass' money soon attracted several desperate and daring men to him.
Henry Underwood, Arkansas Johnson, Jim Murphy, Frank Jackson, Pipes
Herndon, and Collins,--the last one a cousin of Joel Collins--and two
or three others joined him in the elm bottoms. Naturally Bass was
selected as leader of the gang. It was not long before the outlaw chief
planned and executed his first train robbery in Texas: that at Eagle
Ford, a small station on the T.P. Railroad, a few miles out of Dallas.
In quick succession the bandits held up two or three other trains, the
last, I believe, being at Mesquite Station, ten or twelve miles east
of Dallas. From this robbery they secured about $3000. They met with
opposition here, for the conductor, though armed with only a small
pistol, fought the robbers to a fare-you-well and slightly wounded one
of them.

The whole state was now aroused by the repeated train hold-ups. General
Jones hurried to Dallas and Denton to look over the situation and,
strange to say, he arranged to organize a company of rangers at Dallas.
Captain June Peak, a very able officer, was given the command. No
matter how brave a company of recruits, it takes time and training to
get results from them, and when this raw company was thrown into the
field against Bass and his gang the bandit leader played with it as a
child plays with toys. Counting the thirty rangers and the different
sheriffs' parties, there were probably one hundred men in pursuit of
the Bass gang. Sam played hide-and-seek with them all and, it is said,
never ranged any farther west than Stephens County or farther north
than Wise. He was generally in Dallas, Denton or Tarrant Counties. He
would frequently visit Fort Worth or Dallas at night, ride up with his
men to some outside saloon, get drinks all around and then vamoose.

Finally in a fight at Salt Creek, Wise County, Captain June Peak and
his rangers killed Arkansas Johnson, Bass' most trusted lieutenant.
Either just before or soon after this battle the rangers captured Pipes
Herndon and Jim Murphy and drove Bass and his two remaining companions
out of North Texas. At that time the state had on the frontier of Texas
six companies of veteran rangers. They were finely mounted, highly
equipped, and were the best mounted police in the world. Any company on
the line could have been marched to Denton in ten days, yet they were
never moved one mile in that direction. Any one of those highly trained
commands could have broken up the Sam Bass gang in half the time it
took a command of new men.

After the fight on Salt Creek only Sam Bass, Sebe Barnes, and Frank
Jackson were left of the once formidable gang. These men had gained
nothing from their four train robberies in North Texas, and were
so hard pressed by the officers of the law on all sides that Bass
reluctantly decided to leave the country and try to make his way to Old
Mexico. Through some pretended friends of Bass, General Jones learned
of the contemplated move. He, with Captain Peak and other officers,
approached Jim Murphy, one of Bass' gang captured about the time of the
Salt Creek fight, who was awaiting trial by the Federal authorities
for train robbery, and promised they would secure his release if he
would betray Bass. Murphy hesitated and said his former chief had been
kind to his family, had given them money and provisions, and that it
would be ungrateful to betray his friend. The general declared he
understood Murphy's position fully, but Bass was an outlaw, a pest
to the country, who was preparing to leave the state and so could
no longer help him. General Jones warned Murphy that the evidence
against him was overwhelming and was certain to send him to the Federal
prison--probably for life-and exhorted him to remember his wife and his
children. Murphy finally yielded and agreed to betray Bass and his gang
at the first opportunity.

According to the plan agreed upon Murphy was to give bond and when the
Federal court convened at Tyler, Texas, a few weeks later he was not to
show up. It would then be published all over the country that Murphy
had skipped bond and rejoined Bass. This was carried out to the letter.
Murphy joined Bass in the elm bottoms of Denton County and agreed
to rob a train or bank and get out of the country. Some of Bass'
friends, suspicious of Murphy's bondsmen, wrote Sam that Murphy was
playing a double game and advised him to kill the traitor at once. Bass
immediately confronted Murphy with these reports and reminded him how
freely he had handed out his gold to Murphy's family. Bass declared he
had never advised or solicited Jim to join him, and said it was a low
down, mean and ungrateful trick to betray him. He told Murphy plainly
if he had anything to say to say it quickly. Barnes agreed with his
chief and urged Murphy's death.

The plotter denied any intention of betraying Bass and offered to take
the lead in any robbery Bass should plan and be the first to enter the
express car or climb over the bank railing. Bass was mad and so was
Barnes. They elected to kill the liar at once. Frank Jackson had taken
no part in the conversation, but he now declared he had known Murphy
since he was a little boy, and he was sure Murphy was sincere and meant
to stand by them through thick and thin. Bass was not satisfied, and
insisted that Murphy be murdered then and there. Jackson finally told
Bass and Barnes that they could not kill Murphy without first killing
him. Although the youngest of the party--Frank was only twenty-two
years old--Jackson had great influence over his chief. He was brave
and daring, and Bass at that time could not very well get along without
him, so his counsel prevailed and Murphy was spared. The bandits then
determined to quit the country. Their plan was to rob a small bank
somewhere en route to Old Mexico and thus secure the funds needed to
facilitate their escape, for they were all broke.

Bass, Sebe Barnes, Frank Jackson, and Jim Murphy left Denton County
early in July, 1878. With his usual boldness, Bass, after he had passed
Dallas County, made no attempt at concealment, but traveled the public
highway in broad daylight. Bass and Barnes were still suspicious of
Murphy, and never let him out of their sight, though they refused to
talk to or to associate with him in any way. When Bass reached Waco the
party camped on the outskirts of the town and remained there two or
three days. They visited the town each day, looked over the situation,
and in one bank saw much gold and currency. Jackson was enthusiastic
and wanted to rob it at once. Bass, being more careful and experienced,
thought it too hazardous an undertaking, for the run through crowded
streets to the outskirts of the city was too far; and so vetoed the
attempt.

While in Waco the gang stepped into a saloon to get a drink. Bass laid
a $20 gold piece on the bar and remarked, "There goes the last twenty
of the Union Pacific money and d--n little good it has done me." On
leaving Waco the robbers stole a fine mare from a farmer named Billy
Mounds and traveled the main road to Belton. They were now out of money
and planned to rob the bank at Round Rock, Williamson County.

General Jones was now getting anxious over the gang. Not a word had
been heard from Jim Murphy since he had rejoined the band, for he had
been so closely watched that he had had no opportunity to communicate
with the authorities, and it seemed as if he would be forced to
participate in the next robbery in spite of himself.

At Belton Sam sold an extra pony his party had after stealing the
mare at Waco. The purchaser demanded a bill of sale as the vendors
were strangers in the country. While Bass and Barnes were in a store
writing out the required document, Murphy seized the opportunity to
dash off a short note to General Jones, saying, "We are on our way to
Round Rock to rob the bank. For God's sake be there to prevent it." As
the postoffice adjoined the store the traitor succeeded in mailing his
letter of betrayal just one minute before Bass came out on the street
again. The gang continued their way to Round Rock and camped near the
old town, which is situated about one mile north of New Round Rock. The
bandits concluded to rest and feed their horses for three or four days
before attempting their robbery. This delay was providential, for it
gave General Jones time to assemble his rangers to repel the attack.

After Major Jones was made Adjutant-General of Texas he caused a small
detachment of four or five rangers to camp on the Capitol grounds at
Austin. He drew his units from different companies along the line. Each
unit would be detailed to camp in Austin, and about every six weeks
or two months the detail would be relieved by a squad from another
company. It will readily be seen that this was a wise policy, as the
detail was always on hand and could be sent in any direction by rail or
on horseback at short notice. Besides, General Jones was devoted to his
rangers and liked to have them around where he could see them daily. At
the time of which I write four men from Company "E"--Corporal Vernon
Wilson and Privates Dick Ware, Chris Connor, and Geo. Harold--were
camped at Austin. The corporal helped General Jones as a clerk in his
office, but was in charge of the squad on the Capitol grounds, slept in
camp and had his meals with them.

When General Jones received Murphy's letter he was astonished at
Bass' audacity in approaching within fifteen or twenty miles of the
state capitol, the very headquarters of the Frontier Battalion, to
rob a bank. The letter was written at Belton, Texas, and received at
the Adjutant-General's office on the last mail in the afternoon. The
company of rangers nearest Round Rock was Lieutenant Reynolds' Company
"E," stationed at San Saba, one hundred and fifteen miles distant.
There was no telegraph to San Saba then. General Jones reflected a few
moments after receipt of the letter and then arranged his plan rapidly.

He turned to Corporal Wilson and told him that Sam Bass and his gang
were, or soon would be, at Round Rock, Texas, to rob the bank there.

"I want you to leave at once to carry an order to Lieutenant Reynolds.
It is sixty-five miles to Lampasas and you can make that place early
enough in the morning to catch the Lampasas and San Saba stage. You
must make that stage at all hazards, save neither yourself nor your
horse, but get these orders to Lieutenant Reynolds as quickly as
possible," he ordered.

Corporal Wilson hurried to the livery stable, saddled his horse and
got away from Austin on his wild ride just at nightfall. His horse was
fresh and fat and in no condition to make such a run. However, Wilson
reached Lampasas at daylight next morning and made the outgoing stage
to San Saba, but killed his gallant little gray horse in the doing of
it. From Lampasas to San Saba was fifty miles, and it took the stage
all day to make the trip. As soon as he landed in town Corporal Wilson
hired a horse and galloped three miles down to Lieutenant Reynolds'
camp and delivered his orders.

After dispatching Corporal Wilson to Lieutenant Reynolds, General Jones
hurried over to the ranger camp on the Capitol grounds and ordered the
three rangers, Ware, Connor, and Harold, to proceed to Round Rock,
put their horses in Highsmith's livery stable and keep themselves
concealed until he could reach them himself by train next morning. The
following morning General Jones went to Round Rock. He carried with
him from Austin, Morris Moore, an ex-ranger but then deputy sheriff of
Travis County. On reaching his destination the general called on Deputy
Sheriff Grimes of Williamson County, who was stationed at Round Rock,
told him Bass was expected in town to rob the bank, and that a scout
of rangers would be in town as soon as possible. Jones advised Deputy
Grimes to keep a sharp lookout for strangers but on no account to
attempt an arrest until the rangers could arrive.

I well remember the hot July evening when Corporal Wilson arrived
in our camp with his orders. The company had just had supper, the
horses fed and tied up for the night. We knew the sudden appearance
of the corporal meant something of unusual importance. Soon Sergeant
Nevill came hurrying to us with orders to detail a party for an
immediate scout. Lieutenant Reynolds' orders had been brief but to the
point: "Bass is at Round Rock. We must be there as early as possible
to-morrow. Make a detail of eight men and select those that have the
horses best able to make a fast run. And you, with them, report to me
here at my tent ready to ride in thirty minutes."

First Sergeant C.L. Nevill, Second Sergeant Henry McGee, Second
Corporal J.B. Gillett, Privates Abe Anglin, Dave Ligon, Bill Derrick,
and John R. and W.L. Banister were selected for the detail. Lieutenant
Reynolds ordered two of our best little pack mules hitched to a
light spring hack, for he had been sick and was not in condition to
make the journey horseback. In thirty minutes from the time Corporal
Wilson reached camp we were mounted, armed and ready to go. Lieutenant
Reynolds took his seat in the hack, threw some blankets in, and
Corporal Wilson, who had not had a minute's sleep for over thirty-six
hours, lay down to get a little rest as we moved along. Say, boys, did
you ever try to follow on horseback two fast traveling little mules
hitched to an open-topped spring hack for one hundred miles? Well, it
is some stunt. We left our camp on the San Saba River just at sunset
and traveled in a fast trot and sometimes in a lope the entire night.

Our old friend and comrade, Jack Martin, then in the mercantile
business at the little town of Senterfitt, heard us pass by in the
night, and next morning said to some of his customers that hell was to
pay somewhere as the rangers had passed his store during the night on a
dead run.

The first rays of the rising sun shone on us at the crossing of North
Gabriel, fifteen miles south of Lampasas. We had ridden sixty-five
miles that short summer night--we had forty-five miles yet to go before
reaching Round Rock. We halted on the Gabriel for breakfast of bread,
broiled bacon and black coffee. The horses had a bundle of oats each.
Lieutenant Reynolds held his watch on us and it took us just thirty
minutes to breakfast and be off again. We were now facing a hot July
sun and our horses were beginning to show the effects of the hard ride
of the night before and slowed down perceptibly. We never halted again
until we reached the vicinity of old Round Rock between 1 and 2 o'clock
in the afternoon of Friday, July 19, 1878. The lieutenant camped us on
the banks of Brushy Greek and drove into New Round Rock to report his
arrival to General Jones.

Bass had decided to rob the bank at Round Rock on Saturday, the 20th.
After his gang had eaten dinner in camp Friday evening they saddled
their ponies and started over to town to take a last look at the bank
and select a route to follow in leaving the place after the robbery. As
they left camp Jim Murphy, knowing that the bandits might be set upon
at any time, suggested that he stop at May's store in Old Round Rock
and get a bushel of corn, as they were out of feed for their horses.
Bass, Barnes and Jackson rode on into town, hitched their horses in an
alley just back of the bank, passed that building and made a mental
note of its situation. They then went up the main street of the town
and entered Copprel's store to buy some tobacco. As the three bandits
passed into the store, Deputy Sheriff Moore, who was standing on
the sidewalk with Deputy Sheriff Grimes, said he thought one of the
newcomers had a pistol.

"I will go in and see," replied Grimes.

"I believe you have a pistol," remarked Grimes, approaching Bass and
trying to search him.

"Yes, of course I have a pistol," said Bass. At the words the robbers
pulled their guns and killed Grimes as he backed away to the door.
He fell dead on the sidewalk. They then turned on Moore and shot him
through the lungs as he attempted to draw his weapon.

At the crack of the first pistol shot Dick Ware, who was seated in a
barber shop only a few steps away waiting his turn for a shave, rushed
into the street and encountered the three bandits just as they were
leaving the store. Seeing Ware rapidly advancing on them, Bass and his
men fired on the ranger at close range, one of their bullets striking a
hitching post within six inches of Ware's head and knocking splinters
into his face. This assault never halted Ware for an instant. He was as
brave as courage itself and never hesitated to take the most desperate
chances when the occasion demanded it. For a few minutes Dick fought
the robbers single handed. General Jones, coming up town from the
telegraph office, ran into the fight. He was armed with only a small
Colt's double action pistol, but threw himself into the fray. Connor
and Harold had now come up and joined in the fusillade. The general,
seeing the robbers on foot and almost within his grasp, drew in close
and urged his men to strain every nerve to capture or exterminate the
desperadoes. By this time every man in the town that could secure a gun
joined in the fight.

The bandits had now reached their horses, and realizing their situation
was critical fought with the energy of despair. If ever a train robber
could be called a hero this boy, Frank Jackson, proved himself one.
Barnes was shot down and killed at his feet, Bass was mortally wounded
and unable to defend himself or even mount his horse while the bullets
continued to pour in from every quarter. With heroic courage, Jackson
held the rangers back with his pistol in his right hand while he
unhitched Bass' horse with his left and assisted him into the saddle.
Then, mounting his own horse, Jackson and his chief galloped out of
the jaws of hell itself. In their flight they passed through Old Round
Rock, and Jim Murphy, standing in the door of May's store, saw Jackson
and Bass go by on the dead run. The betrayer noticed that Jackson was
holding Bass, pale and bleeding, in the saddle.

Lieutenant Reynolds, entering Round Rock, came within five minutes of
meeting Bass and Jackson in the road. Before he reached town he met
posses of citizens and rangers in pursuit of the robbers. When the
fugitives reached the cemetery Jackson halted long enough to secure a
Winchester they had hidden in the grass there, then left the road and
were lost for a time. The fight was now over and the play spoiled by
two over-zealous deputies in bringing on an immature fight after they
had been warned to be careful. Naturally Moore and Grimes should have
known that the three strangers were the Sam Bass gang.

Lieutenant Reynolds started Sergeant Nevill and his rangers early
next morning in search of the flying bandits. After traveling in the
direction the robbers were last seen we came upon a man lying under a
large oak tree. Seeing we were armed as we advanced upon him he called
out to us not to shoot, saying he was Sam Bass, the man we were hunting.

After entering the woods the evening before, Bass became so sick
and faint from loss of blood that he could go no farther. Jackson
dismounted and wanted to stay with his chief, declaring he was a match
for all their pursuers.

"No, Frank," replied Bass. "I am done for."

The wounded leader told his companion to tie his horse near at hand
so he could get away if he felt better during the night. Jackson was
finally prevailed upon to leave Bass and make his own escape.

When daylight came Saturday morning Bass got up and walked to a nearby
house. As he approached the place a lady, seeing him coming holding
his pants up and all covered with blood, left her house and started
to run off, as she was alone with a small servant girl. Bass saw she
was frightened and called to her to stop, saying he was perishing for
a drink of water and would return to a tree not far away and lie down
if she would only send him a drink. The lady sent him a quart cup of
water, but the poor fellow was too far gone to drink it. We found him
under this tree one hour later. He had a wound through the center of
his left hand, the bullet having pierced the middle finger.

Bass' death wound was given him by Dick Ware, who used a .45 caliber
Colt's long barreled six-shooter. The ball from Ware's pistol struck
Bass' belt and cut two cartridges in pieces and entered his back just
above the right hip bone. The bullet badly mushroomed and made a
fearful wound that tore the victim's right kidney all to pieces. From
the moment he was shot until his death three days later Bass suffered
untold agonies. As he lay on the ground Friday night where Jackson
had left him the wounded man tore his undershirt into more than one
hundred pieces and wiped the blood from his body.

Bass was taken to Round Rock and given the best of medical attention,
but died the following day, Sunday, July 21, 1878. While he was yet
able to talk, General Jones appealed to Bass to reveal to the state
authorities the names of the confederates he had had that they might be
apprehended.

"Sam, you have done much evil in this world and have only a few hours
to live. Now, while you have a chance to do the state some good, please
tell me who your associates were in those violations of the laws of
your country."

Sam replied that he could not betray his friends and that he might as
well die with what he knew in him.

Sam Bass was buried in the cemetery at Old Round Rock. A small monument
was erected over his grave by a sister. Its simple inscription reads:

 SAMUEL BASS
 Born July 21st, 1851
 Died July 21st, 1878
 A brave man reposes in death here. Why was he
 not true?

Frank Jackson made his way back into Denton County and hung around some
time hoping to get an opportunity to murder the betrayer of his chief,
an ingrate whose cause he himself had so ably championed. Jackson
declared if he could meet Jim Murphy he would kill him, cut off his
head and carry it away in a gunny sack.

Murphy returned to Denton, but learned that Jackson was hiding in
the elm bottoms awaiting a chance to slay him. He thereupon asked
permission of the sheriff to remain about the jail for protection.
While skulking about the prison one of his eyes became infected. A
physician gave him some medicine to drop into the diseased eye, at
the same time cautioning him to be careful as the fluid was a deadly
poison. Murphy drank the entire contents of the bottle and was dead in
a few hours. Remorse, no doubt, caused him to end his life.

Of the four men that fought the Round Rock battle with Sam Bass and his
gang all are dead: General J.B. Jones, and Rangers R.C. Ware, Chris
Connor, and George Harold. Of the ten men that made the long ride from
San Saba to Round Rock only two are now alive--Lieutenant N.O. Reynolds
and myself.




CHAPTER X

A WINTER OF QUIET AND A TRANSFER


In the fall of 1878 a man named Dowdy moved from South Texas and
settled on the headwaters of the Johnson Fork of the Guadalupe River
in Kerr County. His family consisted of himself, wife, three grown
daughters, a grown son, and a young son twelve or fourteen years old.
Mr. Dowdy owned two or three thousand sheep and was grazing them on
some fine upland pasture just above his home. He contracted for his
winter supply of corn, and when the first load of grain arrived at the
ranch the three girls walked out half a mile to where the sheep were
grazing to stay with their younger brother while the elder returned
to the ranch to measure and receive the corn. When young Mr. Dowdy
returned to the sheep an hour later he was horrified to find that his
three sisters and his little brother had been massacred by a band of
roving Indians. From the signs on a high bluff nearby the sheep and
their herders had been under observation by the redskins for some
time and, seeing the only man leave, the Indians descended upon the
defenseless girls and boy and killed them. As there was no ranger
company within one hundred miles of Kerr County at the time, a party
of frontiersmen quickly gathered and followed the murderers, but after
pursuing them for nearly two hundred miles the posse lost the trail in
the rough Devil's River country.

Kerr County then called for rangers, and General Jones ordered
Lieutenant Reynolds to proceed to that county and go into camp for
the winter at the Dowdy ranch. This descent upon the Dowdy family was
the last raid ever made by Indians in Kerr County, and was perhaps
the most heart-rending. We herded our horses that winter on the very
ground where the unfortunate young Misses Dowdy and their brother were
killed. At the time they were murdered the ground was soft and muddy
from a recent rain, so one could see for months afterward where the
poor girls had run on foot while the Indians charged on horseback. I
remember one of the young ladies ran nearly four hundred yards before
she was overtaken and shot full of arrows by a heartless redskin. These
murderers were probably Kickapoos and Lipans that lived in the Santa
Rosa Mountains, Old Mexico, and frequently raided Southwest Texas,
stole hundreds of horses and killed many people. While guarding their
horses on the ground where the Dowdy family was killed the ranger boys
built a rock monument eight or ten feet high to mark the spot where
the victims fell.

Lieutenant Reynolds kept scouting parties in the field at intervals
throughout the winter but, like lightning, Indians never strike twice
in the same place. The winter of 1878-79 was the quietest one I ever
spent as a ranger. Kerr County was pretty well cleaned of outlaws and
we made fewer arrests that season than ever before.

The rangers encountered but one real bad man in Kerr County. His name
was Eli Wixon, and he was wanted for murder in East Texas. It was known
that Wixon would be at the polls of the county precincts to vote on
election day, November, 1878, so Lieutenant Reynolds sent Corporal
Warren and Privates Will Banister and Abe Anglin to arrest Wixon.
Corporal Warren found his man at the polls and lost no time in telling
Wixon what he was there for, and ordered him to unbuckle his belt and
drop his pistol. Wixon hesitated and finally called on his friends to
protect him from the rangers.

The crowd came to his relief, and for a time it looked as if there
would be trouble. Wixon abused the rangers, called them a set of dirty
dogs, and dared them to shoot him. Corporal Warren was brave and
resolute. He told Wixon his abuse did not amount to anything; that the
rangers were there to arrest him and were going to do it. The corporal
warned the citizens to be careful how they broke the law and if they
started anything he declared Wixon would be the first man killed.

Then, while Banister and Anglin held the crowd back with their drawn
Winchesters, Warren disarmed Wixon, grasped his bridle reins and led
him away without further trouble. Lieutenant Reynolds took no chances
with that sort of man, and as soon as Wixon was in camp he was promptly
handcuffed and shackled. This usually took the slack out of all
so-called bad men and it worked like a charm with our new prisoner.

As the winter wore on Lieutenant Reynolds, with but little to do,
became restless. He once said of himself that he never had the patience
to sit down in camp and wait for a band of Indians to raid the county
so he might get a race. Action was what he wanted all the time, and he
chaffed like a chained bear when compelled to sit idly in camp.

When the Legislature met early in 1879 it was known that it would be
difficult to get an appropriation for frontier defense. From time
immemorial there has been an element from East Texas in the Legislature
that has fought the ranger appropriation, and in this instance that
element fought the ranger bill harder than ever. The fund appropriated
for frontier defense two years before was now running short and in
order to make it hold out until it could be ascertained what the
Legislature would do it became necessary for General Jones to order
the various captains to discharge three men out of each company. In
a week a similar order was promulgated, and this was kept up until
the battalion was reduced to almost one-half its former strength.
Lieutenant Reynolds was compelled to sit idly by and see his fine
experienced rangers dwindle away before his eyes, and what he said
about those short-sighted lawmakers would not look nice in print.

In March, 1879, Captain Pat Dolan, commander of Company "F," then
stationed on the Nueces River, seventy-five miles southwest of
Reynolds' company, wrote to Lieutenant Reynolds that a big band of
horse and cattle thieves were reported operating in the vicinity of the
head of Devil's River and along the Nueces. He wished to take a month's
scout out in that country, but since the ranger companies had been so
reduced he did not feel strong enough to operate against them alone
and leave a reserve in his own camp. He, therefore, asked Lieutenant
Reynolds to send a detachment to cooperate with him. I was then second
sergeant, and with five men I was ordered to report to Captain Dolan
for a three weeks' scout on Devil's River and the Pecos. I reported to
the commander of Company "F" and we scouted up the Nueces River, then
turned west to Beaver Lake on the head of Devil's River. From the lake
we went over on Johnson's Run and covered the country thoroughly but
without finding the reported outlaws.

One morning after starting out on our day's scout Captain Dolan halted
the command and, taking with him Private Robb, went in search of water.
A heavy fog came up after he left us and hung over the country the
greater part of the day. The captain did not return to us, and Sergeant
G.K. Chinn ordered his men to fire their guns to give the lost ones our
position. We remained in the vicinity until night and then returned to
Howard's Well, a watering place on Johnson's Run. The following morning
we scouted out to the point from which the captain had left us the
day before. It was now clear, the sun shining brightly, but the lost
men could not be found. Dolan was an experienced frontiersman, and we
concluded that, after finding himself lost in the fog, he would return
to his headquarters on the Nueces, one hundred and twenty-five miles
away. Sergeant Chinn, therefore, headed the command for this camp, and
when we reached it we found Captain Dolan and Private Robb had preceded
us. They had traveled through a bad Indian country with nothing to eat
but what venison they had killed.

From Dolan's Company I marched my detail back to Company "E" by easy
stages and reached our camp at Dowdy's ranch the last week in March
with our horses ridden down. We had covered something like five hundred
miles without accomplishing anything.

As soon as I arrived I walked up to the lieutenant's tent to make my
report. I was met by First Sergeant C.L. Nevill, who told me that
Lieutenant Reynolds had resigned and left the company. At first I
thought the sergeant was only joking, but when I was convinced that the
lieutenant had really gone I was shocked beyond measure. The blow was
too strong and sudden for me, and I am not ashamed now at sixty-five
years of age to admit that I slipped out of camp, sat down on the bank
of the Guadalupe River and cried like a baby. It seemed as if my best
friend on earth had gone forever. Reynolds had had me transferred from
Coldwell's company to his own when I was just a stripling of a boy.
As soon as I was old enough to be trusted with a scout of men and the
vacancies occurred I was made second corporal, first corporal and
then second sergeant. I was given the best men in the company and sent
against the most noted outlaws and hardened criminals in the State of
Texas. Lieutenant Reynolds gave me every chance in the world to make a
name for myself, and now he was gone. I felt the loss keenly. I feel
sure the records now on file in Austin will bear me out when I say
Reynolds was the greatest captain of his time,--and perhaps of all
time. The State of Texas lost a matchless officer when "Mage" Reynolds
retired to private life. After leaving the ranger service he made
Lampasas his home and served that county as its sheriff for several
terms.

The Legislature finally made a small appropriation for frontier
defense. Sergeant Nevill was ordered to report at Austin with Company
"E" for the reorganization of the command. Reynolds' resignation
practically broke up the company, and though Sergeant Nevill was made
Lieutenant of Company "E" and afterward raised to a captaincy and left
behind him an enviable record, yet he was not a "Mage" Reynolds by a
long shot.

On reaching Austin, R.C. Ware and the Banister boys secured their
transfers to Captain Marshes' Company "B," while the Carter boys,
Ben and Dock, C.R. Connor, and Bill Derrick resigned the service and
retired to private life. Abe Anglin became a policeman at Austin,
Texas. Henry Maltimore and myself, at our requests, were transferred
to Lieutenant Baylor's Company "C" for duty in El Paso County. With my
transfer to this command the winter of inaction was over, and I was
soon to see some exciting times along the upper Rio Grande.




CHAPTER XI

THE SALT LAKE WAR AND A LONG TREK


At the foot of the Guadalupe Mountains, one hundred miles east of El
Paso, Texas, are situated several large salt deposits known as the
Salt Lakes. These deposits were on public state land. For a hundred
years or more the residents along the Rio Grande in El Paso County and
in northern Mexico had hauled salt from the lakes free of charge, for
there was no one to pay, as the deposits were not claimed by any owner.
All one had to do was to back his wagon to the edge of the lake and
shovel it full of salt and drive off.

From San Elizario to the Salt Lakes was just ninety miles, and there
was not a drop of water on the route. The road that had been traveled
so long by big wagon trains was almost as straight as an arrow and in
extra fine condition. The salt haulers would carry water in barrels to
what was known as the Half-way Station, about forty-five miles from
San Elizario. Here they would rest and water their horses and leave
half their water for the return trip. The teamsters would then push on
to the lakes, load their wagons, rest the teams a day or two, and on
their return trip stop at the Half-way Station, water their animals,
throw the empty barrels on top of the salt and, without again halting,
continue to San Elizario on the Rio Grande.

[Illustration: _Geo. W. Baylor_]

Charley Howard, after his election as judge of the El Paso District,
made his home at the old town of Franklin, now known as El Paso. He saw
the possibilities of these salt lakes as a money-making proposition
and, knowing they were on public land, wrote his father-in-law, George
Zimpleman, at Austin, to buy some land certificates and send them to
him so he could locate the land covering the salt deposits. As soon as
the land was located Judge Howard forbade anyone to haul salt from the
lakes without first securing his permission. The Mexicans along both
sides of the Rio Grande adjacent to El Paso became highly indignant
at this order. A sub-contractor on the overland mail route between
El Paso and Fort Davis named Luis Cardis, supported the Mexicans and
told them Howard had no right to stop them from hauling salt. Cardis
was an Italian by birth, had come to El Paso County in 1860, married a
Mexican wife, identified himself with the county, and become prominent
as a political leader. He was a Republican, while Judge Howard was
a Democrat. Cardis and Howard soon became bitter enemies, and in
September, 1878, this conflict between them became so acute that
Howard killed his opponent with a double-barreled shotgun in S. Shultz
and Brothers' store in Franklin. This at once precipitated the contest
known as the Salt Lake War, for grave threats were made against Howard
by the Mexicans.

After killing Cardis, Judge Howard fled to New Mexico, and from
his seclusion in that state he called on the governor of Texas to
send rangers to El Paso to protect him and the courts over which he
presided. At that time not a company of the Frontier Battalion was
within five hundred miles of that town. El Paso was seven hundred
and fifty miles by stage from San Antonio or Austin and the journey
required about seven days and nights' travel over a dangerous route--an
unusually hard trip on any passenger attempting it.

The governor of Texas, therefore, sent Major John B. Jones from Austin
to Topeka, Kansas, by rail and thence as far west into New Mexico as
the Santa Fe Railroad ran at that time, and thence by stage down to
El Paso. Major Jones dropped into the old town of Franklin (now El
Paso) unheralded and unknown. He sat about the hotel and gained the
information he needed, then made himself known to the authorities and
proceeded at once to organize and equip a company of twenty rangers.
John B. Tays, brother to the Episcopal minister of that district, was
made lieutenant of the new command, which was known as a detachment of
Company "C" and stationed in the old town of San Elizario, twenty-five
miles southeast of El Paso.

Soon after this detachment of rangers had been authorized, Judge Howard
appeared at San Elizario and sought protection with it. No sooner had
it become known that Judge Howard was back in Texas than the ranger
company was surrounded by a cordon of armed Mexicans, two or three
hundred in number, who demanded the body of the jurist. Lieutenant Tays
refused to surrender Howard, and the fighting began, and was kept up
two or three days at intervals. Sergeant Maltimore, in passing through
the court yard of the buildings in which the rangers were quartered was
shot down and killed by Mexican snipers located on top of some adobe
buildings within range of the quarters. Then an American citizen, a Mr.
Ellis, was killed near Company "C's" camp.

After several days of desultory fighting, the leaders of the mob, under
flag of truce, sought an interview with Lieutenant Tays. The lieutenant
finally agreed to meet two of the leaders, and while the parley was in
progress armed Mexicans one at a time approached the peace party until
forty or fifty had quietly surrounded Lieutenant Tays and put him at
their mercy. The mob then boldly demanded the surrender of the ranger
company, Judge Howard, and two other Americans, Adkinson and McBride,
friends of the judge, that had sought protection with them.

There is no doubt that the Mexicans intimidated Lieutenant Tays after
he was in their hands and probably threatened him with death unless
their demands were granted. The lieutenant returned to the ranger camp
with the mob and said, "Boys, it is all settled. You are to give up
your arms and horses and you will be allowed to go free."

The rangers were furious at this surrender, but were powerless to help
themselves, for the mob had swarmed in upon them from all sides. Billie
Marsh, one of the youngest men in the company, was so indignant that
he cried out to his commander, "The only difference between you and a
skunk is that the skunk has a white streak down his back!"

Judge Howard, seeing the handwriting on the wall, began shaking hands
and bidding his ranger friends goodbye. As soon as the Mexicans had
gotten possession of the rangers' arms they threw ropes over the
heads of Howard, McBride and Adkinson. Then, mounting fast running
ponies, they dragged the unfortunate men to death in the streets of
San Elizario and cast their mutilated bodies into pososas or shallow
wells. The Mexicans then disappeared, most of them crossing the Rio
Grande into Mexico.

Lieutenant Tays at once resigned as commander of the rangers, and
Private Charles Ludwick was made first sergeant and placed in charge
of the company until the governor of Texas could send a commissioned
officer to take command of it. Had Lieutenant Tays held out twenty-four
hours longer, a thing which he could easily have done, he would have
escaped the disgrace and mortification of surrendering himself and his
company to a mob of Mexicans, for within that time John Ford with a
band of New Mexico cowboys swept into the Rio Grande valley to relieve
the besieged rangers. On learning of the fates of Howard, McBride,
Adkinson, Ellis, and Sergeant Maltimore, the rescue party raided up
and down the valley from San Elizario to El Paso and killed several
armed Mexicans accused of being part of the mob that had murdered the
Americans. The present battalion of Texas Rangers was organized May 1,
1874, and in all their forty-six years of service this surrender of
Lieutenant Tays was the only black mark ever chalked up against it.

Afterward, when I arrived in El Paso with Lieutenant Baylor I had
many talks with Privates George Lloyd, Dr. Shivers, Bill Rutherford,
and Santiago Cooper,--all members of Tays' company--and most of them
believed Lieutenant Tays had a streak of yellow in him, while a few
thought he made a mistake in agreeing to an interview with the mob,
thereby allowing himself to be caught napping and forced to surrender.

Conditions in El Paso County were now so bad that Lieutenant Baylor was
ordered into the country to take command of the ranger company. Before
leaving to assume his command, Lieutenant Baylor was called to Austin
from his home in San Antonio and had a lengthy interview with Governor
Roberts. Baylor was instructed by his excellency to use all diplomacy
possible to reconcile the two factions and settle the Salt Lake War
peaceably. The governor held that both sides to the controversy were
more or less to blame, and what had been done could not be undone, and
the restoration of order was the prime requisite rather than a punitive
expedition against the mob members.

On July 28, 1879, Private Henry Maltimore and myself reached San
Antonio from Austin and presented our credentials to Lieutenant Baylor,
who thereupon advised us that he had selected August 2nd as the day to
begin his march from San Antonio to El Paso County. In his camp on the
San Antonio River in the southern part of the city the lieutenant had
mustered myself as sergeant, and Privates Henry Maltimore, Dick Head,
Gus Small, Gus Krimkau, and George Harold.

Early on the morning of August 2, 1879, our tiny detachment left San
Antonio on our long journey. One wagon carried a heavy, old-fashioned
square piano, and on top of this was loaded the lieutenant's household
goods. At the rear of the wagon was a coop of game chickens, four
hens and a cock, for Lieutenant Baylor was fond of game chickens as a
table delicacy, though he never fought them. His family consisted of
Mrs. Baylor, two daughters--Helen, aged fourteen, and Mary, a child
of four or five years--and Miss Kate Sydnor, sister of Mrs. Baylor.
The children and ladies traveled in a large hack drawn by a pair of
mules. Rations for men and horses were hauled in a two-mule wagon,
while the rangers rode on horseback in advance of the hack and wagons.
Two men traveling to New Mexico in a two-wheeled cart asked permission
to travel with us for protection. Naturally we made slow progress
with this unique combination. As well as I can remember, 1879 was a
rather dry year, for not a drop of rain fell upon us during this seven
hundred-mile journey. When we passed Fort Clark, in Kinney County,
and reached Devil's River we were on the real frontier and liable to
attack by Indians at any time. It was necessary, therefore, to keep a
strong guard posted at all times.

Around our camp fires at night Lieutenant Baylor entertained us with
accounts of early days on the frontier. He was born August 24, 1832,
at old Fort Gibson in the Cherokee nation, now the State of Oklahoma.
His father, John Walker Baylor, was a surgeon in the United States
Army. Lieutenant Baylor was a soldier by training and by inheritance.
In 1879 he was in his forty-seventh year and stood six feet two inches
tall, a perfect specimen of a hardy frontiersman. He was highly
educated, wrote much for papers and magazines, was a fluent speaker
and a very interesting talker and story-teller. He was less reserved
than any captain under whom I ever served. He had taken part in many
Indian fights on the frontier of Texas, and his descriptions of some
of his experiences were thrilling. Lieutenant Baylor was a high-toned
Christian gentleman and had been a member of the Episcopal Church
from childhood. In all the months I served with him I never heard him
utter an oath or tell a smutty yarn. He neither drank whisky nor used
tobacco. Had he written a history of his operations on the frontier and
a biography of himself it would have been one of the strangest and
most interesting books ever written.

I have not the power of language to describe Lieutenant Baylor's
bravery, because he was as brave as it is possible for man to be. He
thought everyone else should be the same. He did not see how a white
man could be a coward, yet in a fierce battle fought with Apache
Indians on October 5, 1879, I saw some of his rangers refuse to budge
when called upon to charge up a mountainside and assault the redskins
concealed above us in some rocks. George Harold, one of the attacking
party, said, "Lieutenant, if we charge up that hill over open ground
every one of us will be killed."

"Yes, I suppose you are right," declared Baylor, a contemptuous smile
on his face. Then, pointing to some Mexicans hidden behind some
boulders below us, he added, "You had better go back to them. That is
where you belong."

Lieutenant Baylor was as tender hearted as a little child and would
listen to any tale of woe. He frequently took men into the service,
stood good for their equipment and often had to pay the bill out of his
own pocket. All men looked alike to him and he would enlist anyone when
there was a vacancy in the company. The result was that some of the
worst San Simone Valley rustlers got into the command and gave us no
end of trouble, nearly causing one or two killings in our camp.

Baylor cared nothing for discipline in the company. He allowed his men
to march carelessly. A scout of ten or fifteen men would sometimes
be strung out a mile or more on the march. I suppose to one who had
commanded a regiment during the Civil War a detachment of Texas
Rangers looked small and insignificant, so he let his men have pretty
much their own way. To a man like myself, who had been schooled under
such captains as Major Jones, Captain Coldwell, Captain Roberts,
and Lieutenant Reynolds, commanders who were always careful of the
disposition and conduct of their men, this method of Baylor's seemed
suicidal. It just seemed inevitable that we would some time be taken by
surprise and shot to pieces.

Another peculiarity of this wonderful man was his indifference to
time. He would strike an Indian trail, take his time and follow it to
the jumping off place. He would say, "There is no use to hurry, boys.
We will catch them after a while." For instance, the stage driver and
passenger killed in Quitman Canyon, January, 1880, had been dead two
weeks before the lieutenant returned from a scout out in the Guadalupe
Mountains. He at once directed me to make a detail of all except three
men in camp, issue ten days' rations, and have the men ready to move
early next morning. An orderly or first sergeant is hardly ever called
upon to scout unless he so desires, but the lieutenant said, "You
had better come along, Sergeant. You may get another chance to kill
an Indian." It seemed unreasonable to think he could start two weeks
behind a bunch of Indians, follow up and annihilate the whole band, but
he did. Give Comanches or Kiowas two weeks' start and they would have
been in Canada, but the Apaches were slow and a different proposition
with which to deal.

Baylor was one of the very best shots with firearms I ever saw. He
killed more game than almost the entire company put together. When we
first went out to El Paso he used a Winchester rifle, but after the
first Indian fight he concluded it was too light and discarded it for
a Springfield sporting rifle 45-70. He always used what he called rest
sticks; that is, two sticks about three feet long the size of one's
little finger. These were tied together about four or five inches from
one end with a buckskin thong. In shooting he would squat down, extend
the sticks arm's length out in front of him with the longer ends spread
out tripod-fashion on the ground. With his gun resting in the fork
he had a perfect rest and could make close shots at long range. The
lieutenant always carried these sticks in his hand and used them on his
horse as a quirt. In those days I used to pride myself on my shooting
with a Winchester, but I soon found that Lieutenant Baylor had me
skinned a mile when it came to killing game at long distance. I never
could use rest sticks, for I always forgot them and shot offhand.

I cannot close this description of Lieutenant Baylor without mentioning
his most excellent wife, who made the long, tedious journey from San
Antonio to El Paso County with us. She was Sallie Garland Sydnor, born
February 11, 1842. Her father was a wholesale merchant at Galveston,
and at one time mayor of that city. Mrs. Baylor was highly educated and
a very refined woman and a skillful performer on the piano. Her bright,
sunny disposition and kind heart won her friends among the rangers
at once. How sad it is to reflect that of the twelve persons in that
little party that marched out of San Antonio on August 2, 1879, only
three are living: Gus Small, Miss Mary Baylor, and myself.

When we had passed Pecan Springs on Devil's River there was not another
cattle, sheep or goat ranch until we reached Fort Stockton, two
hundred miles to the west. It was just one vast uninhabited country.
Today it is all fenced and thousands of as fine cattle, sheep and goats
as can be found in any country roam those hills. The Old Spanish Trail
traverses most of this section, and in traveling over it today one will
meet hundreds of people in high powered automobiles where forty years
ago it was dangerous for a small party of well armed men to journey.
While ascending Devil's River I learned that Lieutenant Baylor was not
only a good hunter, but a first class fisherman as well, for he kept
the entire camp well supplied with fine bass and perch, some of the
latter being as large as saucers.

Forty miles west of Beaver Lake we reached Howard's Well, situated in
Howard's Draw, a tributary of the Pecos River. Here we saw the burned
ruins of a wagon train that had been attacked by Indians a few months
before. All the mules had been captured, the teamsters killed and the
train of sixteen big wagons burned. Had the same Indians encountered
our little party of ten men, two women and two children we would all
have been massacred.

Finally we reached old Fort Lancaster, an abandoned government post,
situated on the east bank of Live Oak Creek, just above the point
where this beautiful stream empties into the Pecos. We camped here
and rested under the shade of those big old live oak trees for several
days. From this camp we turned north up the Pecos, one of the most
curious rivers in Texas. At that time and before its waters were much
used for irrigation in New Mexico, the Pecos ran bank full of muddy
water almost the year round. Not more than thirty or forty feet wide,
it was the most crooked stream in the world, and though only from
four to ten feet deep, was so swift and treacherous that it was most
difficult to ford. However, it had one real virtue; it was the best
stream in Texas for both blue and yellow catfish that ranged in weight
from five to forty pounds. We were some days traveling up this river to
the pontoon crossing and we feasted on fish.

At Pontoon Crossing on the Pecos we intercepted the overland mail route
leading from San Antonio to El Paso by way of Fredericksburg, Fort
Mason, Menard, Fort McKavett, Fort Concho, Fort Stockton, and Fort
Davis, thence west by Eagle Springs through Quitman Canyon, where more
tragedies and foul murders have been committed by Indians than at any
other point on the route. Ben Fricklin was the mail contractor. The
stage stands were built of adobe and on the same unchanging plan. On
each side of the entrance was a large room. The gateway opened into a
passageway, which was roofed, and extended from one room to the other.
In the rear of the rooms was the corral, the walls of which were six to
eight feet high and two feet thick, also of sun dried brick. One room
was used for cooking and eating and the other for sleeping quarters and
storage. The stage company furnished the stage tender with supplies and
he cooked for the passengers when there were such, charging them fifty
cents per meal, which he was allowed to retain for his compensation.

When the stage rolled into the station the tender swung open the gates
and the teams, small Spanish mules, dashed into the corral. The animals
were gentle enough when once in the enclosure, but mean and as wild as
deer when on the road. The stage company would buy these little mules
in lots of fifty to a hundred in Mexico and distribute them along the
route. The tiny animals were right off the range and real unbroken
bronchos. The mules were tied up or tied down as the case might be
and harnessed by force. When they had been hitched to the stage coach
or buckboard the gates to the corral were opened and the team left
on the run. The intelligent mules soon learned all they had to do
was to run from one station to the next, and could not be stopped
between posts no matter what happened. Whenever they saw a wagon or a
man on horseback approaching along the road they would shy around the
stranger, and the harder the driver held them the faster they ran.

On our way out our teams were pretty well fagged out, and often
Lieutenant Baylor would camp within a few yards of the road. The
Spanish stage mules would see our camp and go around us on the run
while their drivers would curse and call us all the vile names they
could lay their tongues to for camping in the road.

When we camped at a station it was amusing to me to watch the stage
attendants harness those wary little animals. The stage or buckboard
was always turned round in the corral and headed toward the next
station and the passengers seated themselves before the mules were
hitched. When all was ready and the team harnessed the driver would
give the word, the station keeper threw open the gates and the stage
was off on a dead run.

There should be a monument erected to the memory of those old stage
drivers somewhere along this overland route, for they were certainly
the bravest of the brave. It took a man with lots of nerve and strength
to be a stage driver in the Indian days, and many, many of them were
killed. The very last year, 1880, that the stage line was kept up
several drivers were killed between Fort Davis and El Paso. Several
of these men quit the stage company and joined Lieutenant Baylor's
company, and every one of such ex-drivers made excellent rangers.

From Pontoon Crossing on the Pecos River we turned due west and
traveled the stage route the remainder of the way to El Paso County.
At Fort Stockton we secured supplies for ourselves and feed for our
horses, the first place at which rations could be secured since leaving
Fort Clark. Fort Stockton was a large military post and was quite
lively, especially at night, when the saloons and gambling halls were
crowded with soldiers and citizen contractors. At Leon Holes, ten miles
west of Fort Stockton, we were delayed a week because of Mrs. Baylor
becoming suddenly ill. Passing through Wild Rose Pass and up Limpia
Canyon we suffered very much from the cold, though it was only the last
of August. Coming from a lower to a higher altitude we felt the change
at night keenly. That was the first cold weather I had experienced in
the summer.

Finally, on the 12th day of September, 1879, we landed safe and sound
in the old town of Ysleta, El Paso County, after forty-two days
of travel from San Antonio. Here we met nine men, the remnant of
Lieutenant Tays' Company "C" rangers. The first few days after our
arrival were spent in securing quarters for Lieutenant Baylor's family
and in reorganizing the company. Sergeant Ludwick was discharged at
his own request, and I was made first sergeant, Tom Swilling second
sergeant, John Seaborn first corporal, and George Lloyd second
corporal. The company was now recruited up to its limit of twenty men.
Before winter Lieutenant Baylor bought a fine home and fifteen or
twenty acres of land from a Mr. Blanchard. The rangers were quartered
comfortably in some adobe buildings with fine corrals nearby and within
easy distance of the lieutenant's residence. We were now ready for
adventure on the border.

When we arrived at Ysleta the Salt Lake War had quieted down and order
had been restored. Although nearly a hundred Mexicans were indicted
by the El Paso grand jury, no one was ever punished for the murder
of Judge Howard and his companions. In going over the papers of
Sergeant Ludwick I found warrants for the arrest of fifty or more of
the mob members. Though most of the murderers had fled to Old Mexico
immediately after the killing of the Americans, most of them had
returned to the United States and their homes along the Rio Grande.
I reported these warrants to Lieutenant Baylor and informed him that,
with the assistance of a strong body of rangers I could probably
capture most of the offenders in a swift raid down the valley. The
lieutenant declared that he had received instructions from Governor
Roberts to exercise extreme care not to precipitate more trouble over
Howard's death, and, above all things, not incite a race war between
the Mexican offenders and the white people of the country. He decided,
therefore, that we had better not make any move at all in the now dead
Salt Lake War. And of course I never again mentioned the matter to him.

Though the Salt Lake War was over, new and adventurous action was in
store for us, and within less than a month after our arrival in Ysleta
we had our first brush with the Apaches, a tribe of Indians I had never
before met in battle.




CHAPTER XII

OUR FIRST FIGHT WITH APACHES


On October 5, 1879, at midnight, Pablo Mejia brought Lieutenant Baylor,
from Captain Gregorio Garcia of San Elizario, a note stating that a
band of Apaches had charged a camp of five Mexicans who were engaged in
cutting hay for the stage company fourteen miles north of La Quadria
stage station and killed them. As first sergeant I was ordered to make
a detail of ten men and issue them five days' rations. I detailed
Second Sergeant Tom Swilling, Privates Gus Small, George Lloyd, John
Thomas, George Harold, Doc Shivers, Richard Head, Bill Rutherford, and
Juan Garcia for the scout, and myself made the tenth man. It required
an hour to arouse the men, issue the rations and ammunition and pack
the two mules, so it was 1 o'clock a.m. when we finally left Ysleta.

By daylight we reached Hawkins Station, near where Fabins Station
now is. Here we were told we would find the survivor of the terrible
massacre. Riding up to the door of the stage house we had to thump some
time before we had evidence that anyone was alive on the premises.
Finally the door opened about an inch very cautiously and a Mexican
peeped out. Lieutenant Baylor asked him if he had been one of the
grameros or hay cutters.

"Si, senor," replied the sleepy Mexican.

Asked for an account of the massacre, the native said it was nearly
dark when the Indians, numbering from twenty-five to fifty, charged
the camp and uttered such horrid yells that everyone took to his heels
and was soon in the chaparral. The speaker saw his pobrecita papa
(poor papa) running, with the Indians about to lance him, and knew
that he and the remainder of the party were killed. He himself only
escaped. As he mentioned the tragic death of his beloved parent the
tears rolled down his cheeks. Lieutenant Baylor comforted the weeper as
best he could and asked if the Mexican would not guide the rangers to
the raided camp, but the survivor declined with thanks, saying he must
stay to help the station keeper take care of the stage mules, but he
directed us to the ranch where some of the dead men's families lived
and at which a guide could be obtained.

When we arrived at the ranch below Hawkins Station it was sunrise and
we halted for breakfast after a night ride of forty miles. The people
at the ranch were very uneasy when we rode up, but were rejoiced when
they realized we were Texas Rangers and learned our mission. They
showed us every attention. Among the first to come out to us was an
old Mexican who had been in the hay camp when it was attacked. He gave
a lurid account of the onset. His son had been one of the grameros, and
when he mentioned this the tears began to flow.

"Ah, hijo de mi cara Juan. I shall never see him again," he lamented.
"All were killed and I alone escaped!"

Lieutenant Baylor then explained to the weeping father that his son
was very much alive and that we had seen him that very night bewailing
the death of the father he thought killed. And it now developed that
all the dead men were alive! When the camp was attacked each Mexican
had scattered, and the Apaches had been too busy looting the stores
to follow the fugitives. Moreover, those ranchers would fight and the
Indians did not care to follow them into the brush.

A bright young Mexican went with us to the hay camp, which was about
six miles toward Comales, where Don Juan Armendaris now has a cow
ranch. The Apaches had made a mess of things in camp sure enough.
They had broken all the cups and plates, poured salt into the sugar,
this combination into the flour and beans and the conglomeration of
the whole on the ground, as the sacks were all they wanted. The
Indians smashed the coffee pot, the frying pan, the skillet and the
water barrels with an ax. Then taking all the blankets, the raiders
started eastward as though they intended to go to the Sierra Priela,
but after going a mile the trail turned south. We found the redskins
had come from the north by way of Los Cormuros and were probably from
Fort Stanton, New Mexico, on their way to raid Old Mexico. They were
in a dry country and making for the Rio Grande, fourteen miles to the
south. When they discovered the hay camp on their route they charged
it and fired on the hay cutters. The Mexicans scattered and made their
escape in the darkness, each thinking himself the sole survivor and so
reporting on reaching his home, though as a matter of fact not a single
life was lost.

Our guide went back to give the alarm to the ranches below and we
followed the trail down the mesa until opposite Guadalupe. There we
crossed the overland stage route near the present Rio Grande Station
and found our guide waiting for us. He had discovered the trail, and
fearing the Indians might ambush the road below, he had awaited our
arrival. The trail made straight for the Rio Grande, crossing about
one mile west of the Mexican town of Guadalupe. From the pony and mule
tracks Lieutenant Baylor judged there were fifteen to twenty Indians
in the band. We had some trouble following the trail after we got to
the river bottom, where loose horses and cattle ran, but a few of us
dismounted and worked the trail out, crossed the river and struck camp
for dinner.

Lieutenant Baylor sent Pablo Mejia into town to inform the president
of Guadalupe that we had followed a fresh Apache trail to the Rio
Grande going south into Mexico, and asked permission to follow the
Indians into his country. The scout soon returned and reported that the
president was not only pleased that we had pursued the redskins, but
would willingly join us himself with all the men he could muster. Just
after we crossed the river we came across a Mexican herder with a flock
of goats. As soon as he heard we were trailing the Apaches he began
yelling at the top of his voice and soon had the goats on the jump for
town, though the Indians had passed the night before. We were quickly
in saddle again, and as we rode into the pueblo we were kindly received
by the people. We found a mare the Apaches had killed just on the edge
of town and from which they had taken some of the choice steaks.

After leaving Guadalupe the trail went south, following closely the
stage road from Juarez to Chihuahua. Not long after leaving town we
met a courier coming to Guadalupe from Don Ramon Arrandas' ranch, San
Marcos de Cantarica, twenty-one miles distant, who informed us that the
Apaches had killed a herder on that ranch and had taken four horses
and sixteen mules of the stage company. We hurried onward and reached
Cantarica at sunset, having traveled seventy-eight miles since 1 a.m.
that morning. Both men and horses were rather tired.

All was confusion at the ranch. The Mexican herder had been shrouded
and laid out with a cross at his head and several little lighted
candles near the body. Many women were sitting around the room with
black shawls pulled up over their heads. The Apaches, numbering sixteen
well armed and well mounted warriors, had slain their victim and
captured the stock near the ranch just about noon. Mexican volunteers
from Guadalupe and San Ignacio began to ride in until our combined
force numbered twenty-five or twenty-six men. Everyone was excited at
the thought of a brush with the redskins responsible for the murder.

Accompanied by our volunteer allies we left the ranch at daylight next
morning and picked up the trail at once. It led off south along the
base of the Armagora Mountains or Sierra Bentanos. As the Mexicans
were familiar with the country they took the lead and followed the
trail rapidly. About 11 o'clock the trailers halted at the mouth of the
Canyon del Moranos, an ugly black hole cut in the mountains, looking
grim and defiant enough without the aid of Apache warriors. When we
had joined the Mexicans--we were traveling some half a mile behind
them--Lieutenant Baylor and Captain Garcia held a short conference.
The lieutenant turned to me and said that Captain Garcia declared the
Indians were in the canyon among the rocks, and ordered me to detail
two men to guard our horses while we scaled the mountain on foot and
investigated it. I could not bring myself to believe that a band of
Indians that had killed a man and driven off all the stage stock the
day before had gone only thirty miles and was now lying in wait for us.

"You don't know the Apaches," Lieutenant Baylor declared when I voiced
my thoughts. "They are very different from the plains Indians, the kind
you have been used to following. These Apaches delight to get into the
rocks and lay for their enemies."

At the conference the Mexicans suggested that Lieutenant Baylor should
take nine of his men and ten of their volunteers and follow the trail
up the canyon, but the lieutenant declared that this would never do,
as the Apaches had no doubt anticipated just such a move and hidden
themselves in the cliffs where they could kill their attackers without
exposing themselves in the least. He proposed scaling the mountain and
following them down on top of the ridge in the Indians' rear. And this
was the strategy finally adopted.

The Mexicans dismounted and started up the mountainside about one
hundred yards to our left. Lieutenant Baylor and his eight rangers
marched straight forward from our horses and began the ascent. As we
went along the lieutenant pulled some bunch grass and stuck it all
around under his hat band so his head would look like a clump of grass
and conceal his head and body if he should have to flatten himself
on the ground. He counselled us to follow his example. I had taken
some Mexican cheese out of my saddle pockets and was eating it as we
marched carelessly up the mountain. Honestly, I did not believe there
was an Indian within a hundred miles of us, but it was not long before
I changed my mind. Suddenly there came a loud report of a gun and then
another. I looked up to where the Mexicans had taken position behind a
ledge of rocks and saw where a bullet struck the stones a foot above
their heads. I did not want any more cheese. I threw down what I had in
my hand and spat out what I had in my mouth.

These old Apache warriors, high in the cliffs above us, then turned
their attention to our little band of eight rangers and fired
twenty-five or thirty shots right into the midst of us. One of these
big caliber bullets whizzed so close to my head that it made a noise
like a wild duck makes when flying down stream at the rate of fifty to
sixty miles an hour. Lieutenant Baylor ordered us to charge at once.

In running up the mountain I was somewhat in advance of the boys. We
came to a rock ledge three or four feet high. I quickly scaled this,
but before I could straighten up an Indian rose from behind a rock
about fifteen to twenty yards ahead and fired point-blank at me. The
bullet struck a small soap weed three feet in front of me and knocked
the leaves into my mouth and face. I felt as if I had been hit but it
was leaves and not blood that I wiped out of my mouth with my left
hand. I turned my head and called to the boys to look out, but the
warning was unnecessary,--they had already taken shelter under the
ledge of rock.

Just as I turned my head a second shot from the Apache carried away
the entire front part of my hat brim. I saw the warrior throw another
cartridge in his gun and brought my Winchester quickly to bear upon
him. When he saw that I was about to shoot he shifted his position and
turned sideways to me. We both fired at the same instant. My bullet hit
the redskin just above his hip and, passing straight through his body,
broke the small of his back and killed him almost instantly. This old
brave was a big man, probably six feet tall, with his face painted in
red and blue paint. He used an old octagon barrel Winchester rifle and
he had with him an old shirtsleeve tied at one end in which were two
hundred and fifty Winchester cartridges.

Some Indians fifty yards up the mountain now began to shell our
position, so I took shelter behind the ledge of rock. Fifteen or twenty
feet to our left and a little higher up the mountain, Lieutenant Baylor
was sheltered behind some boulders. He raised his head slightly above
his parapet for a peep at the Indians and those keen sighted warriors
saw him; a well directed shot cut part of the grass out of his hat. Had
the bullet been six inches lower it would have struck him full in the
face.

"Darn that old Indian," exclaimed Baylor, ducking his head. "If I had a
shot gun I would run up and jump right on top of him."

The lieutenant was mad now and ordered a charge. The boys hesitated,
and George Harold, an old scout, said, "Lieutenant, if we leave this
shelter and start up the mountain the Indians hidden behind those rocks
seventy-five yards above will kill us all."

"Yes, I suppose you are right; they would be hard to dislodge," replied
Baylor.

The Apaches evidently had plenty of ammunition, as they kept up a
desultory fire all day. Seeing we were not going to fall into their
trap they turned their attention to our horses. Although the animals
were four or five hundred yards from the foot of the mountain they
killed Sergeant Swilling's horse, the bullet passing entirely through
the body just behind the shoulders. When his horse, a large white one,
staggered and tumbled over, Swilling began to mourn, for he had the
horror of walking all Western men have. John Thomas, however, got the
laugh on him by saying, "Sergeant, you had better wait and see if you
are going back to camp." We could see the Indians' bullets knocking up
dust all around the horses and the guard replying to the fire. Baylor
now sent a man and had the guard move the horses out of range.

During the afternoon the Apaches moved up higher toward the crest of
the mountain, and in doing so one of the Indians exposed himself. The
Mexicans to our left spotted him and killed him with a well directed
shot. The warrior fell out in open ground where he was literally shot
all to pieces.

We had been without water all day and when night came Lieutenant Baylor
and Captain Garcia decided it was useless to continue the fight any
longer, so we withdrew toward our horses. After reaching the animals
we could still hear the Indians firing on our positions. We might have
captured the Apaches' horses by a charge, but we would have had to go
down the side of the mountain and across a deep canyon where we would
have been compelled to pick our way slowly under a constant cross fire
from the concealed riflemen, and neither Baylor nor Garcia thought the
horses worth the sacrifice required to capture them.

As the nearest water was thirty miles away and our men and horses
weary and thirsty, we rode back to our hospitable friend, Don Ramon
Arrandas' ranch, where our horses were fed and we ourselves supplied
with fresh milk and cheese. On our return to Guadalupe we were most
kindly entertained by Mr. Maximo Arrandas, custom house officer at
San Elizario, and brother to Don Ramon. We reached our headquarters
at Ysleta after being out five days and traveling two hundred and
twenty-two miles, sustaining no other damage than a few bruises
from scaling the mountain and the loss of Sergeant Swilling's horse.
This first brush with Apaches, however, was but a prelude to other
expeditions after this tribe, and we were soon hot on the trail of
Victorio, the Apache Napoleon.




CHAPTER XIII

SCOUTING IN MEXICO


About a month after our first brush with Apaches, during November,
1879, Chief Victorio quit the Mescalero Reservation and with a party of
one hundred and twenty-five warriors and a hundred women and children,
traveled south into Mexico on a raid. This old chief was probably the
best general ever produced by the Apache tribe. He was a far better
captain than old Geronimo ever was and capable of commanding a much
larger force of men. His second in command was Nana, also a very able
officer.

Victorio knew every foot of the country and just where to find wood,
water, grass and abundance of game, so he took his time and, coming
from New Mexico down into the state of Chihuahua, stopped first at
the Santa Maria. The country about this stream is very mountainous,
especially to the south, and here he could find refuge in case of an
attack from Mexican soldiers. Of this, however, there was not much
danger at that time, for the country was thinly settled, farming and
stock raising being confined to the neighborhood of the small towns.
Gradually Chief Victorio moved down into the Candelaria Mountains,
approaching them from the northwest. Here he could get fresh range for
his large band of horses and be near the settlement of San Jose, owned
by Don Mariano Samaniego. Here, also, he could watch the public road
between Chihuahua and El Paso del Norte, the present Juarez.

One of the saddest and most heart-rending tragedies resulted from this
move. Victorio was camped at the large tanks on the north side and
almost on top of the Candelaria Mountains, where he had fine range for
his stock and plenty of game and wood. From those almost inaccessible
peaks he could see for twenty or thirty miles in every direction and
watch every move of travelers or hostile forces. The old chief now sent
a small band of Indians, some six or seven in number, on a raid against
the little settlement of San Jose. Here the Indians stole a bunch of
Mexican ponies and hurried back to their camp on top of the Candelaria
Mountains. The citizens of San Jose discovered the loss of their
ponies, and on examining the trail, found there was only a small band
of Indians in the raiding party. A company of the principal Mexicans
of San Jose, under the command of Don Jose Rodriguez, and augmented by
volunteers from the little town of Carrajal, left to locate the Indians
and recover the stolen horses. The little band of fifteen brave men
went to the northern side of the mountains and struck the trail of
Victorio's band on an old beaten route used by the Indians, which
passed from the Santa Maria River to the Candelaria Mountains. This
road wound between two rocky peaks and then down the side of the hills
to the plain between them and the Candelaria, ending at last at the big
tank.

From his position on the tall peaks Victorio had seen the little body
of Mexicans long before they struck his trail and, knowing they would
never come upon the Candelaria after seeing the size of his trail,
sent forty or fifty of his warriors to form an ambuscade where the
trail crosses the crest between the two peaks. He must have been with
the braves himself, for the thing was skillfully planned and executed.
On the north side of the trail there were only a few boulders, but on
the south the hills were very broken, rising in rough tiers of stones.
The Apaches hid in these rocks and awaited their victims. On November
7, 1879, the Mexicans entered the narrow defile and as soon as they
were between the two parties of Indians concealed on each side of the
pass the Apaches on the north side of the trail fired a volley upon
them. The Mexicans thereupon made for the rocks on the south, as was
natural. As they sought refuge there the redskins in the cliffs above
the gallant little band opened fire on them. Caught in a real death
trap the entire punitive force was massacred. When I walked over the
ground some time afterward I saw where one Mexican had gotten into
a crevice from which he could shoot anyone coming at him from the
east or west. He was hidden also from the Indians in the cliffs above
him, but his legs were exposed to the warriors on the north side and
they had literally shot them off up to his knees. I also found seven
dead Mexicans in a small gulley, and on a little peak above them I
discovered the lair of one old Indian who had fired twenty-seven shots
at the tiny group until he had killed them all, for I found that number
of 45-70 cartridge shells in one pile. Practically all the horses
of the Mexicans were killed. Some of the animals had been tied to
Spanish dagger plants and when shot ran the length of their rope before
falling. Some of the bodies rolled down the deep canyon until they
reached the bottom of what we called the Canado del Muerte (Canyon of
Death), and the Indians removed none of the saddles or ropes from the
dead horses.

When the company of Mexicans did not return there was great sorrow
and alarm in the little town of Carrajal. As it was supposed that
only a small band of Apaches bent on horse stealing was in the
Candelarios, another small band of fourteen men volunteered to go
and see what had become of their friends and kindred. Don Jose Mario
Rodriguez was appointed commander, and the little party took the trail
of their comrades with sad forebodings. Old Victorio, from his watch
towers in the Candelarios, saw this rescue party and prepared for its
destruction. The signs indicated that the second party had walked into
the same death trap as the first, but the second band had scattered
more in fighting and a good many of the Mexicans were killed on the
southern slope of the hills. Two had attempted to escape on horseback
but were followed and killed. I found one of these unfortunates in
an open plain some six hundred yards from the hills. He had been
surrounded, and, seeing escape was impossible, had dismounted, tied his
horse to a Spanish dagger plant and put up a good fight. I found thirty
or forty cartridge shells near where he had fallen. His pony had been
killed and the dagger plant shot to pieces. The Apaches had cut off his
right hand and had carried away his gun, six-shooter, saddle and bridle.

When neither party returned then, indeed, was there sorrow in the
town of Carrajal, for twenty-nine of her principal citizens had left
never to return. Wives, mothers, and sweethearts mourned the loss
of their dear ones. A runner was sent to El Paso del Norte and the
citizens began to organize a punitive expedition at once, calling on
Saragosa, Tres Jacalas, Guadalupe, and San Ignacio for their quotas.
These towns responded quickly and soon a hundred Mexicans were ready
to take the field. A note was sent to Lieutenant Baylor at Ysleta
requesting the rangers to go with the command. Baylor readily agreed
to accompany the Mexicans, for he knew it was only a question of time
before old Victorio would again be murdering and robbing on our side
of the Rio Grande. A detachment of Company "C" had been in one Apache
fight in Mexico and the Mexicans had a very kindly feeling for us.
Lieutenant Baylor's detachment of ten rangers crossed the Rio Grande at
Saragosa, a little town opposite Ysleta, and joined the Mexicans under
Senor Ramos. We marched to the ranch of Don Ynocente Ochoa until the
volunteers from the other towns came to Samalaejuca Springs. When they
had done so the rangers moved down and our combined command amounted to
one hundred and ten men.

After organizing their force the Mexicans sent Senor Ramos to inform
Lieutenant Baylor that, on account of his experience as a soldier and
as a compliment to the rangers, they had selected him to command the
entire party. The lieutenant thanked the messenger, but declared, as
the campaign was on Mexican soil to rescue or bury Mexicans, it would
be more proper to appoint one of their own men commander, and that he
himself would cheerfully serve under any leader so chosen. Senor Ramos
returned shortly and notified Lieutenant Baylor that the Mexicans had
selected Don Francisco Escapeda of Guadalupe as commander-in-chief and
Lieutenant Baylor second in command.

This solution of the leadership problem pleased us, as there was an
element among the Mexican party that might have caused friction.
Old Chico Barelo, the pueblo cacique and principal commander of
the mob that had killed Judge Howard, Ellis, Adkinson, and McBride
at San Elizario, was with the expedition, and we had at our Ysleta
headquarters warrants for the arrest of himself and many others, so we
gave the old fellow to understand we were now fighting a common enemy
and should act in harmony together. We did this more willingly, because
we had learned that after killing Judge Howard and the others the mob
wanted to murder all the rangers barricaded in an old adobe house, but
had been dissuaded from this purpose by old Chico, who declared the
rangers could only be killed after he had first been slain.

Leaving one wagon at the Ochoa ranch and taking three days' rations
cooked and more in case of a siege, we went out in the night to avoid
Victorio's spies. Don Francisco Escapeda with Lieutenant Baylor were
at the head of the column. Sergeant James B. Gillett and eight rangers
followed in Indian file, each ranger with a Mexican by his side,
showing they looked on us as volunteers in the Mexican service. We rode
out along the hard sand road beyond Samalaejuca and sent spies ahead
to locate the Apaches if possible. Before we reached the Candelarios
we halted behind some mountains to await their report, but they could
learn nothing certain. It was a bitterly cold night and a few of us
made fires in the deep arroyos. We moved on toward the mountains north
of the Candelarios and reached them early next morning to find a large
fresh trail about two days old going in the direction of Lake Santa
Maria, but, for fear of some stratagem, we divided our men. One party
took the crest south of the trail where the massacre took place while
the other went to the right.

It was soon evident that the entire Apache band had left and that
nothing remained for us but the sad duty of collecting the bodies of
the dead Mexicans for burial. The second, or rescue party, had found
the bodies of their kinsmen killed in the first ambuscade and had
collected them and put them in a big crevice in the rocks. When they
began to cover the corpses with loose stones the Indians, who had been
watching them all the while just as a cat plays with a mouse before
killing it, opened fire on the burial party and killed the last one
of the unfortunate men. The saddest scene I ever witnessed was that
presented as we gathered the bodies of the murdered men. At each fresh
discovery of a loved friend, brother or father and the last hope fled
that any had escaped, a wail of sorrow went up, and I doubt if there
was a dry eye either of Mexican or Texan in the whole command.

While the immediate relatives were hunting for those who had
scattered in trying to escape, we moved south to the main tank in the
Candelarios. The ascent was up a winding path on the steep mountainside
to the bench where the tank, one of the largest in the west, was
situated. The water coming down from a height, and big boulders falling
into the tank, had cut a deep hole in the solid rock in which the water
was retained. Although Victorio's band of three hundred animals and two
hundred or more Indians and our command had been using the water it
could scarcely be missed.

We sent scouts to the left and right to make sure no game was being
put upon us, for the cunning old chief, after sending his women and
children off, could have hidden his warriors in the rough cliff that
towered high above and commanded the tank of water and slaughtered all
those below. We remained all day and night at this place. It was the
most picturesque spot I had ever seen. We rangers rambled all over this
Indian camp and found many of the Mexican saddles hidden in the cliffs
and several hats, each with bullet holes in it. We also discovered
two Winchester rifles that had been hit in the fight and abandoned as
useless. I saw a hundred or more old rawhide shoes that had been used
to cover the ponies' feet and dozens of worn-out moccasins. This party
of Apaches had killed and eaten more than seventy-five head of horses
and mules in this camp.

I followed a plain, well-beaten foot path to the topmost peak of
the Candelario or candle mountain, so called from the candle-like
projection of rocks that shot skyward from its top. The Candelario is
in an open plain fifty miles south of El Paso, Texas, and from its top
affords one of the grandest views in northern Mexico. To the south
one could see San Jose and Carrajal, to the north the mountains at El
Paso del Norte, to the west the mountains near Santa Maria River and
Lake Guzman were in plain view, while to the east the Sierra Bentanos
loomed up, apparently only a few miles away. On this peak old Victorio
kept spies constantly on the lookout, and it would have been impossible
for a party of men to have approached without having been seen by these
keen-eyed watchers.

All the bodies having been recovered they were buried in a crevice of
the mountain where they had been killed. All were in good preservation
owing to the pure cold air of the mountains. It is a strange fact, but
one beyond question, that no wild animal or bird of prey will touch
the body of a Mexican. These corpses had lain on the ground nearly
two weeks and were untouched. If they had been the bodies of Indians,
negroes or Americans the coyotes, buzzards and crows would have
attacked them the first day and night.

Nothing of interest occurred on our return trip. The rangers, as
usual, always ate up their three days' rations the first camp they
made and got out of bread, but our Mexican allies divided with us. Don
Ynocente Ochoa's major-domo or ranch boss gave us all the fresh beef
we could eat and a supply of carne seco (dried beef) to take with us
on campaign. Quite a company had come out to see us from Carrizal and
we returned sadly to the widows of the brave men who fell in this,
probably the most wholesale slaughter ever made by Victorio's band.
The citizens of Galena were nearly as unfortunate, but it was old Hu
and Geronimo who massacred them. All the Saragosa men made for their
church to offer up thanks for a safe return. Men, women and children
uttered their "Gracias, senors," as the Texas Rangers rode through
their town. We arrived safely in our adobe quarters at Ysleta and
appreciated them after sleeping out of doors.

Though Victorio had escaped us on this scout, and though he was to
murder and pillage for a time, yet his days were numbered. Our company
of rangers were again to cross into Mexico in pursuit of him, but,
though, one year later, he and eighty-nine of his braves were killed
by the Mexicans under Colonel Joaquin Terrazas, the rangers were not
to take part in defeating him. However, our rangers were destined to
annihilate a small band that escaped deserved destruction at that time
when it resumed its depredations in Texas.




CHAPTER XIV

TREACHEROUS BRAVES, A FAITHFUL DOG, AND A MURDER


During the latter part of January, 1880, two mining engineers named
Andrews and Wiswall from Denver, Colorado, appeared at the ranger camp
in Ysleta. They had a new ambulance pulled by two elegant horses and
led a fine saddle pony. They were well fitted out for camping and had
the finest big black shepherd dog I had ever seen. Mr. Andrews used a
Springfield while Mr. Wiswall carried a Sharps sporting rifle, besides
they had shotguns and sixshooters. These miners wanted to buy one
hundred pack burros and, not finding what they wanted in the Rio Grande
Valley, decided to go over in the upper Pecos Valley near Eddy or
Roswell, New Mexico, for pack animals. They consulted Lieutenant Baylor
about the best route they should follow. He advised them to travel down
the overland stage route to Fort Davis, thence by Toyah Creek and on up
the Pecos, but the engineers thought this too much out of their way and
concluded to travel by the old abandoned Batterfield stage route, which
leads by Hueco Tanks, Alamo Springs, Cornudos Mountain, Crow Flat,
Guadalupe Mountain and thence to the Pecos River. Lieutenant Baylor
warned the men that this was a very dangerous route, without a living
white man from Ysleta to the Pecos River, more than one hundred and
fifty miles distant, and through an Indian country all the way.

Nevertheless, Andrews and Wiswall selected this latter route, and the
third day out from our camp reached the old abandoned stage station
at Crow Flat about noon. This was in an open country and from it one
could see for miles in every direction. A cold north wind was blowing,
so, for protection, the two men drove inside the old station walls,
unhitched and hobbled their horses and pony and were soon busily
baking bread, frying bacon and boiling coffee, not dreaming there was
an Indian in the country, though they had been warned to look out for
them. Like all men traveling in that country the two miners had the
appetite of coyotes and became deeply absorbed in stowing away rations.
Unnoticed, the horses had grazed off some three or four hundred yards
from the station and the two men were suddenly startled by a yelling
and the trampling of horses' feet. Looking up, Andrews and Wiswall saw
ten or twelve Indians driving off their horses.

Seizing their guns, the two white men started after the thieves at top
speed. Both being Western men and good shots, they hoped, by opening on
the redskins with their long range guns, to get close enough to prevent
them from taking the hobbles off the horses. But the animals made about
as good time as if they had been foot loose. This fact was well known
to the Texas Rangers, who hobbled and side lined also and, even then,
their horses when stampeded would run as fast as the guards could keep
up with them on foot. The Apaches can't be taught anything about horse
stealing--they are already past masters at the art. And while some of
the Indians halted and fought Andrews and Wiswall the others ran the
horses off and got away with them. The two miners returned to camp
feeling very blue indeed.

A council of war was held and they were undetermined the best course
to pursue. To walk back one hundred miles to El Paso and pack grub,
blankets and water was no picnic. On the other hand, it was probably
seventy-five miles to the Pecos, but they finally decided to take
the shortest way to assistance, which proved the traditional longest
way. They determined to stay within the friendly adobe of the old
stage stand until night. To keep up appearances they rigged up two
dummy sentinels and put them on guard. They had no fear of an attack
at night, especially as they had a dog to keep watch. They left the
station at dark. Shep, the dog, wanted to go with them, but the men put
a sack of corn and a side of bacon under the ambulance and made him
understand he was to guard it. They then set out and followed the old
stage route along a horrible road of deep sand. At daybreak they were
near the point of the Guadalupe Peak, and after having traveled on foot
about twenty-five miles they were pretty well worn out.

The old stage road here turns to the right and gradually winds around
the mountain to get on the mesa land. It makes quite a circuit before
getting to the next water, Pine Springs, but there was an old Indian
trail that leads up the canyon and straight through. As Andrews and
Wiswall were afoot and taking all the short cuts, they took this trail.
It was late in the day when, in a sudden bend of the trail, they came
in full view of an entire village of Indians coming towards them. The
redskins were only two or three hundred yards off and discovered the
white men at once.

Under such circumstances the two pedestrians had to think quickly and
act at once. They could not hope to escape by running, for most of the
Indians were mounted. Fortunately, to the south of the trail there was
a sharp sugar loaf peak, and for this Andrews and Wiswall made with
all speed. Reaching the summit they hastily threw up breastworks of
loose rocks and as soon as the Indians came into sight they opened fire
on them. The redskins returned the fire, but soon discovered they were
wasting ammunition and ceased firing. The besieged, suspicious of some
stratagem, kept a sharp lookout, and soon discovered the Indians were
crawling upward to the barricade and pushing boulders before them to
shelter their bodies. The boys decided to keep perfectly still, one on
each side, and watch for a chance to kill a savage.

The watcher on the west side, where the fading light still enabled him
to see, saw a mop of black hair rise cautiously over an advancing rock.
He fired at once. The head disappeared and the boulder went thundering
down the hill with the two white men running over the warrior, who
was kicking around like a chicken with its head cut off. As good luck
would have it most of the attackers were on the east side, taking it
for granted the men would try to escape in that direction. Before the
astonished Apaches could understand just what was occurring, the men,
running like old black-tailed bucks, were out of hearing, while night
spread her dark mantle over them in kindness. Being good woodsmen, the
fugitives had no trouble in shaping their course to Crow Flat again.

Worn out and weary after traveling more than fifty miles on foot and
with not a wink of sleep for thirty-six hours, they made the old stage
stand and found their dummy sentinels still on guard with the faithful
shepherd dog at his post. He was overjoyed at the return of his
masters. At the old adobe station Andrews and Wiswall were in a measure
safe, for they had water and grub and the walls of the stand, five feet
or more high, would shelter them. Since the Apaches had made no attempt
to kill the dog or rob the ambulance, the miners were satisfied that
the Indians, after stealing their horses, had kept on their way to the
Mescalero Agency, near Tularosa. This stage station was on the highway
of these murderous, thieving rascals, who were constantly raiding Texas
and Chihuahua, and in their raids they had made a deep trail leading
north from Crow Flat or Crow Springs, as some call it, toward the
Sacramento Mountains.

After the fugitives had rested they decided they would pull out after
dark and hoof it for Ysleta. The fifty miles' walk over a rough country
had pretty well worn out their shoes, so they used gunny sacks to tie
up their sore and bleeding feet. Again giving Shep his orders, with
heavy hearts Andrews and Wiswall turned their faces to the Cornudos
Mountains, with the next stage station twenty-five miles distant
without one drop of water on the way. They were so tired and foot-sore
they did not reach Cornudos until late the next day. Here they hid in
the rocks, among the shady nooks of which they found cold water and
sweet rest. After several days the two men dragged their weary bodies,
more dead than alive, into Ysleta and to the ranger camp.

Lieutenant Baylor ordered me to take eight rangers, and with two mules,
proceed to Crow Flat to bring in the ambulance Andrews and Wiswall
had abandoned there. The first day we made the Hueco Tanks. Hueco is
Spanish for tanks, and in the early days travelers spelled it Waco.
Many wild adventures have occurred at these tanks--fights between the
Mexicans and the Comanches. During the gold excitement this was the
main immigrant route to California. Here, too, the overland stage route
had a stand. The names of Marcy, General Lee, and thousands of others
could be seen written on the rocks. The Indians themselves had drawn
many rude pictures, one of which was quite artistic and depicted a huge
rattlesnake on the rock under the cave near the stage stand on the
eastern side of Hueco.

Many times when scouting in the Sacramento and Guadalupe Mountains I
have camped for the night in the Huecos. Sometimes the water in the
tanks had been all used up by the travelers but there was always plenty
of good cool rain water twenty-five feet above the main ground tanks.
Often I have watered my entire command by scaling the mountain to those
hidden tanks and, filling our boots and hats with water, poured it on
the flat, roof-like rocks so it would run down into the tanks below
where our horses and mules would be watered in good shape. The city of
El Paso, I am told, now has a fine graded road to those old historic
mountains and many of its citizens enjoy an outing there.

Our next halt was at the Alamose, across the beautiful plains, at that
time covered with antelope that could be seen scudding away with their
swift change of color looking like a flock of white birds. Here we
found some Indian signs at the flat above the springs, but it was at
Cornudos that we again saw the old signs of the Apaches. This Cornudos
is a strange conglomeration of dark granite rocks shot high in the air
in the midst of the plains by some eruption of the earth in ages past.
This was the favorite watering place of the Tularosa Agency Indians on
their raids into Texas and Mexico.

From Cornudos to Crow Flat is a long, monotonous tramp of twenty-five
or thirty miles, and we arrived in the night and were promptly
challenged by the faithful sentinel, old Shep. Although we were
strangers, the dog seemed to recognize us as Americans and friends.
He went wild with joy, barked, rolled over and over and came as near
talking as any African monkey or gorilla could. We gave him a cheer.
The faithful animal had been there alone for nearly fifteen days. His
side of bacon was eaten and the sack of corn getting very low. The
rangers were as much delighted as if it had been a human being they had
rescued. The dog had worn the top of the wall of the old stage station
perfectly smooth while keeping off the sneaking coyotes. Tracks of the
latter were thick all around the place, but Shep held the fort with
the assistance of the dummy sentinels. We found everything just as the
owners, Andrews and Wiswall, had left it.

As was my custom, I walked over the ground where the Apaches and
Messrs. Andrews and Wiswall had had their scrap. Near an old dagger
plant I found where an Indian had taken shelter, or rather tried to
hide himself, and picked up a number of Winchester .44 cartridge
shells. We secured the ambulance and our return journey was without
incident. We arrived back in our camp after making the two hundred
miles in a week.

Mr. Andrews presented Lieutenant Baylor with a beautiful Springfield
rifle. I don't know whether Andrews or Wiswall are alive, but that
Mexican shepherd dog is entitled to a monument on which should be
inscribed, "FIDELITY."

In the spring of 1880 two brick masons, Morgan and Brown, stopped at
our quarters in Ysleta on their way from Fort Craig, New Mexico, to San
Antonio, Texas. They had heard that some freight wagons at San Elizario
would soon return to San Antonio and were anxious to travel back with
them. These men spent two or three days in the ranger camp and seemed
very nice chaps and pleasant talkers. One of them, Mr. Morgan, owned
one of the finest pistols I ever saw. It was pearl handled and silver
mounted. Our boys tried to trade for it, but Morgan would not part with
the weapon.

After the two men had been gone from our camp three or four days word
was brought to Lieutenant Baylor that two men had been found dead near
San Elizario. The lieutenant sent me with a detail of three rangers
to investigate. At San Elizario we learned that the dead men were at
Collins' sheep ranch, four miles from town. On arriving there we found,
to our surprise and horror, that the dead men were Morgan and Brown,
who had left our camp hale and hearty just a few days before. It was
surmised that the men had camped for the night at the sheep ranch and
had been beaten to death with heavy mesquite sticks. They had been dead
two or three days and were stripped of their clothing, their bodies
being partly eaten by coyotes.

On repairing to his sheep ranch Mr. Collins found the dead bodies of
Morgan and Brown, his shepherds gone and his flocks scattered over
the country. Mr. Collins gave the herders' names as Santiago Skevill
and Manuel Moleno. After beating out the brains of their unfortunate
victims the Mexicans robbed the bodies and lit out for parts unknown.

As the murderers were on foot and had been gone three or four days, I
found it very difficult to get their trail, as loose stock grazed along
the bosques and partially obliterated it. As there was a number of
settlements and several little pueblos along the river, I knew if I did
not follow the Mexicans' tracks closely I could never tell where they
had gone, so I spent the remainder of the day trying to get the trail
from camp. We were compelled to follow it on foot, leading our horses.
We would sometimes be an hour trailing a mile.

On the following day I was able to make only ten miles on the trail,
but I had discovered the general direction. I slept on the banks of
the Rio Grande that night, and next morning crossed into Mexico, and
found that the murderers were going down the river in the direction of
Guadalupe. I now quit the trail and hurried on to this little Mexican
town. Traveling around a short bend in the road I came suddenly into
the main street of Guadalupe, and almost the first man I saw standing
on the street was a Mexican with Morgan's white-handled pistol strapped
on him.

I left two of my men to watch the suspect and myself hurried to the
office of the president of Guadalupe, made known my mission and told
him I had seen one of the supposed murderers of Morgan and Brown on
the streets of his city, and asked that the suspect be arrested. The
official treated me very cordially and soon had some police officers
go with me. They found the two suspected Mexicans, arrested them and
placed them in the housgow. The prisoners admitted they were Collins'
sheep herders and said their names were Moleno and Skevill but, of
course, denied knowing anything about the death of Morgan and Brown.
All my rangers recognized the pistol taken from the Mexican as the
weapon owned by Mr. Morgan. The Mexican officers reported to the
alcalde or town president that the suspects had been arrested. The
latter official then asked me if I had any papers for these men. I told
him I did not, for at the time I left my camp at Ysleta we did not know
the nature of the murder or the names of the parties incriminated. I
declared I was sure the men arrested had committed the murder and that
I would hurry back to Ysleta and have the proper papers issued for the
prisoners' extradition. The alcalde promised to hold the suspects until
the proper formalities could be complied with.

From Guadalupe to Ysleta is about fifty or sixty miles. I felt the
importance of the case, and while I and my men were foot-sore and
weary, we rode all night long over a sandy road and reached camp
at Ysleta at 9 o'clock the following morning. Lieutenant Baylor at
once appeared before the justice of the peace at Ysleta and filed a
complaint of murder against Manuel Moleno and Santiago Skevill, had
warrants issued for their arrest and himself hurried to El Paso,
crossed the river to El Paso del Norte and, presenting his warrants to
the authorities, asked that the murderers be held until application for
their extradition could be made.

Within a week we learned, much to our disgust, that the two murderers
had been liberated and told to vamoose. I doubt whether the warrants
were ever sent to the alcalde at Guadalupe. A more cruel murder than
that of Morgan and Brown was never committed on the Rio Grande, yet the
murderers went scot-free. This miscarriage of justice rankled in my
memory and subsequently it was to lead me to take the law into my own
hands when dealing with another Mexican murderer.




CHAPTER XV

VICTORIO BECOMES A GOOD INDIAN


As soon as the summer rains had begun in 1880 and green grass and
water were plentiful, old Victorio again began his raids. He appeared
at Lake Guzman, Old Mexico, then traveled east to Boracho Pass, just
south of the Rio Grande. This old chief was then reported making for
the Eagle Mountains in Texas. The Mexican Government communicated this
information to General Grierson at Fort Davis, Texas, and Lieutenant
Baylor was asked to cooperate in the campaign to exterminate the wily
old Apache.

General Grierson, on receipt of this information, at once put his
cavalry in motion for Eagle Springs, and on August 2, 1880, Baylor
left his camp at Ysleta with myself and thirteen rangers equipped for
a two weeks' campaign. On August 4th our little band reached old Fort
Quitman, eighty miles down the Rio Grande from El Paso, and Lieutenant
Baylor reported to General Grierson by telegraph. His message was
interrupted, for the Apaches had cut the wires between Bass' Canyon
and Van Horn's Well, but the general ordered him by telegram to scout
toward Eagle Springs until his command should meet the United States
cavalry. We were to keep a sharp lookout for Indian trails, but we
saw none until we reached Eighteen Mile water hole, where General
Grierson's troops had had an engagement with Victorio. From here the
Indians went south and around Eagle Mountains, so we continued down
the road beyond Bass' Canyon and found the Apaches had crossed the
road, torn down the telegraph wire, carried off a long piece of it,
and destroyed the insulators. The Indians also dragged some of the
telegraph poles two or three miles and left them on their trail. The
signs indicated they had from one hundred and eighty to two hundred
animals. After destroying the telegraph the raiders finally moved north
toward Carrizo Mountains.

At Van Horn, Lieutenant Baylor could learn nothing of General Grierson
or his movements. We thereupon took the general's trail leading north
and overtook him in camp at Rattlesnake Springs, about sixty-five
miles distant. Here we joined Company "K," Eighth Cavalry, and Captain
Nolan's company, the Tenth. The cavalry camped at Carrizo Springs and
our scouts found Victorio's trail the next day leading southwest toward
the Apache Tanks. We left camp at dusk and rode all night and struck
the redskins' trail next morning at the stage road where General
Grierson had fought. The Indians crossed the road, but afterwards
returned to it and continued toward old Fort Quitman.

The overland stage company kept a station at this abandoned frontier
post, situated on the north bank of the Rio Grande, eighty or ninety
miles east of El Paso, Texas. On August 9, 1880, Ed Walde, the stage
driver, started out on his drive with General Byrnes occupying the rear
seat of the stage coach. The stage, drawn by two fast running little
Spanish mules, passed down the valley and entered the canyon, a very
box-like pass with high mountains on either side,--an ideal place for
an Indian ambuscade. Walde had driven partly through this pass when,
around a short bend in the road, he came suddenly upon old Victorio and
his band of one hundred warriors. The Indian advance guard fired on the
coach immediately, and at the first volley General Byrnes was fatally
wounded, a large caliber bullet striking him in the breast and a second
passing through his thigh. Walde turned his team as quickly as he could
and made a lightning run back to the stage stand with the general's
body hanging partly out of the stage. The Apaches followed the stage
for four or five miles trying to get ahead of it, but the little mules
made time and beat them into the shelter of the station's adobe walls.

It was a miracle that Walde, sitting on the front seat, escaped
without a scratch and both of the mules unharmed. At old Fort Quitman
I examined the little canvas-topped stage and found it literally shot
to pieces. I noticed where a bullet had glanced along the white canvas,
leaving a blue mark a foot long before it passed through the top.
Three of the spokes of the wheels were shot in two and, as well as I
remember, there were fifteen or twenty bullet marks on and through the
stage. Lieutenant Baylor and his rangers buried General Byrnes near
old Fort Quitman and fired a volley over his grave. Subsequently Walde
joined Lieutenant Baylor's command and made an excellent ranger. It was
from him that I obtained the particulars of the fight that resulted in
the general's death.

En route the Apaches raided Jesus Cota's ranch, killed his herder and
drove off one hundred and forty head of cattle. In crossing the river
forty of the animals mired in the quicksands. The heartless Indians
thereupon pounced upon the unfortunate cattle and cut chunks of flesh
out of their living bodies. Many of the mutilated animals were still
alive when we found them. The redskins, with a freakish sense of humor,
perpetrated a grim joke on the murdered herder. He was rendering out
some tallow when surprised and killed, so the murderers rammed his head
into the melted tallow to make him a greaser!

After the fight at Quitman, Victorio and his band crossed into Mexico
and there found temporary safety, as the United States troops were
not permitted to enter that country in pursuit of Indians, though
negotiations to permit such pursuit of Indians were even then pending
between the two governments. Alone, we were no match for Victorio's
hundred braves, so we returned to our camp.

Victorio, however, did not remain idle in Mexico. He made a raid on Dr.
Saminiego's San Jose ranch and stole one hundred and seventeen horses
and mules, besides killing two Mexican herders. Don Ramon Arranda,
captain of the Mexican Volunteers, invited the rangers to Mexico to
cooperate with him in exterminating the Apaches, so, on September 17,
1880, Lieutenant Baylor with thirteen rangers, myself included, entered
Mexico and marched to Tancas Cantaresio, Don Arranda's ranch. Here we
were joined by Mexican volunteers from the towns of Guadalupe, San
Ignacio, Tres Jacalas, Paso del Norte, and from the Texan towns of
Ysleta, Socorro, and San Elizario, until our combined force numbered
over a hundred men.

On the night of the 19th we crossed an Indian trail south of the
Rancheria Mountains, but could not tell the number of redskins in the
party, as it was then dark and the trail damaged by rain. The same
night we saw Indian signal fires to the east of the Arranda ranch. Next
morning, with a detail of five rangers and ten Mexican volunteers,
I scouted out in the direction of the fires but did not have time
to reach the sign, as I was ordered to take and hold the Rancheria
Mountains before old Victorio and his band reached them.

At Lucero, the first stage stand, the Apaches were reported within
a league of Carrizal. We made a night march with our rangers and
seventy-three volunteers, but found the Indians had left, and, as
a heavy rain had put out the trail, we struck east toward El Copra
Mountains. Here we again picked up the trail and, following it until
night, we found a few loose horses of Saminiego's. The marauders now
went west toward some tanks and we returned to Candelario, where
Victorio's entire band had crossed the Chihuahua stage road. Thence we
marched back to San Jose and went into camp to await the arrival of
General Joaquin Terrasas.

The Mexican general made his appearance on the 3rd day of October
with two hundred cavalry and one hundred infantry. This general, a
member of a well known family of Chihuahua, was more than six feet in
height, very dark and an inveterate smoker of cigarettes. He used four
milk white horses, riding one while his aides led three. His cavalry,
well armed with Remington pistols and carbines, was nicely uniformed
and mounted on dark colored animals of even size. The infantry were
Indians from the interior of Mexico. These foot soldiers wore rawhide
sandals on their feet and were armed with Remington muskets. Each
soldier carried two cartridge belts, containing one hundred rounds of
ammunition. I was impressed with the little baggage and rations these
infantrymen carried. On the march each man had a little canvas bag that
held about one quart of ground parched corn, sweetened with a little
sugar--and a table-spoonful of this mixture stirred in a pint cup of
water made a good meal. Of course when in a cattle country plenty of
beef was furnished them, but when on the march they had only this
little bag of corn. This lack of baggage and rations enabled them to
move quickly and promptly. This light infantry had no trouble at all in
keeping up with the cavalry on the march and in a rough country they
could move faster than the horsemen.

With General Terrasas' three hundred soldiers and our hundred
volunteers we could bring to bear against Victorio about four hundred
men. From San Jose the combined command marched to Rebosadero Springs,
twenty miles south of El Caparo, on the new Chihuahua stage road. There
we rested two days and then marched forty miles to Boracho Pass, where
the Apaches had camped after killing General Byrnes and stealing Jesus
Cota's stock. We crossed the Indians' trail twenty miles west of the
pass and formed our line of battle, as we expected the enemy was camped
at some tanks there. He did not appear, so we camped at the pass to
await supplies.

When the supply wagons arrived, General Terrasas sent an orderly to
Lieutenant Baylor and invited him to send his men to draw ten days'
rations. While I was standing in my shirtsleeves near the wagon one
of the Mexican soldiers stole from my belt a fine hunting knife that
I had carried ten thousand miles over the frontier. I discovered the
loss almost immediately and reported it to Lieutenant Baylor, who, in
turn, mentioned it to General Terrasas. The Mexican general at once
had his captains form their respective companies and had every soldier
in camp searched, but the knife was not found. The thief had probably
hidden it in the grass. The Mexican volunteers remained with General
Terrasas until after the defeat of Victorio, and one of them told me
afterward he had seen a Mexican soldier scalping Apaches with it. Just
one year later an orderly of General Terrasas rode into the ranger camp
at Ysleta and presented Lieutenant Baylor, then a captain, with the
missing weapon and a note stating that Terrasas was glad to return it
and to report that the thief had been punished.

While at Boracho we were joined by Lieutenant Shaffer, the Twenty-third
United States Cavalry (negroes), Lieutenant Manney, Captain Parker and
sixty-five Apache scouts. These latter were Geronimo's Chiricauhaus,
who later quit their reservation and wrought such death and destruction
in Arizona, New Mexico, and Old Mexico. From the first General Terrasas
viewed these Indian allies with distrust, and as soon as we had scouted
southeast from Boracho to Los Pinos Mountains, about seventy-five miles
distant, and learned that Victorio's trail turned southwest toward
Chihuahua, General Terrasas called Captain Parker, Lieutenants Baylor,
Shaffer and Manney to his camp and informed them that, as the trail had
taken a turn back into the state of Chihuahua and was leading them away
from their homes, he thought it best for the Americans to return to
the United States. I was present at this conference and I at once saw
my chance for a scrap with old Victorio go glimmering. But there was
nothing to do but obey orders, pack up and vamoose.

While on scouts after Victorio's band I met many United States
officers, and often around the camp fire discussed this old chief. The
soldiers all agreed that for an ignorant Indian Victorio displayed
great military genius, and Major McGonnigal declared, with the single
exception of Chief Crazy-horse of the Sioux, he considered Victorio the
greatest Indian general that ever appeared on the American continent.
In following this wily old Apache Napoleon I examined twenty-five or
more of his camps. Victorio was very particular about locating them
strategically, and his parapets were most skillfully arranged and
built. If he remained only an hour in camp he had these defenses thrown
up. He had fought in over two hundred engagements, but his last fight
was now very close at hand.

The very next morning after the United States troops, the Apache scouts
and the Texas rangers turned homeward General Terrasas' scouts reported
to him that Victorio with his entire band of followers was camped at
Tres Castilos, a small group of hills about twenty-five miles southwest
of the Los Pinos Mountains. General Terrasas at once set his column in
motion for that place. Captives afterward declared that Victorio's
spies reported the presence of the Mexican cavalry early in the day and
thereafter kept him informed hour by hour as to the movements of the
approaching enemy.

Victorio had just sent his war chief, Nana, and fifty of his best
young warriors away on a raid, so he had left in his camp just an even
hundred braves, some of them very old men. He also had ninety-seven
women and children and about five hundred head of horses and mules, yet
the remarkable old Indian made no move to escape. By nightfall General
Terrasas drew up near the Apache camp, surrounded the three hills as
best he could and waited until morning before assaulting the enemy.
During the night twelve of Victorio's warriors, with four women and
four children, deserted the old chief and made their way back to the
Eagle Mountains in Texas. Here they committed many depredations until
exterminated three months later in the Diablo Mountains by Lieutenants
Baylor and Nevill.

Early the following morning Victorio mounted a white horse and, in
making some disposition of his braves to meet the expected onset of the
enemy forces, exposed himself unnecessarily. The Mexicans fired on him
at long range and two bullets pierced his body. He fell from his horse
dead,--a good Indian at last.

The loss of Victorio and the absence of Nana demoralized the Apaches,
and a vigorous assault by Terrasas and his army resulted in a complete
victory for the Mexicans. Eighty-seven Indian warriors were killed,
while eighty-nine squaws and their children were captured with a loss
of only two men killed and a few wounded. This victory covered General
Terrasas with glory. The Mexican Government never ceased to shower
honors upon him and gave him many thousands of acres of land in the
state of Chihuahua. The general was so elated over the outcome of the
battle that he sent a courier on a fast horse to overtake Lieutenant
Baylor and report the good news. The messenger caught us in camp near
old Fort Quitman. Every ranger in the scout felt thoroughly disgusted
and disappointed at missing the great fight by only two days after
being with General Terrasas nearly a month.

The captured women and children were sent south of Mexico City into
a climate perfectly unnatural to them. Here they all died in a few
years. When Nana heard of the death of Victorio and the capture of the
squaws and children he fled with his fifty warriors to the Sierra Madre
Mountains in the State of Sonora, Mexico. There he joined forces with
old Geronimo and massacred more people than any small band of Indians
in the world. To avenge himself on Terrasas for killing his friends
and carrying away their wives and children, Nana and his band killed
more than two hundred Mexicans before joining Geronimo. Nana, with his
new chief, surrendered to General Lawton in 1886 and, I believe, was
carried away by our government to Florida, where he at last died.

On our return to camp at Ysleta a commission as captain was waiting
Lieutenant Baylor, since Captain Neal Coldwell had been named
quartermaster of the battalion, his company disbanded and its letter,
"A," given to our company.

Though we missed the fight with Victorio it was not long before we
were called upon to scout after the band of twelve warriors that had
deserted the old chief on the night before the battle of Tres Castilos.
However, we had first to clean up our company, for many undesirable
recruits had seeped into it. This accomplished, we were ready to resume
our Indian warfare.




CHAPTER XVI

SOME UNDESIRABLE RECRUITS


In the early fall of 1880 two well mounted and well armed men appeared
at the ranger camp at Ysleta and applied to Captain Baylor for
enlistment in his company. After questioning the applicants at some
length the captain accepted them and swore them into the service. One
gave his name as John (Red) Holcomb and the other as James Stallings.
Unknown to us, both these men were outlaws and joined the rangers
solely to learn of their strength and their methods of operations.
Holcomb was a San Simone Valley, Arizona, rustler and was living under
an assumed name. Stallings, though he went by his true name, had shot a
man in Hamilton County, Texas, and was under indictment for assault to
kill.

These two recruits came into the service just before we started on our
fall campaign into Mexico after old Victorio and were with us on that
long scout. Although one was from Texas and the other from Arizona, the
two chummed together and were evidently in each other's confidence.
Stallings had not been long in the company before he showed himself a
trouble maker.

As orderly sergeant it was my duty to keep a roster of the company.
Beginning at the top of the list and reading off the names in rotation,
I called out each morning the guard for the day. We had in the company
a Mexican, Juan Garcia, who had always lived in the Rio Grande country,
and Captain Baylor had enlisted him as a ranger that he might use him
as a guide, for Garcia was familiar with much of the country over which
we were called upon to scout. It so happened that Jim Stallings and
Garcia were detailed on the same guard one day. This greatly offended
Stallings, and he declared to some of the boys that I had detailed him
on guard with a Mexican just to humiliate him and he was going to give
me a d--n good whipping. The boys advised him he had better not attempt
it. I could see that Stallings was sullen, but it was not until months
afterward that I learned the cause.

After our return from our month's scout in Mexico, Captain Baylor
received a new fugitive list from the Adjutant-General, and in looking
over its pages my eyes fell on the list of fugitives from Hamilton
County, Texas. Almost the first name thereon was that of James
Stallings with his age and description. I notified Captain Baylor that
Stallings was a fugitive from justice. Baylor asked me what Stallings
had been indicted for and I replied for assault to kill.

"Well, maybe the darned fellow needed killing," replied the captain.
"Stallings looks like a good ranger and I need him."

Not many days after this I heard loud cursing in our quarters and went
to investigate. I found Stallings with a cocked pistol in his hand
standing over the bed of a ranger named Tom Landers, cursing him out.
I could see Stallings had been drinking and finally persuaded him to
put up his pistol and go to bed. The next morning I informed Captain
Baylor of the incident, and suggested that if we did not do something
with Stallings he would probably kill someone. The captain did not seem
inclined to take that view. In fact, I rather believed Captain Baylor
liked a man that was somewhat "on the prod," as the cowboys are wont to
say of a fellow or a cow that wants to fight.

John Holcomb soon found out as much about the rangers as he desired
and, fearing he might be discovered, asked Captain Baylor for a
discharge. After obtaining it he took up his abode in El Paso.

Not long afterwards one morning at breakfast, while the twenty rangers
were seated at one long dining table, Jim Stallings had a dispute
with John Thomas, who was seated on the opposite side of the table
and, quick as a flash, struck Thomas in the face with a tin cup of
boiling coffee. Both men rose to their feet and pulled their pistols,
but before they could stage a shooting match in the place the boys on
either side grabbed them.

I at once went to Captain Baylor and told him that something had to be
done. He seemed to be thoroughly aroused now and said, "Sergeant, you
arrest Stallings, disarm and shackle him. I'll send him back where he
belongs."

I carried out the order promptly and Captain Baylor at once wrote to
the sheriff of Hamilton County to come for the prisoner. Hamilton
County is seven hundred miles by stage from El Paso and it took a week
to get a letter through. There was no jail at Ysleta at that time, so
we were compelled to hold this dangerous man in our camp.

Stallings was shrewd and a keen judge of human nature. We would
sometimes remove the shackles from him that he might get a little
exercise. Finally it came the turn of a ranger named Potter to guard
the prisoner. Potter had drifted into the country from somewhere up
north, and Captain Baylor had enlisted him. He knew very little about
riding and much less about handling firearms. Stallings asked Potter
to go with him out into the corral. This enclosure was built of adobe
and about five feet high. It was nearly dark and the prisoner walked
leisurely up to the fence with Potter following close behind with
Winchester in hand. All of a sudden Stallings turned a hand-spring
over the fence and hit the ground on the other side in a run. Potter
began firing at the fugitive, which brought out all the boys in camp.
Stallings had only about one hundred yards to run to reach the Rio
Grande, and before anything could be done he was safe in Mexico. He
yelled a goodbye to the boys as he struck the bank on the opposite side
of the river. Captain Baylor was furious over the prisoner's escape
and promptly fired Potter from the service and reprimanded me for not
keeping Stallings shackled all the time.

Though we had lost the man we had his horse, saddle, bridle and arms.
Stallings at once went to Juarez and John Holcomb met him there. The
fugitive gave his pal an order on Captain Baylor for his horse, saddle,
and pistol, and Holcomb had the gall to come to Ysleta and present
this order. He reached our camp at noon while the horses were all in
the corral. At the moment of his arrival I happened to be at Captain
Baylor's home. Private George Lloyd stepped over to the captain's and
said to me, "Sergeant, John Holcomb is over in camp with an order from
Jim Stallings for his horse and outfit."

"Gillett, you go and arrest Holcomb and put him in irons and I'll see
if I can find where he is wanted," ordered Captain Baylor, who heard
what Lloyd said.

Holcomb, seeing Lloyd go into Captain Baylor's, got suspicious, jumped
on his horse and left for El Paso in a gallop. I detailed three men to
accompany me to capture Holcomb, but by the time we saddled our horses
and armed ourselves the fugitive was out of sight. We hit the road
running and after traveling two or three miles and inquiring of people
we met in the road I became convinced that Holcomb had quit the road
soon after leaving our camp and was striking for Mexico. I turned back
in the direction of camp and followed the bank of the river.

We had probably traveled a mile on our way home when we discovered
Holcomb coming up the river toward us. He was about four hundred yards
away and discovered us about the same time. Turning his horse quickly
he made a dash for the river. Where he struck it the bank was ten feet
high, but he never hesitated, and both man and horse went head first
into the Rio Grande. The three men I had with me outran me and when
they reached the point where the fugitive had entered the water they
saw him swimming rapidly to the Mexican side and began firing at him. I
ran up and ordered them to cease, telling them not to kill Holcomb, as
he was in swimming water and helpless. Just at this moment the swimmer
struck shallow water and I ordered him to come back or I would shoot
him.

"I'll come if you won't let the boys kill me," he called back.

I told him to hit swimming water quickly, which he did, and swam back
to the American side. He was in his shirtsleeves and with his hat gone.
His horse, meantime, had swam back to our side of the river.

We all mounted and started back to camp, two of the rangers riding in
front with Holcomb. I had not searched the prisoner because he was in
his shirtsleeves. As we rode along Holcomb reached into his shirt bosom
and pulled out an old .45 pistol and handed it to one of the boys,
saying, "Don't tell the sergeant I had this." The rangers at camp gave
the prisoner some dry clothes and dinner, then put him in chains and
under guard.

Captain Baylor went on to El Paso, crossed the river to Juarez and had
Stallings arrested. In two days we had him back in camp and chained to
Holcomb. The captain then wrote to Bell County, Texas, as he had heard
John Holcomb was wanted there for murder. Holcomb had a good horse
and he gave it to a lawyer in El Paso to get him out of his trouble.
Of course we had no warrant for Holcomb's arrest and Judge Blacker
ordered our prisoner brought before him. The county attorney made every
effort to have Holcomb held, while his lawyer tried his best to have
the suspect released. The judge finally said he would hold Holcomb
for one week and unless the officers found some evidence against him
during that time he would order the prisoner freed. It was nearly dark
before we left El Paso on our return to Ysleta, twelve miles distant.
Holcomb had, in some manner, gotten two or three drinks of whisky and
was feeling the liquor. I had one ranger with me leading the prisoner's
horse. The road back to camp followed the river rather closely and the
country was very brushy all the way.

As soon as we had gotten out of El Paso Holcomb sat sidewise on his
horse, holding the pommel of his saddle with one hand and the cantle
with the other, all the while facing toward Mexico. I ordered him to
sit straight in his saddle, but he refused. We were riding in a gallop
and I believe he intended to jump from his horse and try to escape in
the brush. I drew my pistol and hid it behind my leg. Although Holcomb
had the cape of his overcoat thrown over his head he discovered I had a
pistol in my hand and began a tirade of abuse, declaring I had a cocked
gun in my hand and was aching for a chance to kill him. I told him I
believed from his actions he was watching for a chance to quit his
horse and escape, and that I was prepared to prevent such a move. We
reached camp safely and chained Holcomb to Stallings.

These boys, although prisoners, were full of life, and laughed and
talked all the time. Holcomb played the violin quite well. We held the
two suspects several days and finally one night one of the rangers came
to my room and said, "Sergeant, I believe there is something wrong with
those prisoners. They are holloaing, singing and playing the fiddle."

I was busy on my monthly reports and told him to keep a sharp lookout
and before I retired I would come and examine the prisoners. On
examination I found that while Holcomb played the violin Stallings had
sawn their shackles loose. They laughed when I discovered this and said
that when the boys had all gone to bed they intended to throw the pack
saddle, which they used for a seat, on the guard's head and escape. We
could get no evidence against John Holcomb and the judge ordered his
release.

While a prisoner Holcomb swore vengeance against myself and Prosecutor
Neal. Mr. Neal heard of this threat, met Holcomb on the streets of El
Paso afterward and, jerking a small Derringer pistol from his pocket,
shot Holcomb in the belly. Holcomb fell and begged for his life. He
was not badly hurt, and as soon as he was well he quit El Paso, went
to Deming, New Mexico, where he stole a bunch of cattle. He drove the
stolen herd to the mining camp of Lake Valley and there sold them.
While he was in a saloon drinking and playing his fiddle the owner
of the cattle appeared with a shotgun and filled the thief full of
buckshot. As he fell Holcomb was heard to exclaim, "Oh, boys, they have
got me at last."

Jim Stallings was sent to Fort Davis and placed in the jail there, from
which he and half a dozen other criminals made their escape.

A man named John Scott came to Captain Baylor, told a hard luck story,
and asked to be taken into the service. Captain Baylor enlisted the
applicant and fitted him out with horse, saddle, bridle and armed him
with gun and pistol, himself standing good for the entire equipment.
Scott had not been in the service two months before he deserted. I was
ordered to take two men, follow him and bring him back. I overtook
Scott up in the Canutillo, near the line of New Mexico, and before
I even ordered him to halt, he jumped down, sought refuge behind his
horse and opened fire on us with his Winchester. We returned the fire
and killed his horse. He then threw down his gun and surrendered.
We found the deserter had stopped in El Paso and gotten a bottle of
whisky. He was rather drunk when overtaken, otherwise he probably would
not have made fight against three rangers. Captain Baylor took Scott's
saddle, gun and six-shooter away from him and kicked him out of camp,
but was compelled to pay $75 for the horse that was killed.

Another man, Chipman, deserted our company and stole a bunch of horses
from some Mexicans down at Socorro. The Mexicans followed the trail out
in the direction of Hueco Tanks, where it turned west and crossed the
high range of mountains west of El Paso. The pursuers overtook Chipman
with the stolen horses just on the line of New Mexico. The thief put up
a fierce fight and killed two Mexicans, but was himself killed. Captain
Baylor had a scout following the deserter but the Mexicans got to him
first and had the fight before our men arrived. However, the ranger
boys buried the body of Chipman where it fell. This chap had made a
very good ranger and we all felt shocked when we learned he had stolen
seven ponies and tried to get away with them single-handed.

Yet another San Simone Valley rustler, Jack Bond, enlisted in the
company. A band of rustlers and cow thieves were operating up in the
Canutillo, eighteen miles above El Paso, about the time he joined the
command. I did my best to break up this band and made scout after scout
up the river, but without success. Finally Captain Baylor learned
that Bond and another ranger, Len Peterson, were keeping the thieves
posted as to the rangers' movements. The captain fired these two men
out of the company and within ten days I had captured Frank Stevenson,
the leader of the Canutillo gang, and broken up the nest of thieves.
Stevenson was later sent to the penitentiary for fifteen years. Bond
and Peterson went to El Paso, stole Mayor M.C. Goffin's fine pair of
carriage horses and fled to New Mexico. Subsequently Bond was killed at
Deming by Deputy Sheriff Dan Tucker in an attempted arrest.

Captain Roberts, Coldwell or Lieutenant Reynolds would never have let
such a bunch of crooks get into their companies, for they had to know
something about a man before they would enlist him. However, there was
some excuse for Baylor at the time he was on the Rio Grande. It was a
long way from the center of population and good men were hard to find.
Then, too, it looked as if all the criminals in Texas had fled to New
Mexico and Arizona, from which states they would ease back into the
edge of Texas and join the rangers. Captain Baylor was liberal in his
views of men: they all looked good to him until proven otherwise. If
there was a vacancy in the company any man could get in. And if they
lacked equipment the captain would buy the newcomer a horse, saddle,
and arms and then deduct the cost thereof from the man's first three
months' pay. However, Baylor had generally to pay the bill himself. The
captain also liked to keep his company recruited to the limit and this
made enlistment in his command easy.

In all the years I was with Captain Baylor I never knew him to send a
non-commissioned officer on a scout after Indians. He always commanded
in person and always took with him every man in camp save one, who
was left to guard it, for he liked to be as strong as possible on the
battlefield.

Captain Baylor never took much interest personally in following cattle
thieves, horse thieves, murderers and fugitives from justice. He left
that almost entirely to me. Sometimes we would have as many as six or
eight criminals chained up in camp at one time, but the captain would
never come about them, for he could not bear to see anyone in trouble.
His open, friendly personality endeared Baylor to the Mexicans from El
Paso down the valley as far as Quitman. They were all his compadres and
would frequently bring him venison, goat meat and mutton. Always they
showed him every courtesy in their power.

Now, having freed the company of its undesirable recruits, we were
once more a homogeneous force ready and anxious to perform our duty in
protecting the frontier and bringing criminals to justice. Almost as
soon as the last undesirable had been fired from Company "A" we started
on the scout that was to culminate in our last fight with the Apaches.




CHAPTER XVII

LAST FIGHT BETWEEN RANGERS AND APACHES


Despite General Terrasas' great victory at Tres Castilos as recorded in
a preceding chapter, he did not entirely destroy all the Apaches that
had been with old Victorio. Nana and fifty warriors escaped and finally
joined Geronimo in his campaign of murder and destruction. On the night
preceding the battle in which Victorio was killed and his band of
warriors exterminated, twelve braves with four squaws and four children
deserted the old chief and made their way to those rough mountains that
fringe the Rio Grande in the vicinity of Eagle Springs. At once this
band of twenty Indians began a series of pillages and murders that has
no parallel considering the small size of the party.

The little band of Apaches soon appeared at Paso Viego and began their
depredations by an attack on Lieutenant Mills and his cavalry. Paso
Viego is a gap in the mountains that parallel the Rio Grande from Eagle
Mountains on the west to Brites' ranch on the east, and is situated ten
or twelve miles west of and in plain view of the present little town
of Valentine, Texas, on the G., H & S.A. Railroad. The tribe of Pueblo
Indians has lived at the old town of Ysleta, El Paso County, Texas,
for more than three hundred years. They have always been friends to
the Americans and inveterate enemies to the Apaches. It was customary,
therefore, for the United States troops at Fort Davis to employ the
Pueblos as guides during the Indian disturbances along the border. In
1881 Bernado and Simon Olgin, two brothers, were the principal chiefs
of this tribe. Bernado was the elder and looked it. Both chiefs dressed
in the usual Indian fashion, wore moccasins, buckskin leggins and had
their long black hair braided and hanging down the back. Simon was a
very handsome Indian, and he, with four of his tribe--all nephews of
his, I think--were employed by General Grierson during the troublesome
times of 1880-1881.

Simon and his four scouts had been detailed to make scouts down on the
Rio Grande with Lieutenant Mills, commander of the Tenth United States
Cavalry (colored). On their way out the troops reached Paso Viego early
in the evening, and after they had eaten supper Simon Olgin advised
the lieutenant to move out on the open plains three or four miles
north of the pass where they would be safe from attack. Olgin declared
Paso Viego was a favorite camping place for the Indians going to and
returning from Mexico because of the fine water and good grass. He
stated that should a band of redskins appear at the pass during the
night and find it occupied by soldiers they would attack at daylight
and probably kill some of the troopers.

Lieutenant Mills, fresh from West Point, replied that he was not afraid
of Indians and did not propose to move. During the night the little
band of twenty Apaches reached the pass, just as Olgin had prophesied,
and hid themselves in the rocks. The next morning the soldiers had
breakfast, packed their mules, and as they were standing by their
horses ready for the order to mount a sudden fusillade of bullets was
fired into their midst at short range. Other volleys came in quick
succession. At the very first fire that grand old Indian, Simon Olgin,
was shot down and killed, as were five or six of the negro cavalry. The
remainder of the company thereupon fled, but the four Pueblo scouts,
Olgin's nephews, took to the rocks and fought until they had routed
the Apaches and saved the bodies of their old beloved uncle and the
soldiers from falling into the hands of the attackers to be mutilated.

Repulsed at Paso Viego the twenty Apaches next appeared at Bass'
Canyon, a gap in the mountains on the overland stage road about
twelve or fourteen miles west of Van Horn. Here the redskins waylaid
an immigrant train on its way to New Mexico. At the very first fire of
the Indians Mrs. Graham, who was walking, jumped upon the tongue of
the wagon and reached for a Winchester, but was shot and killed. A man
named Grant was killed at the same time, while Mr. Graham had his thigh
broken. From Bass' Canyon the Indians turned south, crossed around the
east end of the Eagle Mountains and again entered Old Mexico, where
they were for a time lost to view.

We next hear of this band at Ojo Calienta, some hot springs on the Rio
Grande southwest from Eagle Mountains. A captain of cavalry with some
colored troops near old Fort Quitman detailed seven men and instructed
the sergeant in charge to scout down the river as far east as Bosque
Bonita, keep a sharp lookout for Indian signs and report back to camp
in one week. These troopers followed orders, and on their return
journey camped for the night at Ojo Calienta. Next morning at break of
day the soldiers were preparing to cook breakfast when the Apaches fell
upon them and killed all save one at their first assault. This single
survivor made his escape on foot, and after two days in the mountains
without food finally reached the soldier camp and reported to his
captain. The Indians evidently located the soldier scout the evening
before but, as they never make a night attack, waited until daylight
to massacre their victims. The redskins captured all the soldiers'
equipment and baggage, including seven horses and two pack mules. They
pillaged the camp and took everything movable away with them. Before
resuming their journey the Apaches took six stake-pins made of iron
and about twenty inches long that were used by the soldiers to drive
into the ground as stakes to which to fasten their horses and drove
one through each soldier's corpse, pinning it firmly to the earth. The
captured stock was killed and eaten, for the soldiers' animals were fat
while most of the ponies and little mules of the Apaches were worn out
by constant use in the mountains, and consequently very poor.

This band was not heard of again for nearly two months--until the
warriors set upon the stage at Quitman Canyon and killed the driver,
Morgan, and the gambler, Crenshaw, a passenger. The reports about
this stage robbery and murder were so conflicting and the impression
so strong that the driver and the passenger had themselves robbed the
stage and made Indian signs to avert suspicion that Captain Baylor
deemed it best to go down to the canyon and investigate for himself.
Accordingly, the captain made a detail of fourteen privates and one
corporal, and with ten days' rations on two pack mules left Ysleta on
January 16th to ascertain if possible whether the stage had been robbed
and the driver and passenger killed by Indians or by white men, and to
punish the robbers if they could be caught. To keep down disorder and
violence threatened at El Paso, the captain left me and a detail of
three men in our camp at Ysleta.

At Quitman, Captain Baylor learned that the trail of the stage robbers
bore southwest to Ojo Calienta, and as the foothills of Quitman
Mountains are very rough, he went down the north bank of the Rio
Grande, as he felt quite certain he would cut signs in that direction.
About twenty-five miles below Quitman he struck the trail of a freshly
shod mule, two barefooted ponies and two unshod mules, and within
fifty yards of the trail he found the kid glove thought to have been
Crenshaw's. The trail now bore down the river and crossed into Mexico,
where the Indian band made its first camp. Captain Baylor followed,
and the next day found the Apaches' second camp near the foothills
of the Los Pinos Mountains, where we had left General Terrasas the
fall before. Here all doubts about the Indians were dispelled, as the
rangers found a horse killed with the meat taken as food and a pair of
old moccasins. Besides, the camp was selected on a high bare hill after
the custom of the Indians. The same day Captain Baylor found another
camp and a dead mule, and on the trail discovered a boot-top recognized
as that of Morgan, the driver. Here also was the trail of some fifteen
or twenty mules and ponies, quite fresh, coming from the direction of
the Candelario Mountains with one small trail of three mules going
toward the Rio Grande. The rangers passed through some very rough, deep
canyons and camped on the south side of the Rio Grande, this being
their second night in Mexico.

Next morning the trail crossed back into Texas. Going toward Major
Carpenter's old camp above the Bosque Bonito the scouting party found a
camp where the Indians had evidently made a cache, but Captain Baylor
only tarried here a short time and followed on down the river a few
miles when he found the Apaches had struck out on a bee line for the
Eagle Mountains. The captain felt some hesitation about crossing the
plains between the Eagle Mountains and the Rio Grande in the daytime
for fear of being seen by the Indians, but as the trail was several
days old he took the risk of being discovered. He camped within three
or four miles of the mountains and at daybreak took the trail up a
canyon leading into the peaks. The party came suddenly upon an Apache
camp which had been hastily deserted that morning, for the Indians left
blankets, quilts, buckskins and many other things useful to them. They
had just killed and had piled up in camp two horses and a mule, the
blood of which had been caught in tin vessels. One mule's tongue was
stewing over a fire and everything indicated the redskins were on the
eve of a jolly war dance, for the rangers found a five-gallon can of
mescal wine and a horse skin sunk in the ground that contained fifteen
or twenty gallons more. Here Captain Baylor found the mate to Morgan's
boot-top and a bag made from the legs of the passenger's pantaloons,
besides express receipts, postal cards and other articles taken from
the stage. The night before had been bitterly cold and the ground had
frozen hard as flint rock, so the rangers could not get the trail,
though they searched the mountains in every direction, and the three
Pueblo Indians, Bernado Olgin, Domingo Olgin, and Aneseta Duran, looked
over every foot of the ground. The scouting party now turned back
toward Mexico to scout back on the west side of the Eagle Mountains
around to Eagle Springs in search of the trail.

At Eagle Springs, as good luck would have it, Captain Baylor learned
that Lieutenant Nevill and nine men had just gone toward Quitman to
look for him. As soon as Lieutenant Nevill returned to the Springs he
informed Baylor that he had seen the trail six miles east of Eagle
Springs and that it led toward the Carrizo Springs or Diablo Mountains.

Captain Baylor's rations were out and Lieutenant Nevill had only
supplies enough to do the combined force five days, but the two
commanders trusted either to catch the Indians or get in striking
distance of the Pecos settlements within that time. The Apaches made
pretty good time across the plain in front of Eagle Springs, and did
not seem to recover from their scare until they reached the Diablo
Mountains. Here they killed and cooked meat from one horse and obtained
water by melting snow with hot rocks.

The trail led northward by Chili Peak, a noted landmark to be seen
from Eagle Station. Here the rangers quit the trail and went into the
Diablo Mountains to camp at Apache Tanks, where General Grierson cut
off Victorio from the Guadalupe Mountains the summer before. Next
morning Captain Baylor followed the trail north and camped on the brow
of cliffs overlooking Rattlesnake Springs. The sign now led to the edge
of the Sierra Diablo, where the Indians camped and slept for the first
time since leaving Eagle Mountains. They were still watchful, as they
were near a most horrible looking canyon down which they could have
disappeared had the scouting party come upon them. Their next camp was
about ten miles farther on, and Captain Baylor saw they were getting
more careless about camping. On the 28th he came across another horse
and fire where the Apaches had eaten some meat. The leg of the horse
was not yet stiff and blood dropped from one when picked up. The chase
was getting to be exciting, and Captain Baylor and his men felt their
chance to avenge the many outrages committed by this band was now near
at hand.

The trail led off north as though the redskins were going toward the
Cornudos in New Mexico, but turned east and entered Sierra Diablo
Mountains. In a narrow gorge the rangers found where the Indians had
eaten dinner, using snow to quench their thirst, but their horses
had no water. From this camp the Apaches made for the cliffs on the
northeast side of Devil Mountains. The scouting party now felt the
Indians were nearby, as they were nearly all afoot. The danger of
being discovered if they passed over the hills during the daylight was
so apparent that the rangers decided to make a dry camp and pass the
mountain's brow before day the next morning. All the signs were good
for a surprise; the trail was not over two hours old, and a flock of
doves passing overhead going in the direction of the trail showed that
water was nearby.

The morning of the 29th of January the party was awakened by the guard,
and passed over the mountain's brow before daylight. There was some
difficulty in picking up the trail, though Captain Baylor, Lieutenant
Nevill and the Pueblo trailers had been up the evening before spying
out the land. By stooping down with their faces close to the ground the
Pueblos got the trail leading north along the crest of the mountains.
Soon the Indian guides said in low voices: "Hoy esta los Indias." And
Captain Baylor perceived the Apaches' camp fires not over half a mile
distant.

Leaving a guard of five men with the horses the rangers advanced
stealthily on foot. By taking advantage of the crest of the mountain
they crept within two hundred yards of the camp, supposing the Indians
were camped on the western slope of the hill. The Apaches, however,
were cautious enough to put one tepee on the eastern slope overlooking
the valley and the approaches from that direction. Captain Baylor
thereupon ordered Sergeant Carruthers of Lieutenant Nevill's company
to take seven men and make a detour to the left and attack that wigwam
while Lieutenant Nevill and himself with seventeen men advanced on the
eastern camp. Sheltering themselves behind some large Spanish dagger
plants and advancing in Indian file the attackers got within one
hundred yards of the enemy, who was apparently just out of bed, for it
was then sunrise. Halting the men deployed to the right and left and
then, kneeling, the rangers gave the astonished Indians a deliberate
volley. At the second fusillade the Apaches broke and fled, the rangers
charging the flying foe with a Texas yell.

Sergeant Carruthers executed his orders in gallant style. The Apaches
on his side, alarmed and surprised by the fire of Captain Baylor's
force, huddled together and three were killed within twenty yards of
their camp fire. The redskins ran like deer and made no resistance,
for it was each man for himself. Nevertheless, as they fled they were
thickly peppered, as there were but two or three out of the party of
sixteen or eighteen but left blood along their trail as they ran off.

One Indian the rangers named Big Foot (from his enormous track) ran up
the mountain in full view for four hundred yards, and not less than two
hundred shots were fired at him, but he passed over the hill. Sergeant
Carruthers and several men pursued the fugitive for a mile and a half
and found plenty of blood all the way. Another warrior was knocked down
and lay as though dead for some time, but finally regained his feet
and made two-forty time over the hills with a running accompaniment of
Springfield and Winchester balls. One brave stood his ground manfully,
principally because he got the gable end of his head shot off early in
the action.

Of course the women were the principal sufferers. As it was a bitterly
cold, windy morning and all ran off with blankets about them few of
the rangers could tell braves from squaws, and in the confusion of
battle two women were killed and one mortally wounded. Two children
were killed and a third shot through the foot. One squaw with three
bullets in her hand and two children were captured. Seven mules and
nine horses, two Winchester rifles, one Remington carbine, one United
States cavalry pistol and one .40 double action Colt's, six United
States cavalry saddles taken from the troops killed at Ojo Calienta and
some women's and children's clothing, American made,--evidently those
of Mrs. Graham,--a Mexican saddle with a bullet hole in it and fresh
blood thereon and over a hundred and fifty yards of new calico fell as
spoil to the victors. All the Indians' camp equipage was burned.

The victorious rangers breakfasted on the battleground, as they had
eaten nothing since dinner the day before. Some of the men found horse
meat good, while others feasted on venison and roasted mescal. The
band of scouts could not remain long at this camp for water was very
scarce. They had forty head of stock to care for, and the Indians, in
their flight, ran through the largest pool of water and liberally dyed
it with their blood, and as none of the men were bloodthirsty enough to
use this for making coffee or bread they were short of water. However,
the rangers found enough pure good water for their use but the horses
had to wait until the force reached Apache Tanks, thirty miles distant.
This scarcity of water made it impossible to remain at this Apache
camp, otherwise Captain Baylor could have added three or four scalps
to his trophies. The return march was begun, and at Eagle Station
Lieutenant Nevill and Captain Baylor separated. The captured squaw and
the two children were sent to Fort Davis to be turned over to the post
commander for medical attention, for the rangers had neither a surgeon
nor a hospital.

On their return from the battle of the Diablos, Captain Baylor's Pueblo
Indian scouts, Chief Bernado Olgin, Domingo Olgin, and Aneseta Duran,
suddenly halted about one mile from Ysleta, unsaddled and unbridled
their tired little ponies and went into camp. This was their custom
after a successful campaign against their Apache enemies so that their
comrades might come out and do honor to the returning heroes. For three
days and nights a feast and a scalp dance was held by the whole of the
Pueblo tribe of Ysleta. They feasted, wined and dined their returning
warriors and invited the rangers to the festivities. The boys all went
and reported they had a fine time generally. This celebration was the
last scalp dance the Pueblo Indians ever had, for the destruction of
the Apaches in the Diablos exterminated the wild Indians and there were
no more of them to scalp.




CHAPTER XVIII

AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE


The American citizens of Socorro, New Mexico, during Christmas week
of 1881, held a church festival, and Mr. A.M. Conklin, editor of the
"Socorro Sun," was conducting the exercises. Abran and Enofrio Baca
appeared at the church under the influence of liquor. Their talk and
actions so disturbed the entertainment that Mr. Conklin went to them
and requested them to be more quiet, at the same time telling the
offenders they were perfectly welcome in the church but that they must
behave. The brothers, highly indignant, invited Mr. Conklin to fight,
but Mr. Conklin declined and again assured the two that they were
welcome but must act as gentlemen. Abran and Enofrio at once retired
from the church.

After the social had ended and as Mr. Conklin with his wife at his side
passed out of the church door, Abran Baca caught Mrs. Conklin by one
arm and jerked her away from her husband. At the same instant Enofrio
shot and killed the editor on the church steps.

This foul murder created no end of indignation in the little town of
Socorro. Scouting parties were sent in all directions to try and
effect the capture of the murderers. However, the two Bacas managed to
elude their pursuers and made their way into the Republic of Mexico.
The governor of New Mexico at once issued a proclamation offering $500
for their capture and the citizens of Socorro offered a like amount
for the murderers, dead or alive. The proclamation, with a minute
description of the Baca boys, was sent broadcast over the country. And,
of course, the rangers at Ysleta received several of the circulars.

In the spring of 1881 the county judge of El Paso County was Jose Baca,
an uncle of the two murderers. He was also a merchant at Ysleta, then
the county seat of El Paso County. Captain Baylor's company of rangers
was quartered in the west end of Ysleta, about one-half mile from the
public square. On receiving the New Mexico proclamation I set a watch
over the home and store of Judge Baca and kept it up for nearly a month
but without success. We finally concluded that the Baca boys had not
come our way and almost forgot the incident.

However, one morning in the latter part of March, 1881, Jim Fitch, one
of our most trustworthy rangers, hurried back to camp from Ysleta and
informed me that he had seen two well dressed Mexican boys, strangers
to him, sitting on the porch of Judge Baca's home. I at once made a
detail of four men. We saddled our horses, rode to town, rounded up the
Baca home and captured two strange Mexicans. I believed them to be the
Baca brothers, and left at once for New Mexico with my prisoners.

Before we had reached El Paso on our journey we were overtaken by Judge
Baca, who had with him an interpreter. He asked me to please halt as he
wished to talk with the prisoners. After a short conversation with the
boys the judge asked me what was the reward for the capture of Abran
Baca. I replied, "Five hundred dollars."

"If you will just let him step out in the bosque and get away I will
give you $700," Judge Baca finally said with some hesitation.

Subsequently the judge raised the bribe to one thousand dollars, but
I informed him there was not enough money in El Paso County to buy
me off, so he returned to Ysleta and I continued my journey to New
Mexico, feeling assured I had at least captured one of the Conklin
murderers. On arriving at Socorro I was at once informed that I had
Abran all right but my second prisoner was Massias Baca, a cousin of
the murderers, but not incriminated in the crime.

I was treated royally by the citizens and officers of Socorro. They
were delighted that one of the murderers had been captured and promptly
counted out to me $250 as their part of the reward offered for the
apprehension of one of the criminals. Colonel Eaton, head deputy
sheriff of the county, issued me a receipt for the body of Abran Baca
delivered inside the jail of Socorro County, New Mexico. This receipt,
forwarded to the governor of the territory, promptly brought me a draft
for $250 and a letter of thanks from his excellency.

Early in April, about one month after the capture of Abran Baca, I
learned from Santiago Cooper, a friend that lived in Ysleta, that he
had seen a man at Saragosa, Mexico, who, from the description, he
believed to be Enofrio Baca. I told Cooper I would give him $25 if he
would go back to Saragosa and find out to a certainty if the person he
had seen was Enofrio Baca. A week later Cooper came to me and said the
man at Saragosa was Baca and that the murderer was clerking in the one
big store of the town. This store was a long adobe building situated
against a hill with the front facing so that one riding up to the front
of it would bring his saddle skirts almost on a level with the building
because of the terraces in front of it made necessary by the slope of
the hill. Enofrio was of florid complexion with dark red hair, which
made it easy to identify him.

I kept this information about the murderer to myself for nearly a week
while I pondered over it. I was anxious to capture Baca, yet I well
knew from previous experience that if I caused him to be arrested in
Mexico the authorities there would turn him loose, especially when the
influence of wealthy relatives was brought to bear. Knowing he would
follow the law to the letter I dare not take Captain Baylor into my
confidence. Saragosa, a little town of about five hundred inhabitants,
is situated about four miles southwest of Ysleta. While it is only
about a mile from the Rio Grande as the crow flies, yet, because of
the many farms and big irrigation ditches, it was impossible to enter
or leave the town only by following the public road between Ysleta and
Saragosa. It has always been the delight of border Mexicans to get
behind an adobe wall or on top an adobe house and shoot to ribbons any
hated gringo that might be unfortunately caught on the Mexican side of
the river. I knew only too well from my own experience that I could not
go into Saragosa, attempt to arrest a Mexican, stay there five minutes
and live, yet I determined to take the law in my own hands and make the
attempt.

I took into my confidence just one man, George Lloyd. If ever there was
an ace in the ranger service he was one. I unfolded my plans to him. I
did not have to point out the danger to him for he had lived on the Rio
Grande ten times as long as I.

"Sergeant, that is an awful dangerous and risky piece of business and
I will have to have a little time in which to think it over," he said
when I talked with him.

The next day Lloyd came to me and said, "Sergeant, I will go anywhere
in the world with you."

Though willing to accompany me I could tell he doubted our ability to
execute the capture.

I planned to attempt the capture of Baca the next morning and sent
Cooper back to Saragosa to look over the situation there once more. He
informed me on his return that Baca was still clerking in the store. I
now told Lloyd to keep our horses up when the animals were turned out
to graze next morning. This move caused no especial thought or comment,
for the men frequently would keep their horses to ride down town. As
soon as we had crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico I planned to quit
the public road, travel through the bosques, pass around on the west
side of Saragosa and ride quickly up to the store in which our man was
working. Lloyd was to hold the horses while I was to dismount, enter
the store and make the arrest. Then, if possible, I was to mount Baca
behind Lloyd and make a quick get-away.

Our plans were carried out almost to the letter. We reached Saragosa
safely, and while Lloyd held my horse in front of the store I entered
and discovered Baca measuring some goods for an old Mexican woman. I
stepped up to him, caught him in the collar, and with a drawn pistol
ordered him to come with me. The customer promptly fainted and fell on
the floor. Two other people ran from the building, screaming at the
top of their voices. Baca hesitated about going with me, and in broken
English asked me where he was to be taken. I informed him to Paso del
Norte. I shoved my pistol right up against his head and ordered him to
step lively. When we reached our horses I made Baca mount behind Lloyd.
I then jumped into my saddle and, waving my pistol over my head, we
left Saragosa on a dead run. Our sudden appearance in the town and our
more sudden leaving bewildered the people for a few minutes. They took
in the situation quickly, however, and began ringing the old church
bell rapidly, and this aroused the whole population.

As I left Saragosa I saw men getting their horses together and knew
that in a few minutes a posse would be following us. When we had gone
two miles almost at top speed I saw that Lloyd's horse was failing,
and we lost a little time changing Baca to my mount. We had yet two
miles to go and through deep sand most of the way. I could see a cloud
of dust and shortly a body of mounted men hove in view. It was a tense
moment. Lloyd thought it was all off with us, but we still had a long
lead and our horses were running easily. As our pursuers made a bend
in the road we discovered nine men in pursuit. As soon as they had
drawn up within six hundreds yards they began firing on us. This was
at long range and did no damage. In fact, I believe they were trying
to frighten rather than to wound us as they were just as likely to hit
Baca as either of us. We were at last at the Rio Grande, and while it
was almost one hundred yards wide it was flat and shallow at the ford.
I hit the water running and as I mounted the bank on good old Texan
soil I felt like one who has made a home run in a world series baseball
game. Our pursuers halted at the river so I pulled off my hat, waved to
them and disappeared up the road.

We lost no time in reaching camp, and our appearance there with a
prisoner and two run-down horses caused all the boys in quarters to
turn out. Captain Baylor noticed the gathering and hurried over to
camp.

"Sergeant, who is this prisoner you have?" he asked, walking straight
up to me.

I replied it was Enofrio Baca, the man that had murdered Mr. Conklin.
The captain looked at the run-down horses, wet with sweat, and asked me
where I had captured him.

"Down the river," I replied, trying to evade him.

"From the looks of your horse I would think you had just run out of a
fight. Where down the river did you capture this man?"

I saw the captain was going to corner me and I thought I might as well
"fess up." I told him I had arrested Baca at Saragosa and kidnaped him
out of Mexico. Captain Baylor's eyes at once bulged to twice their
natural size.

"Sergeant, that is the most imprudent act you ever committed in your
life! Don't you know that it is a flagrant violation of the law and is
sure to cause a breach of international comity that might cause the
Governor of Texas to disband the whole of Company "A"? Not only this,
but it was a most hazardous undertaking and it is a wonder to me that
the Mexicans did not shoot you and Lloyd into doll rags."

Captain Baylor was plainly out of patience with me.

"Gillett, you have less sense than I thought you had," he declared,
heatedly. "If you have any explanation to make I would like to have it."

I reminded the captain of the tragic fate of Morgan and Brown and how
the authorities at Guadalupe had turned their murderers, Skevill and
Molina, loose. I declared that had I had Baca arrested in Mexico he
would have gone scot-free with his rich and influential friends to help
him. Baylor declared that two wrongs did not make one right, and said
I should have consulted him. I finally told the captain frankly that I
had been in the ranger service six years, had risen from the ranks to
be orderly sergeant at a salary of only $50 a month. I pointed out that
this was the highest position I could hope to get without a commission,
and while one had been promised me at the first vacancy yet I could see
no early hope of obtaining it, as every captain in the battalion was
freezing to his job. This remark seemed to amuse Captain Baylor and
somewhat eased his anger.

I went on to say that I not only wanted the $500 reward offered for
Baca, but I wanted the notoriety I would get if I could kidnap the
murderer out of Mexico without being killed in the attempt, for I
believed the notoriety would lead to something better than a ranger
sergeancy. And this is what really happened, for I subsequently became
First Assistant Marshal of El Paso under Dallas Stoudenmire at a salary
of $150 per month, and in less than a year after my arrest of Enofrio
Baca I was made Chief of Police of that city at a salary that enabled
me to get a nice start in the cattle business.

"Sergeant, you can go with your man," Captain Baylor finally said, "but
it is against my best judgment. I ought to escort him across the Rio
Grande and set him free."

I lost no time in sending a ranger to the stage office at Ysleta with
instructions to buy two tickets to Masilla, New Mexico, and one to El
Paso. The stage was due to pass our quarters about 12 o'clock, so I
did not have long to wait. I took Lloyd as a guard as far as El Paso
and there turned him back, making the remainder of the journey to
Socorro, New Mexico, alone with the prisoner. I reached the old town of
Masilla, New Mexico, at dark after a rather exciting day. I was afraid
to put Baca in jail at that place, as I had no warrant nor extradition
papers upon which to hold him and feared the prison authorities might
not redeliver Baca to me next morning. The stage coach from Masilla
to Rincon did not run at night so I secured a room at the hotel and
chaining the prisoner to me we slept together.

On the following day we reached Rincon, the terminus of the Santa Fe
Railroad at that time. I wired the officers of Socorro, New Mexico,
from El Paso that I had captured Baca and was on my way to New Mexico
with him. Baca's friends had also been informed of his arrest and lost
no time in asking the Governor of New Mexico to have me bring the
prisoner to Santa Fe as they feared mob violence at Socorro. When I
reached San Marcial I was handed a telegram from the governor ordering
me to bring Baca to Santa Fe and on no account to stop with him in
Socorro.

Because of delay on the railroad I did not reach Socorro until late
at night. The minute the train stopped at that town it was boarded
by twenty-five or thirty armed men headed by Deputy Sheriff Eaton. I
showed Eaton the governor's telegram, but he declared Baca was wanted
at Socorro and that was where he was going. I remonstrated with him
and declared I was going on to Santa Fe with the prisoner. By this
time a dozen armed men had gathered around me and declared, "Not much
will you take him to Santa Fe." I was furious, but I was practically
under arrest and powerless to help myself. Baca and I were transferred
from the train to a big bus that was in waiting. The jailer entered
first, then Baca was seated next to him and I sat next the door with my
Winchester in my hand. The driver was ordered to drive to the jail.

It was a bright moonlight night and we had not traveled far up the
street before I looked out and saw at least a hundred armed men. They
came from every direction. Boys, did you ever encounter a mob? I assure
you it is far from a pleasant feeling when you face one. The men
swarmed around the bus, three or four of them grabbed the horses by the
bridle reins and held them, while others tried to force the bus doors.
I asked the jailer if I could depend on him to help me stand the mob
off, but he replied it would do no good. I was now madder than ever,
and for the first time in my life I ripped out an oath, saying, "G--
d--n them, I am going to stand them off!"

As the doors were forced I poked my Winchester out and ordered the mob
to stand back or I would shoot. The men paid no more attention to my
gun than if it had been a brown stick. A man standing beside the bus
door seized the muzzle of my rifle and, with a quick jerk to one side,
caused it to fly out of my hand and out upon the ground.

By this time another of the mob grabbed me in the collar and proceeded
to pull me out of the bus. I spread my legs and tried to brace myself,
but another hard and quick jerk landed me out on the ground, where one
of the men kicked me. I was tame now and made no effort to draw my
pistol. One of the crowd said to me, "What in h--do you mean? We do not
wish to hurt you but we are going to hang that d--n Mexican right now!"

I then informed the mob of the nature of Baca's arrest and told them
that the hanging of the prisoner would place me in an awkward position.
Then, too, the reward offered by the territory of New Mexico was for
the delivery of the murderer inside the jail doors of Socorro County.
The leaders of the crowd consulted for a few minutes and then concluded
I was right. They ordered me back into the bus, gave me my Winchester
and we all started for the jail. As soon as Baca had been placed in
prison Deputy Sheriff Eaton sat down and wrote me a receipt for the
delivery of Baca inside the jail doors.

By this time day was just beginning to break and I tried to stay the
hanging by making another talk. The mob interpreted my motive and
invited me to step down a block to their community room where they
would talk with me. I started with them and we had gone only a hundred
yards before the whole mob broke back to the jail. I started to go
with them but two men held me, saying, "It's no use; they are going to
hang him."

The men took Baca to a nearby corral and hanged him to a big beam of
the gate. The next morning Baca's relatives came to me at the hotel
with hats in their hands and asked me for the keys with which to remove
the shackles from the dead man's legs. As I handed them the keys I
felt both mortified and ashamed. A committee of citizens at Socorro
waited on me just before I took the train for home, counted out to
me $250 as their part of the reward and thanked me for capturing the
two murderers. The committee assured me that it stood ready to help
me financially or otherwise should I get involved with the Federal
Government over the capture and kidnapping of Enofrio Baca.

I presume the relatives of young Baca reported his kidnapping to our
government, for a few weeks after his capture Mr. Blaine, Secretary of
State, wrote a long letter to Governor Roberts regarding a breach of
international comity. Governor Roberts wrote Captain Baylor for a full
explanation of the matter. Captain Baylor, while never countenancing
a wrongdoing in his company, would stand by his men to the last ditch
when they were once in trouble. He was a fluent writer and no man in
Texas understood better than he the many foul and outrageous murders
that had been committed along the Rio Grande, the perpetrators of
which had evaded punishment and arrest by crossing over into Mexico.
Baylor wrote so well and so to the point that nothing further was said
about the matter. Only an order came to Captain Baylor admonishing him
never again to allow his men to follow fugitives into Mexico.

Soon afterward the Safety Committee of Socorro, New Mexico, wrote to
Captain Baylor saying, "We are informed by a reliable party that Jose
Baca of Ysleta, Texas, has hired a Mexican to kill Sergeant Gillett.
Steps have been taken to prevent this. However, he would do well to be
on the lookout." Baylor at once went to Judge Baca with this letter,
but the jurist denied in the most emphatic terms any knowledge of
the reported plot. Also, there was a report current in both Ysleta
and El Paso that a reward of $1500 had been offered for the delivery
of Sergeant Gillett's body to the Mexican authorities at El Paso del
Norte. Upon investigation I found that no such offer had ever been
made, but for safety's sake I kept out of Mexico for several years.

The kidnapping of Baca aroused much comment and gave me a deal of
notoriety and, as I had anticipated, it was not long in bearing the
fruit I desired,--promotion into larger and more remunerative fields of
work.




CHAPTER XIX

LAST SCOUTINGS


During the summer of 1881 Captain Baylor's company made several scouts
out to the Sacramento and Guadalupe Mountains. These were reported to
the Adjutant-General as scouts after Indians, but there were no more
redskins in Texas, for the rangers had done their work effectively.
These expeditions were, therefore, more in the nature of outings for
the boys. And it was quite a pleasure to get away from camp in the
hot Rio Grande Valley and scout in those high mountains covered with
tall pine timber that teemed with game such as deer, bear and wild
turkey. The plains between the Guadalupe Mountains and Ysleta contained
hundreds of antelope, thus affording the rangers the best of sport.

Turning over the pages of my old scrap book I find this little
announcement taken from the El Paso Times: "Colonel Baylor and twenty
of his rangers have just returned from a scout in the Guadalupe
Mountains, in which they killed twenty-five turkeys, fifteen deer and
two antelope."

On one of these hunting expeditions we had with us George Lloyd, who
had been a ranger under Lieutenant Tays when his company was first
mustered into service in El Paso County. We camped at Los Cornuvas, and
here Lloyd had had an engagement with Indians. He went over the ground
and gave us an interesting account of his fight. He said there were
but twelve men in the scout, including Lieutenant Tays. In marching
from Crow Springs to Los Cornuvas, a distance of thirty miles, six
of the rangers were riding nearly a mile ahead of the others and on
approaching Los Cornuvas made for some tinajas (water holes) up in
those mountains. They rode around a point of rocks and met face to
face some ten or twelve Indians coming out from the water. Indians and
rangers were within forty feet before they discovered each other's
presence and paleface and redskin literally fell off their horses,--the
Indians seeking cover in the rocks above the trail while five of the
rangers turned a somersault into a friendly arroyo.

A ranger said to be a Russian nobleman and nihilist was killed early
in the fight and buried on the spot where he fell. A headboard was
placed to mark the grave, but the Indians soon defaced it by hacking
at it with their knives whenever they passed the spot. Though he could
have had splendid cover, the Russian stood upright according to the
etiquette prevailing among British officers in the Transvaal and was
shot through the brain.

In dismounting, Lloyd held on to the end of a thirty-foot stake rope
that was tied around his horse's neck. Four of the dismounted scout
wriggled their way down the creek and got away. In reloading his
Winchester after shooting it empty Lloyd unfortunately slipped a .45
Colt's pistol cartridge into the magazine of his .44 Winchester and in
attempting to throw a cartridge into his gun it jammed--catching him in
a serious predicament. However, taking his knife from his pocket this
fearless ranger coolly removed the screw that held the side plates of
his Winchester together, took off the plates, removed the offending
cartridge, replaced the plates, tightened up the screw, reloaded his
gun and began firing. It takes a man with iron nerve to do a thing like
that, and you meet such a one but once in a lifetime. Is it any wonder,
then, that when I cast around for a man to go into Mexico with me to
kidnap Baca I selected Lloyd out of the twenty men in camp?

Seeing that the Russian was dead and his companions gone, Lloyd crawled
back down the arroyo, pulling his horse along the bank above until he
was out of danger. The five rangers' horses, knowing where the water
was, went right up into the rocks, where they were captured, saddles,
bridles and all, by the Indians.

The redskins, as soon as Lloyd was gone, came out of hiding, took the
Russian's Winchester and pistol and left. Lloyd was the only man of the
six to save his horse, for the Indians, with their needle guns high up
in the rocks, held Lieutenant Tays and the remainder of his force at
bay.

In the latter part of the summer of 1881 Captain Baylor moved his
company of rangers from Ysleta to a site three miles below El Paso.
While camped there the captain was warned by the sheriff of Tombstone,
Arizona, to be on the lookout for four San Simone Valley rustlers,
supposed to be a part of Curley Bill's gang. The robbers' names were
given as Charley and Frank Baker, Billie Morgan and a fourth person
supposed to be Curley Bill himself. These outlaws had stolen sixteen
big work mules and four horses at a wood camp some twelve miles from
Tombstone. They had also robbed a store and, assaulting the proprietor
with pistols, left him for dead. A $500 reward was offered for the
capture of the desperadoes and the stolen stock. The robbers' trail led
down into New Mexico and it was believed Curley Bill and his gang were
headed for western Texas, where they would try to dispose of their
stolen stock at some of the railroad grading camps near El Paso.

Captain Baylor at once ordered me to take seven men and five days'
rations and scout up the Rio Grande to the line of New Mexico for the
bandits' trail, and, if I found it, to follow it up. I worked up the
river but found no trail. Neither could I learn anything about any
strange men driving stock through the country. My time was nearly
up and I concluded to return to camp through a gap in the Franklin
Mountains, some thirty or forty miles north of El Paso. We left the Rio
Grande late in the evening, passed out through the gap and made a dry
camp on the plains east of the mountains.

Early the following morning we rode to a watering place known as
Monday's Springs and stopped for breakfast. Here the boys discovered
some horse and mule tracks. At first we thought nothing of this,
supposing the trail had been made by some loose stock grazing near
the water. From Monday's Springs a dim road led along the east side
of the mountains to El Paso and we took this route home. Before we
had traveled very far we noticed that some of the stock was traveling
the same road, though even then I never suspected that these tracks
might be the trail of the bandits for whom we were scouting. Finally
we came to footprints made by some men as they adjusted their saddles
or tightened their packs. It here dawned upon me that the tracks might
have been made by the parties we wanted.

I thereupon followed the trail carefully and it led me through what is
today the most beautiful residential portion of the city of El Paso.
The tracks led to a big camp yard where now stands the $500,000 Federal
building and postoffice. In the description of the stolen stock we were
told one of the mules carried a small Swiss stock bell. As I neared the
wagon yard I heard the tinkle of this bell and felt sure we had tracked
our quarry. We dismounted, and with our Winchesters cocked and ready
for action, our little party of rangers slipped quickly inside the
large corral gate and within ten feet of it we came upon three heavily
armed men bending over a fire cooking their breakfast. Their guns were
leaning against the adobe fence near at hand, so the surprise was
complete.

The outlaws rose to their feet and attempted to get their guns, but
my men held their cocked Winchesters at their breasts. I told our
captives that we were rangers ordered to arrest them and demanded their
surrender. The robbers were undecided what to do; they were afraid
to pull their pistols or seize their guns, yet they refused to hold
up their hands. Finally one of the Baker brothers turned slightly
toward me and said they would rather be shot down and killed than give
up--surrender meant death anyway. I thereupon answered that we had no
desire to hurt them, but declared that the least attempt to pull a gun
would mean instant death to them all, and again ordered them to raise
their hands. They slowly obeyed. I stepped up to them, unbuckled their
belts and took their weapons.

In looking over their camp I found four saddles and Winchesters but I
had captured only three men. I mentioned this fact to the prisoners and
they laughingly said one of their number had stepped down town to get a
package of coffee, had probably noticed our presence and lit out. The
two Baker boys and Billie Morgan were the men captured, and I asked if
the missing man was Curley Bill himself. They replied it was not, but
refused to tell who the fourth member of their party was. As we had no
description of him and he was on foot in a town full of armed men we
had no means of identifying him and he was never captured.

From the captured robbers we learned that they had run out of
provisions, and for this reason they had not camped at Monday Springs.
They had risen early and come into El Paso for breakfast. They
declared it was a good thing for us that they had built their camp fire
so near the gate, for had they been thirty feet from it they would have
put up a fight we should have remembered for a long time. I replied
that the eight of us could have held our own no matter where they had
camped.

These robbers were held in our camp some ten days or more until the
proper extradition papers could be had from the State Capitol at
Austin, as they refused to be taken back to Arizona without the proper
authority. They owned horses, which they gave to some lawyers in El
Paso to prevent their being taken back to the scene of their crimes. We
secured all the stolen stock--sixteen mules and four horses. The owners
came and claimed them and paid the rangers $200 and the Arizona sheriff
paid a like amount for the capture of the rustlers.

Our rangers became well acquainted with these thieves while we held
them in our camp. The robbers admitted they were going under assumed
names and said they were Texans but refused to say from what part of
the state they came. The three of them were taken back to Arizona,
tried for assault to kill and the theft of the horses at Tombstone
and sent to the prison at Yuma for twenty-five years. They frequently
wrote to our boys from there and seemed to hold no grudge against us
for capturing them. The scout to capture these men was the last one of
importance I took part in, for my work with the rangers was now growing
toward its close.

In the fall of 1881 Captain Baylor received word from Israel King of
Cambray, New Mexico, that a band of thieves had stolen a bunch of
cattle from him and at last reports were headed toward El Paso with
them. With a detail of four men I was ordered to make a scout up
the river and into the Canutillos to intercept the rustlers. After
traveling some ten miles up the Rio Grande we crossed the river into
New Mexico to get on more even ground. Some eighteen miles above El
Paso we found the trail of the stolen stock and followed it back across
the Rio Grande into Texas.

While working our way along the trail through almost impassable brush
we entered a small glade and came upon the stolen stock quietly
grazing. On the opposite side of them a Mexican with a Winchester stood
guard while his horse grazed nearby. The guard fired on us as he ran to
his horse and we were compelled to run around the cattle to get to the
thief. We fired our guns as we ran and this sudden noise frightened the
loose pony so the fugitive was unable to mount. He was then forced to
dive into the brush on foot. Knowing we could make no headway through
the heavy tornilla bosque we dismounted and charged it on foot. The
fleeing Mexican undertook to run through a muddy slough formed by back
water from the Rio Grande. Here he bogged but, extracting himself, he
backed out the way he had entered and found safety in the friendly
brush. In running to where he was last seen we found his gun abandoned
in the mud. Some twenty or thirty shots were fired at him and while
none found the mark we captured his Winchester, his pony and thirty-six
head of stolen cattle and gave him a scare that he will remember so
long as he lives. The cattle were returned to Mr. King, who kindly
presented us with $200 for their recovery.

We learned later that Frank Stevenson, a notorious rustler, whose
rendezvous was in this Canutillo brush, had stolen these cattle and
had left the Mexican in charge of them while he had gone into El Paso
to effect their sale. As described in a previous chapter, I finally
captured Stevenson and he was sent to the penitentiary for fifteen
years for horse stealing. His capture and imprisonment broke up the
Canutillo gang, and today, forty years after his arrest, the upper Rio
Grande Valley is almost an Eden on earth with its fine apple and peach
orchards, its alfalfa fields, big dairy herds and elegant homes. It
is one of the beauty spots adjacent to the now fine city of El Paso.
The Santa Fe Railroad traverses this valley, and I sometimes travel
over it. As I sit in an easy seat in the Pullman and look out over the
country I always reflect on the past and wonder how many of its present
inhabitants know what a wilderness and what a rendezvous it once was
for all kinds of cutthroats, cattle thieves and murderers.

While the rangers were camped near El Paso during the fall of 1881 I
met Captain Thatcher, then division superintendent of the Santa Fe
Railroad. He told me, because of the stage and train robberies in New
Mexico and Arizona, the railroad and the Wells-Fargo Express companies
feared that their trains would be held up near El Paso. To protect
themselves they had, therefore, decided to place armed guards of three
men on the main line of the Santa Fe to run between Deming and Las
Vegas, New Mexico, and a similar guard on the branch from El Paso,
Texas, to Rincon, New Mexico. Captain Thatcher had known me as a ranger
and my kidnapping of Enofrio Baca out of Mexico had won me no little
notoriety, so he now offered me a position with the railroad company as
captain of the guard at a salary of $150 per month. I would be allowed
to select my own men for guards and would be responsible for their acts.

I requested time to consider the proposition. While the position as
captain of the railroad guard might not be permanent--might not hold
out more than six months--yet the salary attached was exactly three
times what I received from the State of Texas as sergeant of rangers.
I discussed Thatcher's offer with Captain Baylor and finally prevailed
upon him to give me my discharge. And on the 26th of December, 1881,
after serving the State of Texas as a ranger for six years and seven
months I laid down my Winchester with the satisfied consciousness
that I had done my duty ever. My term of service embraced one of the
happiest portions of my life, and recollections of my ranger days are
among my most cherished memories. Among my dearest possessions, though
preserved in an old scrapbook, is my discharge. It reads simply:

  DISCHARGE

  This is to certify that James B. Gillett, 1st Sergeant of Captain
  Geo. W. Baylor's Company "A" of the Frontier Battalion of the
  State of Texas, is hereby honorably discharged from the service of
  the state by reason of his own request. I take great pleasure in
  testifying to his uniform good conduct and gallant service in my
  company.

  Given at El Paso, Texas, this, the 26th day of December, 1881.

 GEORGE W. BAYLOR

 Commanding Company.

The personnel of Captain Baylor's company changed rapidly, so that at
the time of my discharge there was scarcely a man in the company that
had served longer than six months. There was, therefore, no wrenching
or straining of strong friendship ties when I left the command,
save only for my leaving of Captain Baylor. To part from him did,
indeed, make me feel sad. My farewell and departure was simple and
unimpressive. I sat down with my comrades for a last ranger dinner of
beans, bacon, bread and black coffee. After the meal I arose from the
table, shook hands with Captain Baylor and the boys, mounted my horse
and rode away from the ranger camp forever. Yet, though my term of
actual service was over and though I had garnered a host of memories
and experiences, I had not quite finished with the rangers--I had not
gathered all the fruits of my ranger-ship,--an appointment to the
police force of El Paso in the vicinity of which city I had so often
scouted.




CHAPTER XX

FRUITS OF RANGER SERVICE


Early in the spring of 1881 the old town of El Paso awoke out of her
Rip Van Winkle sleep to find that four grand trunk railroad lines,--the
Santa Fe, Southern Pacific, G., H & S.A., and the Texas & Pacific--were
rapidly building toward her and were certain to enter the town by the
end of the year. Situated as it was, many hundreds of miles from any
other town, it was a foregone conclusion that El Paso had the making of
a great city and was a fine field for investment. Bankers, merchants,
capitalists, real estate dealers, cattlemen, miners, railroad men,
gamblers, saloon-keepers and sporting people of both sexes flocked
to the town. They came in buggies, hacks, wagons, horseback and even
afoot. There was not half enough hotel accommodations to go around, so
people just slept and ate at any old place. El Paso Street, the only
business thoroughfare at that time, was flooded with crowds.

[Illustration: DALLAS STOUDENMIRE]

At night there was not enough room for people to walk on the sidewalks
and they filled the streets. To me it looked just a miniature midway
at a world's fair. A saloon was opened on almost every corner of
the town with many in between. Each drinking place had a gambling
house attached where the crowds played faro bank, monte, roulette,
chuck-a-luck, stud poker and every gambling game on the calendar. If
one wished a seat at the gaming tables he had to come early or he could
not get within thirty feet of them. Two variety theaters, the Coliseum,
operated by the Manning Brothers,--the largest in the southwest--and
Jack Doyle's, were quickly opened.

An election was called in El Paso and the city was duly incorporated
and a mayor and board of aldermen installed. George Campbell was
elected city marshal and given one assistant, Bill Johnson. The new
marshal had come to El Paso from Young County, Texas, where he had been
a deputy sheriff. Campbell had done some good detective work and was
a fairly good and efficient officer, but his assistant was much below
ordinary.

The city marshal soon found that with but one man to aid him he had
the biggest kind of a job on his hands with something doing every hour
in the twenty-four. Campbell decided he was not getting enough pay for
the work he had to do and asked the City Council for a raise in his
salary, but the council refused it. The marshal at once resigned and
left Bill Johnson to hold the town. Campbell was very friendly with
the sporting element in El Paso, especially with the Manning Brothers,
who were running two saloons and a big variety theater. Campbell and
his friends decided to use strategy to force the council to increase
his salary and planned to shoot up the town, thinking this would cause
the city fathers to reinstate Campbell in his old position with a
substantial increase in pay. At 2 o'clock one morning the town was shot
up, some three or four hundred shots being fired promiscuously and with
no attempt to make arrests.

The following morning Mayor McGoffin sent a hurry call to Captain
Baylor at Ysleta and asked that a detachment of Texas Rangers be sent
to El Paso to help police the town. At that time I had not severed my
connection with the rangers, so I was ordered to make a detail of five
rangers, issue them fifteen days' rations and have them report at once
to the mayor of El Paso.

The peace loving citizens of the town welcomed the rangers, secured
nice quarters for them and furnished the detachment with a stove on
which to cook its meals. The rangers had been in El Paso on police duty
about a week when there appeared in the town from New Mexico the famous
Dallas Stoudenmire. The newcomer was six feet two inches in height, a
blonde and weighed one hundred and eighty-five pounds. Stoudenmire had
a compelling personality and had been a Confederate soldier, having
served with General Joe Johnston at Greensboro, North Carolina. Mr.
Stoudenmire applied to the mayor and City Council for the position of
city marshal. He presented good references and was duly appointed town
marshal.

George Campbell now saw his chances for reinstatement as an officer in
El Paso go glimmering. Marshal Stoudenmire called on Bill Johnson for
the keys of the city jail, but the latter refused to surrender them.
Thereupon Stoudenmire seized the recalcitrant assistant, shook him up
and took the keys from his pocket, thereby making his first enemy in El
Paso.

About ten days after the new marshal had been installed it was reported
in El Paso that two Mexican boys had been found murdered some ten or
twelve miles from town on the Rio Grande. The rangers stationed in the
city went out to the ranch to investigate. The bodies were brought to
El Paso and a coroner's inquest was held in a room fronting on El Paso
Street. Johnnie Hale, manager of Manning's little ranch, was summoned
to appear before the coroner, and it was believed by the rangers that
Hale and an ex-ranger named Len Peterson had committed the double
murder.

The inquest, being held in such a public place, attracted a crowd
of onlookers. Besides the rangers, Marshal Stoudenmire, ex-Marshal
Campbell, and Bill Johnson were present. A man named Gus Krempkau acted
as interpreter. The trial dragged along until the noon hour and the
proceedings were adjourned for dinner. The rangers went at once to
their quarters to prepare their meal, though there was still a crowd
standing about the scene of the inquest. Krempkau came out of the room
and was accosted by John Hale, who had become offended at the way the
interpreter had interpreted the evidence. After a few hot words Hale
quickly pulled his pistol and shot Krempkau through the head, killing
him instantly. Marshal Stoudenmire ran up, shot at Hale but missing
him killed a Mexican bystander. At the second shot from the marshal's
pistol John Hale fell dead. George Campbell had pulled his pistol and
was backing off across the street when Stoudenmire suddenly turned and
shot him down. Four men were thus killed almost within the twinkling of
an eye.

Stoudenmire was held blameless by the better class of citizens for the
part he had played, but a certain sporting element--mostly friends of
Campbell--was highly indignant at Marshal Stoudenmire for killing
Campbell, and declared the latter had been murdered. The Manning
Brothers were especially bitter against the marshal, as he had killed
their ranch foreman, Hale, and their friend, Campbell. This feeling
against Marshal Stoudenmire never subsided, and just a little more than
one year after, Dallas Stoudenmire was shot and killed in a street
fight by Jim and Dr. Manning within fifty feet of the spot where
Stoudenmire himself had killed the three men the year before.

The friends of George Campbell now sought to take the life of Marshal
Stoudenmire, and they used as their instrument Bill Johnson, a man
almost simple mentally. The plotters furnished Johnson with plenty of
free whisky and when they had made him drunk they told him Stoudenmire
had no right to catch him in the collar and shake him as if he were
a cur dog. Johnson finally agreed to kill the marshal. Armed with a
double-barreled shotgun the tool of the plotters took up a position one
night behind a pile of bricks in San Antonio Street where it enters El
Paso and lay in wait for his intended victim.

Marshal Stoudenmire was then down at Neal Nuland's Acme saloon, and it
was well known he would soon make his round up the street. Shortly
afterward he was seen coming, and when he had approached within
twenty-five feet of the brick pile Bill Johnson rose to his feet and
fired both barrels of his shotgun. Unsteady with drink, Johnson's fire
went over the marshal's head and left him unharmed. The marshal pulled
his pistol and with lightning rapidity filled Johnson's body full of
holes. At the same moment Campbell's friends, posted on the opposite
side of the street, opened fire on Stoudenmire and slightly wounded him
in one foot, but the marshal charged his attackers and single-handed
put them to flight.

From this day Marshal Stoudenmire had the roughs of El Paso eating out
of his hand. There was no longer any necessity for the rangers to help
him police the town and they were withdrawn. Stoudenmire's presence on
the streets was a guarantee of order and good government. He was a good
man for the class of people he had to deal with, yet he knew there were
those in El Paso that were his bitter enemies and always on the alert
for a chance to take his life. This caused him to drink, and when under
the influence of liquor he became mean and overbearing to some of his
most ardent supporters, so much so that by the spring of 1882 he was
asked to resign. In a dramatic and fiery speech Stoudenmire presented
his resignation and declared he had not been treated fairly by the
City Council and that he could straddle them all.

Immediately on leaving the rangers, as narrated at the close of the
preceding chapter, I accepted a position of captain of guards on the
Santa Fe Railroad under my friend, Captain Thatcher. I did not long
remain in the railroad's employ, and after a few months I resigned my
position there to become assistant city marshal under Mr. Stoudenmire.

Upon the resignation of Mr. Stoudenmire I was appointed city marshal
of El Paso. Upon my appointment the ex-marshal walked over, took me by
the hand and said, "Young man, I congratulate you on being elected city
marshal and at the same time I wish to warn you that you have more than
a man's size job on your hands."

Stoudenmire at once secured the appointment as United States deputy
marshal of the Western District of Texas with headquarters at El Paso.
Stoudenmire always treated me with the greatest consideration and
courtesy and gave me trouble on only one occasion. I reproduce here a
clipping from an El Paso paper of the time:

"Last Thursday night a shooting scrape in which ex-Marshal Stoudenmire
and ex-Deputy Page played the leading parts occurred at the Acme
saloon. It seems that early in the evening Page had a misunderstanding
with Billy Bell. Stoudenmire acted as peacemaker in the matter. In
doing so he carried Page to Doyle's concert hall, where the two
remained an hour or so and got more or less intoxicated. About midnight
they returned to the Acme and soon got into a quarrel. Stoudenmire
drew his pistol and fired at Page; the latter, however, knocked the
weapon upward and the ball went into the ceiling. Page then wrenched
the pistol from Stoudenmire and the latter drew a second pistol and the
two combatants were about to perforate each other when Marshal Gillett
appeared on the premises with a double-barrel shotgun and corralled
both of them. They were taken before court the following morning and
fined $25 each and Stoudenmire was placed under bond in the sum of $250
to keep the peace."

My election to the marshalship of El Paso I attribute solely to my
training as a ranger and to the notoriety my kidnapping of Baca out of
Mexico had given me, so that the marshalship of the town was one of the
direct fruits of my ranger service.

I was an officer of El Paso for several years. Not very long after my
acceptance of the marshalship Captain C.L. Nevill, with whom I had
served in Lieutenant Reynolds' company, resigned his ranger command
and became sheriff and tax collector of Presidio County, Texas. The
Marfa country was now seen to be a very promising cattle section, so
Captain Nevill and myself formed a partnership and embarked in the
cattle business. This did not in the least interfere with our duties as
sheriff and marshal, respectively, and we soon built up a nice little
herd of cattle.

In the spring of 1885 General Gano and sons of Dallas, Texas, formed a
company known as the Estado Land and Cattle Company. The new concern
arranged to open a big ranch in Brewster County and General Gano wrote
to Captain Nevill, asking him please to secure a good cattleman as
ranch manager for the new company. Nevill at once wrote me and advised
me to accept this position. In his letter he jokingly remarked:

"Jim, you have had a quart cup of bullets shot at you while a ranger
and marshal, and now that you have a chance to quit and get something
less hazardous I advise you to do it. Besides you will be near our own
little ranch and can see your own cattle from time to time."

I considered the proposition seriously, and on the 1st day of April,
1885, I resigned from the police force of El Paso and became a cowboy
again. In accepting the marshalship I reaped the fruits of my ranger
service and now, in resigning from that position I completely severed
all my connection with the ranger force and all that it had brought me.
Henceforth my ranger days and ranger service were to be but a memory,
albeit the most happy and cherished one of my life.

I was manager of the Estado Land and Cattle Company's ranch for nearly
six years and during that period the herd increased from six to thirty
thousand head. When I resigned the ranch managership it was that I
might attend to my own ranch interests, which had also grown in that
period. Though today I own a large and prosperous ranch in the Marfa
country and though my business interests are many and varied, I still
cherish the memory of my ranger days and am never too busy to see an
old ranger comrade and re-live with him those six adventurous, happy
and thrilling years I was a member of the Frontier Battalion of the
Texas Rangers.


THE END

[Illustration:

 _J.B. Gillett_
 IN
 1921]