FORWARD
Ever since Tom Brown, Sr., and I wrote the book Three Ranches
West I have wanted to produce another book. This time, however, it was my intent
to recall the not too long ago times, both good and bad and "tell it like it was."
Most everyone can recall the hard times of the twenties and thirties and those are the times
I tried to picture in For Old Times Sake. Most
of the stories are about family experiences – events that really happened to me for to my family. Some of those
stories are of a humorous nature, while some are more serious. In any event it is my sincere desire that when you,
my friends over the Southwest, read For Old Times Sake,
you will either laugh or cry, for this is what any good account of old times will do for one.
If you are in search of something of high literary quality, you may be disappointed in For Old Times Sake. However, because it is plain spoken in simple
Old West flavor, you might be able to say, "that's just the way it was when I was growin' up."
Therefore, if you want greeting which tells of real experiences which your parents and mine
had during the homestead days, depression years, and during flood and drought, I think you will not be disappointed
when you read about the way it used to be in For Old Times Sake.
In writing this collection of stories I was reminded many times of my own father and mother
as they struggled to eke out a living, first, on our claim at Corona, later at the old Pat Garrett placed east
of Roswell, and still later as we moved up and down the Hondo Valley when my father cowboyed for George Clements,
the Circle Diamond, Diamond A, and others.
My dad is gone now and Mother has joined him; there are others however, whom a I think about,
those who have seen the transition occur from a horse and buggy and Model T Ford, to Dr. Robert Goddard and his
space-age rocket. Yes, folks like Mae Corn Marley, Zeb Chewning, William Gallacher, Charlie Walker, Olive Miller,
Ida Hinkle, Fred Graves, and his wife and many many others – they are the ones to whom in this book should be dedicated.
They, and others like them are the ones that made this own land of Nuevo Mejico a good place to live. They are the ones who made the real history of this country. And to them
– and to all those old-timers out there who like to remember the "good old days" and perhaps try to forget
(but cannot) the not-so-good times – we dedicate this little collection of stories.
In passing, we say to all you old pioneers: May God give you many more years of good life along
with those pleasant memories, for without you and the experiences you have lived there would be little history,
and certainly there would be nothing of consequence to write. Adios old-timers – and good reading!
PREFACE
History is made by people who react to the experiences and conditions of the times. Historians
record an interpret those experiences in relationship to a larger interest.
Some other purposes in writing or to entertain, but a most important purpose is to create a
feeling of the times in which events occur. This is what Clarence Adams has done in these short stories. They are
stories of the daily events in the lives of individuals who lived during the "growing up" years of this
old valley, and they give us a sense of the happiness that people enjoyed as the family – as well as the sadness
they endured, and all the friends to sustain them. One can actually feel the poverty of those times – as judged
by our standards today. Yet the happiness of the simple life of that day stands out so vividly that it leaves the
very picture in one's mind, and he knows that "this is the way it really happened."
Clarence Adams is a storyteller. He has the feel of the times in which you lived. His ability
to create the drama that in reality took place, all of which brings to life for us today the scenes of the times
in which they occurred. His stories are not of the earth-shaking events of the powerful, but of the ordinary people
– people who braved the hardships of the Great Depression and the awful droughts of the 1930's and today can look
back on those days and identify with those events.
Many of you can recall with pleasure such events that took place in your own lives, and some
you'll remember was sadness. Many of the younger generation will be able to get a better understanding of the social
forces that gave strength to our forefathers by reading the stories of gone by days.
This era which Clarence writes about perhaps spans only half a century – the forty or fifty
year period – from the days of the horse and the oxen-drawn carriages, to this space age which occurred during
the lives of many who are living today. For example, it was forty years between the time Roswell got its first
railroad and the era in which Dr. Goddard experimented with his rockets here in the Pecos Valley that launched
the world into the space age.
Today as we are faced with serious shortages of energy, we must face the fact that we may be
denied many of the pleasures and conveniences that those various forms of energy provide. However, we can always
reflect back on those glorious old-time experiences – cow-chip days and Model T Fords – and Dr. Goddard's rockets.
Needless to say, we just don't have to have those various forms of energy to go back in our minds through the pages
of this book to relive the "good old days."
Morgan Nelson
THE SAGA OF THE SILVER MOUNTAIN SPURS
In June, 1924, a small caravan containing my family left Vaughn, New
Mexico for Roswell. My grandmother, Martha Elizabeth (Lynn) Adams had previously bought what was known then as
the old Patrick Floyd Garrett place about 5 miles east of Roswell, on the Hagerman Canal, and we were moving to
it.
The caravan consisted of my Uncle Charlie and his family in a Model T Ford, my mother, Alice
(Jenkins) Adams, and another Model T with my seven year old sister Leota, my one year old brother, Jerrald Barrett
(J.B.), and four year old me. My father drove the team hitched to a wagon, loaded with our household goods while
one of our neighbor's teenage sons, Jose, rode
horseback and drove the livestock.
It took all day for us who were in the autos to make the one hundred mile trip across rocky
hills and through miles of sand-filled routes which served as the Vaughn to Roswell highway in 1924. Papa and Jose
arrived at our new home three days later.
Shortly after we had settled down on the Pat Garrett place, my parents began to see the futility
of farming the place as there were many problems involved. We already knew that Uncle Charlie had tried to persuade
my grandmother not to buy the place, where she had paid $2,500 as a down payment and had traded her claim at Corona
along with it. The payments on the place were to be $1,000 a year, payments which we soon found out would be impossible
to meet; therefore, my Uncle Charlie and family moved, knowing that not even one family could make a livelihood
on the place, much less too.
The place had once been a real paradise as there had been beautiful screams along the creek
that ran behind our house, and the wellhead once produced the best kind of water.
However, as farmers over the region had increased demands on the underground water basin, many
of them putting pumps on their wells, and since our wells were on the fringe of the underground salt water basin,
our farm began to feel the results almost immediately after we took over the place. We found out right away that
cotton would not live after being irrigated with saltwater.
It was almost sickening during the years 1924-'25-'26 to watch the once beautiful apple and
pear orchards die out because of lack of water. But died they did and with their going went my parents' hopes for
a "beautiful permanent home" in the Pecos Valley.
Not all was bad during our stay along the canal, however. We had the best neighbors that new
settlers in the valley could ask for. Living about a half mile or so to the west of us lived the Henry Chewning
family with their children; Jimmie Louise, Ruth, Henry, Jr., Marjorie, Virginia, Charlie and Bobby. (Bob is now
a prominent Roswell businessman, operating Chewning's Footwear at 107 West McGaffey). (Virginia is a Roswell city
council woman). (Charles owns 3C Meat Corporation). (Ruth lives in California).
In addition, about a mile southeast of our place lived our other neighbors, the Fitzgerald family;
Percy, Ruth and their mother, Gladys. Living at the Pat Garrett farm shortly before we arrived there are, the Fitzgerald
family moved on down to the adjoining farm where they have lived for almost sixty years. (Percy and Ruth Fitzgerald
both passed away during 1980. Mrs. Fitzgerald has been dead for many years.)
While working on the farm, my father had many disappointing experiences. Of course there were
some happy times, but the farm itself, which had been sold to my grandmother "sight unseen" and had been
badly misrepresented, was a complete disaster. As an example, Papa made only one bale of cotton the second year
there and sold a few bushels of pears and apples. However, not nearly enough money was realized to make even a
partial payment on the place.
We had several cows at the farm and my parents sold milk to bring in some extra money. They
also picked cotton for neighbors back in the "good" irrigation area to make enough money to buy food.
I recall that my grandmother finally came to the farm and she was the "babysitter"
for my brother and me, as Mama and Papa worked in the field almost daily. When they came in late in the evening,
all of us accept grandmother would go out behind the house to the canal and have evening bath, which was very refreshing.
During the summer of 1925 my Aunt Beckie, along with her brother and sister, my Uncle Alvin
and Aunt Luna, came to visit us from Oklahoma. Although times were hard and money was hard to come by, we had good
times picnicking along the beautiful Berrendo and Hondo and sight-seeing in the magnificent Lovers Lane, Bottomless
Lakes, and other areas of scenic interest near our home.
However, the time arrived when my grandmother could not make the payments on the farm and we
were forced to move into town. Not for long however, as Papa came in one day and said he had a job "punchin'
cows" at the huge Diamond A Ranch. Before we move to the ranch though, he came home and informed us that he
had already had another job – better than the thirty a month he was going to make at the Diamond A. He was going
to work for the Titsworth Ranch up the Hondo Valley at Tinnie, and we were to move immediately. "A fellow
is coming in a truck to move us," he said. "We've already got the house to live in. We'll move into one
side of the Ed Nelson house."
So to Tinnie we moved, a serene little mountain hamlet, about which I'll have much to say in
other parts of this book. However, an incident occurred at Tinnie which almost cost my father his life.
The foreman of the Titsworth outfit, Elmer Kinney, was a prominent and very capable ranch manager.
It soon became apparent that he thought highly of my father, and Papa like the manager very much. In fact Papa
had an extra pair of spurs, star rowelled and silver mounted – spurs that he'd brought with him from Texas more
than a decade before. Since he had two pairs of good spurs, and didn't really need but one pair, and Elmer Kinney
didn't own any spurs at all, Papa told my mother that he thought perhaps he ought to give Mister Kinney a pair
of his – the silver mounted ones. So my parents talked it over and soon reach a decision. Mister Kenny would get
the spurs.
Elmer Kinney showed his gratitude by helping my family in every way possible. He even provided
a place in the apple shed for a Mama to work, which of course brought in more money for the family – money which
we never seem to have enough of.
Things went well at the Titsworth Ranch until one day Papa came to the house with some startling
news. "Someone has been stealing cowpunchin' tack out of the barn," he said. "What's worse, Mister
Kinney says someone stole his spurs – the spurs I gave him!"
This bit of news seemed to cause my father considerable concern as he thought possibly Kinney
might have suspected that he wanted the spurs back, or perhaps Papa knew who took them.
"I know who stole the spurs," Papa told us. "But I can't prove it. If I tell Kinney and he goes
after the man, it might cause a fight. But I'm sure that Juan Ignacio was the hombre who took the spurs! He stole 'em and took off for rugged country south of here. Now, I don't know
whether I should tell Kinney or not since I can't prove anything."
Things began to change at the ranch after that. Elmer Kinney left the Hondo Valley, and Papa
went to work for George Clements, a rancher who ran a big sheep outfit south of the Hondo Valley. Coyotes had been
a big problem for George Clements, Roy Treat, and other ranchers in the foothill country, and Papa was hired to
try and rid the pastures of coyotes. This change of course meant that we would have to move again. So we moved
into a little two room house half mile down the road that belonged to Loren Counts.
Ranch work was to Papa's liking, and he loved to hunt coyotes. He always had two or three fast
greyhounds and maybe a flop-eared trail hound or two. So when a rancher ran across a sheep killing coyote, (never
heard of a coyote that wouldn't kill sheep) he would get "Shorty" Adams to go after it.
In recalling those days of the 1920's, Lloyd Treat of Roswell, son of the old-timer, Roy, who
passed away in December 1979, said that he and his brothers, Bill and Tug, all teenagers at the time, often went
with Papa on his coyote chases. "We always had a few hounds around," Lloyd recalled, "and we would
put ours in with Shorty's and we would really have a chase. That Shorty Adams was one fine fellow!"
Papa had been on the job for several weeks, camping wherever his work took him, but about every
two weeks he would spend the weekend at home. As a youngster, I would spend most of Saturday afternoon looking
south across the hills as far as I could see, trying to spot my father riding home to spend a day or two with us.
Usually I was not disappointed, for sometime between noon and dark he would appear – a speck in the distance at
first, but my childish intuition would tell me "Papa's comin' home," and I would be the first of the
three youngsters in my family to rush in and make the announcement.
We didn't worry if Papa didn't come home for week, or maybe two. A one time when he hadn't come
home in about three weeks, Mama began to worry. She went to the neighbors around Tinnie and Picacho inquiring,
asking ranchers who came to the valley to pick up their mail or purchase supplies, if they had seen my father.
But no one had seen Papa or could tell her on his whereabouts.
Then one day a man rode into Tinnie and told of having seen "Shorty," and what he
said didn't sound good. "Shorty had a little trouble," he related." He ran into Juan Ignacio out
there and the fellow had some bad words for Shorty, threatened to kill him. Said Shorty had told Kinney that he
stole Kinney's spurs. I reckon it was a stand-off, but think Shorty should have shown up before now."
Of course this news caused Mama no end of worry, and when Papa didn't show up by Saturday, she
decided to do something about it.
My Uncle Charlie ran a garage in San Patricio, and Mama sent for him to come down to Tinnie
to see if he could take her, and they'd go out and try to find Papa, or at least try to contact someone who knew
of his whereabouts.
Uncle Charlie had a Model "T", but it was doubtful as to whether it would take him
and Mama into the back country where Papa was supposed to be working since it was the roughest kind of foothill
territory. Charlie decided to try anyway, and the two set out, stopping at sheepherders' camps and line shacks
along the way, asking about my father. However, every where they stopped the answer was the same. "Yes, we
saw Shorty several days ago. He talked about some trouble he'd had with Juan Ignacio. Said Ignacio threatened him.
Shorty said that he might have to kill Ignacio in self defense."
Of course, all this upset my mother very much. She didn't know what to do. Finally, after getting
stuck in several mud holes but covering every area where the Model T could go, there was nothing to do but to go
home and wait and pray.
So very concerned and almost sick with worry, she and Uncle Charlie made their way back toward
the Hondo, stopping again at sheep camps and talking to ranch hands they saw along the way.
Finally, they saw a sheepherder's camp in the distance – one they had not visited before. As
a last effort, they decided to look up the herder and question him.
It paid off. The Mexican herder was quick to reply with a big grin. "Si, me see Shorty yesterday," he told them. "He mucho bueno – that Shorty. He have trouble but he make it alright."
The herder then told Mama that my father was on his way to another camp to rid a pasture over
near the Roy Treat outfit of a sheep-killing coyote. "He come home muy pronto," he assured Mama.
So Uncle Charlie and Mama, feeling much better now that they heard the good news, made their
way back to Tinnie.
Saturday afternoon came. I had been watching the trail to the south across the river, hoping
to see my father soon appear on the skyline, but as it grew later I wondered if maybe he'd had another delay –
or what if the man who had talked about killing Papa had carried out his threat?
But no, I thought. My Papa could take care of himself. He'd come through in good shape and he'd
be home soon for sure.
Then I saw it – the tiny speck in the distance, and it was moving! It was coming toward us –
toward home. In a few minutes Papa came riding into the yard, looking tired from his long ride, but the big grin
on his face told us that he was glad to be home.
Tears of joy filled my mother's eyes as we all gathered around Papa, giving him a real homecoming
welcome; and, of course, we could hardly wait for him to tell us about his "trouble". So when he had
shaved, eaten and rested a bit, and after I had unsaddled his horse, watered and fed him, Papa told us how Ignacio
had followed him for several days and they had finally met and they had a few words, and the man accused Papa of
double-crossing him. "He said I told Kinney he stole the boss' spurs," Papa said. "He said he might
have to kill me." And he told us about their next confrontation.
"I wasn't about to turn tail and run from old Juan," Papa said. "I was hoping
that we'd not meet up again. I thought maybe he'd ride on out of the country. I saw him though a few days later,
and he pulled a gun on me, said he was gonna' kill me. I knocked him out of the saddle and threw his six shooter
away. Then I pulled my Winchester out of my saddle boot, and 'threw down' on him. I told him to get on his horse
and get out of there, and I never wanted to see him again; but, if I did, I would shoot first and ask questions
later."
So there it was. We'd heard the story how Papa had called gent's bluff, and he had won. What
was important now was that he was home. How glad we were to be together again! The fact that Papa would have to
go back out there again in a few days was not important now. It was the way of the West. You lived for today, for
each day had enough problems without worrying about the next one. Besides, my Papa could take
care of whatever trouble might come up. He was that kind of man.
Author's Note: My father never saw Juan Ignacio
(fictitious name) again until about 10 years later when they met on the sidewalk in Roswell. Father said that Ignacio
either did not recognize him; or, if he did, he deliberately turned his head. There was no confrontation.
CHARLEY SIRINGO - OLD-TIME COWBOY
On August 8, 1920, a mustached cowboy, wearing high-topped boots depicting
a Texas origin, stepped out of his buckboard at a homesteader's shack near Corona, just over the Lincoln line in
Torrance County, New Mexico.
The man, who was slight of build, but wiry in construction, with legs bowed from many years
he had spent on the "Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony," was Charley Siringo, cowboy detective, cowpuncher,
old-timer western writer and former Pinkerton agent.
As the man walked into the nester's front yard, he met my father, Johnny Adams, and told him
that he was Charlie Siringo and was out looking around, trying to get some information for a book he was putting
together – the book which he an called Riata and Spurs,
and one which would give much of the life of a young desperado named William Bonney, who had been a part of the
Lincoln County scene for forty years before.
Papa felt a little bad about asking Siringo in, because my family didn't have much, being homesteaders
and no regular money coming in. Besides, the new son had been born to the young Adams couple the day before. "We
haven't even given him a name yet." Papa told Siringo.
Although I was only a day old when Charley Siringo came to our claim that day, the event marked
the beginning of a friendship between him and my family that was to last until Siringo's death in 1928.
Siringo must have liked me right off, for he suggested to my folks that he had never had a human named after him
before; he'd had a few cows, horses and jackasses named after him but never a child. So would they please give
the baby the middle name "Siringo". So my parents honored his request.
I was a real short-timer when Siringo came to our place in 1920 – of course I know little about
the event except what mama and Papa have related throughout the many years — but since they had learned to love
and admire Charley Siringo, he was often a topic for sincere discussion. I recall that we received letters from
him after we moved to Roswell and settled on the Pat Garrett place east of town, a place which even today holds
much history and intrigue.
After Siringo had heard that we had left Corona and were on the Garrett place, he visited Roswell
and renewed his acquaintance with his many friends there, often staying for several days with the Coe family on
the Ruidoso as he came through.
During one of his trips to Roswell, Siringo told about the time he had visited Pat Garrett when
that former sheriff had lived in the Pecos Valley. He related that Ash Upson, another old-time Roswell and Hondo
Valley man had also lived on the Garrett place back in 1882.
According to Charley, he had arrived at the Garrett farm just as Upson was getting ready to
leave in the buggy and rode with Upson, and the two of them spent Christmas Day with the Jones family in a wild
settlement down the valley known as Seven Rivers.
A favorite story that Siringo was fond of telling happened in 1916 when he was working as a
cattle detective. As he recalled the event, Charley said that he had accepted an assignment given to him by Governor
William C. McDonald, New Mexico's first state governor, to go to the north side of the Capitan Mountains to a settlement
called Encinoso to do a little detective work. It seemed that some of the native villagers had been eating too
much of the big Block Cattle Company's fat beef. Since the governor was part owner of the big ranch, he was more
than willing to send out a man to put a stop to the rustling.
After riding to Carrizozo to get some assistance from the Lincoln County sheriff's office, but
failing, Siringo road on alone to Encinoso. Here it took him only minutes to see that the local people were not
willing to cooperate; and, when his dog, Jumbo, found some "hot" beef hides hanging on a corral fence
and a side of beef in the barn, Siringo had no choice but to try to make an arrest and take his men to Carrizozo
to jail.
But the Encinoso townspeople had other ideas. As Charley was making plans to arrest his man,
he noticed that some of the people had gathered and we're coming toward him – and they have a rope!
They were planning to hang him! It was then that Charley pulled out his old "trusty" Colt .45 and said
that he'd "blow out the brains of the first one who made a move."
In relating that account, Siringo told my father that he knew he couldn't make an arrest by
himself. "I backed out of there and went back to Carrizozo and got some help," he said. "But we
did go back and we did get our man, although he didn't stop the locals from eatin' Block beef."
Siringo said that he often had to go on unpleasant assignments. "Those people around Spindle,
Encinoso and Arabela had to live. Beef was handy. That and the chilies and frijoles they raised, along with their venison jerky, was their source of food. They had to eat – and they
ate what was at hand."
Siringo often mention many of the old timers of Lincoln County such as Truman Spencer of the
big Block Cow outfit, the Bonnell's and Coe's of Glencoe, and others along the way. Charley would stop at Bert
Bonnell's place every time he came down the valley, sometimes staying for a day or two. He often commented that
"Bert had married one of Frank Coe's pretty daughters, and she was a grand musician who really knew how to
make a visitor feel at home."
Siringo said that those Coe brothers, Frank and George, were in a lot of gunfights during the
Lincoln County troubles, but they manage to come through to live out useful lives in the valley of the Ruidoso.
My family received a letter from Charley Siringo in 1924. It was addressed to me – "to
my namesake –" but Mama had to read it to me. Charley was in Hollywood at the time – was a technical advisor
for William Hart, a producer of western movies. He sent a picture of himself and Hart along with his horse, taken
from a scene in "Tumblin' Tumbleweeds," a movie in which he had a part.
Siringo died in 1928, and with his passing New Mexico lost one of the great old-time real drover
cowboys, and the man who wrote about the cowboy's life as he really lived it. He wrote – not in literary fashion
– but as he, and all the other cowboys of his day lived and talk.
Not long before Charley died, he talked about his past and thought about what lay ahead. One
of his last request was that a poem by Badger Clark, Jr., be carved on his gravestone – the poem that reads:
'Twas good to live when all the range
Without no fence or fuss,
Belonged in partnership with God
The government and us.
With skyline bounds from east to west,
With room to going come,
I like my film and the best
When he was scattered some.
When my old soul hunts range and rest
Beyond the last divide,
Just let me on some strip of West,
That's sunny, lone and wide.
Let cattle run my headstone round.
And coyotes wail their kin,
Let horses come and paw the mound,
But don't you fenced it in.
A HONDO VALLEY INCIDENT
Every time I pass the familiar, but colorful, red and white residence south of the highway,
just west going out of Tinnie, I can't help but recall the 1920's when Ed and Nina Nelson lived there.
Old time ranchers, the Nelsons were great people, hospitable to such an extent that they offered
half of their house to my family to live in while Papa worked at the Titsworth Ranch.
My father had taken a job with the Titsworth Company, and no vacant houses were available in
Tinnie at the time, so the Nelson's offer came at the appropriate time.
One particular incident which stands out in my mind that occurred one fall day will linger with
me a long time. Alcoholic beverages were not easy to come by during those days of prohibition. However, there was
always a little "bootleg stuff" available if one knew when and where to look. My Uncle Charlie, who ran
a small garage in San Patricio, and a man by the name of John Backeus, were close friends – drinking buddies.
On this particular day the two had found someone's sour mash barrel where they had imbibed quite
freely. After some time of over-indulgence they climbed into a Model "T" Ford strip-down and started
up the rough gravel road toward Hondo.
It was milking time that the Nelson place, and Mama and I were out in the cowpen doing the chores.
She was milking and I was holding off the calf until she got through. Then I would turn the calf loose to "strip"
the mama cow.
All of a sudden I heard a couple of loud "whoops" down the road and here came Uncle
Charlie and John Backeus in the old Model "T" going every bit of 30 miles an hour over a gravel road
– too fast for the sharp curve coming up.
I knew that the curve on the road was often difficult for even a sober driver to negotiate,
and as soon as I saw Uncle Charlie coming, I knew the old fliver would never make it.
Sure enough, the Ford went into a skid and for a few seconds slid from one side of the road
to the other. But Uncle Charlie couldn't straighten it up and over it went, rolling on top of both the men.
Knowing immediately of what had happened, Mama screamed for my father, and I yelled, causing
pandemonium in the corral. The cow kicked over the milk bucket, and before I realized it the calf had jerked loose
and was prematurely "stripping" its mammy.
Papa appeared from somewhere before the dust had settled, and before we could get up on the
roadway he had reached the old fliver and was trying to lift it up off of Uncle Charlie and Backeus. He yelled
for us to help him, which we did, soon lifting the car back on its wheels. Fortunately, other than bruises and
scratches, neither of the men was hurt. Perhaps there is some truth and what Papa said afterward: "I reckon
it would've killed 'em both if they had been sober."
But back to the Nelson's. They were the kind of people who were loved by everyone over the community,
and after many years in the ranching business they retired. Nina, after the death of her husband, move to Roswell,
where as many people will remember, she was brutally murdered a few years ago.
Ed and Nina Nelson will not soon be forgotten by their Hondo Valley friends and neighbors. Their
many acquaintances up and down the river will never forget the Nelson's hospitality, the hospitality which is typical
of the Hondo Valley natives, and as so many of the old timers have stated, "it was people like Ed and Nina
who helped to make this country what it is today. We're proud to have known them."
Although my family lived in Tinnie for only about a year, and Nelsons will long live in my memories.
I too am proud to say, if "it was good to have known Ed and Nina Nelson."
MY LITTLE WHITE LIES
There are always a few incidents which stand out in a person's mind and perhaps even become
more vivid as the years go by.
My lived family lived in Tinnie in 1926 when my father worked for the Titsworth Company as a
general ranch hand, and I began my school career in the first grade at the Tinnie school.
The school was crowded that fall and Mrs. Todd Browning had all she could handle with all the
grades in one room but she eventually found another teacher, Miss Tinnie Ramond, to take over the first and second
grades.
However, before the first graders went over to the other room something happened that I'll always
remember.
I was brought up in a strict home. My mother felt that telling even the whitest of white lies
was bad – awful. But one day I was caught in a situation that almost got me into a peck of trouble with my conscience.
As I stated, the room was full of bustling whispering children – first graders on up to the
sixth (seventh grade and above went to Hondo).
Mrs. Browning allowed a certain amount of this bustling and whispering and no more; she didn't
put up with much nonsense.
I don't know what made me do it. Maybe I thought I was calling my dog, (I was too young to whistle
at the girls) but suddenly without thinking, I whistled – a loud shrill whistle. I'd never been able to learn how
to whistle very well as hard as I had often tried but it worked this time, and it was shrill – too shrill!
"Who did that?" was the question I came fourth from Mrs. Browning immediately. She
was looking over the entire room and I could almost feel her eyes burning through me. Again she called out, "who
made that loud whistling noise?"
No one said a thing. Deep down I knew that I should raise my hand and admit that I had whistled
– and take my punishment. I had already seen that big old long paddle Mrs. Browning kept in her desk and I just
knew that if I owned up to the whistling thing, I'd get a real dose of that paddle.
I knew what that meant too. Papa had already laid down the law to me. "If you ever get
a whippin' at school, and that's if you get it for fightin'. I mean fightin' to take up for yourself."
Well, I sure hadn't been fightin'. I was just plain ornery. I whistled and now I wasn't man
enough to own up to it. I just buried my head in my Dick and Jane book – or whatever book beginning first graders
started out with in 1926.
But the thing kept nagging at me. Mama had often told me that if I told a lie my conscience
would really work on me. Well, I figured it was really startin' to get my goat already. But what the heck! The
teacher had gone back to whatever she had been doing. She probably had forgotten about the episode by now. All
I had to do was just forget about the whole thing myself.
But I couldn't forget it. The more the bad voice told me to let it blow over – forget about
it, the more another little voice kept sayin' "You told a lie – and it was wrong! You'd better own up to it
while you have the chance."
"But I'll get a whippin', and I'm only a first grader – just startin' out," I kept
rationalizing. "Besides I'll get busted at home. Papa will whip me with a razor strop!"
It didn't get better. In fact it got worse. The more I fought, the more my conscience – or whatever
it was that kept houndin' me – fought.
Finally I could take it no more. I was near tears, but I had made up my mind not to bawl. "I
don't care if I do get a lickin', I said to myself. " I'm going up there, tell her I did it and take my whippin'
like I ought to; and if Papa wants to strop me, I can take that too." Anything to get that conscience thing
off my back.
I didn't quite know how to do it, but I figured that whoever it was that kept houndin' me would
stick by me and get me over the hump.
So I very sheepishly made my way up the aisle to Mrs. Browning's desk, where she was very busy.
"She's too busy to listen to you," something whispered. "Besides it's really not that bad."
I kinda held back, almost turning around and going back to my seat. "But you told a lie!" the other voice
said. "And that's awful. Your Mama and Papa will be hurt if they know about it and if you don't square in
up."
"Yeah, and you'll get a whippin' if you do!" the loud mouth kept hollerin'. But before
I could realize it I was standin' beside Mrs. Browning's desk waitin' for her to look up."
She didn't look mean – like a lot of teachers I have since known. In fact I couldn't see how
a kindly lookin' person like Mrs. Browning could beat on a little six-year-old like me. Then I thought again. What
I had done was so mean that I just knew I'd have to be punished.
"What do you need, young man?" Mrs. Browning's voice immediately put a stop to all
those other voices that had been telling me what to do.
"I want to tell you somethin'," I told her, almost in a whisper. I looked around.
Surely all the other kids were watchin', maybe laughin' at me.
But I had come this far. There's no backin' out now, I thought. I cupped my hand around Mrs.
Browning's ear and whispered, "I done it, teacher, I done that whistlin' while ago," I told a fib – and
I'm sorry!"
There: I had done it. I was free. No more naggin' voices, and I was glad. But maybe the worst
was yet to come, and I'd have to take my medicine.
Mrs. Browning opened up her desk drawer – that desk drawer! And she was lookin' at me all the while. I did know whether that was a serious frown
on her face, or could I detect a slight smile in her eyes?
Finally the teacher pushed the drawer shut. For a moment I thought I could see a tear or two
in her eyes. I knew I had some in mime. But I stood there mute – not knowin' what else to say. She turned her head
for a moment and I figured she was thinkin' up a better punishment for me, somethin' that would "fit the crime."
After 'bout a year she turned back toward me, and in not too unkindly a voice she said, "You
did the right thing by telling me, son. Let me think this over and I'll talk to you later."
I quickly walked back to my desk but by that time that big old load I had been carryin' had
disappeared – gone. No more smart aleck voices! But what would she think up for my punishment? Well, I'd made up
my mind that no matter what, I'd take my medicine when she decided to take that paddle to me. Then I'd go home
and tell Papa and then he'd work me over too – but it would all be over and soon forgotten.
Well, I don't know what happened. It's been more than half century since that event took place
in the little schoolhouse in Tinnie. Mrs. Browning never did call me back up – never did talk to me about the incident.
In fact she never mentioned it to me. I reckon – her havin' so much on her mind and bein' over-worked, what with
all those kids in there, she just decided to let it go. But the punishment that I finally received – just waitin'
it out – waitin' to see what she was goin' to do to me was bad enough. That and them naggin' voices, which I was
glad to get shut up after I had straightened up my "little white lie".
And you know what? Ever since that time, I reckon I have been a little more cautious about listenin'
to those voices. I have found out throughout the years that it just doesn't pay to get them to fussin' – tellin'
you what is right and what is wrong, what to do and what not to do. And I reckon it's made a better person out
of me. But it's good to know too, that the voices were still there if I get in a jam, and now and then they remind
me of their existence in one way or another.
THE BRUTAL MURDER OF ROBERT CASEY AND THE GRUESOME HANGING
OF WILLIAM WILSON
One of the first killings to take place at the beginning of the so-called
Lincoln County War was the murder of Robert Casey in August of 1875.
As did most of the early settlers in the Hondo Valley region and the 1860's and '70's, Casey
had developed a close friendship with many people in the valley, and he especially had friends in Lincoln where
he did much of his business.
In Lincoln in 1875, however, one did not have friends without having enemies, you were either
on "one side or the other" – whether you want it that way or not.
Robert Casey really did not want to attend a political convention that was being held in Lincoln
on a Sunday morning. However, he was finally persuaded that he should go at the insistence of a close friend, an
ex-army officer who had settled in Lincoln after mustering out of the service. According to letters and manuscripts
in existence today, the convention had been very controversial with many of those attending throwing bitter accusations
that each other.
When the meeting was over, the Murphy ring, a powerful political force that had closed its tentacles
around a number of "good" citizens of Lincoln, had been out-voted by a large majority. Murphy and one
of his side-kicks, James Dolan, were quite angered by the actions of the convention, and they attributed their
defeat largely to the fact that Robert Casey had thrown his influence against them and had joined sides with opposing
force.
The convention had adjourned around noon and Casey and a man who clerked in his store, Edmond
Welch, started to walk over to the Wortley Hotel to have dinner. As they walked along, a man by the name of William
Wilson joined them and the three proceeded to the restaurant.
When the three had finished eating, Wilson left the party and joined Murphy and Dolan, where,
according to Lily Casey Klasner, Robert Casey's daughter, Wilson was offered $500 to kill Casey, with a promise
that he would not be convicted if he were arrested.
Armed to the teeth by the Murphy-Dolan group at Murphy's store, Wilson was supposedly given
explicit instructions as to where and how to intercept Casey without exposing himself to danger.
Casey began to look for Edmund, as he was to ride back to Picacho with him and he was anxious
to get started home. He walked toward the Murphy store and looked inside. Not seeing Welch he walked east on down
the street, not realizing that Wilson was hiding behind the house close by waiting for him.
It appeared that Wilson was waiting for a sure thing; however, as he did not fire his rifle
until Casey was only fifteen or twenty steps away, and when he did fire, his aim was poor as the bullets struck
Casey in the hip. Not being satisfied however, Wilson stepped out and fired again, this time hitting Casey in the
face, mortally wounding him.
Immediately, the townspeople began to gather. As Casey had many friends, most of the villagers
were infuriated and wanted to lynch Wilson right there on the spot. The law was not to be cheated, however, and
Wilson was taken to Fort Stanton and kept under heavy guard until the court convened in October, at which time
he was sentenced to be hanged on Friday, November, 11, 1875.
Before daybreak on the day appointed, carpenters were at work building the gallows on which
Wilson would meet his fate, and even at that early hour, strangers; men, women, and children, we're coming from
all directions.
Finally at about eleven o'clock the prisoner was brought up in an ambulance accompanied by Captain
Stewart, commander of the post at Ft. Stanton; Dr. Corballo, medical director, and Reverend Lamy of Manzano. Leading
the procession was Company "G", 8th U. S. Calvary, under command of Lieutenant Gilmore. When the army
unit arrived in town, it proceeded to the residence of the sheriff, Saturno Baca, and after the prisoner was arrayed
in his funeral clothes, the procession moved on to the gallows.
Before mounting the platform, Wilson shook hands with several people whom he recognized; then
he mounted the scaffold, seeming to be calm and collected as though he knew the deed would never be carried out.
The escort was drawn up in line facing the gallows, and four men dismounted to keep back the crowd, which by this
time had increased considerably.
While he was on the scaffold, the death warrant was read first in English and then in Spanish,
after which the dying declaration written and signed by Wilson, was read and then translated. The doomed man then
was given an extreme unction. Then for some reason the sheriff declared that the execution would be "stayed
for half an hour."
However, the leading men of the town, spurred to action by pity for the doomed prisoner, vigorously
protested such barbarous proceedings and persuaded the sheriff to go ahead with the execution.
The priest then descended from the scaffold, and the executioner adjusted the black cap; and
the prisoner, with hands tied behind his back and the noose around his neck, awaited the springing of the trapdoor.
The sheriff walk down the steps from the scaffold, and an instant later Wilson's body shot downward
– out of sight, and justice so long outraged, was avenged, and the perpetrator of "one of the foulest murders
which ever disgraced a civilized community" supposedly had paid his debt.
But wait! Let us see what Robert Casey's daughter, Lily, has to say about the "strangest
hanging in Lincoln County." She related that when the day for the hanging arrived, Wilson was brought over
from Fort Stanton under a heavy guard of soldiers. The Murphy gang had already passed the word that "something
might happen" to prevent Wilson's hanging. Wilson supposedly had made the threat that if Murphy did not see
that he got off scot-free, he, Wilson, would tell how Murphy had induced him to carry out the murder of Robert
Casey.
Under heavy Army guard by Captain Fetchet and his troops from Fort Stanton, Wilson was led up
to the scaffold where he was turned over to Sheriff Saturno Baca. On the scaffold beside the sheriff were Father
Lamy of Manzano, and Major Murphy, the powerful leader of the political faction, and a man who had vigorously opposed
Robert Casey at the meeting held back in August. Why he was up there was anyone's guess. It was suspected that
he would attempt in some manner to secure Wilson's release – or be sure he did not have an opportunity to talk.
However, Murphy's general prominence in all matters throughout the region made it rather easy for him to be allowed
on the scaffold – or anywhere else for that matter – although most of Lincoln's "good citizens" who were
present did not trust him.
Just before the trap was sprung to deal Wilson his punishment for his ghastly crime, he was
given an opportunity to say something. He turned to Major Murphy and said bitterly. "Major, you know you're
the cause of all this – and you promised to save me!" Before he could complete a statement, Major Murphy kicked
the trigger which sprung open the trap door. Wilson's body shot down through it and then a few minutes he was pronounced
dead.
Assuming that the ordeal was over, the crowd began to disperse. Wilson's body was placed in
the coffin, but the lid was not screw down tight. A Mexican woman whose curiosity got the best of her, took a peek
under the lid and jumped back screaming. "The dead has come to life!"
This startling news brought everyone running to see. In a few moments it became obvious how
Murphy had plotted to save Wilson. His plan evidently had been to have Wilson taken down before he was dead, placed
into the coffin, and hauled away as though for burial. Then he would be resurrected and sent away to begin life
all over in some new land.
But the crowd was now onto Murphy's plot. They demanded justice. Wilson should be hanged again
– this time until he was dead!
Murphy protested the action. "Wilson had been legally hanged," he said. They could
not execute him a second time. The guilty man had paid the penalty, and Murphy promised that he would back this
up with his armed henchmen.
But Captain Fetchet of the Army would not hear of it. He took all the wind out of Murphy's sale
by stationing his company of soldiers around the scaffold and announcing to the crowd. "I am here to see that
the law is carried out. It will be done, and I propose to keep the peace while justice is served."
While all this was happening, the many friends of Robert Casey had been at work. Another rope
had been brought up and was put around Wilson's neck while he was still in the coffin. It was drawn over the cross-beam
at the top of the scaffold. Then the man pulled on the rope, lifting Wilson's limp but still breathing body out
of the coffin. Finally the body was swinging again. The men held onto the rope with Wilson's
body suspended in the air until everyone was satisfied that he was dead. He was finally taken down and buried,
ending the gruesome, first legal hanging in Lincoln County and completely avenging the brutal murder of Robert
Casey.
PREACHER PRYOR, THE MULE-RIDING EVANGELIST
Author's Note:
Much of the following story was taken from the memoirs of author's mother, Alice Adams; his personal recollections,
and interviews with Nell Carson, daughter of Dick Pryor.
The later part of the story involving Brother Pryor at Spindle, was taken from the manuscript written by Guy Crandall,
old-timer of the Spindle area.
The old-time circuit riding, "hell-fire and brimstone" type of preacher is no more.
Gone are most of the brush arbor types of a revival meetings that were once held in the far away areas by the circuit
riding preachers. Be this for better or for worse, in their place have risen well-organized old-fashioned cowboy
camp meetings that have become so popular to God-fearing folks over the West, that people drive for hundreds of
miles to attend.
Although he may be virtually gone, the old-time evangelist is certainly not forgotten. Nor will
he soon be. His tracks are embedded deep in the rugged trails over the mountains and parades throughout the West.
One of these unique old-time characters was Richard (Dick) Pryor, a God-fearing little man better
known over the New Mexico's south central mountains in the early 1900's as Brother Pryor, the mule-ridin' preacher.
Riding a little mule and carrying a well-worn Bible, Preacher Pryor, a colorful and rugged man,
is still remembered by many old-time settlers of Lincoln County as a man of God who held religious services far
and wide throughout "Billy the Kid Country," in Lincoln County, New Mexico.
In telling about her mule-riding preacher father, Nell Carson of Roswell, New Mexico often recalls
the "old days" of the 1920's and '30's when Dick Pryor would saddle his little mule and make his way
cross-country to the sparsely settled communities in the far reaches of the Sacramento and Capitan Mountains. "He
preached from Spindle on the north side of the Capitan and Arabela on the east, to the Penasco Valley in the Sacramentos,"
Nell said wistfully, in discussing her father's travels.
Dick Pryor was born in Carro, Tennessee, but the Pryor family moved to Childress, Texas early
in his life. However, in 1914 young Pryor moved to Lincoln County, New Mexico, a land that had been beset by murder,
intrigue, cattle rustling, corruption, hangings, and almost every other kind of violence that could be thought
of in the not too distant past. Perhaps it was because the country held this type of background that prompted Dick
Pryor to accept the "call of God" to preach the Gospel to the salvation-hungry settlers of Lincoln County.
Settling in the Arabela community, near Tinnie, New Mexico, Brother Pryor was a "jack-of-all-trades."
"My dad was a unique person," Nell Carson remembers. "He was very independent. He made many of his
own tools that he used on the farm. He even built a Model T Ford by gathering spare parts wherever he could find
them and putting them together."
People over the hill country still remember the grist mill that Dick Pryor made. "Father
ground meal and flour for our family, and sometimes for the neighbors, too," Nell recalls. "He also made
kind of a wheat cereal for us by grinding wheat."
It was while the Pryor family lived at Arabela that Brother Pryor's popularity as a circuit-riding
preacher grew. Sometimes he went to his meetings in a buckboard, and sometimes he rode his little saddle mule.
"When Papa went in the buckboard he would have to harness the mules and hitch them up before he got all dressed
in his Sunday clothes," Nell said. "So he'd wear his overalls. That's the only way the mules would let
him get close to them."
Sometimes Preacher Pryor rode cross-country to his destination. Although the mule was small,
he was strong. For hours he'd carry the Bible-totin' preacher through canyon country and up and down steep hills
to get Brother Pryor to his next speaking service. "When Papa and the mule would come to a fence, Papa would
get off and unsaddle, put the saddle across, then hold the fence up and the little mule would crawl right under
it," Nell recalled. "Then Papa would climb over the fence, saddle up and ride onto his next meetin' place.
That mule performed as though he knew exactly what his job was."
Old Timers over Lincoln County tell many stories about Preacher Pryor. Alice Adams (author's
mother) recalled an incident which took place on Easter Sunday in 1927. The Adams family lived in Tinnie at the
time, and as she "was wont to do", Alice organize a little Sunday school for the benefit of the local
citizens. "We thought it would be nice to have a special outdoor service on Easter Sunday at the old Fritz
Spring up the canyon near Lincoln," Alice said recalling the event.
The Fritz place originally had been the home of Emil Fritz, a German who have settled in the
valley but had gone back to Germany for a visit and had passed away while on the trip. Since the area was in the
very center of where the infamous Lincoln County War had occurred years before, Mrs. Adams thought it would make
the Sunday occasion of greater interest to the people of the valley. "And to make it better, we invited Brother
Pryor to go along and preach for us," she said.
When the Sunday for the occasion arrived, citizens of the community gathered in their Model
T Fords for the seven mile trip to Fritz Spring. That must have been quite a caravan meandering up the Hondo Valley.
However, when the group reached La Junta (Hondo Junction) turn-off to go up the Bonito, the weather grew quite
cold and stormy and it began snowing. "We didn't know what to do except to go on and pray for it to stop,"
Alice said.
But the snow kept coming down. When the Pilgrims reached the Fritz place, it hadn't let up and
the weather was too cold to hold services outside. Someone suggested that they go on to Lincoln where they might
find a place to hold their services.
So it was agreed that the Model T caravan travel on to the old historic hamlet, and trust to
luck to find a deserted building. "Away we went," Mrs. Adams said. "Our caravan of Fords – some
of them without tops – to the town of Billy the Kid fame, our purpose to spread a little religion in hope, in a
place which have seen so much of everything else during the fifty years previous."
Few people were living in Lincoln town in the early 1920's. Violence had taken its toll before
the turn of the century and most of Lincoln's "bad" citizens had left for parts unknown or had met their
fate at the hands of justice, while many of the "good" people had moved to an area of more desirable
repute.
"As I recall, the old courthouse was boarded up since it had not been in use after the
county seat had been changed to Carrizozo," Mrs. Adams said. "But the building was easy to open, and
we soon had wiped off the benches in the old court room upstairs and had a fire going in the old iron stove. It
may have been cold and blustery outside, but it was cozy inside and our hearts were warm."
According to all who attended, Brother Pryor preached one of his "better sermons"
that day. And he had reason to. The blood-splattered walls and the bullet holes in the old adobe building were
grim reminders of the devil's handiwork that have occurred not too many years before. "Of course we all had
eerie feelings at times during Brother Pryor's sermon, because most of us remembered how Billy the
Kid escaped that day years before from this same building, killing his guards, Deputy Bell on the stairs, and Bob
Olinger in the street."
Alice Adams said that in spite of the intrigue and history of the old site, the Easter program
came off well with Brother Pryor putting the "icing on the cake." "When we have finished, the sun
was shining and it was a most beautiful day," she remembered.
Preacher Pryor's fame as a revivalist spread as the years went by. He went wherever "the
Lord sent him" preaching in school houses, brush arbors and tents – admonishing sinners to mend their ways.
His little mule seemed endowed with special strength as he carried the evangelist rider far and wide on his special
mission. Many a grizzled old cowboy, who no doubt have seen some hair-raising, blood-curdlin' times in his younger
years, turned from his ways and "got saved from sin."
Guy Crandall remembers Preacher Pryor too. Guy, an old-time Block Ranch cowboy recalls when
the mule-ridin' preacher would come to the north side of the Capitan Mountains to hold services in the little hamlet
of Spindle. Guy said that Brother Pryor would begin over on the Hondo, somewhere in the Tinnie-Picacho area and
work his way north, making a big circle. "We'd never know when he would come," he said. "But when
he did get there, we'd fix up the schoolhouse with seats and get the word out to the people. Everyone looked forward
to Brother Pryor's visits and I'll never forget the first time I saw him. According to my cousin, Virgie, Brother
Pryor hadn't been there for quite a spell, but she said he was due anytime so we kept an eye out for him to show
up any day."
Crandall said that it was a fact that Brother Pryor, like so many old-time preachers, rode a
mule. "Knowin' how slow the critters traveled, I had my doubts as to the preacher gettin' to our place, but
Virgie assured me that Brother Pryor had the best traveling mule in Lincoln County, and he'd be sure to show up
at Spindle 'one of these days."
According to Guy, it was a warm lazy afternoon one day when a cloud of dust appeared on the
trail east of Spindle. "We all ran to see who was coming," he said. "Anytime anyone came up that
trail it was bound to be a special occasion, and this time was no different. Virgie studied the rider over for
a minute and then flatly announce. "It's Preacher Pryor, I can tell – and he's ridin' the little mule!"
Guy said that everyone at the Spindle store, as well as neighbors who knew that Dick Pryor was arriving, turned
out to greet the preacher. "Virgie and I were given the task of caring for Brother Pryor's mule," he
said. "While we were doing that, someone saddled a horse and with around the community letting everyone know
that the preacher was at Spindle and would hold services in the schoolhouse that night."
Crandall, recalling those old times in the Capitans, said that as usual, upon special occasions,
everyone in his household had to take a bath. "It was my job to chop wood and get a fire started," he
said. "I carried water from the windmill and filled the iron kettles on the stove; then I brought the big
galvanized washtub into the tent where we live at the time. After everything was ready for baths, Grandma chased
me out of the tent so that she and my sisters could bathe first.
"On the way out I heard Grandma yell for me to bring back a bar of soap, so I went to a
huge iron kettle outside where Grandma had made up a batch of soap from hog fat and lye. She had cut it into big
squares, so I dug one out of the plot, took it to the tent and tossed it in."
Guy said he could never understand how his grandmother could use lye are making soap and also
use lye – in the same pot later – for making hominy. "Of course the lye served to loosen the outside husks
from the grains a corn," he said. "Then the corn would be washed over and over until the lye was washed
off and the grains would be ready to be cooked into hominy.
"Finally we were all ready for the church service," Guy said, bringing back that evening
a half century before. "After we had each taken our turn in the 'bath' tub gettin' all soak up and rinsed,
we set out for the school building a short distance away, which had been made ready for Preacher Pryor.
"The soft clinking of wagon wheels and the rattle of trace chains broke the silence of
the still might as the mountain people made their way to the church service," Guy said that by the time he
got there quite a few people had gathered into small groups. "The still light air carried pieces of conversation,
with a few shouts of greeting now and then," he said. "Inside the school building the lantern light gave
a warm glow. At the window I spotted a school boy listening to the conversation of a group of older people as they
discuss the Bible and some of its characters whom they seem to know. A young boy tugged at his father's sleeve
and asked, 'Papa, who is this Jesus Christ they're talkin' 'bout?' The father replied, 'Aw, Son, I reckon he was
just some long-haired sheepherder.'
"Brother Pryor called the people inside. While they were being seeded, he took his place
at the desk and began thumbing through a worn Bible. After the opening prayer, the preacher sternly looked over
his congregation. What he saw seem to cause him to frown in deep concern. Suddenly, he raised his arm, pointed
to the people on the left side and shouted, 'You take back that calf you stoled!' Then he swung his arm to the
right. 'What about that Block beef some of y'all have hanging in the tree behind your house?'
I looked at my Uncle Emmett; he was shifting in his seat uneasily. He acted like he thought
Brother Pryor was pointing right at him. After he had 'laid it on 'em' for an hour or so, Brother Pryor asked are
sinners to come forward to the saved. I figured the whole congregation ought to go up but no one moved except Aunt
Claude, Uncle Henry's wife. She went up the aisle and knelt down. She was claimin' that she and had prayed under
every bush on north side of Capitan Mountain. But I heard a female whisper spitefully. 'She knows that's a lie
because that would just take too much prayin!'
What finally surprise me most though was that Uncle Emmett finally went up and knelt down before
Brother Pryor. I never saw Uncle Emmett like that before. His voice trembled and he acted like he was scared. He
was big and broad-shouldered with a handlebar mustache. I couldn't believe that Uncle Emmett would ever be scared
of anyone or anything.
Brother Pryor put his hand on Uncle Emmett's head and prayed. The moment was a silent one. In
a few minutes Uncle Emmett got up and walk down the aisle – with a look on his face that was most peaceful. Then
I figured that this Jesus Christ must be quite a fellow and really have a lot on the ball.
The next day Brother Pryor went on to another community, not to return to our parts for another
month or maybe two. After the preacher had gone, Uncle Emmett's getting religion was talked about quite a bit around
the community, and he really seemed to be quite a change to man, being in good real spirits.
One morning Uncle Emmett came out of the store whistling as though he didn't have a care in
the world. He walked briskly for the auto machine. As usual, I was always interested in getting to ride in the
auto so tagged along in hopes of hitching a ride with Uncle Emmett.
Starting that machine was quite a procedure. Uncle Emmett checked the oil by turning a valve
underneath somewhere, then he poked a stick in the gas tank to see how much gas there was. There were two levers
underneath the steering wheel; one was the spark the other the gas lever. Uncle Emmett push the spark all the way
up and the gas lever about halfway down. Then he was ready to crank it up. He went to the front end of the car
and pulled the crank a couple of turns in order to prime the motor. He then spun the crank around and around until
the motor sputtered like it was going to start. At that time Uncle Emmett dashed around to the steering wheel and
jerk the spark down. He was too late; the motor died.
Uncle Emmett was not to be discouraged though. He kept going through this required procedure
with the same tragic results until I could see he was getting red-faced and probably quite frustrated. Then he
made a mistake. It was bound to happen sooner or later. The last ride he forgot to push the spark back up. When
he spun the crank, the motor kick back and sprained his wrist causing Uncle Emmett to jump back and shake his arm
and yell like a Comanche. Then words came out of his mouth that should have been associated more with mule skinner
than with a religious man. Everyone in hearing distance ran out to see what the commotion was all about. When they
saw Uncle Emmett wasn't hurt bad, they looked relieved, but everyone knew he had backslid and lost his religion.
It would be months before a man of God would come on a slow-moving mule to administer to Uncle
Emmett's backslid soul; but I'm sure if my uncle had dropped dead right then and when to our Lord for judgment
and the Lord ever had any experience tryin' to start a Model T Ford, surely he would understand and show mercy
on Uncle Emmett's soul and forgive him.
The above incident may seem humorous, as many old-time similar events often had some amazing
aspects. But they were very serious too. The West was harsh as the pioneer settlers attempted to tame it.
The homesteader, the squatter – the big-time cowman – all recognized their need for God's blessings and help as
they tried to seek out a living from the soil and the grass.
And they feel the need today, too. Each summer, the rancher and farmer, as well as this city
folks – young and old – gather in some far retreat to enjoy old-fashioned singing, preaching and a lot of barbecue,
and just plain old-time country fellowship, as they gather from far and wide to attend what is now known as the
cowboy or ranchman's camp meeting. Here they will renew acquaintances with old friends and enjoyed a week of old-time
gospel preaching.
These folks will not be coming by buggy, buckboard, wagon or horseback though, as they did half
century or so ago. They'll be coming in motor homes, some will be pulling trailers, and many of them will drive
their best automobile up each day. But all have one thing in common. They still have the feeling that the land
is too big, its problems too many for them to handle alone, and the Good Lord above knows and understands that.
So here at the camp meetin' they get better acquainted with Him too – going home with a peace of mind and getting
a real assurance that He cares in - He really cares!
OUR HAUNTED HOUSE
In 1931 my family lived on what we called the old Wolf place on the North Berrendo Creek located
up near the old Ku Klux Klan Headquarters about six miles northeast of Roswell.
How well I remember the mystery and intrigue that surrounded the Klan's old place, especially
the lake and a huge cross which was lighted up – I believe it was every Wednesday night.
However, we lived on the Wolf place for about a year. We had about 300 white leghorn hens, thirteen
milk cows, a few hogs, and several saddle horses, and we thought we had the world by the tail. Then one day be
owner told my father that he was selling the place, so it left us with all that livestock and no place to move.
Move we must though. However, it looked hopeless; there was no place to go. Papa had looked
everywhere, and there seem to be nothing available.
Finally, one evening he came home telling us about the place he had found. He had ridden horseback
over all the back country east, between where we live in the Pecos. "It's a big old house 'bout four miles
east of here," Papa said. "Plenty of room. It has an upstairs and there's lots of grass over the prairie
for the cattle."
I remember that Mama look kinda' funny for a minute. She didn't protest though. She knew that
we had to move, and any place Papa found would have to do. So during the next few days my brother and I stayed
home from school, helping to load the wagon and the old Model T. Then Papa drove the team to the wagon with all
our household goods and Mama put my two-year old brother Romey, in the car and drove it, while J.B. and I drove
the cattle and horses across the prairie to the big house.
After moving and getting back to school, it didn't take us long to find out why Mama had looked
so startled when Papa had told her where se were going to move. The kids at school had told already heard – and
they knew more about the sinister-looking old two story house than we did, because the first thing we heard when
we arrive at school was, "Hey guys, how'd you like livin' in a haunted house? Seen any ghosts out there yet?"
This rather upset J.B. and me at first. Our family had never been superstitious. But this! We
boys had heard about the old "Haunted House", but we'd never suspected that this was it. No wonder Mama
and Papa had acted so strangely about our moving out there.
Living in a so-called haunted house didn't change our lives much – except for the sarcastic
remarks we heard now and then from our friends, usually made in fun. However, J.B. and I began to look and listen
for strange sounds at night, and whether in our imagination or whether they really existed, we did hear all sorts of unusual activity.
I don't remember ever being a really scared while we live in the haunted house, although we
heard – or thought we heard, strange noises in the attic above us. At night there were sounds such as the tinkle
of a cowbell, the rattle of the trace chain, a shuffle of paper, or a knock on a wall somewhere in the old building.
Once or twice we thought we saw something white flit across the yard in the light of the moon.
One night we had gone upstairs to bed, and J.B. and I lay there and talk about the strange things
that were happening in our "haunted" house. We had agreed that we were going to try and find out what
was causing all the little disturbances. We had almost come to the conclusion that the place really was haunted – in spite of our conservative upbringing by old-fashioned
parents.
"Mama says there's no such thing as ghosts or haunted houses and I believe her," I
would tell Jake as we talk.
"Yeah, Mama knows that and you know that, but do the ghosts know that?" J.B. was quick
to point out.
We talked far into the night, and as we talked we thought more about what had been happening.
Suddenly I thought I heard a sound like someone had dropped a bucket on the floor in the attic over our heads.
Then it owl hooted somewhere outside. Then a blood-curdling "meow" of a cat in the salt cedars out near
the cistern almost made my hair stand up.
I looked at J.B. I could tell by his breathing that he had gone to sleep. I slipped out of bed
and tiptoed to the window. Although I was half scared to look out, I did anyway. At first I saw nothing, then I
heard the drainpipe that led to the cistern rattle as though something or someone was climbing it. Dad-gum it!
Climbing down the drainpipe? It flitting around in the pasture out near the corrals, and it soon just fade away
into the night. To top it off, about that time a couple of coyotes began to sing a duet in the mesquites out north
of the barn.
That did it! I wasn't scared of coyotes or hoot owls. But what ever it was that had gone down
the drainpipe, and that thing that had run across the pasture, had sure stirred up my curiosity. I really don't
know why but my heart seemed to be being a little faster, and I notice that I was trembling when just a little
as I crawl back into bed. But what the heck! Mama and Papa said there wasn't any such thing as a haunted house
or ghosts – or things like that – and I figured Mama and Papa were about the smartest people I knew. Trying to
console myself with this thought, I tried to go back to sleep.
I finally dozed off, but it was a troubled sleep. Once or twice I woke up thinking I heard a
chain rattle in the attic above. "I'll get up there and look around tomorrow," I remember thinking.
It must have been near morning when I woke again; this time it was for real. The bed was shaking
– almost moving on the floor! I could hear it – and I could feel and shake. In fact the whole house seemed to be
shaking. Mama and Papa were wrong! The darned house was
haunted! This proved it!
I shook J.B. The commotion had died down by then, but I woke in anyway. "You hear that?"
I asked him, still alarmed by what had happened.
"Hear what?" he asked sleepily. "I ain't heard nothin'. Go back to sleep! It's
your 'magination."
"You don't know what you're talkin' 'bout." I told him. "The bed's moved from
where it was. Somebody pushed our bed! I know, 'cause I could feel it. Somethin' crazy's goin' on 'round here!"
Jake didn't seem convinced. In fact, he didn't seem to care, for he was soon asleep again. I
tried to go to sleep, and finally – I reckon it was almost daylight – I dozed off, but not before I thought again
about what a crazy night he had been.
I said nothing to Mama or Papa next morning about the night's happenings, although I dreaded
to think about spending another night upstairs in the haunted house. I didn't want to upset them – not yet anyway.
About noon we have a visitor. It was T.W. (Woodrow) Neely who lived over the prairie east about
a mile. After he had crawled off his horse, Papa invited him in for a cup of coffee which Mama kept hot on the
cookstove. They passed the time of day and talk for awhile about the weather, the grass and the cattle. T.W. finally
told us what his mission was. "You folks see a big old white heifer come through your pasture the last day
or so?" he asked.
Papa said, "No, I reckon I haven't." But already my wheels had started turning. And
to top it all off, just before the visitor left, he said, "By the way, did ya'll hear 'bout the earthquake
we had last night? Some people from Roswell stopped by the house this mornin' and told us 'bout it. Some
folks said they felt it – said it rattled the windows and even moved some of their furniture around. Papa said
it rattled the windows of our hose. I reckon I slept through it all. I didn't hear a thing."
Well, I sure was glad that Neely boy had come by. Now that shed a new light on the whole thing.
I figured that I'd sleep a lot better come night. Who'd ever thought it? "A big old white heifer – and an
earthquake – and a real live old-fashioned haunted house. Well, how about that!"
BOOTLEGGERS ON THE PECOS
Bootlegging was a way of life for many over the Southwest during the
late 1920's and early '30's. The salt cedars along the Pecos provided an ideal location for a still. And they were
there. A stage trail that ran across our place became a well traveled road that led to a well-known "whiskey
stop" down on the river close to Bitter Lake.
During those days no one was shocked or surprised to ride up on a producing still back in the
tamaracks. As a young teen-ager however, I didn't think much about all that traffic moving across our place.
Everyone knew what was going on and we just took it for granted where the people were going. But what happened
one day made me be a little more careful about meddling with what I found back in the salt cedars.
One morning my Papa got my brother J.B. and me up early for a special chore. "We're goin'
to haul wood today," he told us. So in spelling out his plans, Papa told me to saddle my horse and take a
little herd of cattle to a slough down east of our place that ran parallel to the Pecos River. "J.B. and I
will hitch the team to the wagon and go around on the road; we'll meet you at the river," Papa said.
Knowing that Papa and J.B. would have to take the long way around by Elmo Hardcastle's place
and then to a make-shift bridge across the slough, (we called it one-mile creek) I knew I would get to the river
long before they did even after driving the cattle.
Papa and J.B. finally rumbled off down the road in the wagon, and I started pushing the cows
down the trail. Our plans were to meet that the river and load up the wagon with dead salt cedar which we would
cut up for winter firewood. That, along with a cow chips and dead cottonwood we could find, would supply our fuel
needs during the cold days ahead.
I trailed the cattle to the green meadows down in the cienega; and, not wanting to go back to
the road the way Papa took the wagon, as a short-cut I decided to jump my horse across the creek – the decision
that really could have been my last one. My horse, old Star, was a bronc that Papa had just broken to the saddle,
and the little skittish – especially when I put my spurs to him to jump the creek. But jump he did, and shortly
afterward I wished he hadn't.
However, we got across the creek alright, and I kicked Star into a trot. I knew that the country
was full of sink holes, but I thought I knew where all of them were. I reckon I did know where all of them were
– but one, and we found it. All I can remember now is that Star was falling through space and I was on top of him,
trying like everything to fall clear when we landed. I didn't have time to think about all the bad things I had
done during my lifetime, but I do remember thinking that the end had probably come for me, and I was pretty busy
trying all that time to kick out of the stirrups so as to land away from my horse. Before I had time to think about
it very much however, we hit – not hard ground but water – a bottomless pit full of it, and the next thing I knew
I was swimming, trying to catch Star's tail.
When I finally crawled out of the hole, I figured I'd be walking for sure the rest of the day,
but I looked out about fifty yards and there Star stood, his eyes rolling, and he was trembling all over like he
was about to be forked for the first time.
I reckoned the poor horse was scared a little, but I knew he wasn't scared as much as I was.
The fall had taken us both unaware, as that tall "burro" grass had grown up so high around the pot-hole
that we had come look on it too suddenly to avoid falling into it.
Star still trembled as I very easily crawl back in the saddle, and he obediently moved – seemingly
almost tiptoeing out of the mess.
We met Papa and J.B. at the river without further mishap, and of course I had to tell them about
my harrowing experience which seem much worse as I told about it; and, after I had finished, I felt almost worn
out.
"Let's go swimmin'," I suggested to J.B. after I had rested a little. "The river's
right over there." I pointed toward the Pecos. Often when we were "riding bog" we would get off
our horses, peel off are clothes and swim and slash in the muddy-rated water of old Pecos.
"Suits me," my brother agreed. But Papa didn't want to go. "Got to get this wood
loaded," he argued. "You boys go on – and get back here soon. We've got to get started home."
There was a well-worn trail leading out through the trees – too well worn. I wondered about
it as we walked along. It certainly was unusual to see fresh boot tracks going up and down such a backwoods trail.
J.B. and I talked about it as we made our way toward the river. "Maybe someone else is over there swimmin'
too," I finally told J.B.
"Yeah – and look there's the river. I can see the water, J.B. said. He pointed at something
shiny away back in the trees that first had the appearance of running water.
But it wasn't water. As we approached we could see that it was a fifty-five gallon barrel with
a shiny new washtub turned upside down over it. "Now what in sam-hill do you suppose that is?" hollered
J.B. as we quickened our steps toward the barrel. But he was grinnin', and so was I. We both knew what the barrel
held.
"Mash!" J.B. whispered, as we lifted the tub and looked in.
"Yeah, sour mash!" I agreed. "Suppose we ought to taste it?"
Wouldn't hurt anything if we did, I reckon," J.B. said.
But the stuff was pretty green. We decided that it might make us sick and we'd better lay off.
Then we both started thinking about the situation, and a crazy idea hit us that we ought to find a new hiding place
for the barrel – a place no one would know about but us. However, after sitting down and talking it over, we decided
that the barrel was too heavy for us to move so we concluded that maybe we'd just leave it where it was and come
back later, although I really don't know what we expected to do with a "lost" barrel of mash!
When we got back to the wagon, Papa had some ideas about the whole matter after we told him
about our find. At first he seemed a little mad. I guess he knew a lot more than he lead on. I don't know why he
acted a little nervous from then on, but he wasn't the same for the rest of the day. Every once in awhile he would
look around as if he might be expectin' someone to show up any minute. Finally, he talked about it a little, but
I had a feelin' that maybe he didn't tell everything he was thinking.
"See that hill with there?" he said, pointing to a rise of about a half mile away.
It looked like a good lookout point, a place which would hold a commanding view of the whole area. I have noticed
a slight glint now and then as though the sun might be shining on some bright object periodically. "I reckon
a blind man could see that hill," J.B. said, a little sarcastically. "What's over there?"
"You boys are lucky someone didn't take a shot that you while you were messin' around that
barrel," he said, squinting at the object on the hill.
"Don't make no difference. From now on you stay clear of anything that looks like a still.
Them fellers mean business – and that hombre hid
out up on that hill don't have a pea-shooter, he's got a 30-30 Winchester, and he'll use it!"
Needless to say, J.B. and I didn't ask any more questions. But I did lots of thinking about
my day's experience as I followed the wagon across the salt flats on old Star, and you can bet to boots that I
really picked out by jumping places on one-mile creek from then on too. I figured that was a pretty good idea if
I wanted have a long healthy life.
CHARLEY SIRINGO AND HIS BLACK COMPADRES
The first Negro cowboy I never saw was a half a century ago on the Pecos east of Roswell, New
Mexico. My brother, J.B. and I had pushed a little heard of scrub cows to the creek bottoms where they could nibble
on the swamp grass and tules on the bogs and cienegas that bordered the Pecos.
After fighting mosquitoes and the heat for half the day, I told J.B. to take over and "ride
bog" while I went to the house for some grub and a little siesta.
Later as I sat at the table eating cold frijoles and skillet bread, I heard jingling of big-rowel spurs outside. I remembered that J.B. had never
been known to make a pair of spurs fit on his old brogen shoes without the rowels thumping on the ground at every
step, so I figured he had come to the house. Then I wondered what reason he could give for leaving the fool cows
to get buried in the bogs, so I started outside all set to work him over for leaving his job.
About that time I heard Papa talking to someone out by the smokehouse, and I knew by the language
that it wasn't J.B. So I stepped outside and there squatted in Negro cowboy talking to my Papa.
I remembered Papa talking about a black cowboy he had worked cows with years before; a waddie
name of Frank, who had worked for Uncle John Chisum on the South Spring River Jinglebob Outfit back in the '70's
and '80's.
I stared at the old herder as he and Papa sat in the shade of the smokehouse drinking coffee
– and I thought about the history the old timer must have made over the West. Why, he probably had even made some
of the old trail drives! I look at the big Stetson and the scarred bat-wing chaps he wore, and then I notice the
big star-rowel spurs that jingled loosely on his worn handmade boots. His old face was wrinkled, but a pleasant
grin was prominent above the faded, red-and-white polka-dot bandana that was tide loosely around his withered neck.
When he spoke, his drawl was slow and polite.
As I listened to hem and Papa talk, I began to recall some stories the old cowboy detective
Charley Siringo had told us back in the 1920's about some things that had happened to him during the early days
of the cattle drives across Texas. Every time Charley had come to our place on the claim back in the hills of Lincoln
County, and even after we moved to the old Pat Garrett farm east of Roswell, he was full of tales of the past,
and always he had included a story or two about the black cowboys he had known.
When Siringo had first started writing about his life in the "nigger love story".
All went well, he said, until he got halfway through the first chapter. Then, "Mister Jackson was convicted
and sent to Huntsville for stealing a neighbor's hog, and while I was trying to find a substitute for him, old
Patsy flew the track and eloped with a Yankee carpetbagger. This was more than I could endure, so picking up the
manuscript, I threw it into the fire. Thus ended my first attempt at authorship."
Charley Siringo did better later, however, and some of his writings gave short accounts of Negroes
- most of them cowboys. Some of them no doubt saved his life.
Along about 1872 Siringo was branding mavericks in his spare time, and was breaking a few broncs
for "cutting horses" when he had the time. One day he started to crawl on a "mean old bronc"
and the horse jumped just as Siringo pushed his number five boot into the stirrup. He tried to grab the saddlehorn,
but "Old Satan" went to pitchin' and Charley fell over backwards with his left foot hung in the stirrup.
A long hackamore rope had been fastened to Satan's neck and the loose end had been coiled up in Siringo's left
hand, but when he fell he lost the rope, leaving him nothing to hold onto.
A Negro friend had been watching Siringo work with the bronc. I'll always remember," Charley
often recalled, "when I was being dragged across the prairie on my back, I could see that black man running
as fast as he could, trying to catch the end of the rope." Charley said that at one time Negro was within
a few feet of catching up to that rope and he took new hope, but a few minutes later, when he saw the end of the
rope crawling away from the man, he lost hope. "Then," Siringo said, "I began to wonder what sort
of place hell was, and whether they would treat me with a little kindness down there."
After being dragged a few hundred yards, with old Satan's hind hooves flying in his face at
every jump, Siringo started jerking his left leg as hard as he could. Finally he kicked his foot out of the stirrup.
Then as the end of the rope went past him, he grabbed it. "I hung on like grim death," he said.
Charley was dragged on his stomach for quite a piece - which ruined his "Sunday-go-to-meetin'
shirt." Finally, after he had cussed the bronc for everything he was worth - which wasn't much, he turned
the rope loose and let old Satan go.
Siringo sold Satan sometime later, and sold him cheap – to a "drunken Irishman" by
the name of Martin. But every time he talked about the incident he said he reckoned "that old cowpoke was
runnin' 'bout as fast as his high-heeled boots would take him, trying to help that crazy kid, Charley Siringo,
get out of another jackpot he had got himself into."
But the black cowboys were not all on Siringo's side. It was about 1874 or '75 that he was almost
done in by a Negro. But it was a black cowboy who came along in the "nick of time" to save his hide,
too.
It was about the middle of April that it happened, old "stove-up" Charley often recollected.
He had camped at the head of Cashe's Creek in the brush country of south Texas, skinning dead cattle for their
hides – and branding a few mavericks. Many cattle had died during the spring and Charley had plans for bringing
in a little money – which she always seem to need. He was slapping his own T-5 connected on what few wild calves
he could gather, and in the meantime planned to skin some of the dead "mossy-horns."
According to his own words, Charley was sitting in camp drinking coffee after a hard day when
a black cowboy rode up and crawled off his horse. "I didn't know the man in person," Siringo said, "but
I soon figured out who he was 'cause I'd heard some bad things about him. He was a tough hombre name of Sam Grant,
better known as 'Killer Negro'. I had a sudden feelin' that Sam hadn't come out there to pay me a social visit."
Grant climbed off his horse and sauntered over to where Siringo had hung his old Colt .45 on
a limb near his bedroll. He pulled the gun from the holster, looked it over a moment and said, "You ought
to have a good one, like mine, Siringo!" As he spoke, Grant pulled his own six-shooter, which Siringo said
was a "old-time dragoon pistol," and pointed it straight at Siringo's heart.
Charley was sitting with his knees drawn up in front, with one knee in line with his heart.
The knee took the heavy slug that went all the way through the flesh and lodged under the skin on the other side.
Grant leveled his gun to fire again when up rode another Negro cowboy – one of Charley's good friends called "Lige."
Lige yelled to Grant to "put that gun away!"
Grant, sputtering that his gun had fired accidentally, mounted his horse and rode off, promising
to send a doctor out to take care of Siringo's wounds. Charley found out later that "Killer Negro" had
been hired by a wealthy rancher to hunt him up and kill him.
On another occasion, Charley and a black cowboy named Jack were practicing up on their roping.
Siringo picked out and big steer and threw his rawhide over it, but the steer was little more than he had bargained
for. When it hit the end of his riata, his horse got up and Charley found himself tangled in the rope – and couldn't
get loose. At this moment Jack saw the ticklish predicament his side-kick was in, and came to his rescue; but not
before they both found out that it was a "helluva lot easier to catch a steer that it was to turn him loose!"
One of the best black friends Charley Siringo had during his lifetime was an old cowboy called
"Gabe." It was in the spring of 1875 or '76, when Siringo hired out to a big cowman by the name of Grimes.
His job this time would be going up the Chisholm Trail as a drover, trailing about twenty-five hundred head of
"mossy-horn" steers to market. The crew consisted of a cook and about twenty-five drovers and Asa Dowdy,
the trail boss. Each cowboyed had his own remuda of six head of saddle horses.
The drive went about as well as any ordinary trail drive could go, except that there was often
too much rain and the dry creek beds were running high water with most of them being out of their banks much of
the time. The cowboys, being on the trail so long, or grouchy, often fighting among themselves, and the cattle
stampeded almost nightly when a storm came up.
However, the drovers push the herd on north, finally reaching the Canadian River breaks up in
Indian territory. There, a few brushes with Indians didn't make things easier. When they got to within a few miles
of the river, "Old Man Dowdy" went on the head to find a good crossing. After awhile he came back and
told the drovers to bed the herd and make ready to fight Indians. The woods along the river were "full of
the redskin devils," he declared, "and there are on the warpath!"
The drovers got ready to fight, and Dowdy picked out two of what he considered to be his best
Indian fighters, Charley Siringo and a man named Otto Draub. Now Draub and Charley have long had a private war
going on and didn't get along too well together. However, they went on to the river to do what they could to make
peace with the Comanche. After searching up and down the river without finding any Indians, Siringo and Draub,
sore at the trail boss – and still sore at each other – went back to camp, where, according to Siringo, they almost
had a shoot-out.
All through the drive Gabe and Charley had worked together – along with another Negro named
Jim Keller. Siringo said later that he would never have made it onto Abilene if old Gabe and Keller had been around
to "Keep me out of trouble."
Siringo often said that when he rode into a town it seemed that the little Negro "boot-blacks"
must have been talking it over an were laying for him alone, because everyone of them "stuck him for a dime".
Evidently, they knew Siringo was an easy touch, for they work him for every cent they could get every time he went
into a big city. Siringo said that one time he saw some boot-blacks in a Kansas town and he heard them yell, "Yonder
comes our Texas ranger. Let's tackle in for some dough." at;
On the other hand, Siringo must have figured that the Negros were easy too, for he was always
in some kind of a horse trade with them. Although he quite often did get the "best of the deal," it seemed
that these trades nearly always brought him a little trouble. Sometimes the horses be traded for turned out to
have been stolen. Later he would have a hard time explaining just where and how he had got his new saddle mount.
He often swore that it wouldn't surprise him one bit if he ended up being hanged as a horse thief.
Charley Siringo was born in Matagordo County, Texas on February 7, 1855. His name is listed
in the census record report of 1860 as Charles Angelo Siringo. For about the first ten or twelve years of his life,
Charley considered himself his folks' "contrary son," always giving them trouble around the house. But
he left home quite young, and for the next fifteen years or so he worked wherever he could find a cowboyin' job.
Then for about twenty-two years he worked for the nationally known Pinkerton Detective Agency. During all these
years as a cowboy, drover, detected and finally, as a writer, and even later a movie actor, Siringo said that being
associated often with Negro cowboys had been one of the highlights of his life.
It was while Siringo was still a young man that he met Jim Keller, the Negro cowboy from the
same part of Matagordo County where Siringo had grown up. Once when he was away from home without a saddle horse,
Charley ran into Jim Keller and Jim loan him a horse so that he could ride on home to see his mother.
Many years later and J. Frank Dobie heard Jim Keller – the same Jim Keller that Siringo had
known as a youngster – tell about his recollections of Charley Siringo.
"That Siringo was one happy-go-lucky cowboy," Keller said. "But he was always
sure down on his luck. That man could let more horses get away with the saddle on 'em that any cowboyin the country.
" Then he said that Siringo's first book, A Texas Cowboy
or Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony, "told things like
they really was."
Keller when they had to say that Siringo was 'bout the most fearless and coolest man he ever
knew. He said he remembered the time when Siringo and that drover named Otto Draub almost had trouble out on the
trail, and Keller's story was slightly different from Siringo's tame version.
Siringo and Draub had gone on to the Canadian to flush out the Indians, but finding none, had
gone on back to camp. There they got into an argument and things went from bad to worse.
"I was there and I seen what was 'bout to happen," Keller said. "Me and Old Gabe
was gettin' ready to help out Mista Siringo. But we decided to wait it out to see what was gonna' come of it. Then's
when we seen old Otto pull his gun and say he's gonna' kill Mista Charley."
Keller went on to say that Siringo gradually looked around – just enough to see the barrel of
Otto's six-shooter pointing at his head, but he remained calm and cool.
"All right, Otto," Charley finally said, "You've got me dead to rights. But I've
got one favor to ask of you." He paused a moment, but kept on gnawing on his calf rib.
"What the hell you want, Charley?" Otto growled, keeping his gun on Siringo. "Say
it – and be quick about it!"
Siringo spoke with his mouth half full. "You've heard me say many a time, Otto, that when
I die I hoped I'd not go hungry. The shore do dread dyin' on an empty belly."
Otto said nothing but never wavered with his six-shooter. Siringo kept dry dog eating – putting
off the act of dying as long as he could.
Finally Charley finished the last bit of skillet bread, beans and calf ribs, then he wiped his
sleeve across as mouth before he spoke again.
"I'd shore like to ask another favor of you, Otto."
"What's that?" Otto questioned sourly. "Hurry up and let's get this over with!"
"Well, when you shoot me, don't quit shootin' till you get me plumb dead," Siringo
said. "Don't just mess me up and leave me wallowing around to bother people. Even if you have to reload your
gun again, Otto, keep shootin' till I'm done in."
Otto had realized it, the all this time Charley's hand was quietly ever inching toward his own
six-shooter which at that time he wore around in front. Suddenly in a flash Charley's gun was out, and around the
world and covered Otto. "Put that gun up, Otto!" he yelled. "It might go off and hit a horse or
something. Quick, Otto, put it up and eat your dinner!"
Draub – with a foolish look appearing on his face – put his gun and his holster and ate his
dinner. As Jim Keller concluded the story – telling you as if he were back on the scene again – he stated, "I
reckon man's wrath cools mighty be easy on a full stomach."
Jim Keller outlived Siringo. But in 1946, after having lived nearly a hundred years on the western
prairies, old cowboy Keller died. In his last year's he often recalled the time when Siringo – the young "crazy
kid cowboy" had come to him wanting to borrow the saddle horse so he could ride on home to Trespalacious to
see his mother.
During the years of the cattle drives, Siringo made several trips for David Beals up the Chisholm
Trail. Beals had bought most of the cattle from Charley Word down on the San Antonio River near Goliad. The cattle
were to be delivered to Beals new LX outfit up in the Texas Panhandle.
After meeting Charley Word, Siringo got word that his partner on the trail would be the drover
named Ike Word. For many years it had been common custom for a Negro who had been a slave to take his owner's last
name. So it had been with Ike. He had gone to the Word family for many years and when the war came he was free,
but he kept the name "Word" and was proud of it.
As the herd was readied for the trail, Ike Word trotted up on horseback wearing a broad grin
– ready to string out the cattle. The when the black cowboy heard that Charley Siringo was to be his partner, he
showed immediate displeasure. He called the boss, Charley Word, off to one side and said he didn't want that "darned
Yankee kid" for a pard.
A little while later, however, Ike saw Siringo rope a bronc and then fork it like a professional.
And he began to change his attitude. "Dog-gone it, Mista Word," Ike whispered "if that Yankee don't
surprise the natives! Where did that blue-belly cowboy learn to rope like that?"
Finally the truth came out. Charley had come down from the Panhandle country, which Ike thought
was up north in Yankee territory.
Before Siringo died in Hollywood, California, in 1928, he had become acquainted with a noted
Will Rogers of Oklahoma. Once, according to Siringo, he received a letter from Will telling him what he thought
about the first book Siringo had written – A Texas Cowboy or Fifteen Years On the
Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony.
"Why, that was the cowboys Bible when I was growing up," Will Rogers stated. "
I camped with a herd one night at the old LX outfit north of Amarillo back in '98, and they showed me that old
forked tree that some old bronc had bucked you into. Why, to us that was just like looking at the shrine of Shakespeare
– if you lived to be a thousand years old, you couldn't write a bad book about the cowboys. The stuff they did
might be bad, but you could tell it so well it sounded almost respectable."
Charley Siringo visited my family and our homestead near Corona, New Mexico, in 1920. I don't
remember much about his first visit since I had just appeared on the scene, but I remember the stories my mother
wrote down in her memoirs, and I can recall many things my Papa told about him. I also receive something from Charley
during the years I knew him, and now and then he'd send a picture of himself and one or two of his horses.
The last picture he sent was of himself and one of the best friends and never had, a man with
whom Siringo worked in Hollywood, William S. Hart of old-time movie fame, and it was through Bill Hart's efforts
that Siringo was able to work on motion picture sets in Hollywood as a senior advisor on life in the West, thus
realizing and ambition he had long secreted.
In 1928, about Christmas, a few months after we had heard from Charley, we received a newspaper
clipping that told about the cowboy's death. The old "stove-up cowpuncher," as he often called himself,
had finally forked his last "hurricane deck" and had crossed the great divide.
Wherever Charley Siringo went – from Texas, north – to the cattle pens Kansas, and west to the
wild frontier towns of Tascosa, and on to Santa Fe, and finally on to California in -where he lived out his last
few years — Charley Siringo left a trail of wit, humor and good will. He left in his wake many friends – and perhaps
a few enemies; since, as a young man, he had been with the Pinkerton Agency, often he had brought to trial many
an outlaw and rustler.
But long before Charley died, he talked a great deal about his past, reviewing his life as a
detective, cowboy and writer. Invariably, he then would get around to talking about the cowboys with whom he had
ridden during his lifetime, and he always had a kind word to say about his many black cowboy compadres. Many times they had either help him out of the tough jam, or had saved his life, or had perhaps
befriended him in some other way.
ROSWELL'S HOT TAMALE BOY
Three dollars a week and meals was a good salary in 1935. That's what Charley Gonzales paid
me to work for him and – washin' dishes and his Mexican cafe on South Main Street in Roswell.
I've never been very fond of washin' dishes but, but ever since I was big enough to stand on a box slosh around
in the big ole' dishpan of my mother's, I've been stuck with dishwashin'. I suppose if we didn't have one of those
built-in automatic things in the house today, I'd still be gettin' dishpan hands.
When I went to work for Charley, he told me to be there at noon and I could eat first and then
wash up the dishes. This turned out to be a pretty good arrangement. Then one day after all I had finished, Charley
said he had another old chore for me. "You can make a little more money too," he said. A few minutes
later he came in the back door pollin' a little wagon they had a small gasoline stove inside a cabinet and have
a steam pot on top.
"We're goin' to teach you how to make hot tamales," Charley inform me. "And you
can't go out on the street and sell 'em."
Already I have seen Charley's wife Lucy, makin' corn mush, and chili. Then she unrolled a big
batch of corn shucks and watered them down until they were soft.
At first I didn't know what to make of it, but Lucy took only minutes to show me the art of
makin' tamales by smoothin' out a little cake of mush on a shuck, linin' out a couple of inches of special-made
hot chili on the cool much, then rollin' the whole thing up and turnin' the ends back over and tryin' them. Before
I knew it we had ten dozen tamales made and ready for the little steam pot in the wagon.
"Now all you have to do," Charley instructed, "is to pull the wagon down the
sidewalk, find good place to park in yell a little, and you'll sell out"
He was right. That day marked a turnin' point in my life. I pulled that wagon down the walk to the J.P. White Building
at Third and Main, part the thing and yelled, "Hot tamales – get 'em while they're hot!" I didn't have
to yell many times before I started sellin' tamales, and before I knew it I'd sold out. Then I pulled my wagon
back to the cafe, ate my supper, washed up the dishes and my day's work was done.
This became a daily routine for me that winter; I often thought about what a good life I had.
Makin' three dollars a week and twenty percent profit on the hot tamale sales. Why, I was makin' as much as thirty
or forty cents every evening – and that was extra! Often, after I'd even my suffer, I'd hot foot it back up the
street to the Princes Theater where they featured a good Ken Maynard, Tom Mix, or Hoot Gibson cowboy show. There
are a buy a box of popcorn for a nickel; and, as I recall, the show cost me fifteen cents. Anyway I always made
enough sellin' tamales to come out in pretty good shape, and the Princess Theater was a good place to rest up before
I began the three mile walk to our place west of town.
I remember one unpleasant aspect of selling' hot tamales on the street, however; and it was
a little embarrassin' at times. A lot of youngsters like me wore work shoes that we called "brogans".
The only trouble with those shoes was that the toes would wear out and a piece of the leather would curl up and
back over my shoe, leadin' my toes exposed to the cold.
I'll never forget how I remedied that situation. The little cabinet on my wagon have a door
that opened to where the little stove was and it was warm in there. Many times when it grew cold late in the evening,
I'd open that little door and put one foot in there and warm it. All this time I'd be yellin' "Hot tamales
– red hot! Come and get 'em while they're hot!" then I'd take that foot out and put my other one in and warm
it. The only thing that interrupted my routine was these big black shiny automobiles comin' up on the curve and
stoppin'. Then a well-dressed man or woman would call out, "Hey boy – bring me a dozen!"
It's been nearly half a century since that winter when I was Roswell's "hot tamale boy."
But it seems as though he it was just yesterday. Although the three dollars a week I made would seem meager today,
the money was important to me. It made me feel responsible. It was good to be able to buy my own clothes and make
my own way. And after all, what fifteen-year-old boy was makin' enough money to do all that – and take in a movie
once or twice a week to boot? What a life!
