failed; men who had bought goods on long credit could not pay. "Bill"
McDonald, as he was now usually called, had been one to carry long
lines of credit for his customers, and he was hurt accordingly. He gave
up business, at last, and in 1883 invested in cattle whatever remained
to him, and set his steps further westward where there was free grass.
He headed toward Wichita County, which was almost an unknown land in
that day, driving his cattle before him, his young wife at his side,
both eager to begin a new life in a new land.
To drive cattle across the wild Texas prairies, twenty-five years ago,
was an experience worth while. There were no fences, no boundaries and
few roads. Settlers were far between. The climate in any season was
likely to be mild; the air was pure and stimulating; society, such as
it was, had not many conventions.
Yet, few and fundamental as were the conditions, they were of a sort to
develop sudden situations, and one had to be ready to face them fairly
and firmly or write himself down as unfit for the wild free life of the
range. The grass was free, but there were always those who wanted to
form a trust of its vast areas and make trespassers of the smaller men.
McDonald had scarcely located his herd and pitched his tent when two of
these magnates notified him that he had better move. It was a bluff, of
course, and the man who had been deputy sheriff for half a dozen years
and purified a bad community was the wrong man to use it on. He asked
in that quiet way of his, to let him have a look at their titles, and
when they could not produce them, he added that he thought he'd stay
where he was. They began to tell him of some of the things that were
likely to happen if he did that, but he did not seem impressed by the
information. He repeated that he would stay where he was, and that
anyone who did not wish to be in his neighborhood had his permission to
move on, to other free grass. Perhaps they looked him over a bit more
carefully, then, and noticed the peculiarity of his nose and of his
eyes, and the handy and casual way he had of picking off the heads of
rattlesnakes and such things, with a six-shooter, while he talked. At
all events they did not refer to the matter again and even cultivated
his friendship. In a neighborhood where cattle thieves were beginning
to be troublesome a man like that would be handy to have around. They
were to have an example presently of his willingness and ability to
defend the rights of ownership--a small example, but convincing.
It was no easy matter to keep a herd intact in those days. In a land
of free grass, where the cost of cattle was chiefly the expense
of herding, it was not likely that the moral title to the cattle
themselves would be very highly regarded, especially where brands had
been obliterated, or where a few strays mingled with a larger herd.
The outlaw pure and simple was bad enough, but to the newcomer with a
small bunch of "cows" (cattle, regardless of gender), the vast roaming
herd, guarded by a veritable army of punchers whose respect for any
law was small enough, was an even greater menace. McDonald knew of
these conditions, and when, soon after his arrival, some of his cattle
strayed away, he set out to inspect the surrounding herds. After riding
some distance he came upon a large drove, evidently on its way to
market. It was about noon and the men were "rounding-in" for dinner.
McDonald started to address a herder, when the man turned abruptly and
started off. McDonald immediately began looking through the cattle,
whereupon the herder wheeled.
"What do you want in there?" he asked roughly.
"I was looking for hobbled horses," was the easy reply. The puncher
made some surly comment and rode away.
McDonald, presently satisfied that his stray cattle were not with that
portion of the drove, continued his search further along and came up
with the "chuck-wagon" where dinner was being prepared. Cow-men are
hospitable and the foreman invited him to dismount and join them. He
did so, and a little later the surly puncher came in, giving the camp
guest anything but a friendly look. In the course of the meal the
visitor was asked where he was from.
"Mineola," he said, "Wood County." The surly herder spoke up.
"These d--d sand-lappers (east-Texans) are getting too thick out here."
McDonald set down his coffee.
"The d--d skunks and prairie dogs are already too thick," he said.
An instant later the puncher had out his pistol, but the sand-lapper
was still quicker. The puncher was covered before he could bring his
weapon to bear. McDonald said:
"Turn it loose! Drop it!"
[Illustration: INTRODUCING REFORM IN THE WILDERNESS.
"He was disarmed with amazing suddenness."]
The herder still clutched the weapon which he was afraid to raise. The
sand-lapper stepped nearer to him, and with a sudden movement rapped
him smartly on the head with the heavy barrel of his six-shooter. It
was a thing that as a deputy he had done often, and it was always
effective. The puncher dropped his gun. One of his comrades sprang to
his assistance, but was covered and disarmed with amazing suddenness.
The foreman interfered, now, and the beginner of the disturbance was
led away to a brook to have his head bathed and bandaged; whereupon the
sand-lapper quietly finished his dinner, thanked his host, continued
the search for his missing stock, and when he had found them, set
out for home. Meeting a group of punchers among which was his surly
friend with a now bandaged head, he expected further trouble. Nothing
happened. The sand-lapper and his missing cows had the right of way.
VII
Commercial Ventures and Adventures
BILL MCDONALD'S METHOD OF COLLECTING A BILL; AND HIS METHOD OF HANDLING
BAD MEN
The inclination to commercial enterprise still survived. At the end of
a year McDonald sold his cattle and invested in the lumber business at
Wichita Falls--another railway terminus, dropped down in the prairie,
with a population of about two thousand, at that time. A little later
he established a branch business at Harrold when the railway reached
that point. Two big lumber yards were already established at Wichita
Falls, and the competition was strenuous. It was a brief experience for
McDonald, for he presently yearned for the freer life of the range,
and soon abandoned commerce, once more, for cattle--this time for
good. Yet the experience was not without valuable return, inasmuch as
it established for him in Wichita Falls, quickly and permanently, a
reputation of a useful kind in a country where law and order are likely
to be of an elemental, go-as-you-please sort. It happened in this wise:
There was a merchant in Baylor County, Texas, to whom Lumberman
McDonald sold a good bill, on time. The account ran along, until one
day the county judge of Baylor, one Melvin, dropped in and stated
that he had called to settle the amount for his neighbor. He gave his
own check for it and McDonald supposed the matter had ended. A few
days later the bank returned Melvin's check as worthless. Evidently
the quiet unobtrusive life which Bill Jess had been living as a lumber
merchant had given the impression that he was an inoffensive person who
would pocket a loss rather than make trouble, especially with a county
judge, who added to his official prestige the reputation of being a
very bad man from "far up Bitter Creek." However, this impression was
a mistake. McDonald ascertained that his customer had really sent the
money by Melvin, to pay his bill, and considered what he ought to do.
Morally, perhaps legally, he could have demanded payment a second time,
on the ground that the said customer, being acquainted with Melvin,
should have selected a more reliable messenger. But that was not the
Bill McDonald way. What he did was to write to Melvin, demanding an
explanation; adding in pretty positive terms that he expected immediate
settlement. No reply came and a second and a third letter followed,
each getting more definite as to phrase. Then one day Melvin and
certain henchmen from Baylor appeared on the streets of Wichita Falls.
McDonald who had heard of their arrival, suddenly confronted Melvin and
delivered himself in whatever terms and emphasis as he had on hand at
the moment. Melvin withdrew, gathered his clans and laid for McDonald
in a saloon where the latter had to pass. Though previously warned of
the ambush, McDonald did pass, with the result that next morning Melvin
settled his bill in full, paid for a glass door that he had broken,
and a fine and costs amounting to sixty-five dollars, for carrying
concealed weapons. What really happened to Melvin is best told in Bill
Jess's own testimony when that same morning he had, himself, been
summoned to answer a charge for carrying concealed weapons, disturbing
the peace, and for assault--said action being the result of Melvin's
judicial pull. Arriving at the court-room the prosecuting attorney
asked McDonald if he had a lawyer.
"No," he said, "I don't need anybody to defend me for knocking that
scoundrel over. I'll attend to my own case, whatever is necessary."
The attorney then stated the charge to the court. Bill Jess waited
until he was through and then asked permission to speak.
"Your honor," he said, rising, "I'm a busy man with no time to be
fooling around this way with men who give bogus checks and steal
horses and such like, but if your honor will spare about a minute I'll
tell the court what happened." He then gave a history of the lumber
transaction, and added the sequel, as follows:
"When I wrote him as strong a letter as I could frame up, and as would
go through the mail, he came down with a crowd of what he thought was
fighting men, and I met him and tried like a gentleman to persuade him
to settle up and to convince him what a dad-blamed rascal he was; which
he pled guilty to, and didn't deny. Then he gathers his feeble bunch
of fighters together, arms them up with six-shooters and corrals them
in Bill Holly's saloon, that I had to pass, going home. I met Johnny
Hammond who tried to persuade me not to take that street--said those
fellows were up there and I'd better go in some other direction. I
said I wasn't in the habit of going out of my way for such cattle, and
proceeded on up the street. When I got in front of Bill Holly's, Melvin
and his warriors stepped out. Melvin wanted an explanation of my former
remarks, and I gave it to him and added some more which I would not
like to mention in the presence of the court. Then he pulled out a big
white-handled forty-five six-shooter, but being a little slow with it,
I grabbed it by the barrel and hit him with my fist two or three times,
which kind of jarred him loose from his gun. Then I gave him a rap on
the head with it and knocked him through Bill Holly's glass-front door,
into the saloon. His pals pulled their guns, but I covered them with
the one I took away from Melvin and they nearly broke the furniture to
pieces getting out of there. I didn't see any more of any of them until
next morning. Then I looked up the bunch and got a check in full, with
interest, from Melvin, and made him pay Bill Holly five dollars for
his glass door. So far as carrying a gun is concerned, I had one, and
I got another from this fellow here who had pulled it on me. I took
it away from him and hit him with it, and I have the same here in my
possession now, to turn over to the Court."
Bill Jess reached down somewhere and drawing forth the big white
handled six-shooter, laid it down in front of the court. Then suddenly
turning upon Melvin who was present, he looked him straight through.
"Melvin, is not all I have told the Court true?" he demanded.
Melvin found himself unable to tell anything but the truth, just then.
"Yes, sir," he said, quite meekly.
McDonald was discharged and Melvin paid a fine as before noted.
Following this incident came another which solidified Bill
McDonald's reputation for nerve, in Wichita Falls. Bill Holly, the
aforementioned--whose name in another part of the State had been Buck
Holly, which he forgot when he left East Texas, after getting into a
mix-up, during which the other man died--one day absorbed an overdose
of his own stock-in-trade and set forth to shoot up the town. He went
afoot and let go at things generally, emptying the streets and bringing
business to a standstill. The city marshal was organizing a posse to
take him, and summoned McDonald, when McDonald said:
"Give me the key to the calaboose, and the' won't be no need of a
posse."
He took the key in one hand and a six-shooter in the other; marched up
to where Holly was practicing on front-doors and hardware signs; struck
the gun close up under the nose of the disturber, and with his quick
magic, disarmed him and set out with him for the lockup. Holly begged
and pleaded and was finally locked in a room in the hotel. He broke a
window before morning and promptly paid for it by McDonald's request.
He made a fairly quiet citizen during the remainder of McDonald's stay
in Wichita Falls.
Removing to Hardeman County was the only thing that saved Bill
McDonald from being drafted into official service where he was. Law
abiding citizens with his gifts are scarce enough anywhere, and
they were needed in the cattle districts of Texas. There was not
much law in those parts, none at all outside of the towns. In the
countries bordering on Indian Territory and up through the Pan-handle
a man had to "stand pat" whatever his hand, and hold his own by
strength of arm and quickness of trigger. Cow thieves and cut-throats
abounded. Officials often worked in accord with them, or were afraid
to prosecute. The man who would neither co-operate with outlaws nor
condone their offences was already on the ground and would presently be
in the field. It was a wide field and a fruitful one and the harvest
was ripe for the gathering.
Hardeman County was a tough locality in the early eighties. It had
lately been organized, and the settlers were cow-men, cowboys and
gamblers--lawless enough, themselves--and another element, which
pretended to be these things, but in reality consisted of outlaws,
pure and simple. The latter lived chiefly off of the herds, driving
off horses and cattle and hiding them in remote and inaccessible
places. Often cattle were butchered; their hides, which were marked
with brand and ear-marks were destroyed to avoid identification, and
the meat was sold. Men who did these things were known well enough,
but went unapprehended for the reasons named. In certain sections of
the Territory itself and in No-man's Land (a piece of disputed ground
lying to the north of the Pan-handle, now a part of Oklahoma) matters
were even worse. In these places there was hardly a semblance of law.
Certainly the need of active reform--of an official crusader, without
fear and above reproach--was both wide and vociferous.
VIII
Reforming the Wilderness
THE KIND OF MEN TO BE REFORMED. EARLY REFORMS IN QUANAH. BAD MEN MEET
THEIR MATCH
It was in 1885 that Bill McDonald disposed of his lumber interests in
Wichita Falls and at Harrold, reinvested in cattle and set out once
more for the still farther west. He had filed on some school-land
on Wanderer's Creek in Hardeman County, about four miles from where
the town of Quanah now stands, and in the heart of what was then the
wilderness. Somewhat previous to this, McDonald, whose reputation as
a man of nerve had traveled to Harrold, was one night called upon by
Ranger Lieutenant Sam Platt to assist in handling a gang of outlaws,
known as the Brooken Band, that infested the neighborhood. The Brookens
had ridden into Harrold and were running things in pretty much their
own way. Platt and McDonald promptly bore down upon them and a running
fight ensued as the Brookens retreated. About one hundred shots were
fired altogether, but it was dark and the range was too great for
accuracy. Nothing was accomplished, but the event marked the beginning
of a warfare between Bill McDonald and a band of cut-throats, the end
of which would be history. It was soon after this first skirmish that
McDonald sold out his lumber business and set out for his Hardeman
County ranch. As on his former migration he drove his cattle to the new
land, and after the first hard day's drive, camped at nightfall in a
pleasant spot where grass was plentiful and water handy. It seemed a
good place, and man and beast gladly halted for food and rest.
But next morning there was trouble. When preparations for an early
start were under headway, it was suddenly discovered that four of the
best horses and a fine Newfoundland dog were missing. Investigation
of the surrounding country was made, and two of the horses were found
astray, evidently having broken loose from their captors. It was
further discovered that the Brooken Band had a rendezvous in what was
known as the Cedar-brakes, a stretch of rough country, densely covered
with scrubby cedar, located about twelve miles to the south westward.
McDonald naturally felt that it was again his "move" in the Brooken
game, but it did not seem expedient to stop the journey with the herd
and undertake the move, just then, so biding his time he pushed on, to
his land on Wanderer's Creek, where he established his ranch, fenced
his property, built a habitation for himself and the wife who was
always ready to follow him into the wilderness; then he rode over to
Margaret, at that time the county-seat, and asked Sheriff Jim Alley--a
good man with his hands over full--to appoint him deputy that he might
begin the work which clearly must be done in that country before
it could become a proper habitation for law abiding citizens. The
commission was readily granted, and from that appointment dates "that
tired feeling" which the bad men of Texas began to have when they heard
the sound of Bill McDonald's name.
Another word as to the kind of men with which an officer in those days
had to deal. They were not ordinary malefactors, but choice selections
from the world at large. "What was your name before you came to Texas?"
was a common inquiry in those earlier days, and it was often added
that a man could go to Texas when he couldn't go anywhere else. It was
such a big State, with so many remote fastnesses, so many easy escapes
across the borders. It was the natural last resort of men who could
not live elsewhere with safety or profit. There is a story of a man
arrested in Texas in those days for some misdemeanor, who was advised
by his lawyer to leave the State without delay.
"But where shall I go?" asked the troubled offender, "I'm in _Texas,
now_."
They were the men who had borne other names before they came to Texas
and who were "in Texas, now," because they could not live elsewhere and
keep off of the scaffold, that Bill McDonald undertook to exterminate.
He was willing to undertake the task single handed, if necessary, and
in reality did much of his work in that manner, as we shall see.
With his commission in his pocket Bill Jess was not long in getting
down to his favorite employment, that of man-hunting. He began quietly,
for he wanted to identify some of the men nearer at hand who were in
one way and another connected with the Cedar-brakes gang. Bill Brooken,
a notorious outlaw, was the head of the band, and his brother Bood was
one of its chief members. The Brookens were wanted not only for cattle
stealing, but for train-robbing and murder, as well. A certain Bull
Turner was one of their victims. Turner was said to have been one of
the Brooken gang at an earlier time, but had abandoned that way of life
and made an effort to become a decent citizen. The gang believed he had
given information, and somewhat later when he was driving across the
country with a prominent stockman--a Hebrew named Lazarus--the Brookens
and half a dozen of their followers suddenly dashed out of a roadside
concealment and began firing. Turner was instantly killed, and Lazarus
fell over the dash-board in a wild effort to get behind something.
The frightened horses, one of them wounded in the foot, ran madly all
the way to town with Lazarus still clinging to the whiffletrees. He
received no injury, but acquired a scare which was permanent.
With the assistance of Sheriff Alley--also short a horse, through
the industries of the Brooken gang--and one Pat Wolforth, who was
acquainted with certain of the silent partners of the outlaws and stood
ready to give information, several arrests were made, presently, and
trouble filled the air.
Threatening letters now began to come to the new deputy, warning
him against further procedure--promising him death and torture of
many varieties if he did not suspend operations. Such letters always
stimulated Bill McDonald to renewed enterprise. He redoubled his
efforts and brought in offenders of various kinds almost daily.
Cattle stealers began to migrate to other counties. Their friends and
beneficiaries grew nervous.
Meantime, the railroad had reached Hardeman and the town of
Quanah--named for Chief Quanah Parker, son of the historic Cynthia
Ann Parker--had sprung up. It was the typical tough place and certain
bad men still at large came there to proclaim vengeance and to "lay"
for the men who were making them trouble. Among these disturbers was
one John Davidson of Wilbarger County, on the borders of which the
Cedar-brakes gang was located. Davidson was reputed to have killed
several men and was believed to be an accessory of the Brooken Band,
but was thus far not positively identified, and remained unapprehended.
He did not hesitate, however, to boast of his always being armed and
ready for men like Bill McDonald, and especially for Pat Wolforth who
was getting good friends and neighbors into trouble.
Davidson appeared presently on the streets of Quanah, flourishing his
fire-arms and making his boasts. McDonald suddenly arrived on the
scene, and without any parley whatever stepped quickly up to Davidson
and disarmed him so suddenly that the terror of Wilbarger stood dazed,
and did not recover himself until he was half way to the office of
justice, where he paid a fine. It was an unusual proceeding. It was
unprecedented. The customary thing was a noisy warfare of words,
followed by a general shooting, with the bad man in possession when the
smoke had cleared away. This new method was prosaic. Davidson couldn't
understand it at all. He tried it again the next week, with the same
result. He kept on trying it, and each time settled for his amusement
with a fine. Why he did not kill somebody he couldn't understand. He
never seemed to get in action before Bill McDonald had his gun and
was marching him to the "Captain's Office." Finally he got himself
appointed Deputy Sheriff of Wilbarger and came triumphantly to Quanah,
with his commission, which he believed would entitle him to carry
arms. Met suddenly, as usual, by McDonald and promptly disarmed, he
flourished his commission.
"That's all right, Bill McDonald, but I'm fixed for you this time. Give
me back that gun."
McDonald said:
"Your commission won't do you much good up here. If Sheriff Barker
wants to appoint a man that throws in with thieves, all right. But in
Hardeman County we don't have to recognize him."
There was never such a stubborn man, Davidson decided, as that fool
deputy, Bill McDonald. He decided to wait until McDonald should be
absent, and then have it out with Wolforth. When the time came,
Davidson brought a gang along with him and they followed Wolforth about
with pestering remarks, until their victim suddenly grew tired of the
annoyance, and opened fire. This was unexpected and the gang retired
for reorganization. Then some rangers, quartered at Quanah, appeared
on the scene, and Wolforth was put under arrest. He was taken before a
justice, who fixed his bond at a thousand dollars, which he was unable
to raise, because of the dread in which Davidson and his crowd were
held. It was just about this moment that Deputy McDonald returned, and
the Rangers delivered Wolforth into his hands.
"What's the matter, Pat?" McDonald asked.
His co-worker explained how he had fired on the Davidson gang, though
without damage to anybody.
"And they put you under a thousand dollar bond for it?" commented
Deputy Bill.
"Yes."
"Well, they ought to have made it a good deal heavier for your not
being a better shot. Never mind, I'll fill your bond all right," and
this McDonald did, immediately.