While breaking hearts watched by Mr. Brann's bedside
there was a loving wife, a dutiful son and kind friends
sitting by the bedside of Tom E. Davis. For the first
six hours Dr. J. C. J. King, Dr. Curtis and Dr. Olive
endeavored to bring their patient about. He was
perfectly conscious, but was yet suffering from the shock.
At midnight he was no better and a change for the
worse was soon noted. The patient would awake from
the effect of opiates, talk with those about him and then
relapse again into slumber. He knew his son and wife,
friends who called and friends who spoke to him, but there
was rapid pulse and a labored breathing that indicated
the approach of death. Throughout the small hours of
the new-born day the wife sat by that couch, and with her
sat kind friends. Everything known to science was done
to save the life that fleeting breath told was fast ebbing
away. There was not a continued loss of blood, but
with a perforated frame, the creature of nature could
not exist, and it was evident he was fast nearing the end.
The dawn of early morning found the faithful watchers
yet at the bedside, and the rising sun peeped into the room
and shed a glow about the sick room, appearing to light
the way for the soul which was soon to wing its flight
to realms beyond. The circle about the couch enlarged,
children of the wounded man gathering about their weeping
mother, his sister and other relatives coming to watch
and wait. During the early hours of the morning and
until the forenoon was advanced, friends paced the lobby
of the Pacific hoping every moment for a report that the
patient was better. Each minute passed as an hour, and
the hours seemed as long drawn out days. Each report
from the sick room was "no change."
At noon it became evident that but a short time
remained. A. C. Riddle sat upon one side of the couch
and Richard Selman at the other, the first rubbing the
injured portion of the wounded right arm, while the other
moistened the parched lips with constant applications of
cold water. By Mr. Riddle sat the weeping wife, soon
to be a widow, and about the apartment were gathered
the children. The last hour of the citizen was one which
will never be forgotten by those who watched his last
moments. Labored was the breathing and every breath
was a gasp and a groan. His children stood by the couch
and saw the pain-racked form, and his wife held his hand
and prayed to the God of all people to spare him to her
for a longer time. Prayers were of no avail and tears
did not soothe the pain. He was in agony, and
accompanied with that agony was a desire to say something.
He relapsed into slumber at times and would at intervals
awake. His eyes would roll about the gathered friends
and relatives, and an unintelligible sound would escape.
There seemed to be no control of the tongue except at
times he could utter the words, "Wife" and "Molly."
The silence in the sick room was disturbed by the gasp
of the dying man and the weeping of his family.
The hour of 2 o'clock came and the breath was shorter
and harder. Little Nellie, 2 years of age, was brought
to the bedside, and looking at her father in childish
innocence smiled, and cried, "Mama, is that my papa?"
Did papa hear those words? It is to be hoped he did.
They rung out loud within the quiet room, the walls caught
them and echoed the music of the child's voice, and
probably that music joined the music of the great beyond,
where the soul was soon to be. If the ear of the dying
man, who gave every indication of consciousness, caught
the words of his baby, his death was made happy, even with
the pain that racked his wounded form. He saw the
anguish of the wife and children, it was to comfort them
with a last word that he sought to speak the last word
that he could not utter. At 2.20 it was seen that death
was upon him, and the rapid gasp for breath plunged the
entire family into violent weeping. Mrs. Davis had
controlled herself as best she could. The long hours were
spent in a labored effort to hold back the anguish of her
bleeding heart, but when she saw her husband in the last
moments of death she could control herself no longer.
Death came at 2.30 o'clock.
The dissolution of Tom E. Davis was known upon the
streets within a few minutes and the regret of the people
was freely expressed.
Tom E. Davis was 42 years of age. He was born
in Waco and was the son of Judge James F. Davis, a
pioneer settler of Waco. Tribune readers who have lived
here twenty years or more will remember Judge Davis.
From 1876 to 1878 he was one of the two justices of the
peace in Waco. He has followed the life of a railroad
man for many years, but finally gave it up to locate in
his native city. He has been engaged in the real estate
business recently. He was well thought of in this city,
had many friends, was a man of genial, jovial nature,
and was a good citizen. His death is mourned by a large
number. Surviving him is his wife and six children,
James F., Flossie, Mattie, Lillian, Margery and Nellie,
the eldest being sixteen and the youngest two years old.
In addition to those mentioned, who were at the death-
bed, was his sister, Mrs. Margaret Allen.
Saturday afternoon Drs. J. C. J. King, Frank Ross,
A. M. Curtis and N. A. Olive made an examination of
the wounds of T. E. Davis. Justice W. H. Davis had,
viewed the body and the examination was made at the
request of Sheriff John W. Baker. They could trace
four bullets as having struck Mr. Davis. While there
were a number of wounds, the surgeons found that the
same bullet made more than one or two holes. Two were
found to have struck in the left shoulder about the same
place. One of these came out at the back and the other
passed around the chest wall and lodged near the spine
near the waist. One went externally in the chest and
came out of the arm-pit, and another made a flesh wound
in the arm.