Coyotes—Wild turkeys—Lynching and Jury Trial in
Texas—Pistol-shooting—Negro vitality.
I was telling a coyote story for which I cannot vouch, but I myself had
an experience with a coyote one night when I was on a fishing trip on
the Nueces River.
I and Ed Anderson, my pit boss, hired a wagon, and taking along a
Mexican and his twelve-year-old boy (to cook and look after the horses),
we drove down to the ranch, about forty miles below the mines, for a
couple of weeks’ fishing. One night we were all sleeping soundly, when I
was awakened by Anderson’s dog fighting with something at my feet. I sat
up, and in the bright moonlight saw it was a coyote. As I jumped to my
feet I instinctively lifted my blankets up with me, and I was lucky in
doing so, for just then the brute made a dash at me. I threw the
blankets over him, and, calling to the others, made for the wagon where
my gun and rifle were. While I was hunting for them under the litter of
camp stuff, Ed and the Mexican jumped up into the wagon. Then we
discovered that the boy was still sleeping through the racket. The
father kept holloaing, “Save my boy, oh, save my boy!” but not making
any effort or move to get out of the wagon and do anything himself.
However, by this time I had found my gun and some shells, and, waiting
my chance till the dog and coyote got separated for a minute, I soon
killed the latter.
In the morning we examined the coyote and came to the conclusion that it
had hydrophobia, so we kept the dog tied up the rest of the trip as Ed
would not let me shoot it. They told us at the ranch that quite a number
of coyotes had been killed lately, one having run into a cow camp in
broad daylight and attacked some of the men. But it was really funny for
the rest of the trip, for, whenever a coyote howled close to the camp,
out would pop four heads from the different blankets. One night I nearly
scared the Mexican to death by hitting him with a clod of dirt just as
he was dropping asleep. The howl he let out would have made a coyote
envious. Nevertheless, we had a most enjoyable trip, and were not
disturbed any more. It is a curious thing that although I have slept on
the ground hundreds of times in Texas, rolled in my blankets, when
hunting or fishing, I have never been bothered by tarantula, centipede,
scorpion, rattlesnake, or any other of the reptiles with which the
country abounds; and this was the sole occasion on which my sleep was
disturbed in any way.
The Nueces River is so called from the immense quantities of pecan trees
which line both banks from the head to the mouth, making delightful
shade to camp under and a great feeding-ground for wild turkeys. The nut
is something like a walnut, though about half the size. The wild turkey
is probably the wildest thing to be found in the United States. I only
killed three during my eight years in Texas, one with my revolver by a
fluke shot, and two sitting roosting at night. Years ago they were in
thousands both on the Nueces River and on Turkey Creek (the creek that
ran through the mines)—were in fact so plentiful that Pinchot, who used
to have a rest-house on the California trail that ran through Cline,
told me he only used to bring home the breasts of the birds he killed to
feed his guests. They were so plentiful on the market in San Antonio
that people got tired of them and would pay a higher price for tame
turkeys. A gentleman in San Antonio once asked his nigger to go out and
buy him a tame turkey. “Now,” he said, "don’t you try and palm off any
wild turkey on me." The man swore that he would not, and that evening
the turkey arrived. When eating it the next day, the gentleman came
across some shot in the turkey’s breast. He sent for the negro and said,
“Sam, you promised you would not try and cheat me, but would bring me a
tame turkey, and here I find shot in it.” "’Deed, Boss," the man
replied, "dat war a tame turkey all right, but de fact is, I’se goin’ to
tell you in confidence, dat dem shot war intended for me." This
wholesale slaughter has made the turkey like the buffalo—very scarce
where once they were to be found in thousands.
One hears a good deal about lynching, but of course it is not only
negroes that get lynched. A few years ago it often happened that a town
would get tired of one of its bad white men and take him out and hang
him. But this is getting rarer and rarer, especially now when the law
officers are starting prosecutions for manslaughter against every known
member of a lynching mob. A few years ago, though, lynchings were very
common. They tell a story about a lynching party riding up to a house,
and the spokesman said, “Madam, we are sorry to report that we hanged
your husband. We admit that we got the wrong man, so you sure have the
laugh on us there.”
Texas is different, I believe, from any other state in the Union in its
methods of jury trial. Here the jury not only decides the innocence or
guilt of the defendant but also assesses the punishment, and all the
judge has to do apparently is to instruct the jury on points of law, and
tell them the limits of punishment for the offence under trial. He also
does the actual sentencing after the jury have brought in their verdict.
I have seen myself, in a civil case, a lawyer rolling and smoking
cigarettes while addressing the court, so one can imagine there is
little of the majesty and dignity of the law in some Texas courts. A
jury is said once to have sent the following note to the judge: "If you
don’t send us in something to eat we will have to find the defendant
guilty; but if you send in plenty to eat and drink we will stay here
till he is innocent." They tell about a J.P. up in Pecos county who had
a man before him on the charge of shooting a Chinaman. He said, “I have
carefully gone over the statutes of the state of Texas, and I cannot
find it anywhere stated that it is a crime to kill a Chinaman. I
therefore declare the prisoner free.”
Henry Burns, our sheriff, was a fine-looking man, well over six feet in
height. He did more than any one man to make Uvalde a law-abiding place
during the twenty-two years he was sheriff. He was far from a good shot
(I myself have beaten him pistol-shooting), but he was a man of
wonderful nerve, which is what really counts. For a man may hit a target
every shot at 30 yards, and yet cannot hit a man at 30 feet if the man
is also doing some shooting. In my wanderings I have met one really
wonderful shot who could, with a Colt’s 44 frontier 7-inch barrel, hit a
tomato can almost every shot at 40 yards. I have also known men, who
were considered very good shots, stand at a distance of fifteen paces
and empty their guns at one another without either getting a scratch.
There is a saying throughout the South that the best weapon made is a
double-barrelled shot-gun and buck-shot. I have heard and read a great
deal about the wonderful pistol shots, but have, with the above
exception, never met one who came up to the standards I have read of.
The general advantage the bad-man had over the rest of the community was
twofold: first, he practised drawing his pistol as quick as a flash, and
then he always knew when he intended to shoot, while the other fellow
was still thinking over the pros and cons. The first shot always counts
in these affrays, as most of the shooting is done in a saloon or
gambling-hall at a distance of a few feet when it is impossible to miss.
Henry Burns was considered a good, steady shot because of his nerve, but
I have seen him miss a whisky bottle two or three times at a distance of
about ten paces. He could shoot to kill, however, as the following
instance will show. He used to relate this to show the wonderful
vitality and grit of the negro. Henry had put this man in jail for some
offence, and the man had sworn revenge and promised to kill Henry on
sight after he was let out. One day Henry was standing at the corner of
the Court House, when he saw the man with a pistol in his hand crossing
the street toward him. Henry pulled out his own gun and called to the
man to halt. The man made no reply, and Henry fired and kept it up till
his gun was empty, the man still advancing. When the man was within two
or three paces of Henry he raised his pistol, pointed it at Henry, made
two or three attempts to pull the trigger, and collapsed almost at
Henry’s feet. When they picked him up he had five 41-calibre balls
through his body, so Henry had only missed him once. With modern
weapons, such as the Colt’s, Luger, or Mauser automatic pistols,
shooting becomes much easier, but with the old-time Colt there were few
men who could be sure of hitting their man at 25 or 30 yards.