Elections in Texas—Feuds and shooting affrays—Family pride—Local
Prohibition.
Elections used to be exciting events in Uvalde, Texas, during the first
few years I was there, as the Mexican vote controlled the county, and
the rival candidates used to give dances for them, where there was
plenty of liquor and cigars. But for the past few years this has all
been stopped, as the Mexican vote has fallen to practically nothing,
owing to a law that was passed by which every voter had to show his poll
tax receipt when registering, and a Mexican will die sooner than pay
poll tax—in fact will never pay any tax if he can get out of it. In
order to stop the candidates (in a close election) paying the tax for
them, the law said that the receipt must be dated at least six months
before the election. It is curious in the States how in certain
localities certain nationalities control the elections; in some places
it is the negro vote, in others, the Mexican, or it may be the German
vote. I heard of an election once for county officers in a county where
Swedes predominated, where all the officers on the list but the sheriff
were named Oleson or Paulson or other such name, but the sheriff’s name
was Brown. A visitor said, “I see that all your county officers but the
sheriff have Swedish names; his sounds American.” “Yes,” was the answer,
“they are all Swedes but him, and we only put him up to catch the
American vote.” I know towns in South-west Texas where one will not hear
a word of any language but German spoken from dawn to dark, unless one
does not happen to know the language and they have to address you, when
they will speak English. Yet all the Germans there were born in Texas
and never saw their native land. The trouble with these Mexican voters
is that they will promise you anything while at your dance drinking your
liquor; but they promise the same to the other man at his dance; so you
never can tell what they will do at the polls, unless you have them
under your thumb as we had them at the mines. For instance, we, for
years, only employed Mexicans who brought us a paper from Henry Burns
the sheriff, saying they were all right (meaning they would vote for
him); yet later, when I was in charge of the mines and was fighting
against Henry’s election, these same men, with only one exception, voted
against Henry under instructions from me.
It was at one of these elections that the son of the county clerk
(before mentioned as a “periodical”) and Henry Burns’ son John met in
the Horseshoe saloon in Uvalde. After a few words the clerk’s son pulled
a knife, bent John Burns over the bar, and tried to kill him, in revenge
for the supposed killing of his father by the orders of Henry Burns.
Luckily, the knife struck the brass support of the bar-rail and the
blade broke half-way up, and at the same time one of Henry’s deputies
tried to get the boy off John by stunning him from behind with brass
knuckles. The boy had grit, however, and while his own head was being
cut open with the knuckles he was doing all he could for John with the
stub of his knife, and they were both a sight to see for weeks after.
Henry himself, when a boy, was the cause of starting the big feud which
kept Uvalde stirred up for quite a while. It started in a fist fight
between him and young Gilchrist in the Uvalde camp yard.
Gilchrist’s father and uncle were there cheering their boy on. When he
finally got Henry down they were so worked up they were calling to their
boy to kill Henry. The old man was dancing round, holloaing, “Kill him,
Bud, kill him,” when Henry Burns’ father (who had been a general in the
confederate army) came out of Piper’s store. He took in the situation at
a glance, and, whipping out a bowie-knife, he ran at the elder Gilchrist
and with one stroke cut him almost in two. The uncle and son made their
escape for the time being and the feud was on.
One incident of this trouble seemed to me characteristic of the grit and
coolness of these men. One member of the Gilchrist faction (a man
considerably over sixty) was upstairs in the old Uvalde Hotel when Henry
Burns passed and stopped to speak to some one under the balcony.
The old man picked up his shot gun and, leaning over the balcony with
the muzzle of the gun about six feet from Henry’s head, pulled both
triggers. The gun missed fire, but Henry hearing the clicks whirled
round, and had the old man covered before he could move. He held him so
for a few moments, then he said, “I ought to kill you, you old
scoundrel, but I guess I will let you off this time.” Then he turned and
walked off.
On another occasion a deputy-sheriff, who was on the Burns’ side, had
arrested one of the opposite faction for being drunk and disorderly. He
had taken him by surprise, disarmed him, and was escorting him to jail.
On the way to the lock-up, the boy (for he was nothing but a lad),
feeling keenly the disgrace of being so arrested without fight, taunted
the officer with taking him by surprise. He told him that he dared not
have arrested him in any other manner, and dared the officer to return
his gun and then try and rearrest him. The officer was about to accept
the challenge, when one of the boy’s friends rode up and warned the
deputy. Said he, "The kid’s drunk, and has no show against you who are
sober, so if you give him back his gun and then kill him, I will sure
kill you." However, the deputy had been so annoyed by the boy’s taunts
that he handed him his gun and the shooting commenced. Of course the boy
was shot, but at the same time the man on the horse shot the deputy, and
left town at a gallop.
A man who will receive a gun in this manner has no chance, even if
sober, unless he is like lightning, because as his hand touches the butt
the other man shoots. Not necessarily because he wishes to take any
advantage of the other, but because he is all keyed up and shoots
involuntarily the moment he sees the other man is armed: somewhat the
same impulse that causes false starts in square racing. I saw a case in
the Silver King Saloon in San Antonio one night. Two men had a row, and
one slapped the other’s face and then immediately drew his gun. (It is
generally safer to kill a man first, and slap him afterwards.) The man
who had been slapped said: “You cur, you only dare strike me because I
am unarmed, and you have a gun.” "Don’t let that worry you," said the
other; “I will lend you a gun,” and with his left hand he drew a second
gun and offered it to the man, butt first. The other, however, was too
wise even to put out his hand, and by this time the “lookouts” of the
gambling hall and the barkeepers got around the armed man and hustled
him out, for it hurts business to have any shooting in the house,
besides the inconvenience of the trial, &c. It is a bad business to be
an “innocent bystander” in cases of this kind, as they are the ones that
generally get hit. But, unfortunately, I had no place to go to, as the
negro porter had, who was a witness at the trial of a killing which
occurred in the hotel where he worked. He was asked how many shots were
fired, and he answered “two.” “At what intervals of time?” “About one
second.” “Where were you when the shots were fired?” "Well, boss, when
the first shot was fired I was in the hall shining a gentleman’s shoes,
but when the second shot was fired I was passing the depot!"
Texas is different from most other southern states, where pride of
family is very strong. In Texas, a few years ago, it was not considered
good form to dig into a man’s antecedents or family record, as you were
liable to come across the bar sinister in the shape of a noose at the
end of a rope.
Consequently, rank and family were not much considered, and a man had to
stand on his own record. An English “remittance-man” in one of the small
Texas towns had two titled friends come to visit him. One day in the
hotel he thought he would impress the natives, so he said to the clerk,
“Jim, this gentleman is a viscount in England, and this other gentleman
is an earl.”
But Jim had never heard of such things, and asked what it all meant. It
was explained that these were marks of distinction by which you could
tell a man’s social standing. “Oh,” he said, "now I see; but there are
only two kinds of people here—those that call for soda in their whisky,
and the others that aren’t so darned particular." On the other hand, war
records are very much prized and brought forward on all occasions. More
especially at elections, where, if the record is very good, it is almost
sure to capture the votes. But that this is not always the case the
following instance will show. An old veteran on the stump was giving his
record as follows:—
“Fellow-citizens, I have fought and bled for my country. I have fought
the savage Indian; I have slept on the field of battle with no covering
but the heavens; I have marched barefoot till every footstep was marked
with blood!”
At the close of his oration one of the leading citizens approached him,
wiping the tears from his eyes, and in a voice broken with emotion said:
"My dear man, if you have done all you claim, I’m afeered I’ll have to
vote for your opponent, for I’ll be gosh darned if you ain’t done enough
for your country already."
The first election in which I took any active part occurred when I was
in charge of the mines, and was fought over the question of prohibition.
A retired cattleman, who owned a saloon in Uvalde, had been of much
assistance to the company and to me personally, and we were under many
obligations to him. I had promised him in my own and the company’s name
to return favours when called upon. He wired me one day to come in to
town, and when I drove over he told me that there was to be an election
to vote the county “dry,” and he needed our help. This I promised, and
when the election came off the county went “wet” by thirty-five
majority, and as our box gave some forty-five “wet” votes, we had been
the means of carrying the election. At first there was some talk of
throwing out our box on the ground of undue influence, but finally they
decided to accept defeat for the present. Uvalde since then has voted
“dry,” and in fact the large majority of Texas counties have local
prohibition, though the liquor interests have so far kept “dryness” out
of State elections. Local prohibition is, however, becoming each year a
more prominent factor, and in a few years Texas is sure to be a “dry”
State. Last election I was told the fight turned almost entirely on the
liquor question, and each candidate, for even trivial positions, was
asked where he stood. One candidate, on being asked, as he stepped down
from the platform, “Do you drink?” said: “Before I can answer that
question truthfully I must know is this meant as an inquiry or an
invitation?” I may give the impression from the above that I am in
favour of the liquor business. But nothing is further from the truth, as
I am a great believer not so much in local prohibition as in national.
But with me it was a case of carrying out a promise made, at no matter
what cost to my personal views.
Texas is not in all respects so lawless as one might suppose from what I
have written; for instance, my father and sister visited me for six
weeks in 1896, and they rode about everywhere in perfect safety. On the
other hand, while he was there, the superintendent twice borrowed money
from him, for petty cash. They, of the staff, were four men in one
house, well armed, but “they were not paid to fight,” so they kept no
money. Everything was paid by cheques on Uvalde, eighteen miles distant!
Nor was this without reason, for twice in that year even town banks were
attacked. In one case the employees beat off the robbers; in the other
the citizens pursued and hanged them.