COWARDLY ATTACK UPON THE K. C. RANCH--FLIGHT OF JACK FLAGG UNDER
FIRE--CAPTURE OF THE TRAPPERS JONES AND WALKER--SHOOTING OF
RAY--BURNING OF THE RANCH HOUSE--ATTEMPTED FLIGHT AND KILLING OF NATE
CHAMPION--CHAMPION’S DIARY
As indicated in the last chapter, the information brought by Shonsy
to the effect that there were rustlers at Nolan’s K. C. ranch, on the
North Fork of Powder River, changed the route of the invaders. Friday,
the 8th, was spent at Tisdale’s waiting for the supply wagons to
come up. In the afternoon, Shonsy, in charge of a squad, was sent to
reconnoitre, the balance of the party following after nightfall. The
design was to reach the ranch before daylight and blow up the house
with dynamite, thus destroying all who chanced to be in the building.
But daylight had broke when they reached the place and safety forbade
too near approach to the dwelling, where “dead shots” might get the
drop. So they concealed themselves in the stable, along the creek, that
nearly surrounded the house, and in the brush of the ravine on the
side opposite the creek. Having the premises completely surrounded,
and being themselves concealed, the besiegers waited the appearance of
the inmates, expecting to shoot them down as they came out. Seeing a
traveler’s wagon in the yard, the suspicion was raised in the minds of
the leaders that possibly some of their friends might be in the house,
and orders were given “await orders” before shooting.
Presently a man came out with a bucket and walked down to the creek.
He was captured and concealed behind the creek bank. Another man came
from the house after a time and walked to the stable. He was captured
and held. These men proved to be Jones and Walker, two trappers who
had stopped over night at the ranch. In a little while Nick Ray came
out of the house and walked several steps from the door when he was
shot and felled to the ground. Champion rushed to the door, gun in
hand, and poured a volley at the besiegers, all the time a hot fire
being directed at him. He closed the door and evidently watched from
the window whence he could see that his friend Ray was slowly crawling
toward the door. When Ray was close to the step, Champion opened the
door, sent another volley toward the stable and creek, then laid down
his gun and, with bullets thick as hail flying about him, stepped out
and dragged his friend into the house.
A regular fusillade was kept up upon the house until the middle of
the afternoon, and a good many shots were fired from the house. It is
understood that several of Champion’s shots took effect in the fleshy
part of the assailants, but none of them was dangerously hurt. About
three o’clock in the afternoon Jack Flagg, on horseback, and his
stepson came along the road and approached within a few rods of the
mob, the men being concealed. This part of the day’s doings has been
told by Mr. Flagg in a newspaper article and is here reproduced as the
best authority available. He says:
“The morning of the 9th I started from my ranch, eighteen miles above
on the river, to go to Douglas. I was on horseback, and my stepson,
a boy 17 years of age, started with me to go to the Powder River
crossing. He was driving two horses and had only the running gear of a
3 1-4 wagon. We got to the K. C. ranch about 2:30 P. M. I was riding
about fifty yards behind the wagon. We could not see the stable, behind
which the murderers were concealed, until we were within seventy-five
yards of it. When the wagon hove in sight the murderers jumped up and
commanded the boy to halt, but he urged up his horses and drove for the
bridge. When they saw he would not stop, one of them took aim on the
corner of the fence and fired at him. The shot missed him and scared
his team, which stampeded across the bridge and on up the road.
“There were twenty men behind the stable, and seven came up on
horseback, three from one side of the road, and four from the other
and closed in behind me. When the men behind the stable saw me, they
begun to jump for their guns, which were leaning against the fence,
and called on me to stop and throw up my hands. I did not comply
with their order, but kept straight for the bridge. When I got to the
nearest point to them--forty-seven steps--a man whom I recognized as
Ford, stepped from the crowd and, taking deliberate aim at me with his
Winchester, fired. Then they all commenced firing. I threw myself on
the side of my horse and made a run for it. The seven horsemen followed
me. When I overtook my wagon, which had my rifle on it, I told my boy
to hand it to me, which he did; I then told him to stop and cut one of
the horses loose and mount him. The seven horsemen were following me,
and when I stopped, were 350 yards behind, but as soon as they saw I
had a rifle, they stopped. I only had three cartridges for my rifle,
and did not want to fire one of them, unless they came closer, which
they did not seem inclined to do.”
The escape of Flagg and his stepson was a sore trial to the banditti,
as it made the giving of a general alarm to the settlers a certainty,
and in consequence, gave promise of an uprising of the whole people in
arms against their common enemies. Time was precious, and no more could
be wasted on the besieged. The wagon left in the road was run down to
the barn, loaded with hay and pitch pine wood, then backed up against
the window of the house, Dunning says, by Major Walcott, A. B. Clark,
John Tisdale, Tom Smith and James Dudley. A torch was applied and in a
moment the building was a mass of flames.
Champion ran out at the south end of the house, gun in hand. A hundred
shots were fired at him without effect, and no doubt he thought escape
was possible. But as he approached the ravine two hundred yards from
the house, a dozen men fired from the brush simultaneously. Even
these whistling missiles of death passed him by and he raised his gun
to reply. Before he could shoot a second volley belched forth from
the hidden foes and brave Champion fell--hero in the hearts of all
his neighbors. Many of the assassins must have fired repeatedly into
his dead body before daring to approach it, for on being prepared
for burial twenty-eight bullets were found to have pierced him.
Eye-witnesses differ slightly in their narratives of this exciting
scene, but from a comparison of statements, the above is believed to
be a correct, though short, summing up of the facts. For variety, and
in order that there may lodge no charge of prejudice, the following
account, from the pen of Sam T. Clover, correspondent of the Chicago
Herald, who was with the regulators from the start until after the K.
C. massacre, is given. Clover being in constant association with the
free-booters was naturally looking through the colored glasses they had
prepared for him, though no doubt trying to be impartial. He says:
“The roof of the cabin was the first to catch on fire, spreading
rapidly downward until the north wall was a sheet of flames. Volumes
of smoke poured in at the open window from the burning wagon, and in
a short time through the plastered cracks of the log house puffs of
smoke worked outward. Still the doomed man remained doggedly concealed,
refusing to reward them by his appearance. The cordon of sharpshooters
stood ready to fire upon him the instant he started to run. Fiercer and
hotter grew the flames, leaping with mad impetuosity from room to room
until every part of the house was ablaze and only the dugout at the
west end remained intact.
“‘Reckon the cuss has shot himself,’ remarked one of the waiting
marksmen. ‘No fellow could stay in that hole a minute and be alive.’
“These words were barely spoken when there was a shout, ‘There he
goes!’ and a man clad in his stocking feet, bearing a Winchester in his
hands and a revolver in his belt, emerged from a volume of black smoke
that issued from the rear door of the house and started off across the
open space surrounding the cabin into a ravine, fifty yards south of
the house, but the poor devil jumped square into the arms of two of the
best shots in the outfit, who stood with leveled Winchesters around the
bend waiting for his appearance. Champion saw them too late, for he
overshot his mark just as a bullet struck his rifle arm, causing the
gun to fall from his nerveless grasp. Before he could draw his revolver
a second shot struck him in the breast and a third and fourth found
their way to his heart.
“Nate Champion, the king of cattle thieves, and the bravest man in
Johnson County, was dead. Prone upon his back, with his teeth clenched
and a look of mingled defiance and determination on his face to the
last, the intrepid rustler met his fate without a groan and paid the
penalty of his crimes with his life. A card bearing the significant
legend, ‘Cattle thieves, beware!’ was pinned to his blood-soaked vest,
and there in the dawn, with his red sash tied around him and his
half-closed eyes raised toward the blue sky, this brave but misguided
man was left to lie by the band of regulators who, having succeeded in
their object, rapidly withdrew from the scene of the double tragedy.”
Champion’s pistol and gun were confiscated by some of the gang, and in
searching the body a pocket memorandum book was found soaked with his
life’s blood and bearing a bullet hole through it. Under the printed
date of April 9th, the following entry was written in pencil:
“Me and Nick was getting breakfast when the attack took place. Two
men here with us--Bill Jones and another man. The old man went after
water and did not come back. His friend went out to see what was the
matter and he did not come back. Nick started out and I told him to
look out, that I thought that there was someone at the stable and
would not let them come back. Nick is shot, but not dead yet. He is
awful sick. I must go and wait on him. It is now about two hours
since the first shot. Nick is still alive; they are still shooting
and are all around the house. Boys, there is bullets coming in like
hail. Them fellows is in such shape I can’t get at them. They are
shooting from the stable and river and back of the house. Nick is
dead, he died about 9 o’clock. I see a smoke down at the stable. I
think they have fired it. I don’t think they intend to let me get
away this time.
“It is now about noon. There is someone at the stable yet; they are
throwing a rope out at the door and drawing it back. I guess it is
to draw me out. I wish that duck would get out further so I could
get a shot at him. Boys, I don’t know what they have done with them
two fellows that staid here last night. Boys, I feel pretty lonesome
just now. I wish there was someone here with me so we could watch all
sides at once. They may fool around until I get a good shot before
they leave. It’s about 3 o’clock now. There was a man in a buckboard
and one on horseback just passed. They fired on them as they went by.
I don’t know if they killed them or not. I seen lots of men come out
on horses on the other side of the river and take after them. I shot
at the men in the stable just now; don’t know if I got any or not. I
must go and look out again. It don’t look as if there is much show of
my getting away. I see twelve or fifteen men. One looks like (name is
scratched out). I don’t know whether it is or not. I hope they did
not catch them fellows that run over the bridge towards Smith’s. They
are shooting at the house now. If I had a pair of glasses I believe I
would know some of those men. They are coming back. I’ve got to look
out.
“Well, they have just got through shelling the house like hail. I
heard them splitting wood. I guess they are going to fire the house
tonight. I think I will make a break when night comes, if alive.
Shooting again. I think they will fire the house this time. It’s not
night yet. The house is all fired. Goodbye, boys, if I never see you
again.
“NATHAN D. CHAMPION.”
The above diary written while half a hundred armed men had the house
surrounded, with all avenues of escape shut off, with a constant hail
of bullets entering from every direction; with his dead friend lying
on the floor beside him, knowing, in fact, that these fifty men were
thirsting for his blood, is a remarkable production, and will be quoted
in history as the utterance of a brave man throughout all time to come.
No stronger expression of nerve and heroism has ever been recorded, and
coming generations will point to Nate Champion as one of the coolest
and bravest men of the Nineteenth century.
The cattle barons branded him a thief, but his neighbors, many of them
recognized as fair-minded, honest men, even by the said “barons,”
declare that he was not a thief, but an honest, hard-working and
conscientious citizen; that his life’s blood was wanted, not because
he would steal cattle, but because his testimony, if given in court,
would send two or more of the members of the robber gang to the gallows
or to prison for cold-blooded crimes committed. Remembering that these
people who thus think and talk have never committed a crime or broken a
law of the state, and remembering also that murder, arson, body burning
and many attempts to murder are known to lie against the cattlemen
engaged in the raid, it seems impossible not to accept the verdict of
Champion’s neighbors in preference to that of his murderers. The great
body of the people have already decided this question and the decision
is recorded in Champion’s favor.
Nathan D. Champion was born in the country, seven miles from Round
Rock, Williamson County, Texas, September 29th, 1857, being the sixth
son of Jack Champion and Naomi Standerfer. The family is an old and
well connected one, with no scandal attached to its record. By a second
marriage of Nate’s father there are six sons, making twelve in all,
beside six daughters, or a family of eighteen. Nate and his brother
Dudley have been in Johnson County for a number of years, coming up
with Texas cattle and serving as top hands on many of the big ranches.
Nick Ray was a Missourian, who came to Wyoming as a cowboy and has
done faithful work in that line for years. He was blackballed by the
stockmen, but his neighbors say unjustly.