When the Town was Shot Up

Written by Mrs. Sarah Gilbert, July 1937 

Early one evening in 1882 a queer silence fell over our small world (Benkelman and surrounding territory). It was about the time of year for the beef round up. The grape vine telegraph must have carried a message. There was a sinister sound about some stray words that we could hear now and then, such as "Outlaws and Officers." Cowmen rode into town with much champing of bits and jangling of spurs. It was not a local feeling or a friendly feeling. Customers faded out of the stores. The stores closed early. People went home to supper early and stayed at home. Once in a while we would hear a shot fired. But no one thought anything of that. Shots were an everyday occurrence. Dusk came, then darkness. Still there was that brooding silence with a shot now and then as if someone were firing at a target or as if it were a signal. We put the children to bed without the usual visiting from house to house and also without light. Soon the lights at Scotts hotel blinked out. There was only one light left in town and that was over the platform at the depot. 

Sherman had a name for war, and just then it broke loose in every direction. Dust and dirt rattled down from the roof edges of the sod houses at every shot. These were the first warnings for everyone to keep under cover. There would be a flash and then the sharp report. The firing of a forty-four at close range was no joke on a dark night. Our neighbors the Drabings who were living in one room of the house where we lived were away at the time. Sometimes one or more persons would gallop past our house. Once someone pounded on the door with a gun and a man's voice called guardedly "Is Mac there?" Mac was not so we did not answer. It seemed as if the morning would never come. Sometimes the firing would be farther away then again it would be nearer. Toward morning there came a lull, then came a regular fusillade of shots. Then the shots died out entirely. 

The newly named town had gone through another experience. It had been "shot up" and thoroughly done. Probably some long drawn out feuds were settled that night. The calm morning was just as peaceful and beautiful as autumn skies can be over Nebraska. The shimmering air just as fragrant as ever. Workers greeted their neighbors with such remarks as "I heard some shooting last night." And the neighbor would answer guardedly, "Pretty hot around here at one time." When we hung out the washing our next door neighbor asked, "Were you afraid last night?" I replied, "Yes, but we had heard of such things." Curiosity was not a part of our life. We knew well that it did not pay. We thought we knew everyone. But did we? Perhaps not. It was just better to keep still. We never did know what it was all about.