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RUE STORIES
Old Houston
nd Houstonians
A Word in Advance
THESE STORIES owe their being largely to chance. The
whole series was unintentionally begun. I wrote an
article for the Houston Chronicle, giving the correct
version of something that occurred in Houston forty years ago,
an inaccurate account of which had appeared in one of the news-
papers. Managing Editor Gillespi liked my story so much that
he asked me to write others of the same kind. I agreed to do
so, thinking that I could probably find material for half a dozen
stories. After I got started, each subject suggested another,
and so it has gone on, until now, the half dozen has grown into
the hundreds, with the end not yet in sight.
So many people have written to me asking that I print the
stories in book form, that I have determined to do so, and have
selected those found here as being, in my opinion, the best.
These letters have fcome from all parts of the state and from
several Eastern and Northern states. Then, too, people are con-
stantly writing to the Chronicle asking for back numbers con-
taining the stories, showing the demand for them.
I have enjoyed writing these stories, for each one has
brought back some pleasant memory, and I hope that all those
into whose hands this little book may fall, will enjoy reading
them.
THE AUTHOR.
True Stories
of
Old Houston and
Houstonians
HISTORICAL and PERSONAL
SKETCHES
h
DR. S. O. YOUNG, Houston, Texas
OSCAR SPRINGER, Publisher
Galveston, Texas
1913
.
1C, 3
IN THE BEGINNING
I 'SUPPOSE it must have been published many times, but if
so it has escaped my notice until the other day. I refer
to the original advertisement of the town of Houston by
the Allen Bros. The following is the document in full, which
appeared originally in the Telegraph, published at that time at
Columbia, on the Brazos River:
"THE TOWN OF HOUSTON."
"Situated at the head of navigation on the west bank of
Buffalo Bayou, is now for the first time brought to public notice,
because, until now, the proprietors were not ready to offer to
the public, with the advantages of capital and improvements.
'''The town of Houston is located at a point on the river
which must ever command the trade of the largest and richest
portions of Texas. By reference to the map it will be seen
that the trade of San Jacinto, Spring Creek, New Kentucky,
and the Brazos, above and below Fort Bend, must necessarily
come to this place, and will at this time warrant the employ-
ment of at least $1,000,000 of capital, and when the rich lands
of this country shall be settled a trade will flow to it, making
it, beyond all doubt, the great commercial emporium of Texas.
"The town of Houston is distant 15 miles from the Brazos
River, 30 miles a little north of east from San Felipe, 60 miles
from Washington, 40 miles from Lake Creek, 30 miles south-
west from New Kentucky and 15 miles by water and 8 miles
by land above Harrisburg.
"Tidewater runs to this place and the lowest depth of water
is about six feet. Vessels from New York and New Orleans
can sail without obstacle to this place, and steamboats of the
largest class can run down to Galveston in eight or ten hours
in all seasons of the year.
"It is but a few hours sail down the bay, where one can
make excursions of pleasure and enjoy the luxuries of fish, fowl,
oysters and sea-bathing.
"Galveston harbor, being the only one in which vessels draw-
ing a large draft of water can navigate, must necessarily render
the island the great naval and commercial depot of the country.
"The town of Houston must be the place where arms, ammu-
nition and provisions for the government will be stored, be-
cause, situated in the very heart of the country, it combines
security and means of easy distribution, and a national armory
will no doubt very soon be at this point.
"There is no place in Texas more healthy, having an abund-
ance of excellent spring water and enjoying the sea breeze in
all its freshness.
TRUE STORIES OF OLD
"No place in Texas possesses so many advantages for build-
ing, having fine ash, cedar and oak in inexhaustible quantities,
also the tall and beautiful magnolia grows in abundance. In
the vicinity are fine quarries of stone.
"Nature seems to have designated this place for the future
seat of government. It is handsome and beautifully elevated,
salubrious and well-watered and is now in the very center of
population and will be so for a long time to come.
"It combines two important advantages a communication
with the coast and with foreign countries and with different
portions of the republic. As the country shall improve, rail-
roads will become in use and will be extended from this point
to the Brazos and up the same, and also from this up to the
headwaters of the San Jacinto, embracing that rich country,
and in a few years the whole trade of the upper Brazos will
make its way into Galveston Bay through this channel.
"Preparations are making to erect a water sawmill, and a
large public house for accommodation will soon be opened.
Steamboats now run in this river and will, in a short time,
commence running regularly to the island. The proprietors
offer lots for sale at moderate terms to those who desire to
improve them and invite the public to examine for themselves.
"(Signed) A. C. ALLEN, for
"A. C. & J. K. ALLEN."
"August 30, 1836, 6m."
That old document is as fine a piece of advertising as any
turned out by the "artists" of today. It has one great merit,
that of truthfulness, for whether intentionally or not the
Aliens told almost the literal truth in every line they wrote,
for all that they forecast has come true a thousandfold.
I was glad to come across that old advertisement for it settles
two stories that have been told so often that everybody has
grown to believe them to be true. No doubt, impressed by
the fulfillment of so many prophecies made by the Aliens, some
writers have deemed it safe to add a little to them, and have
allowed their imaginations somewhat free play. An instance
of this is the story that when they were laying out the streets
and blocks for Houston, one of the Aliens placed his pencil on
"Railroad Street" and remarked that the future railroad would
have its start right there. Unfortunately for this story, there
was no Railroad Street laid out by the Aliens, and the street
that now bears that name was not created until over 20 years
after the Aliens laid out their town. Their city was bounded
on the north by Buffalo Bayou. All the territory north of the
bayou was densely wooded and they paid no attention to it.
Now, since Railroad Street is on the north side of the bayou,
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS
and got its name from the railroads that run over it, it is quite
evident that the Aliens could have had nothing to do with nam-
ing it, when the city was laid out.
Another story destroyed by that advertisement is the orie
about Mrs. A. C. Allen naming the town. She may have named
it and if she ever said she did I know she did, but not in the
way the story goes. Following is the story: While the Texas
congress was in session, the Allen brothers were trying to find
a suitable name for their city. One of them consulted his sis-
ter, Mrs. A. C. Allen, who without hesitation said: "Name it
Sam Houston." She also offered to write to General Houston,
who was then at Columbia and ask his permission to name the
town after him. She wrote the letter and a few days later
received a letter from him in which he said, "Leave off the 'Sam'
and call it 'Houston'."
The fatal point for that story is the fact that the Texas
congress, which the story says President Houston was attend-
ing, did not convene at Columbia until October 3, 1836, while
the Allen brothers were advertising the sale of town lots in the
"Town of Houston" on August 30, or over a month previous to
any possible date for the story.
EARLY HANGINGS IN HOUSTON.
IT IS an historical fact that at the first sesssion of court
held in Harrisburg County, as Harris was then called, two
men were found guilty of murder and sentenced to death.
It is stated that those two men were hanged immediately be-
cause the jail was uncomfortably cold and the kind-hearted
judge did not want the prisoners to suffer unduly.
The court sentence is true, no doubt, but the story about the
jail being too uncomfortable must be taken with a large pinch
of salt, since there was no jail to be uncomfortable. The first
jail was not built for at least two years after the date of that
incident. By the way, that first jail was a curiosity. It had
neither windows nor doors. It was simply a one-story log house
with a flat roof. On its top was a trap door. This was raised,
a ladder was lowered and the prisoner went down into the jail.
Then the ladder was withdrawn, the trap closed, and the pris-
oner was left to meditate on his' sins.
The first legal hanging in Houston, about which old citizens
know, took place many years after the date of the reported
hangings. It was that of a man named Hyde. He had waylaid
and murdered a man and had then left the state and gone to
Louisiana or Mississippi. Someone recognized him there and
8 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
reported the fact to the authorities here. Proper papers were
made out and Hyde was arrested and brought back. That was
in 1853, and the hanging took place in what was afterwards
known as Hangsman Grove just on the southeast corner of the
old cemetery out of the San Felipe Road. At that time and for
many years after, that place was away out in the country, but
is now thickly settled, with blocks of houses far beyond it.
Captain Thorn. Hogan was sheriff of Harris County at the
time and was so nervous and excited that he stood on the trap
with the condemned man and was about to cut the rope that
held it in position, but was dragged off before he could do so.
The next execution to take place out there was that of a
negro named Johnson, in 1868, followed about two years later
by the execution of another negro named Johnson. I witnessed
both of these and at the last one I learned something that has
done me more good and helped me to have faith in my fellow
man than anything that has ever occurred to me. I suppose
every reader of these lines has heard one or more honorable
man get on the witness stand in court and swear to something
that was not true. Such swearing is not confined to any one
class, but the very best men men of the highest integrity have
been guilty of it. The majority of people put them down as
willful liars and let it go at that, without attempting to go
further. Not so with me. I have faith in them and know that
they are telling what they think is true. The reason for my
feeling that way is explained by this incidence. When the
last negro was hanged, I was standing where I could see him
plainly. I saw the hangsman adjust the rope about his neck
and fit the knot under his left ear. I was on the right side.
The negro wore a white shirt with a big, turned-down collar.
When the drop fell I saw the rope peel back the black skin
for about an inch, leaving the white flesh exposed for a mo-
ment. Then several large drops of black looking blood formed
on the wound, slowly trickled down and fell on the white
collar.
After the negro was cut down I went with the doctor to the
old pest house on the bank of the bayou to see the postmortem
examination he was going to make. Of course the first thing
I looked for was the wound on the neck, but, to my amazement,
I found none. The skin was unbroken, not even scratched.
The truth is that I had simply seen something that I expected
to see, without knowing that I expected to see it. I was greatly
excited, but was not conscious that I was so. Ever since then
when I have heard absurd and palpably false statements made
in court, by reputable men, I have felt that those making them
were telling the truth, or at least what they thought was the
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS
truth. I know that if occasion had arisen, and I had not have
seen the negro's body after it had been cut down, I would have
willingly staked my life betting that the rope had cut his neck
exactly as I thought it had. Those two Johnsons were the
last men executed at Hangsman Grove, for after that, all execu-
tions took place in the jail or jail yard. The general idea is
that many men were hanged out there, but as a matter of fact
only three executions took place there. That of Hyde and the
two negroes.
* * *
SOME OF THE NOTED BAD MEN.
I HAD a most interesting talk a few evenings ago with my
old friend, Dr. William Daniels. I know of no one who has
had a more intimate acquaintance with the thrilling days
of Texas and the men who furnished the thrills. The doctor,
having served as one of the surgeons of Sibley's Brigade on
the Rio Grande and in New Mexico and Arizona during the
civil war, had exceptional opportunities for knowing all the
real "bad men" of that day. It is pretty safe to say that from
the beginning to the end one or more of them was connected
with his command at some time. The doctor, while one of the
quietest and most peaceable gentlemen and one, too, had he
not practiced medicine for many years, one might safely say
had never killed a man, always took great interest in "bad men"
and made a study of them.
"One hears often of the gameness of 'bad men'," he said.
"They are game, of course, but so are you, so am I and so are
90 per cent of the gentlemen one knows. It takes more than
gameness to make a desperado or bad man, and that fact was
recognized by the people who first gave them the name of des-
peradoes. Cold-blooded murderers who killed merely for the
pleasure of killing and who gave their victims no show at all,
should be classed as human fiends and not be dignified by call-
ing them 'bad men.' Billy the Kid belonged to that class. He
killed just as a wild animal kills merely for the pleasure it
gave him to see his victims die. He was a fiend in human
shape and should have no place in the honorable (?) list of
killers.
"The true 'bad man' differed from the ordinary man in many
ways, the main one being his absolute indifference to taking
human life. The only care he took about the matter was to
have the semblance of being in the right before he acted. Ben
Thompson, for instance, was noted for never firing the first
shot. He always allowed the other fellow to shoot at him be-
fore he shot. It never required but one of his shots to get his
10 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
man, and both he and the man knew that. No doubt it had
influence in getting the other fellow's goat, for I don't think
any of Ben's many antagonists ever succeeded in hitting him,
while if he ever missed one of them the fact is not on record.
"I knew Cain Norton, Tom Clark, King Fisher, Ben Thompson,
Billy Thompson, Mat Woodlief and others of lesser prominence.
There was one who, had he lived, would have made his mark.
That was Buck Stacy, whose career was cut short by General
John R. Baylor, who had him court-martialed and shot for kill-
ing a fellow soldier after Baylor had issued an order against
any further private killings. Buck was really a very game man
and had all the elements about him that go to make the real
'bad man.'
"The gamest man among all the game ones was Cain Norton.
In all his private wars I don't believe he ever gave himself a
single thought. His own safety was a matter of utter indiffer-
ence to him. He made no calculations about the future or the
present, except to get his man, which he always did. On one
occasion I saw him when another 'bad man' had the drop on
him. Cain had only a knife, while the other fellow had a pistol.
Cain first laughed at him, and then cursed and taunted him,
daring him to shoot. He was willing to risk being killed so
that he would get a chance to close in with his knife and take
the fellow with him. The man he was facing had a reputation
as a killer, but Cain's coolness got his goat and he ended by
backing out of the door and leaving town.
"Tom Clark was another cool one. I have often thought
about Tom's case and have concluded that among some of his
ancestors was one of those old knights errant, who spent their
time hunting up wrongs or imaginary wrongs of other people,
or doing something for the advancement of their lady love.
Tom was a great lady's man and would fight for the protection
of any woman, the wrinkled old hag as quickly as for the fair-
est girl. One or two notches on his pistol's handle represented
the exit of men who had so far forgotten themselves as to strike
women in Tom's presence. It was that knightly feature in his
character that led to his taking off. One Sunday morning Tom
was in the old market house in San Antonio when a Mexican
struck a woman in the face with his hand. Tom knew none of
the people, but he promptly bent his six shooter over the fel-
low's head. The chap drew a knife and made for Tom, who
shot him dead. There was a big crowd of Mexicans there and
they made a rush for Tom. He fired three shots and got three
of them. Then the cylinder of his pistol got jammed and he
snapped on an empty chamber and then, hurling the useless pis-
tol in their faces, folded his arms and quietly waited the in-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 11
evitable. About 20 Mexicans mounted him with knives and
when they got through they had him cut into shoestrings.
"Cain Norton was killed in one of the battles over in Louisiana,
and, so far as I can recall, he was the only one who met a soldier's
death among the whole number. Every one of them died with
his boots on, however.
"If I could find time I would write a book telling of those
stirring days and of the men who kept things at fever heat all
the time. That would be one book where style and literary
excellence would be at a discount, for the contents of the book
would carry it along."
KU KLUX DAYS .
IN 1868 reconstruction days were on in full blast all over
Texas, and Houston, being so prominent a central point
both in commercial and political matters, came in for a
large share of shame and outrage. The "black belt" over on the
Brazos being so near, it was an easy thing for the scalawags
and carpetbaggers to bring negro voters by the hundred when-
ever a so-called election was held. There was no registration
required and all that was necessary was to have a red or blue
ticket or a white one with a big flag painted on it, so that the
ignorant negro could tell what ticket to vote, and the Republican
leaders were assured of success in advance. Governor A. J.
Davis had appointed the negro state guard a special police,
and had suspended habeas corpus and given these negroes the
right to make arrests on their own judgment without writ or
any legal process whatever. Not content with this, the scala-
wags and carpetbaggers went even further in their effort to put
the negro above the white man. They organized the Union
League, an organization formed for the sole purpose of con-
trolling the ignorant negro votes and boosting the worthless
white men, who were out for everything in sight, into office.
There was only one voting place for the whole county and
city at first the court house but later this was changed and
the country people were allowed to vote in their own precincts.
Everybody in Houston, though, had to vote at the court house
and this was done because it enabled the Republicans to control
things to suit themselves. It is almost incredible the power the
scalawags had over the negroes. They owned and controlled
them like so many dumb animals and voted them, not in blocks,
but as a solid unit.
With so many imported negro votes in the field, the white
men found themselves in a hopeless minority, but be it said to
12 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
their honor and glory, they did their duty as voters and citizens,
and that too under difficulties that were at times almost insur-
mountable.
In order to reach the voting place each voter had to get in
line and keep his place, too. If he stepped aside even for a
moment, unless he were a negro he forfeited his place and was
forced to take a new one at the end of the line and begin all
over again. Long before the polls opened there were hundreds
of negroes and as many white men as could get there in line.
This line was often one or two blocks long and two men abreast.
Only two men were admitted to the polls at once so the voting
was long drawn out and tedious. Extending from the court
house down to the room where the voting took place was a
double line of Federal soldiers with fixed bayonets, and every
free American citizen, black or white, had to pass between a
line of bayonets to express his will at the ballot box.
Republican strikers and henchmen were continually passing
along the line of voters and were swelling the Republican ma-
jority by slipping belated negroes into the line ahead of the
white men. It was a great outrage but it worked all the same
and gave the Republican managers absolute control of every-
thing. Of course, the voting time was limited, which enabled
them to shut out the white vote in part if not in whole. The
negroes in the advance voted leisurely, consuming as much
time as possible, thus holding back the line. When a white
man showed up he was put through a sharp questioning; his
right to vote was contested and every obstacle possible was
placed in his way. Finally he was either allowed to vote or
was thrown out, and the negroes were allowed to vote rapidly
in order to make up lost time. I have known of old citizens,
holding their places in the line for hours and then losing their
votes by having the polls close on them promptly at 6 o'clock,
or just about the time the white voters would reach the polls.
Now, conditions such as these were enough to drive men crazy
and irresponsible, but yet, strange to say, there was very little
rioting or bloodshed. Most of the lawlessness came from the
other side and Davis' state guard, all negroes, did more to
overthrow the Republicans and scalawags than all the other
causes combined. This was in two ways. The outrages com-
mitted by the negro policemen enraged the whites and the
punishment meted out by the whites terrified the negroes and
their worthless backers, causing them to become less open and
aggressive in their diabolical work.
It is really hard to believe at this later day the outrages per-
petrated by the negro state guards. By the authority given
them by Governor Davis they were supreme and above all
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 13
local authority. They arrested whomever they pleased. Little
things like making a complaint or securing a warrant for an
arrest cut no figure at all. They generally went in bunches of
four or five and were heavily armed. It was no unusual thing
for them to stop good citizens on the streets or county roads,
cross-examine them in the most insolent manner and then
curse them, using the vilest language in an effort to make
them do something so they could have an excuse for killing
them. They did kill a great many men in various parts of the
state, but as the only witnesses to these killings were them-
selves, they never had the least trouble.
Things were in this shape when the climax came. Three or
four of these negro police were in Brenham sitting on a bench
in the public square. A highly respected citizen and merchant
by the name of Ledbetter started across the square from his
store to go to the postoffice. He passed some distance from the
negroes and being hard of hearing, did not hear them when they
called to him and demanded to know where he was going. They
jumped up and ordered him to halt. Still not hearing them he
continued on his way. He had taken only a few steps when
he fell dead, riddled by bullets from the negroes' guns and pis-
tols. The murder was so cold-blooded and unprovoked that
the whole community rose in arms. The negroes made their
escape, but the black flag had been raised and from that mo-
ment Davis' state guards were doomed to dogs' deaths wherever
found. None of them was ever arrested for anything he had
done, because when they were found they were wiped out.
They were placed in the same class with snakes, wolves and
other undesirable things and the average white man thought
no more of killing one of them than he could have thought of
killing a snake. I don't know whether it was true or not but
it was currently reported and believed, that after the murder
of Ledbetter not a single member of Davis' negro state guards,
originally about 80 strong, ever died a natural death.
This change of front on the part of the white men had a
salutary effect on the negroes. They became less bold and open,
but the carpetbaggers and scalawags maintained their hold on
them through great political organizations.
The time was now ripe for an organized effort on the part
of the whites and that fact was recognized. One afternoon I
was seated in front of the old Capitol Hotel, where the Rice
Hotel now stands, in company with Colonel Jones, a young
lawyer who had make quite a reputation as a Confederate offi-
cer and soldier; Major Crank, Captain Charley Evans and one
or two others. After a desultory conversation Colonel Jones
asked me abruptly if I believed in white man supremacy. Of
14 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
course my aaswer was in the affirmative. He then asked if
I was willing to take part in a movement to insure white su-
premacy. I told him I was. He then told me that a movement
was on foot to organize the white men and he wanted me to
join the organization. I agreed and on the following Tuesday
night I was initiated in the Texas Klu Klux, though it was
known by a different name. I was the first man initiated, my
number being eleven. There were ten charter members, Colonel
Jones being No. 1, Captain Evans No. 2, Major Clark No. 3 and I
forget the others, but I do remember that the late General
C. C. Beavens was No. 10, but being a strict Catholic the priest
objected to his belonging to a secret society and he never took
part in the organization. Aside from the advantage gained by
making the order as mysterious as possible I could never see
reason for any secrecy, for it was an absolutely lawful associa-
tion, and its members were sworn to do all in their power to
maintain the supremacy of the white men by lawful means
and to restore law and order.
We picked our men and in less than a month we had over
300 members in Houston and the order had extended to nearby
towns. In a month or two the order had gone all over Texas,
and had thousands of members. The idea of profound mystery
was carried out in every way. Members were known only by
numbers, and no written record was ever made or kept. When
investigations were necessary or when any outside work was
to be done no one ever knew who was chosen to do the work
except the general and those who were chosen. Of course the
negroes, loyal leagues and carpetbaggers became greatly excited
when they discovered the existence of our organization and
they made every effort to find out something about us. That
they could not do because there was absolutely nothing to find
out. I belonged to the order from the day of its organization
until it was dissolved and I never knew of an unlawful act
done by it, nor of one done by some over zealous or silly mem-
ber that was not promptly rebuked. The order accomplished
its object the very moment it was organized, for its mere
existence, surrounded as it were with so much mystery, struck
terror to the negro heart and caused their white backers to
pause and take notice. During a small riot and threatened
uprising of the negroes one Sunday morning the old market
bell was tolled in a peculiar way by some unknown person.
Within a few minutes several hundred men armed with shot-
guns and pistols suddenly appeared on Main Street and the
negroes and their white friends disappeared as suddenly. But,
as Kipling says, that is another story, and as it is rather an inter-
esting one, I shall reserve it for another time.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 15
HOOD'S BRIGADE'S MASCOT.
DURING the winter of 1869 I was sitting in the reading
room of the old St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans, when
I saw in a stray copy of the Houston Telegraph the fol-
lowing startling headline:
"DEATH OF JAMES LONGSTREET."
Naturally I supposed that General James Longstreet, the great
Confederate general and the loved and admired leader of the
Texas brigade in Virginia, which brigade was so immediately
under his command, was the 'Longstreet referred to. I read
the article eagerly and was relieved to find that it was the death
of a famous mule rather than that of the famous general that
was chronicled. That mule was famous indeed, for it had the
distinction of being the "mascot" of Hood's Texas Brigade in
the army of Northern Virginia.
Just where Jim Longstreet came from I never knew. All I
know is that Major W. D. Denney, who was commissary of the
brigade, owned him as early as 1862 and that Jim was a con-
spicuous object around the commissary wagons during the four
years of the war. Major Denney was killed at Elthams Landing
the first time the brigade was under fire, on May 7, 1862, and
was succeeded by Major Robert Burns, who fell heir to the
mule and also to a big gray horse owned by Major Denney. I
mention these facts so as to get Jim Longstreet's war record
straight. He shared in the glory of the first battle, though
from a safe distance, and laid down his ears at Appomattox.
Jim was a beautiful animal. He was about the size of a small
Shetland pony, perfectly formed, graceful, quick in his move-
ments and, though by no means lazy, he never did a lick of
work in his life. He was a camp follower in the strictest sense
of the word, and before the war had continued very long he
was considered the very best authority on the nearness of a
fight. At the sound of the first gun Jim would break for the
rear and remain there until the trouble was over. He was a
great forager and would go off alone on private expeditions,
but at the sound of a cannon he would duck his head and make
a bee line for the wagons. His track was about the size of
a silver dollar and was easily recognized, so that it frequently
served as a guide for the two-legged foragers to find camp. Jim
shared in all the hardships through which the army passed, but
they seemed to do him good instead of harm, for he was always
fat and sassy. He was with the brigade when it went to help
Bragg out at Chickamauga and in Tennessee. He followed Lee
to Gettysburg and finally, as already remarked, laid down his
ears at Appomattox. When the end came Major Burns brought
16 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
his gray war horse and Jim to Texas. How he managed to do
it is a mystery, but he did it and late in 1865 he arrived in
Houston with both animals. He presented James Longstreet
to Dick Fuller, whose brother, B. P. Fuller, had been captain
of Company A in the Fifth Texas Regiment.
From the moment Jim became Dick's property his comfort
and ease were assured and he led a life that suited him down
to his toes. He was the personal pet of every boy in town and
from the dignified air he assumed I am confident he felt his
importance and knew how great a mule he was. He had sense
just like folk and had the most cunning ways about him. There
was absolutely nothing vicious about him.
James Longstreet, like many men who did no actual fighting
during the war, never was convinced that the war was over.
For him the war went on for many years after Appomattox.
This was shown in a decided way. James continued his forag-
ing expeditions to the day of his death. He would wander
away and go clear out on the prairie, though he never crossed
the bayou and went into the woods. No matter how far away
he was or what he was doing, if a thunder storm came up he
would duck his head and break for home at the first thunder
clap. He was certain that a fight was about to begin and he
hunted for safety at the discharge of what he thought was the
opening gun of the engagement. When at home a thunder
storm had no effect on him and he paid no attention to the
most terrible crashes, but away from home he was keenly on
the alert.
James Longstreet died in 1869, full of years and honors. He
was given a decent burial, as was befitting his station in life,
and the Houston Telegraph published a column obituary of him,
reciting his many virtues. His record was remarkable- and his
life he made an easy one. He was the pet of the soldiers of
Hood's Brigade four years and the pet of the boys of Houston
during the remaining years of his life, after the war was over.
He lived at peace with himself and the whole world and died
lamented by all who knew him.
* * *
BIG GULLIES IN HOUSTON.
ABOUT the first thing that the Houston and Texas Central
Railroad had to do when that road was begun, was to
build a long trestlework over an immense gully that
lay between the present Grand Central Depot and the old city
graveyard. That gully began about on Houston Avenue and
ran parallel with the track for a block or two and then turned
to the northeast and extended to White Oak Bayou. It has
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 17
since been almost completely filled, though traces of it still
remain.
In the early days Houston was remarkable for its numerous
large gullies. There was one great one that took up rather
more than the lower end of Caroline Street. It was narrower
after reaching Congress Avenue, and gradually narrowed until
it completely disappeared between Prairie and Texas Avenues.
There were two big bridges crossing the gully, one on Franklin
and the other on Congress Avenue. Those were the two prin-
cipal streets used at that time, very few people living south
of Texas Avenue.
But the king gully of all was the one on Rusk Avenue. This
began on Smith Street and before it had gone a block it was
almost a block wide. It became much wider as it neared the
bayou and really got so broad that it was two or three blocks
wide. Both this and the Caroline Street one have been filled
up and now one would never know that they had existed.
One of the famous gullies was that between Texas and Prairie
Avenues. It began on Milam Street about in the middle of the
block and ran down to the bayou. Unlike the other gullies,
this appeared to have been quite ancient, for its banks were
covered with vegetation and free from fresh erosions. Near
where the gully passed Smith Street there was a very large
spring overhung by a large oak tree. I can close my eyes now
and see that spring and the little school of minnows that were
always swimming about in it. I walked down that way a few
days ago and found an immense brick building on a paved street,
40 feet above where that beautiful spring was. I found not a
trace of the gully, it having been filled up and converted into
building lots, all now covered with houses.
There used to be quite a large gully running from Preston
Avenue to the bayou. My earliest recollection of this gully is
of the spring that was at its head, near the southeast corner
of Preston and Louisiana Street. As I recall it this spring was
not much for beauty, though it was large enough to cause a
standing mudhole on Louisiana Street. Going from Preston
towards the bayou this gully widened rapidly and was quite an
obstruction to travel by the time it reached Congress Avenue.
It too has been filled and today not a trace of it remains.
Now, of all the mean and disagreeable gullies that ever existed
anywhere, the big one on Rusk Avenue took the cake. It was
caving constantly and its banks and sides were sticky, red clay.
When it rained, this gully was a place to be avoided. At each
street crossing there was a plank near the bottom of the gully
to enable persons who had to cross to escape the water in the
bottom of the gully. The descent was perilous and ascent
18 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
equally so. Everybody that had any sense went around the
head of the gully, but there were lots of people who preferred
to risk the gully to taking the walk. Of course, none of the
boys had any sense. As a rule they were barefooted and did
not care much whether they got muddy or not. I remember one
evening when a German "pardner" of mine and I got caught by
darkness on the other side of that gully. We had been out on
the San Felipe Road, had stayed too long and were making short
cuts for home. I can look back now and see that we did not
gain much by our short cuts, but then we thought we did and
that counted at the time.
Finally we came to this big gully. I wanted to go around
its head, but my friend would not listen to doing so. He
announced that he was a goat when it came to going down a
muddy gully and told me to watch him and then I would see
how easy it was to do. I watched all right and he found it
much easier to go down than he had anticipated. About the
third step he took, his heels flew up and he started down with
a rush. Just before he reached the narrow plank near the bot-
tom, he succeeded in stopping himself, but the halt was only
for a moment, for the next thing he did was to go head foremost
into the mud and water at the bottom. I could not see him very
distinctly because of the darkness, but you bet I could hear him,
and he was not making a Sunday school address, either. Now
the funny part of the whole thing was that having been whirled
and twisted about so much, he lost his bearings and when he
started to crawl out of the gully, he crawled out on the same
side that he went in. He would dig his hands and feet in the
slippery clay and yell for me to come on, saying that if I did
not hurry up he was going to leave me. He was angry, anyway,
but when he finally reached the top and saw me standing there
and realized what he had done, he nearly had a fit. I wanted
to get home and had no time for a fight, so I refrained from
saying anything to him about being a goat. I knew it would
make him supremely happy if I gave him the least excuse for
starting a war. Finally I started off to head the gulley and he
followed, bringing along with him a surprisingly large quantity
of clay and mud, for which he had no use on earth.
I don't know that there is a single gully left in the city limits,
and there should be none, for of all the useless things on earth
they are the chief. + + +
A SURE THING.
ALL the old Houstonians remember Frank LeMott. He
was born in New York, but he claims to be from the
old Huguenot family of that name, who originally set-
tled in South Carolina. Frank is very proud of the blue blood
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 19
in his veins, and claims that he is the only black sheep in
the family. He also claims that he was a black sheep for a
time only, and he is perfectly correct in saying that, as for many
years past he has been as staid and circumspect as any Presby-
terian deacon could be.
When Colonel Abe Gentry was building the Texas and New
Orleans Railroad, he went to New York and met Frank, then
a mere boy. He liked him so well that he induced him to come
to Houston with him, took him to his home and made him one
of his family. It was not long after his arrival here when the
war broke out. Frank took the side of the South and when
Captain Ike Stafford raised his cavalry company to go down
on the Rio Grande, the first company raised in Houston, Frank
joined it. He served four years in the Confederate army, and
was with Baylor, Ford and all of the others in West Texas,
New Mexico and Arizona.
When the war closed Frank found himself without home or
employment and, what was worse, he had formed tastes that
made him a wanderer and largely an adventurer. His career
as a soldier had been just at that formative stage in his life
when it stamped itself on his character and he could not stand
the humdrum routine of everyday civil life.
He wanted excitement, and since he could not get that in war
he took the next best thing and became a gambler. I would
not refer to this at all were it not for the fact that he reformed
many years ago and is now and has been for half a generation
one of the most reputable and highly esteemed citizens of Gal-
veston.
He is a superb raconteur, has had a wonderful experience,
and it is a great treat to hear him relate some of his adven-
tures. His stories are all good, but one ,is inclined to think the
last one he tells is the best of all. When he gets deeply inter-
ested in what he is telling he is apt to lapse into the gambler's
habit of speaking of everything in the present tense. Here is
one of his best stories. He and I were talking about "sure
things" one day.
"Don't you fool yourself," said he; "there are no such things
as 'sure things.' I know, because I have had experience with
them. Why, once I had such a 'sure thing' it was too dead to
skin. The funny part about it is that it worked perfectly, too,
but I don't press my luck working it but that one time.
"I'm over in Gonzales, where there is a big horse race meet-
ing going on. There are lots of cowmen there, and they all have
big money and they bet it free, too. The first night I got there
I went against faro bank and dropped my roll. That didn't
bother me much, because I knew I could get a stake from some
20 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
of the boys next day. I went to my room and got to thinking
about the races. Everybody was betting so free and easy that
I saw a good killing could be made if I could hatch up a scheme.
Before long a plan suggested itself to me. The Devil helped me,
and before I went to bed I had one of the 'surest-sure things'
that any sport ever got his claws onto.
"The next morning I tapped one of the boys for a stake. He
was not very strong, having only .$80, but he split that with me.
It was not much, but I was satisfied, for my 'sure thing' was so
good that all I wanted was to get my first bet down and it would
work itself after that.
"I got out to the race track early so as to size up the crowd.
There was a big bunch of redhot sports there and they were
all howling to get their money down on a big horse that was a
favorite at 2 to 1. I didn't make any bets, but just walked
around looking for the right man to help me out. Finally I
found him. He was a long, lanky fellow and had only one arm.
I took him off on one side and interrogated him.
"Sawmill or gin?" said I, pointing to his absent arm.
" 'Army,' says he.
"Infantry or cavalry?" says I.
" 'Infantry,' says he.
"Then you ought to be able to walk like hell," said I.
" 'I can,' said he.
"I saw he was a man of few words and determined to trust
him. Then I unfolded my plan to him. It was simple. I would
make a bet and he would hold stakes. He would slip the money
back to me and I would bet it all again. When the horses got
started good he was to slip over the hill and meet me next day
in Seguin and we would divide up.
"He agreed and I went out to slaughter 'em. I saw a sport
waving a big bunch of bills he wanted to get down on the 4-
year-old that was the favorite at 2 to 1. I took him promptly,
he putting up $80 against my $40. I remarked that I was a
stranger and looked around for somebody to hold the stakes.
'Here's the right man,' I said; 'he hasn't got but one arm and we
can know him easy.' The sport agrees and the one-armed man
gets the money and then slips it back to me and I puts the $120
against $250 another sport is howling to get rid of, and my one-
armed man holds stakes again.
"I don't know how many times I bet that roll. Finally the
sports conclude from my betting so freely that I know something
against the 4-year-old and I can't get any more bets. Then I
force things and give odds against him anything to get action
on my money. Before the race started I had the whole bunch
bet to a standstill. Finally the race started. Everybody is
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 21
watching the horses except me. I'm watching my one-armed
man, and I don't breathe easy until I see his head disappear
over the hill. Of course I'm prepared to help the gang raise
hell over the stakeholder getting away with the money, but
there ain't any hell raised. A little flea-bitten gray mare, ridden
by a nigger, comes under the wire a length ahead of the 4-
year-old.
"I'm crazy. I've bankrupted West Texas, and I break over the
hill after my one-armed man. But I don't find him, for he sure
tells the truth when he says he can walk like hell. I search
the county for him that evening, but I don't find him. The next
day I go over to Seguin, but he ain't there. I wait there two
days, but he never did show up, and he must be going yet, for
I have never seen him since his head went over the hill.
"That's the surest thing I ever had, and you see a plumb
outsider got away with all its fruit.
"There are two things," said Frank in concluding his story,
"that have worried me ever since. One is trying to figure how
much money I beat those sports out of, and the other is how
anybody could have acted as dishonest as that one-armed man
did."
* * *
A COMPANY OF GAMBLERS.
EVERYBODY knows how scarce Confederate soldiers were
in the South toward the latter part of 1863. As some
wit expressed it, Jefferson Davis had robbed the cradle
and the grave and was almost tempted to call out the cavalry.
It is needless to say that the wit belonged to some other branch
of service than cavalry. Texas was the only Southern state
on whose soil the federal troops had not succeeded in making a
permanent foothold. The naval and military forces had been
driven off by Magruder at Galveston; the invading force of
Banks had been defeated at Sabine Pass by Dick Dowling, and
Banks' Red River campaign had resulted only in making large,
though involuntary, contribution of food, clothing and ammuni-
tion to the Confederates who opposed him.
An<J yet with all this pressing need for men at the front there
were hundreds upon hundreds of able-bodied men in Houston,
the headquarters of General Magruder, who commanded the
Trans-Mississippi department. There were blockade runners,
cotton exporters and hundreds of others who, on one pretext or
another, secured immunity from military service. Then, too,
there were scores of gamblers. Haw these latter escaped the
conscript officers no one knew, but they did and they lived on
the fat of the land, too.
22 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
At that time there was an old gentleman, a distinguished
criminal lawyer, living in Houston. He was eager to go to the
front and had almost evaded his friends and succeeded in doing
so on one or two occasions. Of course, being a criminal lawyer,
who almost invariably won his cases, he was vastly popular
with the gambling fraternity and it was principally they who
raised such a strenuous objection to his risking his valuable
life on the field of battle.
One night the judge had an inspiration. He thought of a plan
by which he could not only get to the front himself, but could
take all his troublesome friends with him. He would organize
an independent cavalry company; make every man furnish his
own equipment and would thus be in position to choose his own
men. He knew that no others than the gamblers could stand
the expense, so he determined to get his recruits from among
them only.
The next morning he called at General Magruder's headquar-
ters; outlined his scheme and, of course, readily received the
authority to carry out his plan. The judge knew how futile
it would be to appeal to the gamblers on grounds of patriotism,
and he did not try to do so. He sent for two or three of the
leaders and told them that he had just left Magruder's head-
quarters and that an order would be issued in a day or two
revoking all exemptions from military service and all special
privileges. He pointed out to them that since they would have
to go in the army anyway, they might as well go of their own
accord and thus be able to choose the branch of service they
would prefer to belong to. He then told them that he had
secured from Magruder authority to raise an independent cav-
alry company; that he, the judge, would be captain, but that the
men could elect all the other officers and that Magruder had
promised to confirm them.
The plan was instantly endorsed and before night about 80
men were enrolled, officers were elected and the work of secur-
ing equipments was begun.
The only delay was occasioned by their inability to secure
things fine enough. The best and showiest horses and bridles
and silver and gold mounted six-shooters were secured and
within a week everything was in readiness.
As already stated, there were no Federals in Texas at that
time. So after this fine company was organized it had every-
thing requisite for a brilliant victory except the enemy to win
it from. In this dilemma they took Horace Greeley's advice and
went West. Their first halt was at Velasco, where they saw
two or three Federal gunboats lying off the mouth of the river
hoping to pick up blockade runners. There was nothing to be
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 23
done there, so they moved on and finally reached Matagorda Bay.
Here they halted to rest for awhile and it was here that they
had the time of their lives.
Their camp was about four miles from the gulf in a liveoak
grove and they rode out every day over the prairie and down
to the water front. A favorite excursion was far out on a penin-
sula that extended obliquely into the gulf. Occasionally a Fed-
eral gunboat would pass, always too far out to notice them, but
it made them feel better to know that there were enemies about
even if they were so far away.
One day the company concluded to have a big oyster roast out
on the peninsula. So early in the morning they rode out to
its end, where the grass was most plentiful, hobbled their horses,
returned to the oyster bed and began operations. The oysters
were on the bayside, so their backs were to the gulf and the
view in that direction was further obstructed by high grass and
shell banks. Some of them waded in the water and threw out
the oysters, while others built fires or dug trenches in which
to roast them. It was a hot and sultry day, and as they took
their time, it was fully 10 o'clock before the feast was ready.
A few black clouds had piled up in the west and thunder was
to be expected, but the clap that came fairly drove every thought
of oysters from their minds and nearly paralyzed them. It
struck about half way between them and the main land, and
pieces of it bounded off and went kicking up the water of the
bay every three or four hundred yards for over a mile. They
sprang up the bank as one man, and saw to their horror a
Federal gunboat about a mile off shore and realized that they
were about to receive their baptism of fire. Their first thought
was to make for their horses, but a glance in that direction told
them that the attempt was useless, for there before their eyes
was a boatful of bluecoats nearing shore rapidly. Their plight
was pitiful, for as every old soldier knows, bombshells frighten
an infantryman, the rattle of minie balls among the spokes of
his guns scares an artilleryman, while if you get a cavalryman
away from his horse any and everything scares him.
To say that they hesitated would be a gross exaggeration.
There was no hesitation. They faced the main land and fled,
their valorous captain fulfilling the promise he had made at their
organization by working far in the lead. The Federals behind
them had now landed, and being within long range, opened fire
with their muskets, while the gunboat sent a six or twelve-pound
shell over their heads every few minutes. Their pace was
fearful from the first, but it was sloth itself compared to the
move they got on themselves when they discovered another boat
loaded with marines trying to head them off. The peninsula
24 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
was joined to the main land by a narrow neck of land with rather
deep water on each side, so it was simply a question of beating
the boat there or throwing up the sponge. However, in the
language of Mark Twain's cowboy they "seen their duty and
they done it." They beat the boat to the point by a neck and
passed it gloriously, their pace being accelerated at the critical
moment by the explosion of a big shell over their heads and a
brisk fire from the marines in the boat, who now, realizing that
they had lost, concluded to get an extra spurt or two from the
land side of the race.
The main land was reached, but there was that broad prairie,
and for at least two miles the noble band would be within
reach of the guns of the gunboat. Shells began falling in front,
behind and all around them. There was no abatement of the
pace. It was a mad, headlong plunge forward, a mad desire to
get anywhere, anywhere out of reach of the shells. Finally the
shells ceased to fall, but the mad rush continued until an old
deserted house on the prairie was reached. Here the gallant
men fell in a heap and attempted to catch their breaths and to
still their throbbing hearts.
After awhile, one by one, they succeeded in crawling into the
deserted house and lay there panting, bathed in perspiration,
but silently congratulating themselves on their escape. The cap-
tain, a very large and fleshy man, was three-fourths dead, but
after an hour or two regained sufficient energy to sit up and then
announced that he would go upstairs and see if the gunboat had
gone. The others sat or lay around too utterly played out to
take the slightest interest in the matter or care whether it had
gone or not so long as they were out of range.
A few moments after the captain had gone there was a tre-
mendous crash as if the side of the house had been crushed in
by a shell. Th'ere was but one thought the gunboat had re-
turned, had got the range of the house and had plugged it the
first time. That thought cost the old house its front door for
there was not room for the whole crowd to get out at once as
they tried to do. Part of the old fence was swept away, too, as
they, swerving neither to the right nor to the left, made a bee-
line for their camp in the live oak grove in the distance. It was
another mad rush with the devil take the hindmost for several
hundred yards, when, hearing no more shells, one of the boldest
slackened his pace and then others, emboldened by his example,
slowed down until they all came to a dog trot. Now, for the
first time they thought of their captain and noticed his absence.
A council of war was held, which resulted in a determination
to return and bear away his mangled remains, for there was no
doubt among them that the shell had found a shining mark in
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 25
his manly form. Slowly they wended their way back and when
within long earshot they were startled by an unearthly rapping
and kicking, mingled with smothered oaths and maledictions.
There could be no mistake about that voice. It was that of their
captain and he was very much alive and evidently very much
enraged. They hurried round the house and found to their
amazement that the sounds came from the inside of an immense
wooden cistern. Yes, their captain was safe and not a mangled
corpse as they feared. He was very much alive though a pris-
oner. They fished him out after a great deal of trouble and then
learned the truth. He had gone to the second story to get a
good view of the gulf and had incautiously crawled out on what
he thought was a shed but which proved to be the top of a cis-
tern. This being old and decayed had given way with the great
crash that had stampeded the company, and he had been preci-
pitated to the bottom. Fortunately there was no water in the
cistern so the consequences were by no means disastrous.
About ten days later a train of dilapidated cars, drawn by a
squawking engine, drew into Houston from Brazoria. After all
the passengers had gone, the captain of the great independent
company of Texas rangers and two or three comrades slipped
off the step of the last coach and sneaked down a side street.
The next evening other members of the company did the same
thing and within a week they were all back and following their
usual vocations just as though nothing out of the ordinary had
ever happened.
How the judge ever explained Magruder's not issuing that
order, the fear of which had caused the gamblers to fall such
easy victims, was never known. The fact that every member
of the company was strictly on the defensive no doubt helped
him out of the difficulty.
* * *
AN ENCOUNTER WITH A CAMEL.
MONDAY when the circus was here I saw an old
horse hitched to a buggy making a fool of himself
because there were two or three elephants march-
ing up Main Street. Now if it had been camels instead
of elephants there might have been some excuse for that
old horse, for, as everybody knows, horses dread camels
as the devil dreads holy water. An explanation of this fact
is given in an old story to the effect that when God made animals
He made a horse among the last. He told the horse that he
should be man's servant and be a beast of burden. At that the
horse thought he would make some suggestions and said that if
26 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
man were going to ride on his back he should have a natural
saddle. God knew what he was doing and, just to show the horse
the absurdity of his suggestion, He made a camel and placed it
in front of the horse. The horse took one look at the horrible
figure and then took to his heels. Since that day, the story con-
cludes, the horse has never been able to come near a camel with-
out having the most abject terror and fear.
Now, I don't know whether there is a word of truth in that
whole story, except the concluding part, but I know that you
can't get any horse to associate with a camel under any circum-
stances. I once had a very vivid demonstration of the truth
of that. In 1871 Dr. Charley Owens and I went down to Galves-
ton on a pleasure trip. There were no street cars then, as now,
by which to reach the beach, so we went round to Gregory's
stable and hired a horse and buggy. The buggy was a brand
new one, but the horse was evidently second, or even third
hand.
We drove out Tremont Street to the beach and by the time
we got there we were pretty well worn out beating on that horse.
We could not get him to go faster than a slow trot. Charley
was for turning back and making the man give us another
horse, but I talked him out of it, telling him that on the beach
the drive would be better and probably we would get more
speed out of the horse. My prediction proved to be true, for
after we got on the hard sand of the beach the old chap showed
marked improvement.
After a short drive we returned and went to Schmidt's Gar-
den for some refreshments. As soon as we got out of the
buggy the old horse fell fast asleep, so Charley said there was
no use to tie him, and there was not, for he slept profoundly
during the whole time we were in the garden. We came out
finally and, without awakening the horse; Charley and I got in
the buggy, intending to play a joke on him and wake him up
with the whip after we got well settled. But our joke was
spoiled, for just as Charley gathered up the reins and I
gathered up the whip a lot of boys came up behind
us, making such a noise that they actually awoke that old
plug, and he turned his head to see what was the
matter. We did the same thing, and saw waddling toward
us one of the largest and ugliest camels on earth. He was
right up on us before we knew it. The effect on that horse
was magical. I have thought over what he did a thousand
times, but I am no nearer being able to explain it than I was
then. I don't know how he did it, but he raised his left hind
leg slowly and carefully and poked his foot right in our faces
without touching the dashboard. It was an uncanny thing to
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 27
do, for he kept his other three feet on the ground. He kept
that left foot right under our noses for the fraction of a second,
and then he took it down. When he did so he took the dash-
board and nearly all the front part of the buggy with it. There
was nothing dignified or deliberate about the way he got him-
self together. There was a high board fence across the street
that some billposter had erected to paste bills on. There was
lots of room on both sides of that billboard, for it was all
vacant land out there then. But that old horse must have got-
ten a whiff of the camel's odor, which drove all the little sense
he had left clean out of him, for he actually made three at-
tempts to climb over that fence.
After the third attempt, he looked over his shoulder and see-
ing the camel between him and town, he turned and headed
for the Gulf of Mexico at a frightful speed. I heard an awful
flapping, but could not see anything because the horse raised
such a dense cloud of dust that we could scarcely breathe.
When we struck the hard beach I discovered that he had gotten
his foot through the remnants of the dashboard and that it fitted
his leg like a bracelet. While the horse was trying to climb
the billboard, I got a glimpse at the camel, and as scared as I
was I could not help wondering at the little interest he took in
the performance of our horse. He did not smile nor show the
slightest interest in the performance of our plug, though he
himself was causing all the trouble.
By the most strenuous effort Charley succeeded in turning
the horse just as he reached the water's edge and headed him
down the beach toward Tremont Street. It was Charley's inten-
tion to turn him into Tremont Street, where the sand was very
deep, and thus stop his mad career. There was a big sand fort
that had been erected at the foot of Tremont Street during the
war and this shut off our view in that direction, so we did not
see what was coming. Just as Charley began to work the old
horse round so as to head him into Tremont Street, right there
in front of us and not 50 yards away, two big elephants and
three more camels came waddling out from behind the fort
and headed right for us.
Charley and I abandoned hope at once, but our horse did bet-
ter than that, for he abandoned everything. He squatted down
on the ground, coming to a sudden halt, and actually groaned
with terror. When he did that the buggy rolled up on him.
That must have been just what he wanted, for the next moment
he shot all four feet back at us and smashed everything free
from himself. Then he turned and if the Old Boy and all his
fiends had been behind him he could not have gotten away more
28 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
quickly. He was there one moment and out of sight down the
beach the next.
Charley and I had a long walk back to town. We threatened
to sue the stableman for damages and he threatened to sue us,
but finally concluded he had a better case against the circus
people, who had just come to town. He finally fixed it up with
them and aside from our long walk Charley and I experienced no
further inconvenience from our contact with a mixture of Texas-
raised horse and camels and elephants.
Being of an inquisitive mind and ever on the lookout for
explanations of common things, I learned something that day. I
had heard all my life about the fleetness and running qualities
of the Arabian steed. I found the solution of the problem that
day. They have camels in Arabia and the horses over there are
so in the habit of running away from them and have been doing
so for so many generations that it has grown to be part of their
natures. If we had a few camels to stir our horses up for a
generation or two, judging by the speed our old plug developed
that day, our mustangs would have the Arabian steeds looking
like 30 cents before long.
A DOUBLE-ACTION GHOST.
THE other night at the Press Club one of the members t61d
about being nearly scared to death one night while pass-
ing a graveyard by an old white horse. The horse was
simply grazing about among the tombstones, but he was white,
was moving, and was in the graveyard. That combination could
not be resisted and the story-teller left precipitately.
The story reminded me of an incident that happened a long
time ago and of which I had not thought for years. A big crowd
of us went fishing over on White Oak Bayou. The fish began
biting late in the afternoon and it was nearly dark before we
thought of leaving for home. May Stanley and I left before the
others and hurried, too, because we did not care to pass the old
city graveyard after dark.
When we got to the graveyard May suggested that we stop
and play a trick on the other boys. I did not want to linger in
that locality a single moment, but he persuaded me to stay and
see the fun. There was an old brick, one-story house used as
the city powder house, located near the far end of the grave-
yard, near the bank of the bayou.
The boys would have to come close past this place, so May
set his trap there. He took off his white shirt and rigged it
up on a stick so that when he stood up it looked like a man
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 29
six or seven feet high. He took his stand or rather his squat
behind the house and we waited for the boys to come. Soon we
heard voices and thought the boys were coming.
I had become interested in the game by now and moved off
down the fence so as to give the crowd a second shock as they
passed me. Just as the voices drew near, I chanced to glance
over in the graveyard and my blood grew cold, for there rapidly
advancing right down on May was a great big white thing.
"Look behind you, May!" I yelled, and May looked. When
he saw what was coming he let out a yell one could hear for
a mile, and tore out from behind the house with his white scare-
crow held aloft. He emerged at just what the scientists call the
psychological moment, for his charge was made just in time to
bring him face to face with, not the boys, but two negroes who
were on their way to town.
The negroes were too scared to yell. They gave sharp grunts
like two frightened hogs and the next moment dashed down
the hill and fairly split the bayou wide open in their haste to
get across. May was too badly scared to realize what he was
doing or what was happening. He knew that something terrible
was behind him and coming face to face with two negro men
instead of the boys he expected added to his confusion.
He did not realize that he himself had scared the negroes,
but thought that they, too, had seen the ghost and were leaving
for anywhere to get away from there. He dropped his shirt
and tore off through the woods in the direction of where Schnei-
der's swimming hole was afterwards located.
I was too scared to run or to do anything but stand and gasp.
However, I soon found out that the ghost was only a big white
dog, presumably on his way home and taking the nearest way
through the graveyard. I yelled to May and tried to stop him,
but he was too frightened to hear me and kept going.
Not caring to stay near the graveyard alone and hating to pass
it by myself as I would have to do, I took after May. I did not
catch up with him until we reached a point near where the
Grand Central depot is now located. He was completely out
of breath and was panting like a dog.
I did not want to do so, but I offered to go back with him to
get his shirt, but he swore that he would not go back there again
for a thousand shirts. The other boys had heard the yells and
when they came to the scene of the disaster they found May's
shirt and brought it along to him.
May swore that he would not have become so demoralized
if he had not have been thinking of a fellow who had committed
suicide a week or two before right back of the powder house.
May said that he was thinking what he would do if that suicide
30 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
should appear suddenly when I called out to him to look behind
him and he naturally concluded that the fellow had come sure
enough.
What the negroes thought or said we never knew, for we never
heard of them again. I'll bet that to their dying day they
thought and swore that they had come face to face with that
man who had killed himself near the old powder house.
All that part of town is thickly settled now and the old grave-
yard is almost obliterated and totally neglected. At the time
I speak of, the graveyard was away out of town and there was
a dense forest of pine and oak trees surrounding it. The bayou
too was a large stream, and not the dried up dirty ditch it has
since become. The setting for the play was perfect and the
advent of the dog pulled it off to perfection.
DICK FULLER AND THE PROFESSOR.
IN THE early seventies Dick Fuller returned home from
college, having acquired at that seat of learning, in addition
to a smattering of Latin, Greek and mathematics, some-
thing of an expert's knowledge of the games of billiards, pin
pool and the use of a shotgun. He was and still is a famous
shot and delights in hunting.
About the same time there visited Houston one. of the most
distinguished educators from an Eastern college. This was a
gentleman who was every inch a "Southern gentleman," and a
man who by his fine "mixing" qualities soon became widely
known and respected by all who knew him. The professor was
at heart one of the boys, and being far from his base of opera-
tion and out on a vacation, he relaxed and went in for all the
good things in sight. He was no mean hand with a billiard cue
and it was in that way that he and Dick became familiar. The
truth is that Dick captured the professor by turning his own
guns on him. The professor commented on Dick's bald head
and was taken off his heels when Dick came back at him with
a quotation from one of the Latin classics, proving that hairy
animals are always the most stupid. The professor appreciated
the novelty of hearing a Texas youth quote Latin so glibly and
a friendship between the two began and lasted until the pro-
fessor's unwilling departure. Had Dick been ambitious to secure
letters of the alphabet to go behind his name, I am certain that
all he had to do at that time was to follow the professor to his
particular college and he could have become a "doctor" of any-
thing he chose.
After the professor had been here a week or two he asked
Dick to take him out shooting. It was August and prairie
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 31
chickens were "ripe," so Dick gladly agreed to the proposition.
The next morning by daylight the two were out on the prairie
by Pierce Junction. But I suspect I had best let Dick tell the
story of the actual hunt.
"When the professor came down out of the hotel to get in
the buggy I scarcely recognized him. He wore a little skull
cap and had on a canvas hunting jacket that was nothing but
pockets. He had on knee breeches and high laced shoes and
was the breathing picture of those photographs you see of kings
and dukes in the magazines. He had a little shotgun swung
over his shoulder and a big belt full of cartridges. His uniform
must have weighed fifty pounds at least, and it was August, too,
when I wanted to hunt in my shirt-tail. Well, the professor
said nothing about taking a drink, but I could smell whiskey
mighty plain, so I knew he had made his peace before coming
down.
"The old fellow was very dignified and very silent all the way
out. He seemed to be thinking of something and, like that
famous race horse, he did not seem to have his mind on his
business. We started in with luck, for we started a drove of
chickens just across Brays Bayou and I got two. After I started
to drive on I smelt that whiskey again, though I saw no signs
of it. When we got to Pierce Junction we got out and soon got
in among lots of prairie chickens. The sport was fine, for after
flushing they would fly only a short way and come down again.
I yelled to the professor to come on, but he stood like a post
in the prairie with his gun over his arm, and did not pretend
to take any part in the sport. I gathered up my birds, and going
to him, I rammed them in his big pockets. It was the funniest
thing I ever saw. He did not notice me but stood there gazing
off in the distance. I concluded that some great problem had
come to him and that it had so absorbed his mind that he was
oblivious to everything else and did not know what was going on.
"Finally I killed two more chickens and when I got to the
professor to put them in his pockets he looked at me in a far-
away manner and said: 'Dick, why are you discharging that
fowling piece so often? I see nothing to cause such a fusillade.'
When I told him I was killing chickens he would not believe me
and I had to pull them out of his pockets and show them to
him. When I did so I dislodged a quart bottle of whiskey, half
empty, and discovered the truth. The professor was as drunk
as a monkey. It was no common drunk, either, but it was a real
professorial drunk with all the dignity of his high position
thrown in. I have seen lots of various kinds of drunks, but
that was the first time I recognized the genuine article from
which the name 'Stone, stiff drunk' came. The professor could
32 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
do nothing but look. It scared me at first, but I got him in
the buggy and drove back to town, took him to the hotel and
had him put to bed.
"The strange part of the whole thing is that the professor
never knew a thing about going hunting. The next day when
I met him he said: 'You rascal, you promised to take me hunt-
ing yesterday and never showed up.' I tried to convince him
that he had been out with me, but had to give it up. Finally I
saw it worried him, so I dropped the subject. I left half the
chickens at the hotel for him but I don't know whatever became
of them."
* * *
EVERYBODY IS AFRAID OF GHOSTS.
I DON'T care who he is, where he comes from or what he does,
when I hear a man say he is not afraid of ghosts, I simply
do not believe him. I will not go so far as to say that
I think he is lying, but I will say that I think he is self-deceived
and talks that way because he has never been tested and does
not know whether he is afraid of them or not. There is a cer-
tain amount of latent superstition in every man, which is as
much a part of his general make-up as is the color of his hair.
This superstition may lie dormant throughout his entire life, just
the same, and will spring into activity on the first favorable
opportunity.
About the most material, hard-headed man I ever knew was
Tobe Mitchell, who was managing editor of the Houston Post in
1883. He hooted at the very idea of haunted houses, ghosts and
all those sort of things, and expressed a great desire to spend
a night in a so-called haunted house I had told him about. I
sat down and gave him a detailed and. truthful account of what
had happened to me, and when he found that he was to neither
see nor hear anything, and was simply going to feel that the
room was full of ghosts, all anxious to catch him off his guard
so they could nab him, he backed out ignominously. He still
swore the whole thing was a lot of rot, but he absolutely re-
fused to enter the room after I had made all the arrangements
for him to occupy it. My story got on his nerves and brought
out all the latent superstition he had in him. It was all there,
though he knew nothing of its existence. If he was not afraid
of ghosts, why did he back out?
Now, what made me think of ghosts at all was the fact that
Sunday I took a walk out through Sam Houston Park, and
while there I thought of an old single-story, two-room brick
building that stood for years in front of the old Nobles residence
on San Felipe Street or rather road. Just when that old build-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 33
ing was put up I never heard. It must have been at a very
early period in Houston's history, or else it must have been
constructed of very inferior material, for when I first became
acquainted with it, in the late fifties, it was almost a ruin,
having one side almost completely demolished and the other not
much better.
The truth of the adage about giving a dog a bad name was
never better exemplified than in that old building. For no cause
on earth some one started a report that the house was haunted.
All specific information and all details were wanting, and yet in
an incredibly short time you could not get a negro or a boy in
Houston to go near that house after dark. I link the negroes and
boys together in the preceding paragraph, for when it came to
believing in ghosts or any other superstition they were in a class
peculiarly their own.
Now, there was an exception to this fear of ghosts in the per-
son of John Steel, son of the man who afterward killed Colonel
Kirby of Hempstead. John was a great big, healthy boy, and
was as game as a gamecock. He was not afraid of anything,
living or dead, and talked so contemptuously about our haunted
house that it made us angry. Finally Charley Gentry bet him
five dollars that he would not go into that house and remain
there until daylight alone. There were some other conditions,
among them being that John should read a certain book. How
I remember that book! It was called "The Night Side of Na-
ture," and was a compilation of the most horrible ghost stories,
all sworn to and authenticated. I borrowed it afterward, but
took care to read it only in the daytime.
John agreed to everything, and when the fatal night came we
escorted him to the house, avoiding the Episcopal graveyard in
doing so. We had an old chair for him to sit on and left him
three candles. He was really the only cool and indifferent boy
in the crowd.
We went off and hid among some coffee bean weeds near the
side of the road and watched for developments. We could see
the light shining through the cracks in the door and also in the
wall of the old house. We waited and waited, but nothing hap-
pened. One of the boys crept up and peeped in and came back
and reported that John was sitting there reading and smoking
a pipe, "just like old folks."
Charley Gentry began to get anxious about his five-dollar bet,
and realized that something had to be done. Finally he an-
nounced that if anybody would go with him he would get some-
thing that would move John out of that house in a hurry.
One of the boys volunteered and they left. They were gone a
long time, and when they returned we all realized that some-
34 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
thing was going to happen sure enough. Charley had gone to Dr.
Robinson's office and stolen a skull. It was a horrible looking
skull, too. It had no lower jaw, but .was well supplied with
upper teeth, with only one or two missing ones, which added
to its outrageous appearance. Charley had gotten a big news-
paper, to do duty as a sheet. He decorated a pole with the
paper and then stuck the skull on the end of the pole. It was
about the scariest thing I ever saw. One of the boys slipped
up and took a look at John. He found him as quiet and well
satisfied as ever, and so reported to us. Charley was a bit
anxious about being alone in the dark with that skull, so he
asked one or two of us to go with him to the house. I went
and took a stand on one side of the house, where I could see
everything that happened. There was a big window at one end
of the room in which John was, and Charley sneaked up to this
window very carefully. Then he gave an awful groan, scraped
the skull along the side of the house and poked it right in the
window, which had no glass in it.
I knew what the thing was, of course, but I swear I came
near running when I saw that skull come through the window.
It was simply awful. John took one look and then Charley
realized that he had won his bet, for things began to happen.
John leaped to his feet with a cry like a wild bull. He turned
over his chair and knocked the candle over, leaving the place
in darkness. The next moment he was out of the door, carrying
it and part of the frame with him. When he got outside he
headed for town and the boys hidden in the weeds said that it
sounded like a drove of army mules when he passed them. They
yelled at him, but that simply added to his speed, if that were
possible.
We did not see anything of him for several days, and the queer
thing was that, although Charley Gentry had won the five dol-
lars, he was afraid to ask John for the money. John swore
that if ever he found out who did it he would kill the fellow
who poked "that dead man in on him."
Now, if anyone doubts the potency of a skull stuck on the end
of a pole, let him stick one in the door or window of a non-
believer in ghosts about midnight, and if he does not get good
action I stand prepared to eat the skull. I believe even a dead
man would get up and leave the room.
* * *
PLENTY OF ACTION BUT NO GAME.
A FEW days ago I was over at the Grand Central Depot
when the Houston and Texas Central train came in and
several hunters got off with well-filled game bags. The
sight made me think of a/ hunt I once took out on that road. Hock-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 35
ley was a famous place at that time for duck shooting. Captain
John Warren had the eating house at Hockley, and, being a great
hunter himself, he always had parties from over the state visit-
ing him. The captain had been a game-keeper in England be-
fore he came to this country and what he did not know about
guns, dogs and anything pertaining to hunting was not worth
knowing. He was rather stiff and offish at first acquaintance,
but would thaw out soon and then he was a most delightful
companion.
Dr. Alva Connell and I had an office on Texas Avenue right
back of where the Binz building now stands, and as neither of
us had a patient we concluded to go up to Hockley and have
some fun shooting ducks. We sent a boy over to the depot
with our guns and traps, and, sticking up a notice reading,
"Called out of town on professional business. Will return to-
morrow or next day," we followed the boy and were soon on our
way to Hockley.
That was in the early 70's and it had been raining for weeks,
so we knew there would be plenty of water and consequently
plenty of ducks. We arrived at Hockley about 4 o'clock in the
afternoon and called on Captain Warren as soon as we got
there. He sized us up as two dudes and seemed to be rather
afraid of us. He hesitated a long time about letting us have
a rig, but finally consented to do so. I don't think he would
have done so at all if Connell had not mentioned my grand-
father, who was paymaster of the Central at that time. Having
secured the rig, which was a two-wheeled gig, and Connell
having negotiated successfully for a pony, the captain very re-
luctantly consented to lend us his dog. Now this dog was of
royal descent and had better blood in his veins, in Captain War-
ren's opinion, than had any member of the royal family.
The captain gave us the most minute instructions about how
to treat the dog and said he would not have anything happen
to him for any money. The dog seemed to mistrust us as much
as the captain did, for when we got ready to start he would
not follow us at all. Then the captain got a rope and hitched
the dog on behind my gig and we started off in great shape.
The captain directed us where to go and we crossed the rail-
road track and set off across the prairie.
When we were about two miles out several snipe, showing
the utmost contempt for 'us and our guns, settled down on the
prairie not 20 feet from where we were. Connell jumped off
his horse and, handing me the bridle, began to* advance on the
snipe. Just as he got by my horse's head the snipe flew up
and Connell fired at them. Up to that point I had been using
the whip on the horse to make him go at all. Now his whole
36 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
character changed, as if by magic. He gave one mighty leap
at the. crack of that gun and spilled everything but me out of
the gig. It was the funniest leap you ever saw. He went
fully 20 feet and when he lit he came down on his hind legs
and ran 20 feet further on- his hind legs just like folks. Then
he made a mighty plunge, lowering his head just as if he were
going to turn a somersault. When he did that he snapped one
of the reins off close to the bit. Evidently thinking that he was
free, he began a series of the most disgraceful antics, and at
times I really believe he thought of getting in the gig with me
and riding home. His conduct was scandalous. Then he sud-
denly changed his mind, gave up his circus performance and
bolted in dead earnest.
There was water and mud everywhere, and he threw up tons
of both, it seemed to me, at every plunge he made. If the
concern had had four wheels he would have smashed up things
and made his' escape, but being a two-wheel concern it could
turn as rapidly as he, and did so. When he settled down to
ever running I began to pull on the one rein, for I did not want
to run clear out of the county and leave Connell there. His
horse made a bee-line for home the moment he found himself
loose.
My horse completed one of the most graceful curves that was
ever made on that prairie and was just beginning to make
another near where we had started when some ducks flew
over, and Connell took a shot at them. That settled everything.
My horse became absolutely frantic. He whirled round first to
the right and then, changing his mind when he found himself
facing Connell and his gun, he gave a mighty leap, and it seemed
to me, in two different directions at the same time. The result
was that I was thrown out of the gig into a mass of mud and
water, and the horse was free. There was a terrible splashing
of water and mud as that horse passed me. He had the gall
to take a good look at me before leaving for good and I fancied
I could see him grinning. The next moment he was headed for
Hockley at a gait that would have won him fame and renown
had he been on a race track. As he departed I made a horrible
discovery. There was that thousand-dollar dog of the captain's
tied fast behind a gig being dragged at an incredible speed
through mud and water, right into the captain's presence. Con-
nell and I got together and held a consultation. We watched
the horse and dog approach Hockley and to our consternation,
just as they got to the railroad crossing a freight train blew
its whistle and that fool horse took fresh fright. Instead of
stopping at home, as he evidently intended doing at first, he
took a fresh start, passed clear through the town and the last
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 37
we saw of him he was trying to make his way into the next
county north of Hockley. Connell and I started to walk to
Cypress, stay there all night and ca'tch the morning train into
Houston, but the mud and water conquered even our fear of
Captain Warren, so we trudged back to Hockley.
We found the captain so mad he could hardly talk, but for-
tunately the dog had sustained no serious injury. He was a
sight, though, and if we had dared to do so we would have had
a good laugh at him. He was such a mass of mud that you
could not tell whether he was a dog, calf or what he was.
It was nearly dark now, so we had to give up all idea of hunt-
ing that evening; we sat by a good fire and dried our clothes
while the captain told us about hunting in England. He prom-
ised to wake us at daylight, but he did not do so, and when we
awoke it was nearly train time. I thought then and have
thought ever since that he let us sleep on purpose to keep from
turning us down when we asked for another hunting rig. We
got up and after a good breakfast took our things- over to the
depot to catch the train, which we could see coming in the dis-
tance. Connell said he hated to go home without killing any-
thing, so he took his gun and went back of a big barn where
there were thousands of blackbirds. We waited to hear him
shoot, but he did not do so. Then, just as the engine blew
for the station, we heard his gun go off and he came from the
barn terribly excited and running to catch the train, which
stopped only for a moment. As he came up he cried out "Cap-
tain, I killed a big fox back of your barn. I did not have time
to get him, but I wish you would do so and send him to me.'*
"Now," said the captain, almost speechless with indignation,
"you have played . You have killed my pet fox."
We waited to hear no more, but dived onto the train and were
thankful to feel it moving the next moment. That was about
the most strenuous hunt I ever went on. It is true the only
thing we killed was a pet fox, but we had action for our money
during every moment we spent in Hockley.
+ + *
EARLY FIREMEN GALLANT SOLDIERS.
JUDGE JAMES K. P. GILLASPIE, who was at one time chief
of the old volunteer fire department, has in his possession,
the books of Hook and Ladder No. 1, which he allowed
me to look over a day or two ago. I found much of interest in
these books, but, as was the case with Judge Anders' old court
records, it was the memories evoked rather than anything else
that appealed to me. One portion in particular was the record
which began in 1859 and broke off suddenly in 1861, to be re-
38 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
sumed again in 1865, with nearly all new names. The great
war had intervened between those two dates. The last meeting
of the company, before the war, was held in May, 1861. As a
matter of general interest I give the roster of the company at
that time:
Officers E. R. Bremond, foreman; Ed Riordan, assistant fore-
man; J. B. Cato, secretary; G. L. Griscom, assistant secretary;
D. K. Rice, treasurer; J. C. Baldwin, president; F. H. Bailey,
vice president.
Members R. A. Allen, W. H. Allen, T. P. Brain, J. S. Benton,
E. A. Burke, C. Buckley, W. H. Clark, C. A. Darling, R. W. De
Lesdernier, T. P. Evert, Charles Eika, C. G. Fisher, H. Fleish-
man, A. J. Hay, F. L. Hoffman, A. J. Hurley, J. W. Mangum,
J. R. Morris, C. H. Merriman, A. S. Mair, George Merriweather,
J. D. McClary, Thomas O'Donnell, Louis Pless, G. W. Perkins,
F. A. Rice, I. C. Shaffer, J. H. Sawyer, W. C. Timmins, Ed
White, W. F. Wright, W. Williams, C. Westlake.
Now some person has marked in the book certain notes giving,
here and there, information concerning these old members.
These notes are very brief and do not do justice to the memory
of the men. For instance, opposite the name of F. L. Hoffman,
is this entry: "Killed by the Yankeys." The others are equally
as brief and unsatisfying. Now as I chance to know some of
them and of the records they made in the Confederate army,
I propose to give a brief history of them and ask Judge Gil-
laspie to paste it in the old book. As a matter "of fact nearly
every member of the company went into the Confederate army.
I. C. Stafford organized the first company that left Houston and
rose to the rank of major. Ed Riordan also left as captain of
a company. Captain F. A. Rice served on Magruder's staff,
I believe. There were a number of others, who I am sure were
in the army, though I am not certain where they served. I do
know all about five of them, because they were members of
Hood's Texas Brigade, all but one, Captain Dave Rice, belong-
ing to the Bayou City Guards, Company A, Fifth Texas Regi-
ment.
T. P .Bryan was killed at the battle of the Wilderness, on May
6, 1864.
J. W. DeLesdernier was killed at Gains' Farm, June 27, 1862.
W. H. Clark belonged to Company A, and after Onderdonk, the
color bearer, was disabled at Gains' Farm, he became color
bearer for the Fifth Regiment. Clark was badly wounded in
Chickamauga, September 19, 1863, and was again dangerously
wounded while bearing the colors at the Wilderness, May 6,
1864. This last time he was incapacitated for further service
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 39
and was sent home. He lived several years after the war and
died in Austin.
C. A. Merriman belonged to Company A, Fifth Regiment. He
was wounded in one of the first skirmishes his company got in,
and was then attacked by what the doctors said was galloping
consumption. He was honorably discharged from the army and
returned to Texas to die. During the winter of 1862 the Federal
war vessel, the Hariot Lane, had anchored in the Potomac and
kept up an almost constant bombardment of the winter quarters
of the Texas brigade. Charley Merriman got back to Texas
late in the fall of 1862 and when he learned that Magruder was
organizing his forces to take Galveston and that the Hariot
Lane was one of the vessels there, he volunteered to go down
on the Bayou City, one of the Confederate boats, that was to
attack the Federal vessels. He was more than half dead any
way. He was in the fight that took place January 1, 1863,
and had the pleasure of getting even with the Lane, by helping
to capture her. Now here a miracle was worked. Merriman
had his arm badly shattered by a piece of shell and he was shot
right through the lung. His arm got well and what was more
remarkable, the bullet through his lung cured his consumption.
He was never troubled with his lung after that and got so fat
and healthy that he returned to Virginia and remained with his
comrades till the close of the war.
The other member whose record I know was Captain Dave
Rice, the youngest brother of Wm. M. and F. A. Rice. He was
one of the handsomest men to be found anywhere. He was per-
haps too effeminate looking, for he had the complexion of a girl.
His complexion was the only effeminate thing about him, for he
was a man, every inch of him, and one of the most gallant sol-
diers in Lee's army. He was captain of Company C, First Texas
Regiment, but did more duty as a field officer than as a com-
pany commander. He was in command of the First Regiment
at the battle of Chickamauga, September 19 and 20, 1863, and
had quite a strange experience there on the first day's fight.
He was captured and taken before General Rosecrans. Of
.course he refused to give any information, but the general kept
him with him and for two hours he was literally under the fire
of both armies. I say "under," for that's what he was. His own
brigade was on one hill and the Federals were on an opposite
hill, while Rosecrans and his staff were in the narrow and deep
valley, so that all the fighting went on over their heads. Late
that night an opportunity presented itself and Captain Rice made
his escape, but was unable to get back to his command for sev-
eral weeks.
I wish I knew something about the war records of the other
40 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
members, for it would give me great pleasure to write them
down here.
* * *
A HARD LUCK STORY.
I READ a "hard luck" story the other day and it reminded
me that Frank Le Mott had once told me one of the best
stories of the kind I have ever heard. One day Frank said
to me: "Did I ever tell you about Limpy Lewis' hard luck?"
and when I answered in the negative he told me the following:
"This Limpy Lewie gets his name from having a wooden leg
that is always wearing off at the bottom, so that.it is too short
for his good leg. He walks lopsided when he prances along the
street and the boys get to calling him 'Limpy.' He is a no-
count kind of a fellow, a tramp soldier of fortune, and a gambler.
When he wins he rolls in good things to eat and when he loses
he bums for his grub. It's chicken one day and feathers the
next with him. He is a good-natured sort of chap and the
other gamblers help him along occasionally, when they have
anything to help him with. The men who own the games give
him a commission on all the customers he can bring them, so
he generally hangs out around the hotels early in the evening,
looking for suckers.
"One morning Limpy got hold of a greenhorn and when the
bank got through with him Limpy had a real good stake coming
to him. He thought he was in such good luck that he would go
against the bank himself and did so. At first he won and had
a big pile of chips in front of him for an hour or two. Then
his luck changed and he lost everything he had. He got up
dead broke and concluded to go out and find another sucker.
While going to the nearest hotel to look. over the situation, he
met a tall stranger, dressed like a cowman. The stranger asked
him if he could direct him to a square game. Limpy told him
he knew exactly where to put his finger on it and invited him
to go with him. As they started the stranger told him he
wanted nothing but a square game, and if he would lead him to
one of that kind, he would give him a quarter of what he won,,
if he did win. He did that to protect himself, for with that pros-
pect in sight Limpy would pull for him to win, even if he were
playing against Limpy's best friend. There was no mixing of
sentiment and business when Limpy had a case like that. Limpy
was going to take him against a brace game, but when the
stranger mentioned that quarter share for him he changed his
mind and took him to the best and squarest game in town.
"When they got there the stranger bought $500 worth of chips
and wanted to make two bets of the whole thing. That
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 41
was too big for the bank and considerable argument took place,
the stranger trying to get the bank to raise the limit and let
him bet his money. At last the limit was raised to $200, except
on "case cards," when it was fixed at $100.
"When the game got to going good, the proprietor took Limpy
off on one side and told him he was glad to see him and his
friend, and that he was going to be liberal with him and give
him 20 per cent of all the house won from the stranger and that
he would do the same thing on all customers like this one he
could bring him.
"The stranger was a big cattle man who was famous for his
big bets and gambling. In an hour or so it looked like he was
going to break the bank. He had about $8000 worth of chips in
front of him and was scattering them in heaps of $200 all over
the table. Then for a few hours luck went one way and then
the other. It was daylight now and the game was just warming
up. By 10 o'clock the stranger was in the hole for about $20,000,
but still bought chips and showed no signs of quitting. Limpy
sat there, half dead for sleep, but afraid to go to sleep or to
leave for a moment. The luck changed and the stranger began
to win again. By 5 o'clock the stranger had all his money back
and was a few thousand ahead. Then he struck a good deal
and quit it about $18,000 ahead. Limpy was crazy for him to
cash in and quit, but was afraid to say a word, so all he could
do was to sit there and suffer. The game went on, first one and
then the other being ahead. The dealers and lookouts had been
changed two or three times, of course, but Limpy and the
stranger had to stay there in person.
"For convenience's sake the value of the chips had been placed
at $100 each, so it was not hard to keep track of the winnings
and losses. About 4 o'clock the second morning the stranger
took stock and found he was just $900 ahead of the game. He
said to the proprietor: 'If you say so I will make one bet of this,
for I'm getting tired. It's double or nothing. Shall she go?'
The proprietor agreed, the bet was made and the stranger lost.
He got up and quit, exactly even, and poor old Limpy fainted.
He had sat there for two nights and a day, drinking coffee to
keep awake and with a sure winning for himself in sight all the
time, until the last minute.
"That," said Frank, "was the toughest luck I ever heard of."
* * *
A PRESS CLUB EVENING.
THE HOUSTON PRESS CLUB is rather a remarkable
aggregation. More so than the members themselves
realize. Seated around a table in the reading room a
few evenings ago was a representative of Grant's army of the
42 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
Potomac, another of Lee's army of Northern Virginia, two men
who had served through the South African war, one with the
Boers and the other with the English, a Philippine veteran and
one or two others, whose claim to fame rested on the fact that
they had seen much of the world, having been wanderers and
adventure seekers. On the whole, these last were the most
interesting members of the group.
The talk drifted from the Potomac to Ladysmith, from Cuba
to the Philippines, drifted about over Central and South America
and finally cast anchor in the magazine offices and theatres,
where newspaper men generally come to rest. There was a
guest present who, I have since heard, held a clinical position
in the advertising department of a New York newspaper some
years ago. At the proper time he seized the central position
in the talk and soon had everybody "backed off the boards,"
"I saw Jack London last month," he said. "In fact, I was with
him for several weeks went over to Salt Lake City from San
Francisco with him. He is writing a new book best one he
ever wrote. * Jack is a bird easiest thing in the world for him
to write. On the train something happened that reminded him
of a story. He got out his pad, scribbled off a couple of thou-
sand words, put it in an envelope and mailed it on the train.
About a week after we arrived in Salt Lake there came a letter
from the Saturday Evening Post, containing a check for $1000
and asking for more."
"Do you ever write fiction?" I asked him. I knew that he
dealt in it, but I wanted to know if he ever sold any of it.
"Sure thing," he replied. "Make my living writing stories.
Have never had one sent back yet. Got $75 for the first one I
ever sent in and it was only about 700 words. Happened to
hit 'em the first time and have been hitting 'em ever since."
"Yes, sir," chimed in the voice of the Boer veteran. "I was
there. I had a big store on the outskirts of Johannesberg, and
was doing good business when the war began. I was trying to
sell out so as to join the army when a company of English cav-
alry come along. I had a big warehouse filled with hay. The
officer in command belonged to the quartermaster department
and was out searching for provender. He offered me a good
price for the hay. I accepted his offer and he paid cash. He
left, going South. About an hour later another party of English
came along. The officer in command was a young lieutenant
who was very pompous and dignified. He recognized me as a
native, and, rightfully, concluded that I was a rebel. He saw
the hay and fearing that it would fall in the hands of the Boers
if left there, ordered it burned. I told him that an English
captain had bought it and that it belonged to his own people,
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 43
but he would not listen to me. He ordered me to stand aside
and set fire to the hay much to my secret delight. I lost $30,000,
got wounded three times and suffered greatly during the war,
but that fellow burning hay compensated me for everything I
went through. Every time I think of it I feel better."
"Before Teddy butted into their game those Panama chaps
used to be 'some soon' on revolutions," chimed in the deep bass
voice of the ex-telegraph operator, ex-all around newspaper man
and ex-gentlemanly tramp. "The first day I got down there they
pulled off two, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I
was taking a drink when I heard some shots fired up the street.
The 'barkeep' went crazy in a minute, uttering the Spanish
equivalent for 'Give me liberty or give me death,' he seized an
old hoss-pistol, leaped the counter and tore up the street. I
followed him to the door, but when I saw about 50 ragged, dirty-
looking fellows coming down the street, shooting old-fashioned
muzzle-loading shotguns and muskets, right and left, I went out
of the back door, swam the river and quit the revolution right
there. In a couple of hours the revolution was over and the
new government had been established. I determined to return
to town. But just as I got to the bridge another revolution
broke out, only a block away. It was a revolution to overthrow
the revolution that had taken place in the morning. I went
under the bridge and lay there until it was over. Then I crawled
out and left town for good."
"Why," said one of two gentlemen who had been comparing
notes on Arizona, New Mexico and Mexico, "that mine you
speak of is nothing. Six years ago a party of five of us left
New Orleans for Mexico. I got sick and had to turn back. The
other four went on and a month after they got there discovered
a rich gold mine. The ore assayed more than $1000 to the ton.
They got the German consul interested with the result that they
sold the mine to a German syndicate for $4,000,000 in gold.
The syndicate put up fine machinery and went to work, but in
a week the ore played out. It was only a 'pocket'."
Now, one can judge from these fragments of conversation
just what an interesting place the Houston Press Club is. As
a matter of fact there may not be a successful author or play-
wright in the crowd, but that does not bar claims nor assertions,
and if there are no really successful writers there should be for
there is plenty of raw material on hand, and one has only to
keep one's ears open to get everything necessary for the mak-
ing of a short story, book or drama right from first hand.
The Press Club is a great institution and its members are
great, too if you let them tell it.
44 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
HOUSTON'S POLICE FORCE.
EVEN after Houston had received a charter and had a
regularly elected city marshal (now called chief of
police), police matters were more or less in the hands of
-the sheriff. There was never any jealousy, conflict of authority
or anything -of that sort. The question was a simple one. If
the sheriff happened to be present he acted, and the same was
true of the marshal. No questions were asked by the absent
one or his friends, and everything moved along smoothly.
The office of city marshal and market master were combined
at first, and Captain Newt. Smith, a veteran of San Jacinto,
had the distinction of being the first city marshal of Houston.
He was a small man, but a very game and determined one, and
never had the least trouble in enforcing his authority, because
the evildoers knew to resist him meant disaster to themselves,
so they submitted gracefully. He served until 1844, when he
voluntarily retired to private life and was succeeded by a name-
sake, Captain "Billy" Smith.
The old records do not contain anything that gives evidence
of Captain "Billy" having had anything except an easy, quiet
time during the five years of his incumbency.
Captain "Billy" was succeeded by Captain Bob Boyce, who was
very much such a man as the first marshal, Captain Newt.
Smith. Captain Boyce was rather too aggressive, perhaps,
quick-tempered and willing to go rather more than half-way to
meet trouble. He was a regular gamecock, and after his true
character as a fighter became known he had little difficulty
in asserting his authority. Captain Boyce held office for about
twelve years, and though he had numerous chances he never
had to actually kill any one.
Either in 1860 or 1861 I. C. Lord was elected city marshal
after a rather heated and exciting campaign. Had Mr. Lord
known what he had to encounter before he got through, it is
doubtful if he would not have quit the race before he started it.
His term of office extended through the four years of the war
and through three or four years after the war, during the be-
ginning of the reconstruction period. The latter part of his
incumbency was never dull nor unexciting for a moment. There
was always something doing night and day.
That is not to be wondered at when it is remembered that
Houston at that time had something of rather worse than a
mixed population. There were returned Confederate soldiers
out of employment, tough Federal soldiers, gamblers, cut-throats,
thugs and bad men of every description, while, worse than all
else combined, there were thousands of newly-freed, ignorant
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 45
and idle negroes who were completely under the control of de-
signing carpetbaggers, who were constantly putting them up
to do something to enrage the white men. Slung-shooting
and highway robberies were of almost nightly occurrence,
and every man carried his life in his own hands and knew
that he did so.
To contend with conditions such as these, Marshal Lord had
only four or five policemen, who were expected to look after
the whole city night and day. However, there was one thing
that saved the officers much trouble. Each citizen knew that
he was expected to take care of himself, and did so.
Perhaps the presence of Davis' regiment here did more to
cause trouble than anything else. This was a notorious Federal
regiment commanded by E. J. Davis, afterward reconstruction
governor of the State. It was called a "Texas regiment," and
was made up of deserters from the Confederate army, Mexi-
cans, negroes, thugs and a generally undesirable element of
society. They had not made camp here a week before robberies
and knockdowns began to occur.
Finally there were dead soldiers found once or twice each
week on the back streets, and as these dead soldiers had hand-
kerchiefs tied over their faces and slung-shots tied to their
wrists, it was not difficult to guess why they had died. No one
ever knew the details of their taking off, for the surviving
actors were not anxious to brag about their share in it, since
it was an easy thing for the Federal authorities to claim that
the affair was a murder pure and simple, and that the robbery
features had been introduced by the slayer, after the death,
in order to make it appear justifiable. There was practically
martial law here then, and to get in the hands of the Federal
military authorities was a very serious matter.
To show how severe the military authorities were the follow-
ing instance is given: One of the Houston policemen was shot
at by a drunken Federal soldier, whom the policeman tried to
arrest for trying to kick in the door of a millinery establishment
on Main Street. To protect himself, the policeman was forced
to shoot the soldier. He did not kill him, but he might as well
have done so, for he was arrested, thrown in the guardhouse
and had a terrible time before he was released. Finally, after
several of the lawbreakers had been killed by the citizens, they
concluded that the business was too unhealthy and quit it.
But the marshal and police force had troubles of their own
in the way of keeping the disorderly negroes in line. There
were, as already stated, a number of trifling, irresponsible white
politicians here who were constantly stirring the negroes up and
causing them to make bad breaks. They organized what was
46 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
called "The Loyal Legion," a secret political party, composed
mainly of carpet bag white men and trifling negroes. The
white men always kept in the background but they shoved the
negroes forward, with the result that when any killing was neces-
sary a negro furnished the victim.
One morning in the early sixties, a negro preacher and fifty
or more negroes went to the city jail with the announced in-
tention of taking a negro out of jail and lynching him, because
he was a democratic negro and because he had shot another
negro who had tried to assassinate him the night before. Mar-
shal Lord attempted to argue with them, but the preacher put
an end to all talk by slipping up behind the marshal and trying
to blow his brains out. Fortunately, some one knocked the pis-
tol aside and the marshal escaped with no further damage than
the loss of his hair on one side of his head.
Alex Erichsen and Martin Ravell, two of the marshal's force,
were there and without hesitation opened fire on the negroes,
who attempted to rush the marshal. There was a quick volley
and when the smoke cleared away there were several dead
negroes on the ground. The preacher escaped for a moment,
but was killed by Erichsen a few minutes after.
That incident is given here just to show what a strenuous
time the "force" had in those days.
In 1868 Governor Davis turned Marshal Lord out of office and
appointed Captain A. K. Taylor marshal. Captain Taylor, as
all old Houstonians know, was an elegant gentleman. He took
possession of the office, but within a few weeks he became so
disgusted with his surroundings that he sent in his resignation
and retired to private life. The situation was too tough for him.
The governor then appointed Captain M. S. Davis to the place.
He was a former army officer and a fair man, so he soon made
friends with the people and never had serious trouble during
his tenure of office.
The Democrats having secured control of the state in the
November election in 1873, the charter of Houston was amended
in January, 1874, by the terms of which the governor was given
the authority to appoint all city officials, an authority he used
at once by kicking out all the Republicans and appointing rep-
resentative men to the offices.
By a singular oversight, no provision was made in the new
charter for a city marshal. That complicated things for a while,
but the problem was solved by Major S. S. Ashe, who was sheriff
at that time. He made Henry Thompson nominally city mar-
shal and gave him twelve or more deputy sheriffs to act as
policemen until the defect in the charter could be remedied.
When everything was put in shape an election was held and
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 47
Henry Thompson was elected city marshal and made one of the
best the city has ever had.
It must not be supposed that the Democrats getting in power
settled the negro question, and that Marshal Thompson and his
officers had an easy time. On the contrary, their defeat ap-
peared to make the negroes worse than ever, though they
worked more secretly and acted more under cover.
After Marshal Thompson retired Alex Erichsen was elected
and held office for a year or two. Erichsen was one of the
coolest and bravest men that ever lived. He was absolutely
fearless, but he had one fatal defect. He had too much per-
sonality to make a perfect officer. By that is meant that he
could never realize that he was an officer first and Alex Erich-
sen next. If a drunken prisoner swore at him he took the thing
as a personal insult and resented it as such. This defect in
his character led to a bloody encounter between him and a
prominent gambler, in which both came near losing their lives.
He kept perfect discipline and was absolutely honest, so that
on the whole he made a good officer, far above the average,
if not a perfect one.
After Erichsen retired there were rapid and frequent changes
in the office of city marshal. Among those who filled the office
were John Morris, who was killed some years ago. He was a
regular bulldog kind of a fellow. He carried things with a strong
hand, would stand no interference and did just what he pleased.
He was game all the way through, and would go out of his way
to get into a difficulty rather than try to avoid one. He was a
good officer, though, and made a fine marshal. He was suc-
ceeded by Gus Railey, who in turn was succeeded by Charley
Wichman.
Over in the police office on Preston and Caroline is a book,
yellow with age and dingy with dirt and dust. This old book
is marked on its cover, "Time Book." Its first entry is dated
1882 and is made up of a record of the police department of
that time. Charles Wichman was "chief of police," for the title
had been changed from "marshal;" W. Glass was deputy chief.
W. H. Smith and P. W. McCutchin were the day force, while
B. F. Archer, Jack White, James Daily and Nat Davis were the
night force. It is believed that not one of the men named in
the foregoing is alive today.
. It is tp be regretted that the keepers of this old book have
seen fit to abbreviate all the entries instead of filling out the
items, have been content to make only the briefest mention of
facts that had about them material for most interesting stories.
On November 1, 1885, an entry chronicles the appointment of
the first mounted officers. They were J. E. Jemison and George
48 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
Penticost. The entry refers to them as "cow catchers."
W. W. Glass resigned February 19, 1886. J. Fitzgerald was
clerk June 1, 1886. Alex Erichson was again chief of police in
1892 and B. W. McCarthy was clerk at the same time.
James H. Pruett was chief and A. R. Anderson deputy in 1894.
Under date March 17, 1882, is recorded: "Officer Richard
Snow killed in the Fifth ward." That is all. No mention is
made of who killed him nor of why he kiled him.
February 8, 1886, the following entry is made: "Henry Wil-
liams killed by Kyle Terry at Market square."
"March 14, 1891, J. E. Fenn was killed by Henry McGee."
Under date of September 17, 1893, is recorded the accidental
killing of Officer Pat Walsh, who dropped his pistol when getting
off a street car, it being discharged and inflicting a fatal wound
on the officer.
One of the greatest tragedies that has ever occurred in police
circles here is discussed with a mere statement of facts, under
date July 28, 1901. W. A. Weiss, an officer was shot and killed
by J. T. Vaughn, who was, in turn, shot and killed by another
officer a few minutes later. This case created immense excite-
ment at the time.
So far as excitement is concerned, this case was overshadowed
by one that is recorded in the old book under date December
11, 1901. As usual only a few lines, giving merely a statement
of facts, is the record. Sid Preacher shot and killed J. C. James,
a policeman, with a shotgun. After killing James, Preacher
whirled and killed Policeman Herman Youngst. Just as Preach-
er started to go away another policeman arrived on the scene
and shot Preacher dead.
These extracts are given to illustrate the fact that the path-
way of the peace officer is not strewn with roses by any means.
Of course, it is not necessary to review the history of the
department during recent years, for all are familiar with it.
FRANK LE MOTT'S ROMANCE.
I KNOW exactly how a fellow feels after he has entered
blindly into a dark conspiracy and agreed to do the will
of a beautiful wman for no other reason than that she
was a young and beautiful woman."
That was the way Frank Le Mott of Galveston began what
proved to be one of the best stories I ever heard him tell.
There was quite a crowd of us out at the Breakers bathhouse
at Galveston, and everybody moved closer to hear the story
we knew was coming.
"Two weeks ago," Le Mott continued, "I had an adventure,
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 49
not four blocks from this very place, that fairly took my breath
away. But it started downtown and was two or three days
culminating.
"Monday afternoon I was standing on the corner of Tre-
mont and Market when one of the most beautiful and prom-
inent ladies in the city drove by. Just as she was opposite
where I was standing she bowed and smiled. I thought, of
course, that she was bowing to some acquaintance behind me
and took no notice of it. She drove down the street and when
she returned she repeated the bow and smiled so sweetly that
there was no mistaking that it was all meant for me, and in a
moment I was regularly sweeping the sidewalk with my hat.
The next evening the same thing was repeated and when she
came back she ordered her driver to come near the curb and
beckoned for me to come to her."
At this point of the story a little fellow named Smith, which
was really his name, butted in. He was so excited that he could
scarcely talk. "I'll bet you a thousand dollars to one I can
call her name," he said. "Don't be afraid, Frank, I won't give
you away, but if you will come to one side I'll whisper it to you
and you'll see I'm right."
Le Mott paid no attention to Smith, but went on with his story.
"When I got near the carriage the lady leaned out, and calling
me by my name, asked me if she could trust me. You bet I
told her she could, and that I would willingly die jto be ipf
service to her. She told me not to be rash in making extrava-
gant promises, because she was going to hold me to any promise
I might make. Then she drove away after asking me to be at
the same place the next afternoon at 5 o'clock."
Here Smith butted in again, swearing that he knew the lady
and that he would bet any one present a thousand dollars and
leave it to Le Mott to say if he was wrong or not. He also
repeated his assurance to Le Mott that he need not fear his di-
vulging the name. Le Mott did not notice the interruption fur-
ther than to 'remain silent until we could shut Smith off, then
he continued:
"The next afternoon I was on the spot an hour ahead of time.
Promptly at 5 that carriage drove up and the lady, calling me
to her, managed to slip me a dainty little note, which I slipped
into my pocket." Here Smith became terribly excited and
insisted on whispering the lady's name in Le Mott's ear, but
we interfered and got him quiet after some trouble.
"She then drove away, after giving me a sweet smile, and I
hastened to a secluded place where I could read that note. It "
was very short and was simply this: 'Meet me tomorrow after-
noon on the boulevard near the foot of Tremont Street at as
50 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
near 4 o'clock as possible.' There was no address nor signa-
ture.
"That night I could scarcely close my eyes and time passed
terribly slow. The next afternoon I was again away ahead of
time and walked up and down the boulevard until I almost
knew every brick in it. Finally I saw her carriage drive up
at the foot of Tremont and she got out and came 'toward me.
I walked forward to meet her, but when she drew near I was
completely taken off my feet, for instead of looking at me she
looked past me and sailed by as coldly as an iceberg, without^
ever, apparently, knowing I was on the face of the earth. She
cut me dead. I felt like a fool and, turning to see what could
have caused her to act that way, I found the explanation, and
it made my blood run cold, too, for not fifty feet behind me
was "her husband, who had been following me."- Here Smith
began to swear that now he knew he was right and could call
the lady's name.
Le Mott looked at him reproachfully and he went on with
his story.
"The lady advanced to meet her husband, but instead of the
scene I expected to see they met in the most friendly way, stood
chatting for a few moments and then she turned and together
they walked to where the carriage was standing. When they
got there he got in and, smiling at her, drove away to town.
She waited until he was a few blocks away and then she came
toward me, smiling and holding out both hands in the most
friendly way. I admit I was mystified and could make neither
heads nor tails of the whole thing, but having gone that far, I
made up my mind to see the whole thing through.
"She led me up the boulevard for two or three blocks and
then turned down a side street. I am not going to say where
we went, but she led me to an elegant residence and taking a
key from her satchel she unlocked the door and invited me in."
Here we had almost to hold Smith to keep him from whisper-
ing to Le Mott the location of that house. He knew it exactly
and could, with Le Mott's permission, lead the crowd there in
a few minutes.
"The house seemed absolutely vacant," continued Le Mott.
"We passed through a hall and entered an elegantly furnished
bedroom. Here for the first time her courage seemed to desert
her and she realized what she was doing. She wanted me to
leave the room and house at once. She seemed so scared and
anxious that she began to get me rattled, but I had no idea of
giving up after having gone that far. I begged her to calm
herself and tell me what she wanted me to do for her. Instead
of getting quieter she began to weep and cry out against her-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 51
self for having acted so imprudently with an entire stranger.
'My husband would kill me and you too,' she said, 'if he caught
us here alone, and I have an idea that he suspects me and is
watching.'
"All that did not make me feel any too comfortable, but to
tell the truth I would have rather had dealings with the hus-
band just then than with the hysterical woman in a strange
house.
"Finally I got her quieted enough to sit down and talk sen-
sibly and she was just beginning to tell me her story "
Here Smith butted in with the declaration that he was going
to name both the husband and woman, whether Le Mott liked
it or not.
"Wait until I finish, Smith," said Le Mott, "and then if you
know you may tell." That was the only time he had noticed
Smith at all.
"She had just begun to tell me how she feared the vengeance
of her husband, when there was a terrible crash right back of
me and " Here Le Mott paused a long time and looked steadily
at Smith. "And then I woke up, for a window had fallen at
the head of my bed and ruined my afternoon nap."
At this unexpected conclusion of the story, Smith subsided.
We were all taken in, but Smith was obliterated completely.
* * *
A TRUE CAT STORY.
I SEE The Chronicle is publishing a regular series of animal
stories, so I conclude that on"e that is absolutely truthful
in every detail will be acceptable. My story is about my
personal experience with two cats that for several nights hand-
running destroyed not only my sleep but the ease and comfort
of my neighbors for two blocks around me. Those were, in
appearance, only ordinary cats, but when it came to loud talking
and the use of profane language, they had all other cats I have
ever known backed clear off the boards. They seemed abso-
lutely oblivious to outside interference when they started a row,
and old shoes, bootjacks, empty bottles and such things hurled
at them seemed only to add to their sense of importance and
they received them very much as a chorus girl receives a bou-
quet when thrown on the stage to her; with only a moment's
silence, a side-step and a smile. I know, because I bombarded
those cats until I gave up in absolute despair.
The absolute depravity and meanness of those two cats may
be seen from the fact that neither belonged in my yard, though
both made free use of it for their meetings and subsequent
battles. Often I have heard the big black fellow crying out,
52 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
"Maria, Maria, come over in my yard!" thus showing that he
laid claim to ownership of the place. But everybody has had
the same experience with cats that I have outlined in the fore-
going, but what everybody has not had is the extreme delight
that I had in turning the table on the cats and giving them
an experience of their own and furnishing them a new sensation.
One bright, moonlit night I was awakened by the two cats
who had gotten under my bedroom window and were using the
most outrageous language to each other, in tones that would
almost wake the dead. I searched the room for something to
drop on them, for they were directly under the window and I
could not have missed them. While I was making a fruitless
search and wishing for a stick of dynamite, it occurred to me
that my boy had purchased some large firecrackers the day
before and had some left over. I went to his room and was
fortunate enough to find one. It was not the great cannon
cracker, but was the next size and the very thing I wanted.
I lit a cigarette so as not to disturb the cats by lighting a match
when I got ready to fire my cracker, pinched off the fuse, stuck
it to the light and dropped it. I will say here that if any
gunner in the army or navy could cut a fuse as accurately as
I cut that one, his fortune would be made. The cats were in
the midst of the most animated discussion and were just on the
verge of. blows. As I turned loose the firecracker I heard one
say to the other: "You liar, you!"
Then the firecracker reached a point about four inches from
the ground, directly between them, and exploded. I can't
describe what took place. Each cat thought the other had shot
at him. There was no scramble nor anything like that. There
was plenty of action, but it resembled lightning more than
anything else. There was a high board fence about ten feet
behind one of the cats. He simply turned a back handspring,
barely touched the top of the fence and was half a block up
the street before the flash from the firecracker had died out.
The other fellow went in the opposite direction and disappeared
behind the stable. I have seen in scientific journals pictures
of flying bullets moving 2000 feet a second taken by instan-
taneous photography. They looked like they were standing
still. I am willing to make a small wager that if one of those
scientists had had his photographic machine trained on those
two cats that night all he would have gotten would have been
two long streaks.
While I was nearly choked with laughter and also lost in
admiration over the record speed of the two cats, one of them
came sneaking out from behind the stable. He had evidently
thought the matter over and, finding he had not been hit by
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 53
the pistol fired directly in his face by the other cat, he had
gotten his "dander up" and, securing his razor, had come out
looking for blood. That is the way I sized the situation up.
He advanced very cautiously, without saying a word. I longed
for another firecracker. I waited until he got nearly to the
fence and, having nothing else to throw, I dropped my cigarette
down just behind him. Again the effect was magical. He did
not wait for the explosion of the bomb he thought the other
cat had thrown at him from an ambuscade. He saw the sparks
from the scattered burning tobacco and moved off like a rocket.
There was one leap of ten feet to the top of the fence and he
was gone.
Now, the remarkable thing about the whole circumstance was
that neither of those cats opened its mouth or said a word
after the first shock. All their energy was concentrated in
their efforts to get away from there in the quickest time pos-
sible. I don't know how they ever settled the matter or what
explanations they made to each other, but I do know that from
that time on nothing on earth could induce either of those cats
to come in my yard either during the day or night. The mys-
tery of the affair was too much for them. Had I thrown a
firecracker down on only one of them he would have known it
was I who did it and acted accordingly. But the introduction of
doubt and suspicion into the problem, which made each one
doubt and mistrust the other and suspect him of having attempted
to assassinate him, made the case of mystery complete. They
dodged me and they evidently dodged each other, for we heard
no more of their outrages..
+ * *
SJOLANDER A HERO.
IT has been my good fortune to have known several writers
of note, among them one or two poets. Strange to say
these latter have always been those whose friendship I
valued. I say strange, because it is really so, for aside from
their personality we have nothing in common. My taste is
so depraved that I think that the fellow who raves in verse
over a sunset, or a moon-lit night, is heading towards the near-
est asylum, and if he is not he should be pointed that way. I
confess that I enjoy the jingling verses, telling of breakfast
foods and fine soaps, that one sees in the street cars, much
more than I do the poems that others rave over.
Now, among my poet friends is Sjolander, the sailor poet.
He and I have been intimate friends for about 30 years, and it
is a fact that I feel proud of. I have enjoyed his stories, skipped
his poetry and admired the man thoroughly and honestly. But
54 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
for his extreme modesty he would be one of the most talked
of men of today. He persists in keeping in the background,
however, and there is no way of lugging him to the front.
Now, in spite of our intimacy I never knew, until the other
day, that Sjolander was a hero, a genuine one, too. It came
out accidentally. We were talking about the sea, as we always
do when we get together, and I mentioned a wreck that occurred
just off Galveston in the early eighties. It was before the
jetties were built and Galveston Island terminated at Fort
Point. The inner bar was located just beyond where quaran-
tine station is now located, and all beyond that point was the
Gulf of Mexico. The outer bar was further out and was one of
the worst on the gulf coast. During ordinary rough weather
the bar was so rough that it was considered unsafe for a vessel
to attempt to cross it.
It was either in '83 or '84 that a terrible storm occurred off
Galveston. The wind came from the southeast, and piled up
the breakers "mountain high." During the night there was a
fearful blow, and at daylight next morning it was discovered
that a large ship had gone down and that her crew were cling-
ing to the masts. She was located a mile or two off shore and
was right in the midst of the breakers that would soon wash
the men from their perilous position if it did not destroy the
masts altogether. There was no life saving station, equipped
with proper boats or anything of that kind. The men must be
rescued though. The Morgan steamer, Josephine, was in port
and got up steam to go out. She reached a point not far from
the outer bar and met such huge breakers that she was forced
to abandon the attempt and turned back to her place at the
wharf.
When it was found that the Josephine would not, or could
not go to the rescue, one of the bar pilots leaped in a small
sailboat and called for volunteers, saying that he would save
th.ose men or share their fate. Nine men sprang in the boat at
once, among them my poet, Sjolander. That crew of ten braved
the fearful bar, passed it, went to the stranded vessel and after
hours of heartbreaking work succeeded in rescuing every one
of the men clinging in the masts. The return trip, in the little
overloaded vessel, was far more dangerous than the outward
trip. The captain was a fine sailor, knew just what to do and
had the men to do it, so they made the trip safely and got back
to the wharf without the loss of a single man.
Now, I knew about that wreck and of the heroic rescue, but
I did not know that Sjolander was one of the heroes. The
other day he referred to it casually, mentioning it only in telling
me of his introduction to Texas, he having arrived on an in-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 55
ward bound vessel only a day or two before. When I asked
him if he knew of the danger before he started he laughed at
the question and said that he knew as well as an experienced
sailor could know how slim the chances were for success.
"But I would have gone anywhere that any other man would
have gone at that time. I was not desperate or anything of
that kind, but I was young and felt my oats. I felt at that time
that I could do anything that any other man could do, and
since I realized that something must be done quickly to save
those men, I jumped in that boat with no thought of anything
else than the fact that we were going to save them."
* Strange to say, the Galveston News gave only a brief account
of the daring rescue and passed it off as if it had been only an
ordinary, everyday occurrence. It was really a gallant thing;
one that only those familiar with the dangers of the sea can
appreciate at its full value. Had it been during these latter
days when so many mock heroes are getting Carnegie medals
every one of those ten heroes would have been decorated, and
what is far more to the point they would have honored the
medals by accepting them instead of the medals honoring them.
Of all the ten, I believe only Sjolander is alive. I have always
had a warm place in my heart for him, but after I heard his
story he advanced several points in my estimation, if that be
possible. The next time he comes to town I am going to get a
full list of those gallant men and publish it so as to do their
memory some tardy justice.
EARLY SHOWS IN HOUSTON.
WHETHER the war was responsible for it or not, the fact
remains that for several years after its close society
was in somewhat of a chaotic condition and "most
any old thing went," just so it was not outside the law. Men
of fine social standing engaged in business that they would
shun today, not because there is anything radically wrong with
these things, but because they are now in the hands of pro-'
fessional people and are not considered just the things for
business men of commercial and social standing to engage in.
To illustrate what I mean I will state that the first organized
vaudeville show ever in Houston was organized and managed,
not by a professional showman, but by Ed Bremond, the son of
the great railroad builder and capitalist. Just why Ed ever
thought of such a thing no one knew, but he did think of it and
he made a great success of it, too. That show was the "Acad-
emy of Music" and was one of the most popular places in Hous-
56 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
ton. It was located on the corner of Main and Prairie, upstairs,
and was crowded every night.
The Academy proved so great a financial success that Ed
began to get the big head and spoke of himself as an "impres-
sario." He had looked the word up in a dictionary and, liking
its sound, had adopted it. There was a very large lady, inclined
to what the French call embonpoint, who could sing "Molly
Darling," "Don't You Love Me Darling?" and songs of that
description in the most entrancing way. She had a complete
name, of course, but all the young fellows knew her as "Miss
Joe" and spoke of her in that way so often that her last name
finally became lost in the shuffle. Ed was never guilty of fall;
ing into the popular way of the boys, but always referred to
Miss Joe as the "Charming Cantatrice." After his show got to
making lots of money he grew more ambitious and spoke of
Thuse Donneland, the fiddler, and Charley Finkelman, the piano
player, as "virtuosos." His chorus girls, by the same reason-
ing, became "artistes."
Ed had one man in his company who afterward became fa-
mous as a negro delineator. That was Milt Barlow, the creator
of "Old Black Joe." The song was introduced in Houston by
.Barlow and he afterward became famous through that one song
alone.
But I did not start out to write anything about Ed and his
Academy of Music. Mention of him is only incidental. What
I wanted to say was that right after the war there were a lot
of fellows in Houston who had the "initiative" and who had
the promoter talent well developed. They would promote any-
thing from a cock-fight to grand opera. About that time the
father of a young gentleman well known in Houston died and
left him a pot of ready money. The young man at once began
looking around for something to promote. He tried a cock-
fight, with only partially satisfactory results. Then he staged
a crazy, stage-struck fellow who gave one of the most outrage-
ously ridiculous performances ever witnessed. The absurdity of
the whole thing advertised it extensively and a repetition was
* demanded by the public. I nor any one else who witnessed it will
ever forget it. The opera house (Perkins Hall) was crowded
from gallery to pit with a male audience at $1 per. From a
financial point it was a grand success and before the close of
the performance everybody there felt that he had his full dol-
lar's worth. It was a one-man show. The curtain rose to slow
music and the great actor entered. He was going to give a
Shakespearean reading. He came on the stage in a tight-fitting
union suit which fitted him as though he had been melted and
poured into it. He wore high laced shoes and had an immense
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 57
sword buqkled around his waist. The sword was very long
and kept constantly getting between his legs. The audience
howled when he came on and he, taking it for applause, at-
tempted to bow his thanks and came near falling down. The
cheers continued, but had no effect on him, for he began his
recitation at once. No one could hear a word he said, but that
made no difference. He spoke for several minutes and then
bowed himself off the stage. The audience was absolutely wild
with delight by now. Then the great actor appeared again and
began another piece. That continued for half an hour, when the
promoter got on the stage and announced that "Senior De
Pompeno" would next give an exhibition of living statuary. A
barrel was placed in the center of the stage and the actor was
led forth and mounted it.
He raised his hand for silence and when he could make him-
self heard announced that his first production would be "Ajax
Defying the Lightning." With that he threw himself back, ele-
vated his fists and shook them at the far gallery. The audience
howled with delight. Then he gave "Faith, Hope and Charity."
It was all ridiculously grand. After four or five renditions he
announced that he would produce his masterpiece, "The Prayer."
With that he threw back his head, raised hjs arms and began
the most strenuous efforts to run while still on the barrel. The
truth was that when he threw back his tiead he discovered
seated on a beam just above him an old negro woman armed
with a big tub of water which she was to empty on him at the
close of the performance. His untimely discovery of her plot
unnerved Fanny, for that was her name, and in her haste to
empty the tub she lost her balance and she, tub and all came
crashing down on the actor. It was heart breaking to have so
many things to laugh at at once, and came near choking half
the audience. Of course, when he tried to run he simply kicked
the barrel backward without advancing himself the least bit,
so that when Fanny landed she came down fairly on top of him
and the barrel. Fortunately no one was injured. That was the
greatest show that was ever pulled off in Houston and was
talked about for weeks afterward.
* * * *
HOW THE RAILROADS CAME.
THE first spade ever stuck in the earth for the construc-
tion of a railroad in Texas was at Harrisburg away back
yonder, as early as 1840. That was for the construc-
tion of the Harrisburg and Brazos Railroad, a line that was
never built, at least not under that name.
Some grading was done, some ties were placed, but no iron was
ever laid and the enterprise was abandoned soon after it began.
58 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
For 11 years the people of Harrisburg and Houston talked rail-
road, but they seemed to have wasted all their energy in talk,
for they did nothing else.
However, in 1851 the line, which is now known as the Galves-
ton, Harrisburg and San Antonio, was actually begun at Harris-
burg, and construction was pushed so vigorously that in nine
years 80 miles of road was actually constructed. In this day
of rapid transportation, when all the material for railroad con-
struction can be obtained almost at a moment's notice, it seems
strange to hear that it took nine years to build a crudely con-
structed line 80 miles.
That was rather rapid work for the early days, however, for
all the material, except for ties, had to be brought in sailing
ships from Boston, New York or other ports on the Atlantic,
unloaded at Galveston and then brought up the bayou in steam-
boats.
There were many difficulties to be overcome in the way of
transportation and equally as great ones in obtaining money
or credit to pay for construction. Just as the Harrisburg road
got under good headway, the Houston and Texas Central got into
the game. The first shovel of dirt for this road was thrown by
that great railroad genius, Paul Bremond, in 1853. When he
threw up that dirt he turned up more trouble for himself than
generally falls to the lot of one man.
Of course, he did not know this, but I am convinced that
had he done so it would have made not the slightest change in
his plans. His faith in himself and his confidence in his ability
to accomplish whatever he started out to do, was something
sublime. When it came to energy he had any engine on his
road faded to a standstill. He was a wonderful man, and he
did not hesitate, at times, to attempt the apparently impossible.
When his first contractor got cold feet and threw up his job,
Mr. Bremond promptly undertook to carry out the contract to
build the road himself. There is where his troubles began.
The company had money enough to build two miles of road
and to buy an engine. Then the unlooked-for and unproyided-
for element of credit bobbed up and scared all the other stock-
holders, except Mr. Bremond, off the track*
He stayed and went straight ahead just as if he had millions
behind him. He had faith, the kind that is spelled with a big
F, but the difficulty was to pay off several hundred clamoring
Irishmen with some of his faith. He did not actually perform
that miracle, but he came as near doing so as anybody could.
He was a very honest and square man himself and the Irish-
men, while they cursed and hunted for him everywhere* knew
that they would be paid sometime. They made life a burden
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 59
for him, however. Of course, he hid out as much as possible and
was not given to parading up and down Main Street in those
days, but while this modesty on his part saved him some
trouble, it did not save him all the time and he had some re-
markable experiences.
On one occasion several hundred of the Irishmen went in a
body to his residence. They yelled and hooted and made lots
of noise, but finally contented themselves with tearing down
his fence and carrying away the pieces. Finally they got tired
of making demonstrations against him and, entering into the
spirit of the game, they backed him up and went to work.
Mr. Bremond knew that when the road reached Hempstead
it would begin to earn money, so he turned all his great energy
towards constructing it to that point as rapidly as possible. It
took him five years of the hardest work any man ever had, but
he accomplished it in 1858, and at once entered on a period
of comparative ease. It was a wonderful performance and
not one man in 10,000 could have done it.
In two years more the road was completed to Milican and, the
war coming on, it stuck there. In the meantime the Buffalo
Bayou and Brazos Railroad had built into Houston. It used to
come down San Jacinto Street and had an engine house and
turntable at the foot of that street, right where the bridge
is now. It had a long wooden depot at Polk Avenue and San
Jacinto Street, where all the cars stopped, but the locomotive
would come down to San Jacinto to turn round and go into the
engine house.
A lot of New Yorkers backed Abe Gentry up and he began
the construction of the road to New Orleans. This road had
money and credit too, and while it began construction later
than the Houston and Texas Central and the Buffalo Bayou and
Brazos roads, when the war broke out it had as much line con-
structed as either of them, and had trains running to Orange.
I don't suppose there ever were such railroads as those lead-
ing out of Houston became by the second and third years of the
war. Schedules and time-tables became farces. The trains
came and went a they could, and spent almost as much time off
the tracks as they did on them. I remember on one occasion
pulling out of Columbia on the Buffalo Bayou and Brazos road,
at the same time that a company of cavalry left there for
Houston.
During the whole day we were never out of sight of that
company. Sometimes we would be ahead and sometimes they
would lead. It was see-saw all day, for it took from early in
the morning until dark to make the trip of 50 miles. Finally,
just at dark, we reached Brays Bayou and lost sight of the com-
60 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
pany there. They had entered the woods, ahead of us, however.
Before the close of the war all the railroads except the Hous-
ton and Texas Central and the Galveston, Houston and Hen-
derson had gone out of commission and had ceased to run at
all. In some way these two roads were kept in such condition
that they could be used, but that was all. Using them was not
a safe thing by any means. They crept along so slowly that
while wrecks were so frequent as to attract no attention, it
was a rare thing for any one to get killed or even hurt.
If full justice were done the name of Mr. Bremond would be
perpetuated by the Houston and Texas Central road. It is true
there is one of the principal towns on the line named after him.
It is true he received loyal support and assistance from W. R.
Baker, M. M. Rice, William Van Alstyne, William J. Hutchins,
Cornelius Ennis and others, but theirs was money help and soon
gave out. The real credit for building the road belongs to Paul
Bremond, for he did what others could or would not do, pulled
off his coat and went in the trenches and, figuratively, on the
firing line of railroad construction in Texas.
I do not know what the reason for doing so was, but in those
days the builders of locomotives always put immense smoke-
stacks on them. The smokestacks were funnel-shape and sev-
eral feet in circumference at the top. The locomotives burned
wood and every few miles there were big stacks of cordwood
piled alongside the track.
There was no such thing as spark-arresters and every time
the fireman put fresh wood in the box the passengers got the
full benefit of the sparks, cinders and smoke. It beat traveling
by stage, however, and as the people knew nothing of oil-
burners, spark-arresters and Pullman cars, everybody was con-
tent.
The old-time fireman earned every dollar that was coming
to him, for he had to keep busy all the time. It was not child's
play to have to keep steam up with only wood for fuel. Then
too, it took more steam to keep an engine going at that time,
for the engineer was using his whistle 10 times as often as he
uses it now.
There were no fences along the right of way and as there
were thousands of cattle on the prairies and woods where the
road ran, the track was generally filled with them every few
miles. As soon as the trains would get out of the city limits,
the whistle would begin tooting and this was kept up almost
without cessation. Of course, a great many cattle were killed
and this led to bitter warfare between the cattlemen and the
railroads.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 61
Wrecks and attempted wrecks were frequent, for there were
not wanting men, who, to get revenge on the railroad company
by destroying its property, were willing to run the risk of
destroying the lives of innocent passengers. The first wreck
of this kind that ever occurred in Texas, was on the Houston
and Texas Central, near where the water tank is, about 12 miles
from Houston. Some scoundrel drove spikes between the ends
of the rails and wrecked the train. No one was killed, but Mr.
Bremond, who was on the train, received quite serious injuries
and was laid up for repairs for several days.
It is a pity some historian of that day did not keep a record
of the ups and downs of the life of the early railroad builders.
It would make interesting reading today. Jt would show, as
the Frenchman said, "more downs as ups," for their progress
was marked by more temporary failures than by successes.
AT THE MASQUERADE BALL.
I SUSPECT that the young folks have just as good times
now as we used to have, but I doubt it. I cannot see
how they can have, "our times" were too near perfect.
The balls, dances and social gatherings now are too formal,
and then, too, the people do not know each other as well as
they formerly did.
Houston was then not much more than a big town. Every-
body knew everybody else, and it is a fact that society was
something like a great family. There were several social clubs
here. Two that devoted themselves to dancing the "German."
These Clubs were the "O. C." and the "E. C." The "O. C." stood
for Omnibus Club and the "E. C." for Economical Club. Each
club had a "german" every two weeks, so that there was a
"german" every week. There were similar organizations in
Galveston, Austin and Waco, and as mutual invitations were
exchanged there were always some popular members of out-
side clubs at our dances or some of ours at theirs. The Omni-
bus Club got its name from a rule of the club prohibiting the
use of carriages and requiring the gentlemen to take the ladies
to the dances in one of Baldwin's omnibuses, which made the
rounds collecting the couples for the party and distributing
them after the dance was over.
Now, in addition to these two clubs was the famous Z Z Club,
which gave delightful dances and balls, and the grand Purim
ball given by another association. That Purim ball was the
grand social event of the year, and was looked forward to with
pleasurable anticipation by the young people of Houston for
62 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
weeks before it occurred. It was a mask ball and was always
an enjoyable event.
Now, what made me think of those gay and festive times
was meeting my old friend, Mr. Henry House last week. I had
not seen him in years and would never have known him had he
not told me who he was. When I last saw him he was a frail,
bright-eyed, rather delicate young man, while today, as every-
body knows, he is a rather portly, handsome and dignified
business man. I remember his rosy cheeks and slight form of
years ago, for on one occasion they led to my undoing.
In the spring of 1872 or 1873 there was given one of the
grandest Purim balls in the history of the association. People
talked about it for weeks before it came off. A great many
people from neighboring cities were invited, and when the
night for the ball arrived many were here from Galveston,
Austin, Waco, Dallas and from points on the San Antonio Road.
Soon after I entered the ball room, I met Captain Conradi,
who told me that he wanted me to take charge of a young lady
who was visiting his family and had arrived that evening from
New Braunfels. She was not in costume or mask, but he did
not- think that would bar her from the dancing floor, and it did
not. He introduced me to her and I danced with her. She
was so graceful and danced so well that half the fellows in
the hall wanted to be introduced at once. I saw her program
filled for the entire evening in a few moments and soon she
was easily the belle of the ball.
I had reserved one or two dances for myself and I enjoyed
every one of them. I took her to supper and before the evening
was half over she had me head over heels in love with her. She
was so pretty, so natural and altogether such a lovely girl that
she captured the hearts of half the young men she met. I
knew she had me, good and fast.
After supper the order came to unmask and then we began to
find out who we had been dancing with. Of course, my young
lady did not have to unmask, for she had none on, therefore we
were all surprised when Captain Conradi gave her his arm and
escorted her to the stage. Then he introduced her to the au-
dience by her right name, which was Henry House, Jr. All
of us young fellows collapsed, but so many had been taken in,
and the joke was so far-reaching that we took comfort in the
fact that everybody else was fooled as badly as we were.
The next day in its account of the ball, the Age said:
"But the very greatest imposition and cheat in the mas-
querade the truth of which assertion some 20 or 30 young
beaux can attest to their great mortification was Mr. Henry
House, Jr., whose lithe figure and undergrown proportions suited
HOUSTON AFP HOUSTONIANS 63
the impersonation of a young girl excellently. His flowing hair,
flashing jewels, heavenly smiles and telling glances led many
an impressionable young man to his undoing."
During the continuance of these balls there were many fine
characters taken and there were numerous splendid impersona-
tions, but none that ever came within speaking distance of
Henry House's "young lady from the country."
* * *
A CORNER IN TURKEYS.
ALL old citizens remember John Collins. He was one of
Houston's merchant princes. It would be more fitting
to describe him as a merchant king, for that was what
he was. He was the king of Houston retail grocers, made more
money, spent more money and gave away more money than
any other five grocerymen in the city combined.
He left a fair estate when he died, but had he been possessed
of less heart and a little legitimate greed he might have died
an unusually wealthy man.
Thanksgiving and Christmas, days when the turkey becomes
the national bird, and the Curo turkey trot, made me think
of Mr. Collins, for at one time he and some turkeys caused a lot
of amusement among his intimate friends. He had a large two-
story brick store at Travis Street and Preston Avenue, the
corner now occupied by Sauter's place. It was the best corner
in the city, being on Preston Avenue, then the greatest business
thoroughfare in Texas, for all the business done with the interior
came over Long Bridge at the foot of Preston, and also facing
Market Square. 'Most any one located there would have done
a good business, but Mr. Collins, being something out of the
ordinary as a business man, did an immense one.
He had lots of what is now called the initiative and was al-
ways doing the unexpected. On one occasion he got up a corner
on empty bottles, a trick none tried before nor since his day.
That was outside his regular business, but he was too active
to permit of his confining himself to his grocery trade.
Since his day ambitious men have tried to corner the cotton
and wheat markets. Some have done so and others have failed.
Those who succeeded risked millions and paid for success with
health and nerves. Before these ambitious ones appeared,
Mr. Collins entered the field, created a corner, carried it through
successfully and quit the game a double winner.
In the late fifties Mr. Collins, a few weeks before Christmas,
conceived the idea of cornering the turkey market. Next to
his store was a vacant lot. He put up a rough board fence
around it and put the turkeys in the enclosure.
64 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
He bought all he could get hold of and a week before Christ-
mas he had by actual count 400 turkeys. In and around Hous-
ton there was not a turkey for sale that Mr. Collins did not
own. The corner was complete.
Then the unexpected happened. Mr. Collins calculated his
profits, but he did not calculate the power of bad boys to pro-
cure trouble. On the very night that he went to bed congratu-
lating himself on the success of his scheme, some of those bad
boys cut the straps on his turkey pen gate and the next morning
the pen was empty. Every turkey there had departed for parts
unknown.
For a moment Mr. Collins was in despair, and then an inspira-
tion seized him. He put out a board offering fifty cents for
each of his turkeys returned to him. He had handbills scat-
tered all over the city making the same offer. In an hour after
the appearance of the handbills, boys with turkeys began to
arrive. White boys, negro boys, Mexican boys and all kinds
of boys arrived with turkeys and by night the pen was pretty
full again. The next day the turkey arrivals continued. Mr.
Collins was kept busy paying out fifty-cent pieces. Then the
pen got overcrowded, something that was not the case before,
so Mr. Collins made an investigation and found on examination
of his book that he had paid out $300 and that he had 200 tur-
keys more than he had before the boys cut the gate.
It was all true, for the boys had scoured the city and county
and brought in every turkey they could find. He had his own
and everybody else's turkeys, and his corner was an absolute
cinch.
* * *
HOW HAMP COOK WAS ROBBED.
I HAVE told this story once before, but it is so good that I
venture to tell it again, for it is several years ago and
I am sure but few of the readers of The Chronicle have
ever seen or heard of it.
In 1884 we were running a daily paper called the Houston
Chronicle. We did not have any money, but we were all willing
workers and what we lacked in cash we made up for in enthu-
siasm and style. As a matter of fact we had more style than
anything else. We had an editor-in-chief and a managing editor,
an exchange editor, a telegraph editor and a city editor. For
a short while we had a sporting editor also, but he got drunk
one night, raised a rough house in Bell's "honketonk/' got
thrown out and making direct for the Chronicle office wrote up
the place in the most lurid style, slipped it upstairs to the
printers and left town, leaving me to face Bell the next day
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 65
when he had blood in his eyes. Bell's dive deserved all it got,
but I did not want the Chronicle's readers to see such language
used in its columns as that drunken sporting editor put there.
But to my story.
Colonel Hamp Cook was city editor and, of course, he had a
local staff. The staff consisted of one man, a bright chap who
had one fatal defect, he could never get past a barroom if he
chanced to see any one he knew on the inside. However, as he
"toted" his liquor well, Hamp never had much trouble with
him, and as he never gave him anything but routine work to
do, he managed very well. Dud Bryan was the Houston repre-
sentative of the Galveston News at that time and covered the
local field most thoroughly. He kept Hamp and his "staff" on
the jump all the time.
One cold winter night, between 9 and 10 o'clock, a big fire
broke out in the Fifth ward. Hamp gave his "staff" some hur-
ried instructions and rushed to the fire. About an hour after
he left, a friendly policeman came in and reported that an
unknown dead man had been found in a deserted house away
out in the Third Ward. The body had no head, it having been
cut off and carried away. It was a fine story, but the best part
of it was that the fire in the Fifth ward was still blazing and
we knew Dud Bryan would be detained there too long to give
him a chance to get the murder story for the News the next
morning. It was the chance of a lifetime for a big scoop on
the News.
I sent the "staff" hot-footed after the murder story and sat
down at his desk to write up the local news from Hamp's notes.
Twelve o'clock struck. The fire had been put out, but Hamp
had not returned, nor had the "staff," either. I knew it would
take some time for Hamp to get back, for it was a long way
to the Fifth ward at that time, the only bridge across the bayou
being the old iron bridge at the foot of Milam Street. One
o'clock, no Hamp, no staff, but the foreman, importuning me for
"copy." I gave him a handful of reprint and quieted him mo-
mentarily. Two o'clock! The foreman sending down every few
minutes for "copy." I fed him whole batches of newspaper
clippings to keep him quiet. Then, much to my relief, Hamp
Cook showed up, but I had to take a good look at him before I
recognized him. He was one living, moving mass of mud from
the top of his head to the toes of his shoes. How he ever man-
aged to get to the office with that load of mud on him was a
mystery. He told his story briefly. He had been waylaid and
robbed on the other side of the bayou. The highwayman had
knocked him down and then had rolled him over and over in
66 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
the mud, searching for money. Finally they found 35 cents,
which they took and departed.
We stood Hamp up by the stove, and the printers' devil, who
had come down after "copy" and who had remained to hear
Hamp's story, took the coal shovel and began to spade the mud
off of him. Just then the door burst open and in come the
foreman, with blood in his eyes. The "devil" thought he was
after him and hastened to explain.
"Oh, Mr. Cook was knocked down and robbed," he exclaimed.
"Damn Mr. Cook," shouted the foreman. "I am looking for
that who put a bag of paste in my chair. Look
at me. I sat down on it."
We took the foreman down in the pressroom to wash him off
with a hose and we found the "staff" lying on a pile of news-
papers, dead to the world. He had never gotten further than
the Rice Hotel bar, where he met some of his friends, who
treated so liberally that evening his good "toting" qualities
were taxed beyond their capacity and he had fallen.
Cook was game, though. He sat down and wrote a fine ac-
count of the fire and then wrote up the robbery. He spread
himself on this and made an interesting and exciting story of
it, too. But he made a fatal blunder. In closing the article,
he stated that while the robbers got 35 cents, they overlooked a
$5 bill he had in the watch pocket of his pants. That ruined
him. The next evening Uncle Dan McGary of the Age repro-
duced his story under the heading, "The Champion Liar of the
Season," and went on to say that Hamp, being false in one
thing, must be false in all, and that the whole story was a fake,
because everybody knew that he never had as much as $5 at
one time in his whole life. He accused Hamp of trying to put
on style in trying to speak of a watch pocket and then of lying
about having a $5 bill in it. The state papers copied Uncle
Dan's version of the affair and within a week one could not
tell from their comments whether Hamp robbed the robbers
or they had robbed him. The whole thing got dreadfully mixed,
all because Hamp made the mistake of putting that last line
at the end of the story. No doubt he referred to 'that $5 bill
for the purpose of making the robbers feel bad because they
overlooked it, but it proved a (boomerang and came back on
his head.
Of course the Chronicle did not scoop the News with the mur-
der story, but we all had a strenuous time trying to do so.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 67
NO SECOND FORTUNE WANTED.
IHE other night at the Press Club a crowd was collected
about the reading table discussing every imaginable
subject ,-under the sun. Finally one of the gentlemen
asked me what I would do if I had a million dollars.
I told him the truth that I would get a shotgun and shoot
every real estate man or promoter who came within 50 yards
of me with any scheme for me to invest in, and that after I
got them all scared off I would proceed to gratify the greatest
wish of my life, namely, to spend the money just as I pleased.
Since my tastes are not - expensive ones, a million would last
me the remainder of my life, which remainder I placed at not
more than 30 years.
The subject of gratifying one's wishes in the way of spending
money brought to my mind a famous character who formerly-
lived here, but who has long ago been gathered to his fathers.
His name was (Fitzgerald and he was a full-blooded Irishman,
and a typical one, too. He had a little oyster stand down on
Travis Street and ^vhile his trade was not great nor very re-
munerative, !he managed to make a fair living and was out-
wardly content and happy. He loved the flowing bowl, but was
forced to play the game on a small limit because of his narrow
finances.
He was content and happy, as I say, and doubtless would
have passed through life in a very humdrum, prosy way had
not an unforeseen incident bobbed up. His father, uncle or
some one of his immediate relatives had preceded him and
settled in Houston while the town was still in its infancy.
Fitz, for such his intimates called him, knew nothing of this
relative beyond the fact that there had been such a person,
therefore he was greatly surprised one day when a lawyer came
to his oyster place and told him that he was a wealthy man.
"If you are the heir of old Blank Fitzgerald," the lawyer told
him, "you own the whole of the Third Ward of this city, and I
can get it for you if you will sign these papers."
Fitz, having everything to gain and nothing to lose, promptly
signed the papers and the next day or two saw the beginning
of a real estate volcano. There were suits and counter suits and,
as the new Bible says, there was underworld to pay. The old
Fitzgerald claim appeared to be all right and there was scarcely
a lot holder in the Third Ward who felt safe.
In a week or two offers to compromise began to pour in
from these frightened people, and Fitz's lawyer literally did a
land office business. In those days real estate was not selling
for $4500 the front foot. That amount of money would have
68 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
bought several blocks in most any part of the Third or any
other ward of the city, hence compromises were not difficult
to make.
Fifty dollars here, a hundred there and sums of that kind
usually satisfied all claims and resulted in clear titles. The
lawyer waited until he rounded up the whole lot and then he
went to Fitz with his part of the money. It was only a few
thousand dollars, but even that was more money than Fitz
thought there was in the whole world. He promptly kicked his
oyster counter over, threw his knives out in the street, tore
the door of his shanty off its hinges, took his paint brush and
went out in the town to paint it red. The chance that. he had
dreamed of all his life had come and he took advantage of it.
His field of operations was limited, so that while he spent
his money freely and bought lots of whiskey for himself and
friends, his roll lasted about three months, though, and when
he finally became a physical and financial wreck he had at least
the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that no one who had pre-
ceded him had ever pulled off a similar stunt.
After laying up for repairs for a week or two Fitz went back
to his old shack, repaired the counter, fixed the door, got new
knives and settled down to his old business just as if nothing
had occurred to interfere with the placid flow of his life.
About six months after he had settled down the same lawyer
bustled in again. "Fitz," said he, "I have found that you own
all of the Second Ward and I'm going to get that for you, too."
"You're not," shouted Fitz. "I'll have nothing to do with it.
I'm through with the whole thing. Why, man, I would not get
on another drunk like that one I had for the whole city of
Houston. Git out of me place."
The lawyer had actually discovered that Fitz had a good claim
to lots of property in the Second Ward, but he could not get
Fitz to assert his claim. "Send 'em to me," he said, "and I'll
give every one of them a clean title and thank them for takin'
it." He did it, too, and gave every man whose title was affected
a quit claim deed.
He knew of no way to enjoy a fortune except to spend the
money for liquor and he had had his fill of that. The lawyer
was disgusted, of course, but could do nothing, so accepted the
inevitable. Fitz continued his oyster business to the end and got
more enjoyment out of it than he did out of the few thousand
dollars that he spent on his great spree.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 69
HOUSTON'S LAST AFFAIR OF HONOR.
I SAW the other day where a Frenchman had offered to give
any one 10,000 francs who would furnish him with a new
sensation. I don't know what that Frenchman's record in
the sensation line is, but if I could fix up the stage, as it was
once fixed up for me, I could get his money easily.
I know of only one sensation I have not experienced that
of having killed a man. Now as I practiced medicine for about
five years, I can see some of my friends raise their eyebrows
over that statement, but if I have ever killed any, I did so
scientifically and did not know it, hence my conscience does not
hurt me. I have experienced the sensation of being nearly
killed myself two or three times, and on one memorable occa-
sion, I came face to face with the ghost of a dead man I had
cut up half an hour before, and I had the time of my life in
the sensation line when I did so. That was what I referred to
when I spoke of fixing up the stage for that Frenchman a mo-
ment ago. I am not going to tell any ghost story now, and I
refer to it merely to let the reader understand that I am a bit
of an expert when it comes to sensations.
To be guilty of taking human life must be the most terrible
thing on earth. No matter what the circumstances are, there
must be keen regret, if not agonizing remorse at all times. I
once knew a man who had killed three men. He was actually
afraid to go in the dark, not afraid of the living revenging
themselves on him, but afraid of the dead. It was said that he
killed the second man to get rid of the first, and the third to
get rid of the second. He got tired of the ghosts and wanted
a change of companions. Now all this is simply a prelude of
the story of a young man who resides in Houston, who is pre-
pared to go in court and swear to the agony a sensitive person
feels after he has "got his man."
Some years ago there were two young gentlemen here who
were great friends but who were constantly falling out with
each other kind of lovers' quarrels, as it were. One (perhaps
both) is here now, so I shall not call names, though the truth
of the story will be vouched for by hundreds when this recalls
it to their memories. One day these two youths had a most
bitter and serious quarrel, and their companions saw a good
chance to have some fun. Instead of trying to bring the two
together, they widened the breach and magnified its importance
until finally they induced orre of the boys to challenge the other.
They took the challenged party into their confidence and
told him that no balls would be put in the pistols and only
blank cartridges would be used. Under these safe circumstances,
70 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
he readily accepted the challenge and chose pistols at 16 paces.
He was told that he must fall dead at the first fire, and stay
dead until they could get his slayer out of the way. The plan
worked beautifully, for the other fellow was game and even
eager to fight, so they had no trouble with him. Early the next
day the principals and their seconds appeared promptly on the
field of honor, away out somewhere beyond the city limits in
the Third Ward. The men were placed, the word given and
at "three" both fired. The challenged man threw his hands
over his heart, wavered a little and then dropped dead, all in
proper form. When he saw his friend fall, the survivor was
panic stricken, and, for the first time realized that his whole
life was to be one of remorse and regret. He wanted to rush
forward and throw himself on the body of his dead friend and
plead for forgiveness, but was restrained by his seconds, who
pointed out to him the necessity for immediate flight. He took
one wistful look at the place where his friend's body was lying
on the grass and then, panic stricken, he started for Mexico on
foot, like a race horse.
After he was well out of sight the dead man got up and the
whole party returned to town to enjoy the joke. There was
only one thing they overlooked in their calculation, that was
the agony and remorse of their victim. He wandered aimlessly
all the morning and finally concluded that there was only one
thing to do to drown his sorrow return to the city, give him-
self up, and be hung for the murder. He felt easier after mak-
ing up his mind to return and be hanged, so he started for
town, and when he got there he went to the court house to look
for the sheriff. As he turned the corner of Preston Avenue, he
saw what he supposed was the ghost of his murdered friend
standing in the court house door. The ghost saw him at the
same time and attempted to hide behind the door. The young
man rushed eagerly toward the ghost, but the ghost, concluding
that he had found out the joke that had been played on him and
was coming to take revenge on him for the part he had played
in it, concluded not to wait for him and fled. Then commenced
one of the most wonderful flights and pursuits that has ever
been witnessed on court house square, or anywhere else, so
far as that goes. The ghost rushed through the court house
with the victim close behind him. The ghost gained some slight
advantage by diving into a cigar store, knocking down two or
three people who were in there, wrecking the stand and thus
blocking the way long enough to allow him to reach the back
yard, mount some dry goods boxes and crawl over a fence into
the next yard. The advantage was only slight, however, for
the victim was a good second and reached the next yard, by
HOUSTON AND 'HOUSTONIANS 71
the same route, almost as quickly as the ghost. Then, in a per-
fect agony of fear, the ghost made for the sidewalk again,
choosing for his route the first open door he saw, which chanced
to belong to a little tailor shop. In they went, like a couple
of wild horses, knocking down shelves, overturning tables and
wrecking the place completely. By this time the ghost was con-
vinced that the victim had secured a bowie knife and was only
waiting to get near enough to him to rip him into bits. The
thought put new life and energy into his legs, and reaching the
sidewalk he lit out in true Marathon style. He had seen the
folly of trying to dodge into stores, so kept to the open street.
The victim was as anxious to capture him as he was to escape,
and took after him, also with renewed energy. Not one word
had been spoken up to this time. The chase, barring the
crashes in the cigar store and tailor shop, had been conducted
amidst profound silence. After going four blocks in something
like a fraction of a second, the victim managed to get near
enough to the ghost, and to find breath enough to say, "Hold
on, you fool. I don't want to fight you; I want to kiss you for
being alive."
That was all. He was so glad that he was not a murderer
that he wanted to kiss his supposed victim. It was a terrible
load that was lifted from his mind and heart and he was crazy
with joy. He felt such relief that he forgave everybody who
had anything to do with the duel and the subject was allowed
to die out by the principals. The joke was so evenly divided
between these two that neither had any advantage.
That, I believe, is the last "affair of honor" that has occurred
in Houston.
* * *
MRS. BURKHART AND THE BOYS.
NOT so long ago one of my legal friends asked me to go
with him to locate a fence that was built long ago
along Preston Avenue to the bayou, near the bridge. The
question to be determined was whether there had been a fence
there or not and if there had been, where it was located.
That visit brought back more amusing memories than any
other locality could have possibly done. The property under
dispute was formerly owned by Mrs. Burkhart. She owned the
whole block on the bayou between Prairie and Preston, fronting
Smith Street. She had no more idea of riparian rights than she
had of the constitution and by-laws of the Fiji Islands, and
when she built her fences she covered all the land and as much
of the bayou as she could. Having erected her stronghold, she
stood ever ready to defend it against intruders. Dickens' old
lady who carried on relentless war against donkeys was not
72 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
a drop in the bucket as a warrior compared to Mrs. Burkhart
conducting her private war against the boys. There were some
nice fishing holes inside the enclosure and there were lots of
nice mustang and winter grapes along the banks of the bayou.
These tempted the boys, but by the time they were getting their
first fish out of the water or reaching for the grapes Mrs. Burk-
hart would loom up armed with bricks and bones and open fire
on the intruder or intruders. I don't think she ever caught a
boy so I can't say what she would have done had she taken a
prisoner. The boys never gave her a chance to show her hand
in that way, for on the arrival of the first piece of brick or
bone a hasty retreat was beaten.
About the nearest she ever came to capturing a prisoner was
in the case of Dick Fuller. It was "popgun time" and china-
berries were in great demand. Near the Prairie side of the
block there was a large chinaberry tree that extended over into
the street. One day Dick got up in this tree, gathered a num-
ber of bunches of berries and began picking them into his hat.
He wanted to get a hatful so as to have a big supply. He be-
came so absorbed in his work that he forgot all about Mrs.
Burkhart and she crept up under him without his knowing any-
thing about her warlike intentions. Dick was sitting on a limb
with his feet resting on another and was very comfortable and
well content. While he was sitting there he began to feel the
waist-band of his trousers tighten mysteriously and on attempt-
ing to move found he could not do so. He looked down and was
horrified to see, directly under him, Mrs. Burkhart, who had
made him a prisoner in a novel way. She had taken a long
pole she used to prop up her clothes line with. This had two
nails driven in the end of it. She had reached up and succeeded
in entangling those nails in the seat of Dick's trousers. When
she saw that Dick had discovered her she threw aside all dis-
guise and went at the entangling work in real earnest. Dick
tugged and squirmed and Mrs. Burkhart twisted and twisted.
It was terribly humiliating to be captured by a woman and cap-
tured by the seat of his pants, too, but Dick's mind was not
on the disgrace, humiliation or anything of that kind, but was
on how to make his escape. Dick pulled and pulled and Mrs. B.
twisted and twisted, trying to secure an indestructible hold, so
between the two they managed to overdo the thing and, the seat
of the pants being human (if I can say such a thing about the
seat of pants), gave way and Dick was free.
When she saw that her tail-hold had broken she grew des-
perate and made strenuous efforts to punch him out of the tree
with the pole. He saw only one avenue of escape. He rushed
out as far as could on the limb and made a dive into the street.
He did not ask her for the part of his wardrobe she flaunted at
the end of the pole in his face, but turned tail and fled. He
managed to save his hat, but lost all his berries, of course.
Now, looking back after all these years, I am inclined to
believe that Mrs. Burkhart actually enjoyed having the boys in-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 73
trude on her premises because of the fun it afforded her in
running them off. She looked like a fiend when she had Dick
Fuller hooked up that time, but I am willing to bet she enjoyed
a good laugh all to herself when she began untangling the seat
of his pants from the nails at the end of her pole. She made
it a point never to recognize a boy on the street or to take the
slightest notice that he was on the face of the earth; but let
him crawl over her fence and all that was changed and he found
himself the center of the most ardent and' heartfelt attention.
There was no ignoring him then.
* * *
FRANK LA MOTT'S STORY.
YES," said Frank La Mott, "I have known some queer
characters in my day, but the queerest I ever ran across
was an old, one-eyed chap that taught school for several
years out west of San Antonio. If I did not know Canon Doyle
never heard of the man I would be tempted to believe that he
had him in mind when he created Sir Niegel. This old fellow
was on the warpath all the time and spent his leisure moments
reading about chivalry, knights errant and all that sort of fool-
"The old chap had only one eye, and the way he lost the
missing one was in keeping with everything he did. He be-
longed to a cavalry regiment that served on the other side of
the river during the war, and they say he made one of the
best soldiers in his command. I can't swear that the story is
true in every detail, but I have heard it so often that I am
inclined to believe every word of it. Once his regiment was
camped on one side of a big bend in a river and a Yankee regi-
ment was camped on the other. As a matter of fact, the two
regiments were on the same side of the river, but there was a
big bend in the river, coming down to a narrow neck that made
them appear to be on opposite sides.
"One day a crazy Yank came down to the bank of the river
and rode his horse up and down, waving his hat and making
signs and signals. No one could make out what he was up to
, until finally our old chap solved the mystery.
" 'That chap is making a defi,' he said. 'He wants to run a
tilt for the advancement of his lady love. Don't you see he
holds up one hand and then points up the river? He wants a
private war, and I'm going to give it to him. I ain't got no
lady; but I will stop his advancing his.' So saying he saddled
up his horse, buckled on his six-shooter and motioning to the
Yank to come ahead, he rode off to the big bend in the river.
"The Yank must have been out for what the old man said,
for as soon as he saw him start he put spurs to his horse and
aimed for the bend, too. They commenced shooting as soon
as they got in range and about the second shot the Yank's
bullet knocked the old chap's eye out. That made him so mad
that he charged down on the Yank, yelling like an Indian and
74 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
shooting like a fiend. That charge was too much for the Yank.
He forgot all about the advancement of his lady love and thought
only of the retirement of himself. He turned tail and broke
for his camp with the old chap right behind him, coming like
a prairie fire. In spite of the danger, the boys could not keep
from yelling, and the Yanks were doing the same. The old fel-
low chased that 'knight' right into his camp and tried to hit
him with his empty six-shooter after he caught him.
"The Yanks were dead-game sports. They had seen that it
was a fair fight, and they refused to take advantage of the
situation. They had their doctor fix the old chap's eye and
then they turned him loose and let him go back to his own
regiment. Some of the boys used to say they sent him back
with a guard of honor, but I always omit that part when I tell
the story.
"Now if you knew the old fellow you would be prepared to be-
lieve this story, or any other that would bring out his game-
ness. He was like one of those blue-legged crabs in a tub that
throws up both arms, ready for battle every time anybody looks
at him. The old man was always looking for trouble, with the
result that, after his reputation was established, he was always
treated with the most distinguished consideration and courtesy.
"Now, from what I have told you about the old man you
would think that nothing on earth could rattle him, and that
he had nerves made out of galvanized iron. He had nothing
of the kind, but was one of the most nervous men you ever
saw. He would stand up and fight the devil himself with knife
or pistol, and never a whimper, but if any one sprang a surprise
on him he would go all to pieces. I suspect he was ticklish.
I remember I gave him a great surprise and he gave me one
in return that I remembered for a long time. He was walking
down Houston Street, in San Antonio, and I walked up behind
him and slapped him on the shoulder. He squatted down on
the ground and squealed like a wildcat and then rose with a
bowie knife in his hand and chased me for two blocks. He was
simply crazy from nervousness and did not know what he was
doing. I heard afterward that he did the same thing in the
legislative hall at Austin and came near killing one of his friends
who came up behind him and nudged him. You can bet I never
tried to flank nor come up in his rear after that. I would dodge
him until he could see me advancing from in front, and even
then I watched out for signs of war from him. The old fellow
always carried two derringers and a bowie knife and it is a
wonder he did not kill off half his friends.
"He was a great believer in dueling, but I don't think he ever
fought a duel unless that tournament with the Yankee might
be called one. He was always in too great a hurry to wait for
the seconds to arrange the affair. Poor old fellow. He has been
dead now many years, but the next time you are in San Antonio
and come across any old-timers you ask them about 'Professor
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 75
Pete White,' and listen to the tales they will tell you. You can
get enough to make a book if you want to."
* * *
NOT DOWN ON THE PROGRAMME.
WHATEVER may be said of Houston's quiet Christmas,
the same does not apply to New Year's Eve, the
death of the old year. Houston fairly stood up on its
hind legs and welcomed the new year in the most royal man-
ner. There was noise enough to make up for the deficit for
Christmas and then have some left over. I did not see any
of it, for I did not venture away from the Press Club, where a
number of us welcomed the new year in in an orderly manner.
That noise, firecrackers, pistol shooting and everything else,
showed me that there was some love of fun left in the old place
yet and made me like it all the more. It was much after the
way we used to celebrate and for the first time I began to feel
as if I were at home. One terrible explosion had a good effect
on me, for it carried me back instantly to so many years ago
that I am not going to say how many.
There is a good story involved in that explosion, too, and I
am going to tell it, although it is on Sinclair, and he may not
like to have it told. The reader must remember that we were
all much younger and that W. R. Sinclair was very far from
being the staid and dignified editor that he is today.
The newspaper boys and the police stood in with each other
much closer then than they do today. The "force" was not
large, but it was lively. Alex Erichson was chief and Bill Glass
was deputy chief. Alex was serious and took but little stock
in fun and jokes, but Bill Glass made up for all the chief's de-
fects in that way.
There was a good sprinkling of railroad men who ran with
the gang also, and it was the neglect of one of these that gave
rise to the following incident, which is absolutely true:
A conductor who "ran with the gang" got married during
Christmas week and on New Year's Eve gave a dance at his
residence down in Frostown, as that part of the city where the
gas works was located was called. His house was a a small one
and presumably for that reason he failed to invite any of the
"boys" to the dance.
Bill Glass and Sinclair, or "Sin." as he was called, understood
well enough that no slight had been intended, but they pretended
to be greatly outraged and worked on the others until they were
ready to do anything that Glass and Sinclair suggested. These
two thought of every possible way of getting even with the
conductor and at last hit upon the following novel plan, which
would not only accomplish their purpose, but at the same time
let the whole town know that they were on their job.
Near midnight they got the boys together near the court
house and told them their plans. There were several pieces of
field artillery, six-pounders, that had been accumulated by the
76 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
Federal army of occupation and left on court house square, to
be shipped North. These guns were all dismounted and were
lying on the ground.
The two conspirators selected one of the cleanest, found that
the vent was open and that it was in good firing condition. Bill
Glass had a quantity of gunpowder and they stood the gun on
end while he poured about a hatful of it into the gun and then
rammed a newspaper down on it with a long stick. It was a
crude loading, but it was enough to make a noise. Having loaded
the cannon, they got some heavy sticks, or rather poles, and
half a dozen fellows vied with each other for the honor of acting
as pallbearers. The weather was outrageous and the mud was
knee-deep everywhere, but that made no difference.
They marched down to the conductor's residence, opened his
front gate and proceeded to plant their gun on the sidewalk.
They got the proper elevation by propping up the muzzle of the
gun with pickets, bricks and anything they could find, and when
they got through the piece was well placed, aiming exactly at
the doorknob of the front door.
It was a very cold night and all the doors were closed tight.
The gang could hear the music and the revelry going on inside
and chuckled to think what a surprise they were going to give
the revellers. Having planted their gun properly, they inserted
a friction primer, attached a long rope to it, hitched the rope
to the front doorknob, so that simply opening the door would
fire the cannon, and then they hid out to await developments.
They waited and waited, but no one came to the door. Fin-
ally Sinclair determined to wait no longer, so he slipped up to
the door, intending to knock on it and get out of the way before
anyone answered the knock. His idea was all right, but it mis-
carried. Just as he reached the door and extended his hand to
knock some one jerked the door open.
The surprise was a success in more ways than the boys had
calculated. The cannon went off with a roar that woke up all
the old people in Houston who had gone to sleep, and when it
did so it shot Sinclair clean into the hall and half way through
the back door. It came near wrecking the house itself. Every
pane of glass and every dish in the house was smashed to
pieces. The worst part was that Sinclair had been shot right
into the enemy's hands and had no earthly excuse for being there.
The conductor was so frightened that he did not know what
to do. In the confusion Sinclair managed to escape. When
he got outside he found that every one of his conspirators had
deserted him. They all thought that Sinclair and everybody in
the house had been blown to pieces, so they took to their heels.
Sinclair trudged through the mud to town.
His hair was singed off and his clothes torn into bits. In fact,
he was as much of a wreck as the house was. About 2 o'clock
in the morning the conductor showed up at police headquarters
and reported the outrage to Deputy Chief Bill Glass, who listened
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 77
patiently and made the most strenuous promises that he would
investigate the thing and punish the guilty persons.
By next morning Sinclair, who had thought over the thing,
wrote an indignant letter to the conductor, charging him with
having attempted to take his life. He said that he had called
to pass the usual congratulations, having found the house
lighted and everybody up, and that just as he knocked on the
door the conductor had exploded a concealed mine on him and
had come near killing him.
"Sin" took the offensive from the start and won out. It was
not so difficult to do, either, for it was against reason to believe
that a man would fix up such a thing and then voluntarily get
right in front of it himself.
Bill Glass investigated, got clews and abandoned them and
finally gave up and informed the conductor that he was unable
to solve the mystery.
That old cannon lay out on the sidewalk in front of the con-
ductor's house for a long time and was finally taken away by the
Federal authorities and shipped North. The conductor had
been in the Federal army and, as the gun was a Confederate
cannon, no doubt that New Year's night was not the first time
it had been fired at him.
Just imagine the deputy chief under Chief Noble engaging in
anything like that today. The thing is scarcely thinkable.
* * *
ABOUT ALLIGATORS.
ONCE, when I was living in New Orleans, a young fellow
asked me if I had ever been on a big cattle ranch and
when I told him I had he offered to bet me that I could
not tell how a cow, that was lying down, got up. I had seen
thousands of them get up, but when I got to thinking about it,
I could not tell him to save my life. Then he asked me how
a horse got up, and I could not tell that, either. Since that
day I have always known that a cow gets on her hind feet first
and a horse gets on his front feet first. That shows how little
we observe things that occur constantly under our very noses.
Now, while most of the Chronicle readers may be better in-
formed on cows and horses than I was, I am willing to take a
small amount that not half a dozen of them can tell how an
alligator opens his mouth. All the rest of the thousands will
say that he opens it by raising his upper jaw; that the lower
jaw lies flat on the ground and that the upper one rises. Last
week, I admit, I would have said the same thing, but I know
better now, for I have been reading up on alligators, and the
natural history sharp whose book I read says that the alliga-
tor's jaws open far back, even behind the ears, where they are
hinged or articulated into each other. The effect is that when
the alligator opens his mouth his neck becomes somewhat bent
upward, giving him the appearance of having moved the upper
instead of the lower jaw. That was a new one on me, and I
78 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
made up my mind to spring it on the public the first chance I
got.
Now, speaking of alligators reminds me that there used to be
quantities of them in Buffalo Bayou. I don't know how many Mr.
Erickson, the father of Otto, killed in his day, but I know of
several, and one of the largest I ever saw was killed by him
about where the Louisiana bridge now stands. It was so large
that it attracted public attention, just as that whale did a year
or two ago. He cut the head off, had it prepared and shipped it
to a museum in Germany. I remember seeing the head. It was
in a large wash-tub and stuck up two or three feet above the top
of the tub. The old man was a dead-shot with a rifle, and it
took a dead-shot to kill an alligator with the guns of that day,
for the only way to kill them was by shooting them in the eye.
He could do that and he rarely failed to get them on the first
shot.
I heard stories of men being eaten by alligators when I was a
boy, and I believe there are one or two well authenticated cases
reported. We boys paid no attention to the stories, however,
and went in swimming just as though there were no such thing
in the world as an alligator. The very evening Mr. Erichson
killed that big one the bayou was full of boys not a hundred feet
from where he had killed it. But boys are hardly responsible
for their fool capers.
On one occasion I witnessed a funny scene in which a 10-foot
alligator was one of the principal actors. I was living out in the
country with Louis Hillendahl. There was, and is yet, I believe,
a large German settlement out there. One of the great summer
sports was getting up a big fish fry. We had a great big seine
and caught our fish that way. A week or two ahead a lot of the
boys would select a nice stretch in Buffalo Bayou, and would
strip off, get in and remove every snag. That was to give the
seine fair play.' The work was done some time before the sein-
ing so as to allow the frightened fish to return to their accus-
tomed haunts. When everything was ready, on some bright
Sunday morning, the whole neighborhood would turn out and
meet at the bayou. There were men, women and children and
everybody. The ladies would make fires and prepare for a big
dinner while half a dozen young fellows would retire to the
woods and don old clothes. These were the seiners. When
everything was ready a whoop would announce that the seining
was about to begin, and a rush would be made for the bank
of the bayou, to watch the fun.
Usually a space of a hundred yards or more would be cleared
of snags, so as to catch as many fish as possible.
One Sunday morning the seining was going on finely. Two or
three hauls had been made, and quite a number of fish had been
caught. Finally, just at a bend in the bayou, the seine became
entangled in a deep hole. There was a big discussion, and the
boys who had done the cleaning were roundly abused for having
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 79
left such a snag there. Effort was made to clear the seine by
pulling it sideways, backwards and every other way, but it was
no use, it was evidently badly entangled. One or two of the boys
volunteered to dive down and untangle it. It was rather deep,
so none of them stayed down very long. Finally one fellow,
whose sweetheart was watching him from the bank, took a long
breath and went down with the evident intention of getting the
seine free, even if he had to haul the log out that was holding it.
He was down less time than any of the others, for he came up
like a rocket, rose away up out of the water and made for the
shore, shouting at the top of his voice the German equivalent
for alligator. He hit the bank, scrambled out, and when he got
breath enough to talk we learned that he had gone down and
actually seized the alligator round the neck before he realized
what it was. When he did find out what he was hugging he
turned loose in a hurry and came out like a tornado.
Then you never heard so much excited talk. Every man there
knew so well what should be done to capture that alligator that
no one would listen to what anybody else said. Talk about the
French being excitable, why a crowd of Germans with an alligator
tangled up in their only seine 10 or 15 feet under the water can
give the Frenchmen cards and spades and then beat them out.
Finally it was determined that the only way to get the alligator
out was to pull him out, and the whole crowd set to work doing
so. It was hard work, for at first the alligator refused to budge.
At last they got him started and you could hear those fellows
shout for a mile or two. At last they got him safely out on the
bank, and he was fighting mad. He had not torn the seine while
he was in the water, but he proceeded to rip it up right and left
now that he was on land. Everybody who had an ax or hatchet
took a dig at him, and that part of the seine which he had not
destroyed was finished by the axmen. It was a wild, howling
crowd that surrounded that alligator, and if he had been the least
sensitive he would have died of fright long before they succeeded
in killing him. No pack of coon dogs ever made such a racket
about a fighting coon as those fellows made around that alli-
gator. After it was all over they realized what foolish capers
they had cut and laughed heartily at each other's antics. It
was the best and most surprising seining party I ever attended.
There are no alligators in Buffalo Bayou today, at least not
in the city limits, but I suspect that if a careful search were
made one or two might be found up near the head of the bayou.
The little lakes and ponds over in San Jacinto bottom were full
of them a few years ago, and on one occasion I killed four or
five without hardly getting out of my tracks. After doing such
excellent shooting, I shot at a water moccasin five times at a
distance of ten feet and missed him every time. The only way
I can account for it is that the snake got on my nerves, for I
dread even the sight of one.
80 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
COLONEL CY. S. OBERLY.
IN the early '80's there were a lot of first-class newspaper
men in Hbuston. The Galveston News had a very large
circulation here and generally kept two or three men in
their Houston branch office. Then there were two or three
pretty good local papers here and all these had good men on
them. There were good reporters, bad reporters and a good
sprinkling of amateur reporters. Among all the distinguished
ones there was one who stood out prominently as both a good
newspaper man, fine writer and gentleman, Colonel Cy. S. Ober-
ly. All those who were so fortunate as to know the colonel will
agree with me in saying that he was a man and gentleman from
the crown of his head to the sole of his foot.
The colonel was more of an author than a newspaper man.
He was a good writer, but not a good news-gatherer, but he
never got left in the shuffle, for the other boys always looked
out for his interest. He wrote books, poems and newspaper
verses and paid more attention to the trimmings than to the
serious things of life. He had been a Texas ranger and had
served on the Rio Grande for about three years, so he had a
rich fund of personal experience to draw on for his books, which
were about Mexican outlaws and wild Indians. They used to tell
an amusing story on the colonel, but always when they were
certain he was absent. He had just issued one of his thrilling
frontier stories and all his friends in Memphis, where he was
living, were reading and praising it. There was an old printer
working on the morning paper who was considered the best
critic in the country, for no other reason in the world than that
he said he was himself. He criticised everything from the Bible
down. All newspaper men will recognize him, for there was
never a newspaper office that did not have among its printers
one of this type. They are as necessary to a composing room
as the printers' devil and the dirty towel. One morning Colonel
Oberly was taking an ice cream soda and discussing his last
novel with the barkeep, when the latter said: "Colonel, here
comes old ; hide behind the counter and I will ask him
about your book, and then you can get his real opinion, which
I know will be flattering to you."
The colonel thought it a good idea and hopped behind the
counter. When the critic came in and had his whiskey set out
in front of him the barkeep asked him, casually, if he had read
Colonel Oberly's last novel.
"Yes," growled the old printer, "and he stole every line of it
from Ned Buntline."
That was more than the colonel could stand, and, yelling:
"You liar" he rose from behind the counter with the ice pick
in his hand and took after the critic. It was a hot chase. The
critic got away, but lost his drink. There were two shocked
and surprised individuals that morning. Colonel Oberly expected
to hear all kinds of praise for his book and got the opposite,
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 81
while the old printer expected to condemn the book in a breath
and take his drink in peace.
Colonel Oberly had one great virtue. Whatever he wrote
for a newspaper he held himself responsible for and never
sought to hide behind the management or any of the higher
editors. I will never forget the advice he gave me when I was
made managing editor of the Galveston News.
"Now," said he, "you will be called on to pass on many things
that affect character and interests. It is a big responsibility
and I want to tell you the easiest way to meet it. When you
strike anything questionable, read it over carefully and then
go out and take a walk, thinking it over. When you get back,
read it again and then ask yourself, 'Am I willing to fight for
this in case a row is made?' If you can't answer in the affirm-
ative throw the stuff in the waste basket." There is a world
o,f wisdom in that advice.
What made me think of Colonel Oberly this morning was
seeing in the papers where the printers were preparing their
burial place in such an elegant way. The colonel's name was
mentioned among those buried in Glenwood Cemetery. He died
suddenly, I think, in 1886. It was awful weather in February
and it had been raining for weeks. Houston was a sea of mud
and after getting off the few paved stress navigation was im-
possible. The road to Glenwood was impassable and it was
necessary to use the street cars for the funeral. The coffin was
taken over to the Central Depot and there transferred to a
street car drawn by mules. Other cars took the places of car-
riages and thus the first and probably the last street car funeral
in Houston took place.
* * *
HONEST BOB WILSON. .
HONEST BOB" WILSON has never received that justice
from the writers of history to which his eminent services
to the colonists, to the Republic, and to the young state
of Texas entitle him. He was one of the remarkable men of
the early days and it is a shame that he is not better remem-
bered.
Old Houstonians remember him, not so much for anything that
they knew of his achievements, as from the fact that he was
the father of the Hon. James T. D. Wilson, the first mayor chosen
by the people after reconstruction days, when the Democrats
gained control of the state. The younger generation know of
him as being the grandfather of the Wilson boys, who have
done so much for the growth and advancement of Houston and
who, today, have their shoulders to the wheel, working for an
even greater Houston.
It is scarcely credible that a man of such accomplishments
should have his memory perpetuated only through the lesser
accomplishments of his descendants, yet that is literally true
of "Honest Bob" Wilson.
82 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
His title of "Honest Bob" was not given him in derision, as
is the case so often nowadays, but was the result of, and the
expression of, genuine admiration for him by his fellow citizens.
I have heard my grandfather tell the story often. Bob was
a member of the senate of the Republic of Texas. He believed
in publicity and was silly enough, measured by later day stand-
ards, to think that the people had a right to know something
of everything their servants did. The members of the Texas
congress knew more about fighting than they did about par-
liamentary matters.
Soon after congress assembled it became necessary to hold
an executive session and those who knew something about such
matters warned the members that nothing must be divulged
about any matter discussed. It was impressed on them that
the meeting was to be a secret one, and it was also impressed
on them that any member who broke the rule of silence would
be severely punished. "Honest Bob" listened to all that was
said but did not say anything.
It was in 1838 during the Lamar administration and Burnet,
being vice president, presided over the senate. Burnet had a
scheme by which the bonds of the new Republic of Texas were
to be exchanged for Sputh Carolina state money, and he was
urging the adoption of a resolution by the senate that would
enable him to carry out his plan.
"Honest Bob" owned a line of sailng boats plying between
Harrisburg and New Orleans, and through his captains he had
heard that the South Carolina money was of little value. He
never had agreed with Burnett on any question, so he made a
most vicious attack on his plan.
It was during an executive session of the senate that the ar-
gument and outbreak occurred. The most unparliamentary lan-
guage was used, and almost a free fight occurred. When the
session closed "Honest Bob" went out on Main Street and told
everybody he met what had taken place and what the vice
president was trying to do.
When the senate heard what he was doing the sergeant-at-
arms was sent after him. He was arrested, brought before the
senate and promptly expelled from that body.
A special election was ordered by the senate to fill the va-
cancy caused by his expulsion. Three days later the election
was held and "Honest Bob" was; re-elected to the senate by
practically a unanimous vote.
The people did not stop at merely electing him, but when the
result was known, they took him on their shoulders and bore him
back to the senate chamber and deposited him before the mem-
bers with instructions to leave him alone and not try to expell
him again. That is, briefly, how he obtained the name of "Hon-
est Bob."
He was a remarkable man and did much for the future great
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 83
state. He was a progressive, all right. He came to Texas in
1828 and settled down about Harrisburg.
He was a man of great energy and enterprise. His boats
were the first to come up Buffalo Bayou and he made the first
permanent improvements at Harrisburg, establishing quite an ex-
tensive manufacturing plant there. He ha*d a sawmill, a black-
smith shop, a wagon and wheel shop and had several good houses
for his workmen.
When the revolution broke out he contributed largely to the
cause, and Santa Anna made him pay dearly for his patriotism,
for he burned up everything he could lay his hands on.
The war ruined him, but he would not stay ruined, and while
the Republic of Texas and the State of Texas, with the prover-
bial ingratitude of republics, failed to reimburse him for his
losses, he succeeded in making what was considered at that time
to be a modest fortune before his death.
I am not certain, but it is my impression that the body of
"Honest Bob" Wilson lies in or near the old Catholic Cemetery
down in the Second Ward. I have not been there for many
years, but I am almost certain that there is a marble shaft
erected over his grave.
JOE TYRAN AND HAMP COOK.
ONE afternoon recently I was in a book store on Main Street
when a gentleman who is a candidate for a county office
came in. The book man asked him how his campaign
was coming on and the candidate assured him that he had every-
thing going his way and that there could be no doubt of his tri-
umphant election. He said he had a majority of the votes
pledged to him already and that they were coming his way all
the time. He was absolutely confident of his election.
After he went away the book man told me that the chap would
come out about fourth in the race. I don't know anything about
local politics, nor about the candidates, either, but from what I
know of elections in the past it will not surprise me if the book
man's prediction proves to be true. I could never understand
why it is so, but it is true, nevertheless, that so soon as a man
becomes a candidate for office he is seized with a species of
insanity which may be called cacoethes credenti, or, in plain
English, he becomes a sucker and believes everything that the
voters tell him. He may be a hard-headed business man and one
who weighs everything and gives it its true value, but when he
becomes a candidate he reverses his methods and becomes the
most credulous being on earth. It is strange, but it is true. Per-
haps the candidate loses no advantage by becoming that way,
for each one of his opponents is equally guilty.
About the most amusing case of this kind of credulity that
ever came under my personal observation occurred several years
ago here in Houston. The Harris County Democratic convention
84 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
was being held in the opera house; that was located in the city
hall. I met Joe Tyran, who invited me to go up in the hall. He
told me he was going to be nominated for one of the big county
offices on the first ballot; that he had prepared a fine speech
and wanted me to hear him. Of course, I went. On the way he
told me that taking the ballot was a mere formality, as he had
a sure thing, and would get the vote of nearly every delegate
in the convention. When we got to the hall Joe and I went into
one of the front boxes, so he could step right out on the stage
when the time came for him to return thanks to the delegates.
We had not been there long before the time came for balloting
for Joe's office. One or two nominating speeches were made
and then the voting began. The result knocked me and Joe
out of the box, for out of the 86 votes in the convention Joe got
only three. He looked at me and I looked at him and then he
crawled out of the box onto the stage and raised his hand. There
was a dead calm. Joe advanced to the front of the stage and
said: "Mr. Chairman: I want to say that there are 83 of the
biggest liars in this hall that God ever let live."
In a moment bedlam broke loose. Delegates were on their feet
in all parts of the hall gesticulating and shouting, while every-
body was yelling and hooting. One little fellow clear back in
the rear of the hall, who had a voice like a fog-horn, managed to
make himself heard and. finally the others stopped their racket
long enough for him to speak.
"Mr. Chairman," he said. "I object to any such language
being " but he got no further than that. Joe did not know who
he was, but he shot in the dark. "Sit down, you infernal scoun-
drel. You offered to sell out to me this morning for twenty
dollars."
Now everybody in the house knew this charge was absurd and
groundless, and that Joe was saying what he did simply because
he was mad, but the crowd enjoyed the situation and raised a
yell that could have been heard for blocks away. The little fel-
low could do nothing and realizing his helplessness, he collapsed.
It took a long time to restore order and get the convention down
to business again. When things got quiet I left, feeling that I
had been more than repaid for my trouble in going up to hear
Joe's speech, even if the one he delivered had been a substitute.
Joe Tyran was a politician from away back sometimes. He
was a politician all the time, but a mighty poor one occasionally.
He had an impolitic way of letting his personal friendships in-
fluence him and you know no successful politician can do that.
From that failing Joe made a poor politician. He was a splendid
fellow and everybody loved him. He would get to be so popular
that it would actually hurt, and then, acting on impulse, he
would do something that would throw all the fat in the fire.
That was only when he was a candidate himself. When he was
working for a friend he could do much that was valuable and he
always could be counted on to do it. Joe sure was impulsive,
and I can prove that by Col. Hamp Cook. There is a good story
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 85
here and I am going to tell it, even if I have to dodge Col. Hamp
Cook for the next month for doing so.
On one occasion there was a red-hot campaign on and Joe and
Hamp were taking an active part in it. They boarded the old
mule car to go down to the Union Depot on Congress Avenue.
On the way down they jumped off the car and went into a grocery
store to get some cigars. They were standing talking to the man
when a big yellow negro came in. Joe looked at the negro for
a moment and then, without a word, hauled off and smashed
him in the face. The negro did not understand what it was
about, but he promptly knocked Joe down and mounted him.
That was more than Colonel Cook could stand, so he batted the
negro, knocking him off Joe and engaging him himself. The ne-
gro had the Colonel on his back the next minute and proceeded
to beat him up a whole lot. Hamp fought and fought, but he
also yelled for Joe to help him out. Joe had gotten up and
stood there with his hands in his pockets shouting:
"Give him hell, Hamp. Give him hell."
"Pull him off, I tell you. Don't you see he's giving me hell?"
replied Hamp.
"No, he's not," replied Joe. "Keep it up, you've got him."
Finally the store man pulled the negro off Hamp and restored
order for a moment, but only for a moment, for Hamp forgot
all about the negro in his anxiety to get at Joe. The man had
hard work to prevent another fight, but finally restored order.
I had forgotten all about that convention and that battle royal
until that candidate came in the book store the other day and
set the current of my thoughts backward to the days when there
were more things happening in Houston that had life and vim
in them, in a day, than happen now in a month.
* * *
DESPERADOES AS SOLDIERS.
HOUSTON has introduced some remarkable characters in
the past, and some of her sons have established enviable
reputations in the world. There are others of her sons
who have made names for themselves as great warriors in pri-
vate life; in a word, as desperadoes, and others as near-des-
peradoes. In the early days each community had its "bad man,"
who was pointed at with something like pride, for he was sure
to shed a kind of luster on the community. Houston had sev-
eral of these "bad men," gun fighters or whatever is the proper
name for them. There was Kane Norton, who was killed in the
battle of Mansfield, over in Louisiana; Tom Clarke, who .was
knifed to death by a dozen Mexicans in the market house in
San Antonio, after he had killed several of them and exhausted
all the shots of his six-shooter, and last, but not least, Buck
Stacey, of whom I am going to speak at more length now. Buck
did not have the glory of dying on the field of battle or of dying
amid the bodies of those who had fallen before his deadly pistol,
86 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
but he did have the honor of being the first man condemned to
death by a court-martial and executed on this side of the river
during our great war. But we will come to that later.
Buck was a "throw-back" if ever there was one. His father
died when he was quite young and he was raised by his mother,
a God-fearing, praying, Christian woman. His home life and
surroundings were such as should have produced a preacher or
at least a Sunday school superintendent, but they produced, if
they had anything at all to do with it, something exactly the
opposite. He was a magnificent looking young man. Nearly six
feet high, hair and mustache as black as the raven's wing, while
his eyes were those of the typical desperado, steel blue and as
clear as crystal. He was a handsome fellow every inch of him,
and yet, strange to say, he was no lady killer and avoided female
company.
Buck's first appearance on the stage as a shooting man was a
surprise to everybody, for he made his debut suddenly and un-
announced. Mr. T. T. Thompson, the great jeweler, who after-
ward moved to Galveston, had a large jewelry store on the north-
east corner of Main and Congress Avenue. He brought a young
fellow from New York to clerk for him. This young man was
one of the "flip" kind and had more impudence than sense. One
day Buck's mother went to the store to make a purchase and
could not find exactly what she wanted. The young clerk grew
impatient and finally got so impertinent that she left the store,
intending to complain to Mr. Thompson when she met him. At
dinner she mentioned the incident, not dreaming that Buck
would act in the matter. Buck ate his dinner, took his hat and
strolled down to Thompson's. He walked in and so soon as he
caught sight of the young fellow he opened fire on him. Buck
had only two derringers. His first shot missed and the young
fellow, screaming like a scared Indian, attempted to get upstairs
behind a large jewel case. Buck saw his victim was about to
escape, so he shot at him through the case, wrecking watches,
brooches and everything else in the line of fire. He missed
again, but he had scared the young man so badly that he rushed
upstairs, escaped through a window, slid down a post and made
good his escape. It was said that he ran all the way to Harris-
burg. Whatever he did, he never showed up in the store again.-
Buck's mother paid all the damage that had been done and the
matter was dropped. I doubt very much if the courts would
have noticed the case if she had not paid anything, for in the
early days it was hard to convict a man for resenting imperti-
nence to his mother or to any other lady. That affair died out,
but Buck had had a taste of "high life" and he liked it, so he
went from bad to worse, became a professional gambler and
was a "bad man." His greatest failing was his quick and un-
governable temper. That was a bad asset for a desperado and
would have led to his undoing in the end had he been permitted
to run his course. Coolness and quiet decision were the main-
stays of all the desperadoes I have ever known, and I have known
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 87
several of the most prominent of them. Buck's passion always
got the best of him and he was always at a disadvantage in con-
sequence.
When the war broke out there were several companies organ
ized in Houston and at nearby points. These troops were for
service along the Rio Grande and in New Mexico and in Arizona.
Buck was among the first to volunteer. I am not certain, but I
think he and Frank Le Mott were in Captain I. C. Stafford's
company, which was the first company to leave Houston. There
were a lot of mighty good men in that company and there were
some pretty tough ones, too. Among them were several gam-'
biers and desperate men who had always been accustomed to
have their way about everything, and to act as they pleased.
These could not understand the necessary restraints that were
placed on a soldier, and before a week had expired they were
for kicking over the traces. The company, with other com-
panies, was placed under command of General John R. Baylor,
a born soldier and fighter. He started in at once to establish
discipline, but he had hard work. The men gambled constantly
and there were several shooting scrapes among them. Nearly
every day somebody got shot. Finally General Baylor prepared
an order which he had posted and also read at dress parade,
announcing that the next man who was aggressor in a shooting
scrape would be tried by drumhead court-martial and shot. That
very evening Buck Stacey shot the sergeant of the company.
He was arrested and put in the guard house. That night the
sergeant died. The next morning Baylor called a drumhead
court-martial, Buck was tried, convicted and shot/ When he
first realized that Baylor was in earnest and was going to shoot
him sure enough his nerve gave way and he broke down. Then
when he saw his end was inevitable he braced up and when the
fatal moment came he faced the firing squad as coolly and brave-
ly as if he were not the least interested in what they were about
to do. He was ten times more self-possessed than any one on
the ground, and died with his eyes open, facing his executioners.
He refused to let them blind his eyes, but stood calmly facing
the firing squad.
That execution brought order out of chaos and established
discipline in a way that nothing else could have done. The men
realized that when Baylor said anything he meant it and that
if he said he would punish certain offenses with death he would
keep his word if he had to shoot every man in the regiment.
The command became one of the best in the trans-Mississippi
department, and did fine work for the four years of the war.
Tom Clarke, who was killed in San Antonio, enlisted in the
Bayou City Guards, the crack infantry company from Houston
that formed part of the Fifth Texas regiment of Hood's Brigade
in Virginia. How Clarke ever got out of the company and back
to Texas I never knew. He did get back and afterwards joined
Captain W. M. Stafford's company of artillery. He had not been
with that company long before he slipped into San Antonio,
88 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
resented a Mexican's slapping a woman, and killed the fellow,
who made at him with a knife. Then a whole crowd of Mexicans
attacked him. He killed them as long as his pistol held out
and when he had fired his last shot he hurled the empty gun
at them and was then cut to pieces by the survivors. It was re-
ported that he killed six of them before they got him.
Kane Norton, the other distinguished Houstonian, was not so
fortunate in the mode of his death. He was killed by a Yankee
drug clerk, just at the close of the battle of Mansfield. He
rushed into the drug store and. the clerk, being badly rattled,
thought Kane was going to kill him so he shot him dead. The
next moment Kane's comrades entered and slew the clerk. If
Kane had known that he was going to be wiped out, not by a
desperado or soldier, but by a little, panic-stricken drug clerk,
he would have been terribly humiliated.
* * *
"BUD" RANDOLPH A SCIENTIST.
IF ANYONE thinks that the Houston Press Club is not an
interesting place and full of surprises, that one is badly
mistaken. One can always meet there someone who knows
something about everything on earth. There is where the sur-
prises come in.
I came in contact with one of these surprises the other night
when I discovered that "Bud" Randolph is one of the most pro-
found entomologists in the state and that he has devoted many
years to the study of bugs.
He can tell you, offhand, without the least hesitation, the
official names of bed bugs, cockroaches, boll weevils, tumble-
bugs and of more kinds of beetles, better than any fellow I ever
met. He is a wonder.
Having tackled and mastered bugology, Bud evidently looked
about for new fields to conquer and took up the study of natural
history. His knowledge of rats, owls, skunks, cats, cur dogs, et
omne genus, is equal to his knowledge of bugs. The best part
of the thing is that he does not have to be "drawn out." The
other night someone mentioned a night made wretched by bed-
bugs and in a moment "Bud" had the floor.
"Oh," said he, "there is a most interesting member of the bug
family. In my opinion the bed-bug, or more properly speaking
the coccyclus indica myonsims, is the most intelligent and
thoughtful member of the dryonian family. He has sense like
folks; he takes no chances and makes careful calculation before
making an attack. He hides out when a light is on but comes
to .the front the moment ft is turned out. He knows what he is
doing all right and so do you when he gets to work.
"I have studied him and his habits and find that his bump of
local attachment is wonderfully developed. He never leaves a
place when once he establishes himself and he invites about a
million of his friends to come and share the good thing he has
found.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 89
"When he has established himself the only thing to do is to
set fire to your house, lock the doors and windows and back off
and watch the fun. It is expensive, but it is the only sure
remedy. 1
"The bed-bug has a terrible enemy in, the tiger beetle, which*
we scientists know under the name drastus lionions fabrista.
He could and would eat a bedf ul of bed-bugs ini ( two minutes ' if
he could only get at them. The trouble is that the bed-bugs get
inside the mattresses and into the cracks of the bed while the
tiger has to content himself with a mere surface examination of
the bedspread.
"Speaking of rats," continued Bud, though no one had men-
tioned rats or even thought of them, "they are interesting mem-
bers also. When I first started to study them< I was prejudiced
against them, but I soon learned to admire them, for they so
often do the unexpected and are constantly springing cute little
surprises.
"I remember one morning my lady stenographer pulled open
her desk drawer to begin Jier day's work. Without a word of
warning seven rats, one big one and six smaller ones, leaped out
on her we had to haul her out in the yard and pour water on
her to bring her to.
"Don't you know those rats planned the whole thing, and
laughed over the success of the joke afterward? I feel certain
that they did.
"When I built my residence I built it rat-proof, of course, but
the contractors did not. I had not been] there long before I
could hear the rats dancing and frolicking overhead in my bed-
room. Occasionally one would leave his place and fall down
between the walls. In trying to catch himself on the rough
plastering on the inside he would make a terrible racket. If
you did not know/ the space was too small you would think it
was a dog or a calf falling.
"I stood it as long as I could and then I got a (spring trap and
set it out in the hall. The first night, about 2 o'clock there was
a terrible racket out there, and I realized that I had got some
game. I turned on the light and went out.
"By the time I got there the rat was half way up the stair
steps, lugging th,e trap with him. He was caught by one of his
hind legs. When he saw me he abandoned the idea of going
up, turned a summersault and came down, trap and all, in the
middle of the hall. He was fighting mad, too, and made for me
with blood in his eyes. As I had on only a night gown and was
both barefooted and barelegged I retired promptly, slamming the
door as I did so. I got a chunk of stovewood and then finished
his ratship.
"I sunned the trap next day and set it again. Nothing doing.
Same result the next night and for several nights succeeding.
I was congratulating myself on having scared off the rats and
90 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
was sleeping peacefully one night when the most horrible racket
you ever heard broke out in the hall.
"I realized that it was the trap again, but could not imagine
what it had caught. I could hear the trap hit the floor, then
5 it would hit the ceiling, bound off to the wall and come back to
the floor with noise enough to wake the dead. It woke the
whole neighborhood up and I could see lights being turned on
in half a dozen nearby houses. They must have thought that
I had caught a burglar or that a burglar had caught me and
that I was trying to get away from him.
"Finally I switched on the light and peeped out in the hall.
The mystery was solved.
"I had caught my wife's pet torn cat and he did not like it
either. I had an 'underworld' time getting him free from the
trap, too. I found a corn sack, wet it so it would stick, and
threw it over him. Then I got him by the head and held him
firmly until I could open the trap.
"When I released him he did not stay to have his leg dressed,
but went out of the open window like a streak of lightning. He
did not show up again for ten days or two weeks and when he
did come he examined the hall thoroughly to see if it was safe
for him to come in.
"It seems he entered through an open window that night and
jumped down right into the trap. Of course he thought it was
a put up job and I don't think he ever forgave me for it.
"Yes, I have had experience with skunks, too. We know them
under the scientific name 'Magnus Odoriferous Felenus Ameri-
canus,' and they are all that the name implies.
"I and four or five cur dogs had an experience with seven of
them in one bunch. The dogs corralled them on the prairie In
a bunch of weeds and I was fool enough to get close up and take
a shot at them.
"When I and the dogs got through vomiting, I realized that I
had killed all seven of them and that they had nearly killed me
and the dogs.
"I was with some boys in a wagon but they made me walk all
the way to town, about six miles. When I got home they made
me burn my clothes out in the yard and get under the hydrant
and scour myself with lye soap. It was awful. It was a very
cold day but I had to do it anyway."
* * *
FOUGHT TO THE DEATH.
AFTER the war a number of young men came to Houston,
seeking employment. There were some professional
men but the majority were young fellows just out of the
army, with nothing to do and whose entire capital consisted of
nothing more tangible than youth and good appetites. Some
of them afterward rose to prominence in the commercial and
financial world, while others drifted away and were lost sight
HOUSTON AND HOUSTON1ANS 91
oft Among these young men were two who were destined to
establish a tragic mystery here. One was the son of a gentle-
man of Galveston, a man of means, who established his son in
business on Congress Avenue, between Travis and Main Street.
The young merchant who was so fortunately established was
named Ed Brown. The other young man was Ed Prewit, who
had come to Houston from somewhere up the state and had
secured a clerkship in the freight department of the Houston and
Texas Central Railway with Mr. J. Waldo, at that time local
freight agent.
Brown and Prewit became great friends. They roomed at the
same place and after business hours were almost invariably to-
gether. They were both slender, weighed about 135 pounds and
were between 19 and 20 years old. Aside from physical resem-
blance, no two men could have been more unlike. Brown was
full of life and animation. He loved a joke, whether at his own
expense or not, and was always ready for fun or frolic. Being
on "easy street," he could afford to take life easy and did so.
Prewit, on the other hand, while not morose, was very quiet and
sedate. With him life was a serious problem. He was polite
and gentlemanly and made many warm friends, who admired him
for his sterling qualities. Both young men were favorites and
each numbered among his friends the friends of the other.
Late in the summer of 1867 I was standing on Main Street, a
few doors north of where Kiam's place now is, in company with
Charley Gentry, Andrew Hutchinson and Prewitt. Some one
asked Prewit where Brown was. He replied that he did not
know. Just at that moment Brown turned the corner of Preston
Avenue and came toward us. When he saw Prewit he hesitated
for just a moment and then advanced, walking very slowly.
Prewit moved a little nearer the middle of the sidewalk and stood
facing Brown as if awaiting his coming. Both were very pale
'and we saw at a glance that something was wrong. Brown came
slowly forward and Prewit stood there as if awaiting him. For a
minute it looked as if Brown intended to walk right over Prewit,
but just before reaching him Brown turned slightly and passed
Prewit so closely that he nearly grazed his coat. As he did so
he raised his hat with mock politeness, and saying, "Good after-
noon, gentlemen," passed on. Some one in the crowd called
to him to come back, but he paid no attention and passed on
down the street.
Prewit stood for a moment and then rejoined us with a smile
and a casual remark as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken
place. Of course we pressed him with questions, trying to find
out what was wrong between him and Brown, but he expressed
surprise that we should think there was anything wrong and de-
clared there was no cause for our assumption to the contrary.
In a few minutes we separated, Prewit, Andrew Hutchinson and
I going toward the old Capitol Hotel, now the Rice. As we
walked Andrew remarked that Brown had come near running
92 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
into Prewit. "It's a good thing he did not do so," said Prewit.
"Why, what would you have done?" asked Andrew.
We were near the corner of Main and Prairie Avenue now
and Prewitt did not answer at once. Just as we reached the
corner Prewit turned to Andrew and said:
"If he had run into me I would have cut his d heart
out, that's all." He turned the corner abruptly and walked down
Prairie Avenue.
That night I met Brown on Main Street and had a long talk
with him. He seemed much depressed and was low spirited at
first, but this gradually wore off and before we parted he seemed
to be as bright and happy as ever. He explained his low spirits
by saying that he had seen a ghost the night before and that he
was either haunted or going crazy, he did not know which. He
said this half in fun and half seriously. He denied emphatically
that there was any trouble between Prewit and himself and
laughed at the idea of my thinking there was. Of course I said
nothing to him of Prewit's remark, merely giving as the reason
for my asking the question his and Prewit's conduct on the street
that afternoon.
The next day I did not come down town until late in the after-
noon and the first thing I heard was that Brown and Prewit had
killed each other on the corner of Fannin Street and Congress
Avenue on the northwest corner of court house square.
The particulars as I learn them were as follows: Prewit, in
company with Mr. Waldo and another gentleman, was coming
toward Main Street along Congress Avenue, while Brown, with
a companion, whose name I forget, was going in the opposite
direction. Neither would give way and they collided. Each
jumped back, Prewit drawing his knife, a big butcher knife, and
Brown his pistol. To my mind, Brown did not want to kill
Prewit, for he could have done so easily, as he was an expert
with a six-shooter. Instead of shooting Prewit down he tried
to shoot the knife out of his hand. His first ball went through"
Prewit's right wrist, completely disabling his right hand. How-
ever, Prewit quickly changed the knife to his left hand and began
advancing on Brown, moving in a zigzag course, so as to dis-
concert Brown's aim as much as possible. Brown fired at Prew-
it's left hand, but missed, and instantly fired at his arm. The
ball passed through the arm, but did not break the bone. Prewit
kept advancing like a cat, preparing to jump. The gleaming
knife and the cool, cat-like movement of Prewit evidently got
on Brown's nerves and disconcerted him. He fired point blank
at Prewit and missed him. Prewit, with his knife, was uncom-
fortably close by now, so Brown stepped back to gain a better
position. As he did so his heel caught on a wooden bridge that
spanned the gutter and he fell full length on his back. The next
second, like a wild tiger, Prewit made the long delayed leap
and, landing astride of Brown's body, he drove the butcher knife
through his heart. Prewit was about to strike again when
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 93
Brown's companion rushed up. and struck Prewit on the side of
the head with a six-shooter, knocking him off several feet to the
side, where he lay insensible. In spite of his frightful wound,
Brown staggered to his feet an'd fired again at Prewit as he lay
on the ground. Brown then turned and walked half a block
before he fell dead.
Prewit was taken to the old Fannin House nearby, where he
died the next day from loss of blood, Brown's bullets having
severed several arteries and he having lost a great quantity.
* * *
GOOD OLD STEAMBOAT DAYS.
IN one respect Houston has deteriorated woefully in the last
forty or fifty years. Commerce has ruined Buffalo Bayou,
from an artistic point of view, though it has made it a thou-
sand times more valuable and important in every other way. In
the "good old days," when the fine steamboats were in evidence,
it was a delight and pleasure to make a trip down the bayou.
The old bayou was not what it has become since. It was nar-
row, but it was deep; its water was clear and beautiful and its
banks were overhung with trees which were vine-clad, and,
while they impeded navigation, they added greatly to the beauty
of the stream. Then the steamboats they had in those days!
They were beauties veritable floating palaces. The Mississippi
might have had larger boats, but there was none finer or more
elegantly finished than our bayou boats.
The trip from Houston to Harrisburg was rather difficult, be-
cause of the twisting and winding of the bayou and also because
of overhanging trees. After passing Harrisburg, the bayou
broadened and then it was simply delightful. They served but
one meal on the boats supper, or as we would call it today,
dinner at about 7 o'clock. It was a meal long to be remem-
bered, for it was composed of every delicacy obtainable and
was justly famed throughout the country. Travelers wrote
about it and everybody enjoyed it.
The very early boats were not so famed. They were rather
primitive in every way, but after 1850 the bayou boats began
to put on style and there was none finer anywhere.
There were no railroads in Texas in those early days and all
the commerce with the outside world was done over Buffalo
Bayou. The cabins of the steamboats were fixed luxuriously
for the passengers, but the lower deck and every available inch
of space was given over to freight. The principal cargoes down
the bayou consisted of cotton and hides, while the return car-
goes were dry goods, plantation supplies and such things.
The modern compressed bale of cotton was unknown at that
time, and the bales of cotton were huge, unwieldy things that
took up much space. It was surprising to see how many of these
one of those steamboats could get on board. They were piled
94 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
on top of each other until they reached up to the hurricane deck.
Of course the danger of fire was very great, but, while one or
two boats actually burned, prob.ably none of the fires was ever
traced to cotton becoming ignited.
There were several serious tragedies on the bayou, for one
or two boats blew up with disastrous effect. There were some
narrow escapes from storms in Galveston Bay, too. History
is not certain about the name of the boat, but it was the Palmer
or Farmer, that blew up and caught on fire in the bay in about
1853. If one could get into the old Episcopal Cemetery at the
foot of Dallas Avenue, this could be ascertained, for in the lot
of Dr. Evans, in that graveyard, is a small monument erected
to the memory of a negro man whose remains lie buried there
with those of the members of the doctor's family.
This negro lost his life when the steamboat was wrecked,
while, after having saved some lives, he was making heroic
efforts to save others. The writer went out to the cemetery
the other day for the express purpose of looking for that monu-
ment, but found it in such a disgraceful condition, overrun with
weeds, and, as one of the park employes said, with snakes, too,
that the search was abandoned.
After the war two or three magnificent boats were bought by
Captain Sterret in Cincinnati? brought down the river and over
the gulf to Galveston and put in the bayou trade. That gulf
trip was a ticklish affair for the least rough weather would have
swamped the boats. The trips were made immediately after
a norther, when the gulf was as quiet as a mill pond. One of
those boats was especially fine and was named the "T. M.
Bagby," after T. M. Bagby, one of the most prominent citizens
of Houston. This boat had a calliope, but it was very seldom
used, possibly because no one knew how to play on it.
Two of the fine boats that were brought here about the break-
ing out of the war deserve more than passing mention because
of the distinguished service they rendered the Confederate
forces at the battle of Galveston. These were the Neptune and
Bayou City. They were fitted out as gunboats, having breast-
works of cotton bales. Each carried a big gun and a number
of armed men. They made the attack on the Federal fleet while
the land forces attacked on the land side.
Both boats headed for the Harriet Lane, the largest of the ves-
sels. The Neptune was sunk by a shell from one of the Federal
gunboats but the Bayou City rammed and disabled the Harriet
Lane and finally captured her. It was a most desperate under-
taking, and though it was successful, simply because of its au-
dacity, it would have failed a thousand times had it been tried
over. How either of the frail boats escaped utter annihilation
is a mystery.
Those good old steamboat days have gone, and gone forever,
for now the bayou has been widened and deepened and ocean-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 95
going ships run where the palatial steamboats once floated. Of
course the present is greater and grander than the past, but yet
one cannot keep from sighing for the old days, when there was
real pleasure in traveling and less break-neck haste and hurry.
* * *
HOUSTON'S FIRST MARKET MAN.
NOT long ago I was talking to Colonel Phil Fall and one
or two old-timers, when one of the gentlemen asked me
if I could remember when the first market house was
built. As that famous old house was erected several years be-
fore I was born I denied all remembrance of its beginning, but
told him that I remembered the man who had the first market
place in Houston and I do, too. He was a Frenchman named
Rouseau. Originally there were two Rouseau brothers. They
had a big tent which was located on Preston Avenue between
Stude's coffee house and Milam Street. Of course, Stude's place
was not there then, but the Rouseau tent was on the lot west
of where it now stands. 'Market Square was vacant then and
was used as a wagon yard by those who brought country pro-
duce to Houston and by ox wagons from the interior of the state,
which was at that time over on the Brazos, up about Washing-
ton County and over toward the Trinity. Texas was sparsely
settled, but Houston was then as now its commercial and busi-
ness center.
The Rouseaus were wide-awake and progressive and their
tented market was profitable. They made too much money, in
fact, for their prosperity attracted fatal attention and one night
when one of the brothers returned to the tent after a temporary
absence he found the other one dead with his throat cut and all
the money in the place gone. Thieves had murdered him, ran-
sacked the place and had gone, leaving no trace behind them,
and the mystery has never been solved to this day.
The elder brother, though doubly stricken by the loss of his
brother and all his money, did not give up, but continued the
business until the city, early in the 40's, erected the old wooden
market house and drove him out of business. Then he erected
a one-story frame house on the site of his tent and opened a little
grocery store.
I can remember the old man well by two things. One was his
pretty daughter, named Charlotte, and the other was a large
parrot that swore in French. Charlotte had charge of the store
and was always there as much so as the parrot, which sat upon
its perch near the center of the store. The old man was seldom
seen in the front room, or store proper, but remained nearly all
the time in the back room, where he could be heard grumbling
.and growling. All the boys in town were afraid of him, though
for what reason I am unable to say.
That was 15 or 18 years after his tent experience and he must
have been rather an old man when I first knew him. He was
96 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
considered to be wealthy then and was prosperous. He was not
destined to have a peaceful life, however. His early days in
Houston, as already noted, were marked by a tragedy and
another blighted his latter days here. For no known reason one
night Charlotte ended her life with poison. Her death was as
great a mystery as the murder of the brother had been. There
was apparently no reason for her action. She had beauty, riches,
a kind father, for the old man almost worshiped her, and every-
thing to make her happy. The old man could not stand it. He
sold -his store and business for what he could get for them,
closed up all his affairs and left Houston forever. Some said he
went back to France; others that he went to California.
* * *
FRANK BATES.
I HAD the pfeasure of meeting my old friend, Frank Bates,
on Main Street a few days ago. Of all the young men I
knew when I left Houston, Frank has changed least and
looks today exactly as he looked thirty years ago. It is marvel-
ous what little change has taken place in his personal appear-
ance, though of course, Frank is by no means an old man, being
scarcely more than a well grown lad when I last saw him. There
are wonderful changes that have taken place in him otherwise,
for he is now a sedate, dignified country gentleman, married and
settled, while then he was the wildest, hairbrained, fun-loving
fellow that ever lived. If he ever had a serious thought no one
found it out.
Frank lived just about twenty years too late. Had he been
older and more matured at the time when real bad men flourished
he would have been one of them. There was never anything
vicious or harmful about him. He was always the soul of honor
and loyal to his friends, but his tastes ran towards fights and
skirmishes, and having a Southern gentleman's distaste for a
fist fight or anything so low as that, his inclinations were towards
sixshooters and knives.
Frank loved to talk of private battles and told marvelous
stories of his fights with Indians and frontier desperadoes. He
was and is still a great favorite with everybody, for I defy any-
body to be with Frank for half a day without falling in love
with him.
Frank was a member of the famous "world-beating" Light
Guard, and when we went to Philadelphia he went along as one
of the substitutes. Being a substitute, he did not have to drill,
so had abundant leisure to go where he pleased. The second
day after our arrival Dr. Carrycross, a large wholesale druggist
of Philadelphia, came out to Fairmont Park, where we were
camped, and asked for the Texas company. He introduced him-
self and invited every member of the company to call on him
when they went into town and asked them to make his place
their headquarters. Some of the boys called on him the next
morning and that evening he came out to see us again. After
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 97
that he came every afternoon. He adopted the company and the
company adopted him.
He and Frank Bates became inseparable. He got Frank to
talking not a hard thing to do, by the way and was never so
happy as when listening to Frank's stories of Indian warfare and
life of the frontier. Had a dime novel writer been present and
taken down those stories his fortune would have been made.
Frank saw the deep interest that Dr. Carrycross took in his
stories, so he spread himself. I remember only the main points
of one he told, but it serves well to show what and how Frank
was doing in his efforts to entertain a genuine "tenderfoot." He
was describing a wild ride he claimed to have taken once. "Yes,
sir," he said, "I rode from near my plantation to Navasota, fifty
miles, in little less than three hours. Let me see. What was
I in such a hurry about? Oh, yes, I remember, I had shot a man
that morning, and, then, feeling sorry, I went after a doctor
for him."
Frank stuffed Carrycross full of such stories and made him
believe that his life had been one great tragedy from the time
he left his cradle up to that moment. Carrycross swallowed it
all and asked for more. Day after day he entertained the boys
who went to town in the morning, but was entertained by them
every afternoon at our camp.
On the Sunday before we left for New York, we invited him
out to dinner. After dinner we lay out on the grass, smoking
and talking. Frank was making the best of his last opportunity
and was telling some thrilling stories when Carrycross inter-
rupted him: "Now boys," he said, "I want to tell you how much
I have enjoyed your visit. There are 5000 or 6000 troops here,
but you may have noticed that I have never gone near any of
them. I have enjoyed being with you Texans too much. That
enjoyment arises from two causes first, because you are from
Texas, and, next, because you have my dear friend, Frank Bates,
with you. I have enjoyed hearing him talk more than I can
make you understand. His descriptions of wild and woolly Texas
have been perfect. I am a competent judge, too, for now I am
going to tell you all something which will further explain the
great interest I have had in you. I was for nine years a Texas
ranger in West Texas and served under Captain Baylor along
the Rio Grande for three years. I said nothing about this be-
cause I was afraid Frank might stop talking. Now, that you
are going away, it makes no difference, so I tell you."
When the crowd realized that Frank had been stuffing a Texas
ranger with blood and thunder stories for three weeks under
the impression that he was an ignorant tenderfoot, a great shout
went up and Frank took to his hole. We teased torn all the way
to New York and home again, but it was hard to tease a fellow
who enjoyed a joke on himself as much as anyone else did, and
Frank did that.
Good old Frank. May his days be long and happy ones. He
is dignified and sedate now, but somehow I rather prefer the
98 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
happy-go-lucky Frank of a quarter of a century ago to the staid
country gentleman he is today.
+ * *
FIGHTING HOUSTON BOYS.
LAST winter I was out walking with a gentleman near San
Antonio when he suddenly turned to me and asked:
"What has become of all the tumble bugs?"
The question was so uncalled for, so foreign to all we had
been talking about, that for a moment I suspected him of being
the victim of sudden insanity.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean just what I say; what has become of all the tumble
bugs?" said he. "When you and I were boys there were millions
of them everywhere, bright shiny fellows with yellow and gold
on their wings and back, and black and brown ones. You could
see them everywhere, but now you stop and think and see if
you don't find that you have seen only a stray one, now and
then, for years past. What has become of them?"
I did stop and think and the more I thought the more I realized
that what he said was true, and now I am like he and would
like to have some scientific bug sharp answer his question. I
have heard that quail and some other birds go with civilization
and accompany the footsteps of the pioneer. If that be true,
I see no reason why the tumble bug should not have his own
individual peculiarity, which causes him to get out of the way
completely when civilization shows up. Perhaps that is the
proper answer to my friend's question.
But I am not going to write anything about the disappearance
of the tumble bug, for I don't know anything to write, beyond
the fact that he has disappeared. The question I had in mind
is one of equal importance and is related also to a disappearance
that of the fighting boy of long ago, who loved nothing better
than a good scrap and who felt lonesome and somewhat humili-
ated unless he had a black eye or bore the evidence of past
combat. In the early days "fightin'," fishin'," swimmin'" and
"huntin' " were the greatest joys of a boy's life, and, looking
back on those happy days, I really believe that "fightin' " held
first place in the hearts of all of them.
There was no regular organization, each tub stood on its own
bottom, and yet there were divisions of territory and the boys
who lived in such divisions, while they fought freely among
themselves, always banded together against an outside, common
enemy. In the Fourth Ward, west of Main Street, there were a
number of big* boys, such as Phil Fall, Os and Matt Conklin,
the two Lilly boys, George and John Harman, Ed and Billy
Brown and others whom I have forgotten. They were the rec-
ognized bosses of that part of town and any big boy who, like
the knights errant of old, sought adventure "for the advance-
ment of his lady love" or for any old thing, could go out that
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 99
way any day and any time of day and find enough of it to last
him for a week or two, or until he could get his eyes sufficiently
open to see to get back for more. The fights were all fair and
square, too; no doubling up or having a big boy jump on a
smaller one. A boy had to tackle "a fellow of his size." The
rules of the game were simple, too, and no deadly insult or loudly
proclaimed challenge was necessary. The simple fact that a
big boy from another part of town had dared to show himself
at their favorite swimmin' hole or town ball games was taken as
all sufficient casus belli and active hostilities were at once
under way.
The Fourth Ward was the best equipped of all for warfare,
for a larger number of big boys and good fighters lived there,
but what is now the Third Ward but which then was in two or
three divisions, was not far behind. There were three gangs
in this territory, but none of them had brilliant leaders. There
were too many of them nearly evenly matched to admit of any-
thing like leadership. I remember many battles royal that took
place down at the arsenal swimming hole, which was a favorite
battle ground, between the Howard boys, Mag and Vic Rogers,
Bud and Prat Mathews, Henry and Jim Thompson, John and
Milt McGowan, Joe Wills, Hiram and Billy Church and a number
of others whose names I have forgotten. I was a little fellow
and therefore immune from attack, being protected by my size,
but occasionally, quite often as a matter of fact, they would
produce a boy of my size and I would have to fight for the
privilege of remaining there.
Those who remember the quiet, good-natured gentleman that
Dr. James Blake grew up to be will no doubt be surprised to
hear that he was one of the greatest scrappers of his day when
a boy. He was terribly handicapped by his size, for he was a
great big boy for his age and always had to fight up hill, that
is, go against boys of his size but who were much older than
he. If no such material was at hand he would take on two
boys smaller than himself, and I remember on one occasion he
became over zealous and took on three with the result that he
got beaten nearly to death. As I remarked, those were fair
fights. No knives, sticks, bricks or other weapons were used
and the strange part was that very little anger or temper was
ever shown. Five minutes after a fight the boys were as good
friends as ever and never bore ill will or resentment toward
each other.
It was really a painful and trying thing for a Houston boy to
have to go to Galveston or for a Galveston boy to have to come
to Houston, for in either case the visit was simply a continual
round of fights. Then as now the Galveston boys were "sand-
crabs," while the Houston boys were "mudcats," though the use
of such names was considered a deadly insult then and always
resulted in a fight.
I understand that it is not considered the proper thing for
school boys to fight now and that there are any number of them
100 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
who have never had a single fight in their lives. It makes me
feel awful sorry for them, for in that fact I discover another
great misfortune they have in being born in a place where there
are no old-fashioned swimmin' holes, no place to go huntin' and
fishin' except away off.
* + *
HATED NEGROES AND LOVED MULES.
POOR old Tom Delaney! Had the yellow fever spared him
in 1867 he would have left a lasting impression on Hous-
ton, for he had much about his makeup that would make
men remember him. Tom 'was an ex-Yankee soldier,
who came to Galveston with the army of occupation and was
mustered out of the service there. He then came to Houston
and rented the old stable and lots on the corner of Smith and
Prairie, owned by Dr. Evans, and now occupied by the big brick
building of the Model Laundry. Tom had a little money which
he had saved and he invested in one or two horses and one or
two mules and began some kind of contract work.
He had one or two marked peculiarities. One was his intense
love for dumb animals and the other his intense hatred for
negroes. In his estimate a mule was far ahead of a negro and
anyone could get a fight out of him at a moment's notice by
merely suggesting t that he had fought in the Yankee army to
free the negroes. He claimed that he had fought for the old
flag and that the negro got free through accident and not through
intention and that if the soldiers could have their way every
negro would be put back in slavery right off. This, by the way,
was the way nine-tenths of the ex-Federal soldiers talked, so
Tom was not peculiar to so great a degree in that respect.
Tom's love for his horses and mules was sublime. He was a
"muletarian" and "horsetarian" of the highest order. Now
everybody knows that, having such feelings, Tom was bound to
have lots of trouble with his mixture of negro drivers and mules.
He was in hot water all the time and but for the fact that he
was built on the giant plan and was able to use his fists with
almost as much force as his mules could use their heels, he
would never have been able to manage his negroes. Tom had
to employ negroes, for at that time white men did not care to
work for ex-soldiers as mule drivers. It was a case of pure
necessity. He hired the negroes but got satisfaction by knocking
them about whenever he found them out in any rascality. One
fixed and iron-bound rule was that the drivers should not ill treat
the horses and mules. Now anybody who knows a negro and a
mule knows how absurd that rule was. A mule expedts to be
mauled and ill-treated by a negro and a negro could no more get
work out of a mule by treating him as if he were a Sunday school
scholar than he could fly. Tom had several fights before he
found out the truth of this and the -negroes found out that Tie
was in dead earnest in enforcing his rules.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 101
The climax was reached, however, not through any ill treat-
ment or anything of that kind, but, strange to say, through the
efforts of one of the negro drivers to beautify one of the horses
he was driving. This horse had a rather long tail, and probably
it was because the horse switched this long tail in his face and
not for the purpose of making the horse more attractive, as the
negro claimed, that the latter determined to cut it off. Whatever
the cause that led to this act, the fact remains that when Tom
came in his lot one hot Saturday evening he found his horse
with a much abbreviated tail and the fly season just under good
headway.
Tom looked at the poor horse wagging his patch of tail and
then exploded. It is no use to quote his language, for The Chron-
icle would not publish what he said. He ended by informing
the negro that unless he had that tail back on the horse by
Monday morning he was going to hear something drop. The idea
of growing a new tail on a horse in so short a time was so
absurd that the negro thought Tom was joking and would never
think of the thing again. He was so sure that this was true
that, instead of throwing up his job and keeping out of Tom's
way, as he would have done had he been wise, he showed up
bright and early Monday morning prepared to take his team out.
Just as he was ready to drive away Tom showed up. He care-
fully examined the horse's tail, just as if he expected to find it
grown out again and, discovering that it was still in a nubbin'
state, without a word he made a lunge at the negro's head with
his big fist. The negro was too quick for him, however, and
dodged to the other side of the wagon. Unfortunately for the
aegro, when he dodged he got between the wagon and a high
board fence and was thus penned up, with no way out except
through or over Tom, who took up a position closing the way
out.
The negro became desperate and tried to argue with Tom, but
that did no good. Tom advanced slowly but surely until he got
within easy striking distance, and then he lammed loose with
his fist. The negro lowered his head and received the blow on
the top of it, thus rendering the blow harmless. The negro was
thoroughly desperate by this time, so when Tom hit him he
straightened up and aimed a kick at Tom's belly with all the
strength he had in him. Now Tom had on what in these days
would be called a "sweater." It was a big woolen shirt, loosely
fitting, that came down well on his waist and was worn outside
his pants. Tom dodged in his turn. The negro's foot flew up,
caught the lower edge of the shirt in front and peeled it upward
clear over Tom's head, just like skinning a piece of sausage.
Tom was rendered absolutely helpless in a moment and could
neither see nor use his arms, which were bound fast by the
shirt. Before he could extricate himself the negro rushed past
him and attempted to get over the high board fence. There was
a big post in the yard and the negro took refuge on top of this.
He was perched up there, about 20 feet from the grounO* w^
102 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
Tom succeeded in getting untangled. He took a look at the
negro and started across the street to get his gun. The other
negroes shouted to the one up the post warning him of Tom's
intention. I don't know that there is any truth in the story, but
the other negroes told it as true for a long time, that when the
negro found Tom had gone after a gun he came down the post
so quickly that the friction set his pants on fire. He made a
dive at the fence, knocked off two or three boards, and when
Tom came back with his gun he found his victim gone.
* * *
SAN JACINTO VETERANS.
RECENTLY I have been reading Texas history. The Alamo
and Goliad made my blood boil with indignation, but San
Jacinto more than paid the debt that was due the Mexi-
cans. The account of San Jacinto battle is charming reading
for all native Texans, and I take particular pleasure in reading
about it, because I knew so many of the men who took part in
that glorious victory. When I was a boy the San Jacinto vet-
erans were as thick about Houston as Confederate Veterans are
today and you know that is a strong statement, for the latter
appear to be numberless. The most conspicuous of the San
Jacinto veterans was old man Tierwester, who had a powder
horn with a Mexican bullet in it. I have told before how he
would commence drinking early in the day on April 21, and keep
it up all day. The more he drank the louder he talked and the
more viciously he would shake the horn and tell the history of
the bullet it contained. He was a Frenchman and lived down
in Frostown, not far from where the gas works are now located.
There was old man Jarmond, too, and a score or two of others.
I speak of them as being old, but they were not really aged.
They seemed olcTTo me, but they could not have been more than
40 or 50 on an average.
One thing I have never seen mentioned in print and which
seems forgotten by everybody, was the old "Liberty Pole" that
was erected near the Houston House by the San Jacinto vet-
erans and the people of Houston to commemorate Texas inde-
pendence. A few days ago I met Captain William Christian and
he asked if I remembered the old pole. I remembered seeing
only a part of it that was preserved by the veterans -for many
years. This liberty pole was a pine tree that had been trimmed
and converted into a fine flag pole from which flew the Lone
Star flag on festive occasions and always on San Jacinto day.
It did duty as long as Texas remained a republic, but by the time
it was admitted as a state the old pole had grown so decayed
and weak that it broke off and fell to the ground. The veterans
of San Jacinto, who had used the pole as a rallying point for
years, secured a piece of it, about 20 feet long, and on April 21,
after an appropriate salute had been fired from the "Twin Sis-
ters," the two brass cannon used by the Texans at the battle,
the veterans shouldered the piece of liberty pole and headed for
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 103
the nearest barroom. Placing the old pole on the counter was
all that was necessary to "put the drinks on the house" and the
veterans had whatever they called for without money and without
price.
Then would begin a procession that would include every bar-
room in town. The veterans were welcomed everywhere, for it
would have been considered as an unfriendly act by the pro-
prietor had any saloon been overlooked.
After about the fourth or fifth drink the war talk would com-
mence and the battle of San Jacinto would be fought over and
over in the way that men of only one battle can do. It is a pity
that some live reporter of today could not have been around, for
Texas history would have been much enriched. I have made up
my mind that if there is any truth in the theory of reincarnation,
or whatever it is called where a fellow lives again in a different
form but with the same surroundings, that I will be certain to
arm myself with a notebook and a sharp pencil, for I see so many
elegant bets the early Houston newspaper men overlooked.
I don't know whatever became of the piece of liberty pole the
veterans used in place of drink checks, but it would be a price-
less relic if it could be found, if still in existence.
Now it must not be supposed from what I have written, that
the veterans were drinkers and roisterers. They were anything
but that. They were the most honored and honorable citizens of
the land, and having given the world a glorious republic they
had a right to celebrate the anniversary of the event in any way
they saw fit. It is singular how time changes a person's ideas
of things. When I was a boy I looked on the veterans as just
plain, ordinary men, who had had an opportunity to do a great
thing and had done it. That was all. Old Tierwester with his
horn, in my eyes was simply a funny old Frenchman who cut
up clownish capers, while some of the others I looked upon with
anything but veneration. Now when I look back on those men
and appreciate the grand and lofty principle that inspired them
and their willingness to die for the freedom of Texas, I feel like
"Texas Thompson," one of Lewis' characters in the "Woolfville
Tales," said he felt when he met an old gray-haired lady. I feel
like getting down on my knees and asking the pardon of every
one of those heroes for having walked the earth at the same
time that they did.
Speaking of the "Twin Sisters," reminds me of a good story
Otto Erichson told me the other day. He and I were talking
about the two old cannons, and of how often they were fired
when Texas was contemplating secession. His father's gun
shop and residence was on market square and the firing of the
cannon disturbed him greatly. He was disturbed in two direc-
tions. Being an ardent Union man he did not like the reason
for the salutes and the cannon being so near his house made it
disagreeable for him. He was a high tempered, irascible man
and perfectly fearless in expressing his opinion on any and every
subject. He denounced the secessionists and their noise and
104 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
made a row in every way. Otto and Alex Erichson concluded
that they would relieve the old man of some of his trouble, so
one night they got a couple of rat-tail files and spiked both of
the cannon. The next day when it was discovered what had
been done, there was great indignation, but the sulprits could not
be found, for Otto and Alex took good care not to blow about
what they had done, when they found what a row was being
made. The cannons were taken to Mr. Erichson's shop and he,
not knowing that his own boys had spiked them, charged $20
to get them in shape again. The boys sneaked out and spiked
them again, but the citizens either grew suspicious or for some
other cause, took the guns elsewhere to get -them unspiked.
"Now," said Otto, "as bitter as the old man was before the
state seceded, the minute Texas left the Union, he turned around
and became the bitterest man in Texas on the other side. He
called me in the shop and literally rammed me in the army. He
said every man able to shoulder a gun ought to T>e in the army
fighting for the South. It was funny what a change took place in
him. He cursed the Yanks as bad as he had cursed the seces-
sionists, and if he had not have been so old, I am certain he
would have enlisted in the Confederate army himself."
THE FAMOUS TWIN SISTERS.
THERE is an old story about two fond parents who were
watching the passing of a military company, in the ranks
of which their son was marching.
"Look at that," said the mother, "our boy is the only one in
the whole company who is keeping step."
This story has recurred to me several times lately and I will
tell you why. Two or three years ago there was a great deal of
talk about the famous "Twin Sisters," two cannon used with such
good results by the Texans at San Jacinto. One report was that
they were buried somewhere near Harrisburg; another was that
they were thrown in Galveston Bay, between the island and Vir-
ginia Point, and another story located them in the National Mu-
seum at Washington. All these stories spoke of the "Twin Sis-
ters" as iron pieces. Some gentlemen made extensive excava-
tions near Harrisburg, where they were said to be buried, but
the search was fruitless. Obviously it was impossible to search
Galveston Bay, but the Washington story could be investigated
and I did so, with the result that I am informed by those in au-
thority that there were no such cannon either in the museum or
anywhere else in Washington.
Aside from the historical interest in the subject I was attracted
to* it by the fact that when I was a boy there were two brass
cannon, six-pounders, known as the "Twin Sisters," that stood
for many years on the northwest side of market square. They
were beautiful guns and each bore this inscription, engraved just
in front of the vent:
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 105
"Presented to the Republic of Texas by the Ladies of Cin-
cinnati."
These guns seemed to be under no particular care and the boys
pulled them about, sighted them and mowed down whole imagi-
nary armies of Mexicans and Indians and played with them to
their hearts' content without let or hindrance. To the boys of
that day the "Twin Sisters" were as familiar objects on market
square, as are Dick Dowling's monument and the fountain to
those of the present day. These guns were used by a Confed-
erate battery during the war, but in 1871 or 1872 I saw one of
them near the land office in Austin and read the inscription on
it. Being so familiar with the subject, I was a bit amazed when
I saw the "Twin Sisters" referred to as iron pieces and as having
plates screwed on their sides stating that they were presented
to the republic of Texas by General Chambers. Up to that time
I was sure that I was the only man in the company who was keep-
ing step and that all the others were wrong. Then I read Gov-
ernor Frank Lubbock's Memoirs and when I found there an ac-
count of the iron guns known as the "Twin Sisters" being turned
over to Texas by Louisiana during or after the war, I began to
wonder if I had not best catch step with the others.
That two guns known as the "Twin Sisters" were used by the
Texans at San Jacinto is a matter of history, but whether those
guns were the iron pieces presented by General Chambers is
the question, for now there can be no doubt that there were four
guns in existence instead of two. Thus instead of settling the
question it becomes more involved for all four are not only lost,
but when, if ever, they may chance to be found, it will have to be
determined whether they are genuine or not. That the "Twin
Sisters" that were so long on market square were brass pieces
I know beyond doubt, and the fact can be proven by Colonel W.
M. Stafford of Galveston, Mr. I. C. Lord, Mr. Owen Cochran and
Mr. Henry Thompson of Houston and no doubt by others who
were raised in Houston, whose names escape me just now.
When our war broke out these cannon were turned over to
some Confederate company, but I know nothing of their history
during the war. I do remember the last time they, or rather one
of them, was fired before the war. It was in 1860, When Sam
Houston was elected governor. Because of his pronounced Union
views many of his former friends opposed him and he had a hard
fight. When the news of his election was received, his friends
got the "Twin Sisters" with the intention of firing a salute in
honor of his victory. The guns were taken to a grassy hill, cor-
ner of Fannin and Commerce Streets. One gun was fired and a
bag of powder was rammed down the other, but when they started
to prime the piece they found some one had spiked it. They
rushed to the other gun, but found it spiked also. That broke
up the salute, of course, but it was a fitting thing that the last
time one of the "Twin Sisters" spoke in time of peace should
have been in honor of the hero of San Jacinto.
In early days there were a great many survivors of San Jacinto
106 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
living in or near Houston and San Jacinto Day, April 21, was
always celebrated in great style. The "Twin Sisters" were taken
down to the corner of Commerce Street and a salute was fired,
after which the town was literally turned over to the heroes of
San Jacinto. I remember well one of the most conspicuous of
them. He was Tierwester, an old Frenchman. At the battle of
San Jacinto he had a powder horn slung to his neck. This pow-
der horn was a cow's horn scraped very thin and had a wooden
plug at the large end and a small plug at the little end of the
horn. During the battle a Mexican bullet struck this horn and
entered through one side, but did not have enough force to go out
of the other. Tierw.ester never removed the ball, but on San
Jacinto Day he came to the reunion wearing this horn round his
neck and the drunker he got the louder he told the story and
rattled the bullet. He was a great character and lived and died
in what was then known as Frosttown, not far from the Hutchins
residence, now the center of Houston almost.
But these San Jacinto celebrations were not always fun alone.
Tragedy cropped up occasionally. I remember one which oc-
curred when I was a little boy. The "Twin Sisters" had been
taken out, as usual, for the salute. A man named Tom Ewing
took charge of the big end of the gun and volunteered to hold his
thumb on the vent hole, a necessary precaution to keep the gun
from exploding after it became heated. Mr. Warren Stansbury
performed the duty of loading the piece. The salute was about
half over and Stansbury was ramming home a charge when the
gun became so hot that Ewing, thoughtlessly, took his thumb
from the vent. Instantly the piece was discharged and Stans-
bury's arm was so badly mutilated by the rammer that amputa-
tion was necessary. He recovered and lived several years after-
ward.
Of course all has been done that can be done to locate the
"Twin Sisters," but there is one question that can be and should
be settled: Which Twin Sisters were used at San Jacinto?
Those presented by the ladies of Cincinnati or those by General
Chambers As a native Texan, I had the greatest respect and
reverence for the brass pieces of market square and I would like
to know if I have been worshipping false gods all these years.
I know nothing of the Chambers iron cannon, but if they should
be proven to be the real San Jacinto cannon I am willing to
transfer my homage and allegiance to them.
* * *
HOW HE LOST HIS EGGS.
SOMEONE asked me the other day how I managed to think
of so many things of the past to write about. The truth
is that I have more things, unwittingly, suggested to me
every day than I could write up in a week. I rarely meet one of
my old-time friends that some subject is not discussed which,
directly or indirectly, suggests something of the past. Then, too,
a line in the daily papers will cause me to think of some occur-
rence, which has no apparent relation or reference to the sub-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 107
ject of the paragraph. To illustrate this I will say that the other
day I read one editor's paragraph, in which he said that if he had
a fresh yard egg he would put it in a bank and draw checks
against it. That witty paragraph did not make me think of the
high price of eggs so much as it did of an amusing fight I once
witnessed in which a bag of yard eggs played a prominent part.
I have written of that grand old democratic war horse, Uncle
Dick Wescott, and have told how he "held the fort," sometimes
almost single-handed, against all comers. He was a Democrat
first of all and then a "Southern gentleman" who would have
willingly given up his life any time to prevent even the sem-
blance of equality between the whites and negroes. He did not
want them to have the same rights at the ballot box, but he
could not prevent them doing so. Like all oldtime Southerners,
he had a warm place in his heart for the old-time negroes, and
was always willing to help them along in the world, except in
the direction of the ballot box. When the white Republicans and
negroes marshaled their forces and beat him in an election, he
let them take the fruits of their victory, for no other reason than
that he could not prevent them doing so. It was not because he
was not willing enough to knock them out.
Uncle Dick always declared that the government had gone only
half way when they gave the negroes the right to vote, and that
to make the thing complete the ballot should have been bestowed
on the mules.
I dwell somewhat at length on Uncle Dick's political views,
because they have bearing on what follows. One afternoon a
very prominent member of the Houston bar got into a discussion
with Uncle Dick, during which the prominent lawyer so far for-
got himself in the heat of argument as to take the stand that the
negro had as much right from a legal point of view to vote as
a white man. Uncle Dick was forced to reluctantly admit that
perhaps that was true, but he stuck to his point that the law was
a fool, or as Mr. Bumble puts it, "the law is a ass." The discus-
sion attracted quite a crowd, for it was hot and animated and
Uncle Dick punctuated his points by waving a big paper bag of
eggs he held in his right hand. The lawyer had the best of the
argument, of course, and that did not add to Uncle Dick's equi-
librium. Finally Uncle Dick lost his temper, and when the
lawyer drew emphatic attention to "negro rights" Uncle Dick
lost his head and his bag of eggs at the same moment. Before
anyone knew what her was going to do, he smashed the lawyer
full in the face with the bag of eggs. The bag and eggs broke
and that dignified lawyer was turned into the worst scare-crow
anyone ever saw. I had no idea until then that there was so
much material in a bag of eggs. Of course the lawyer could not
see nor hear, either, and before he could find his bearings, friends
seized Uncle Dick and hurried him away. The lawyer swore
vengeance and declared he would shoot the old man on sight, but
before they met again "their friends patched the matter up and
108 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
while never the best of friends after that, they managed to en-
dure the presence of each other on the earth at the same time.
Now, as I have said, when I read that newspaper paragraph,
that egg fight came distinctly before me, and I could see that
dignified lawyer clawing at his eyes and ears, with his fingers
dripping egg all over everything. Uncle Dick was a warrior from
away back yonder and everybody knew it. He used to publish
editorials in the Age during a campaign that were so hot one
wondered that they did not burn the paper. They were in pure
United States language, too, and things were called by their
names, or at least by names that Uncle Dick thought appropriate.
One of those articles of his, if published in earnest today, would
result in a million dollar libel suit if not in buckets of blood. I
have said that he was a warrior, and such he was. I have seen
him in one or two engagements, and in every one of them he
forced the fighting. That was the strange part of it and I can't
understand yet why a man who did so much as to arouse antag-
onism and invite attack should always have to make the attack.
Perhaps one reason was that everybody knew Uncle Dick was
"fixed" for trouble and they did not care to become the aggres-
sors. They would venture to "sass" him, but that was as far as
they cared to go.
Sometimes it makes me really hungry for the old times when
I think of Uncle Dick and Uncle Dan McGary. There can never
be two such characters as they in this community again. When
it came to politics they had but one thought, one object in life,
to save the country from the grasp of the "depraved Republican
party." With them, any and everything was absolutely right
that would result in downing the hated enemy.
"SEEING THINGS."
IT is said that one-half of the world does not know how the
other half lives, and it might be truthfully added that the
one half does not know how the other half has lived. I
was much struck with the truth of this one night when I heard
two first-class stories and received at the same time two of the
greatest surprises of my life through the confessions of the gen-
tlemen who told them. Both are prominent men, men of position
and standing, and each has a host of friends, so I shall have to be
careful in telling the stories, and, for obvious reasons, refrain
from mentioning names.
It was after a social meeting and we were getting ready to go
home when some one suggested a round of drinks. Strange to
say, there was not a gentleman present who indulged except the
one who suggested the round. The temperance character of the
crowd naturally led to a discussion of drinking and its results,
when Billy, as I shall call the prominent merchant, led off by
confessing that in his early days he had been a great drinker,
and had gone the fimit.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 109
"Why," said he, "I have actually had the jimmies, and you know
that was going some. I got drunk and I could not get sober. I
kept it up day after day and week after week, and finally I gave
up trying to get sober and went in for the limit. One afternoon
I went in the grocery store of one of my friends and insisted
that he should go out and take a drink with me. He refused and
said he had better whiskey in his store than we could get else-
where and asked me to try it. Of course I agreed. I took a big
drink and it made me so drunk that the merchant had me taken
to a room on the second floor of his store, where one of his clerks
slept. I don't remember much about getting in bed, but I do re-
member about waking up. It was late in the evening when I
awoke, and I was lying there wondering where I was when I
heard a noise behind me, and turning over I saw the biggest
skeleton anybody ever saw sitting on the bureau in front of the
looking glass. He had a great big scythe in his hand and sat
there grinning at me. You know all skeletons grin, but his grin
was a different sort of thing; you could see he was enjoying the
situation. In those days I was a bit profane, so I took a long
look at him and asked him what in hell he wanted and what he
was doing there.
" 'Billy,' said he, very slowly and drawling, 'Billy,' said he, 'I
am here after you and I am going to cut your head off.' Saying
that he made one big jump, landed square across my chest,, cut
my head off with the scythe, and jumped back on the bureau
again.
"That made me good mad. I don't know how I did it, but I
could see just as well without my head as I could with it, but all
the same I wanted my head back. 'Look here,' I said to him,
'you bring that head back here or I'll hurt you.' 'You can't hurt
me,' he said. 'You make me laugh,' and with that he began to
chuckle. It was the funniest chuckle you ever heard. It com-
menced in his teeth and then dropped down into him and went
rattling along his ribs and sounded like a boy scraping along a
picket fence with a stick. I had my 45 with me and I lugged it
out. 'Are you going to bring that head back?' I asked. The
skeleton said nothing, but just sat there and grinned. I took
good aim at his head and said: 'I am going to count three and
when I finish, if my head's not back, I'm going to destroy you.'
I commenced counting right slowly, 'one,' 'two,' 'three,' and I let
him have it. I saw the looking-glass fly to pieces and I saw that
I had missed him, so I pulled do^vn on him again. When the
smoke cleared off the skeleton was gone, but he had taken my
head with him and I was in a worse fix than ever. I heard a
noise back of me and there was the skeleton. He was trying to
hide and I was trying to get a line on him when the crowd from
downstairs broke into the room and grabbed me. They lugged
me off to a hospital and the doctors finally pulled me through.
That is the reason I don't drink. I have whiskey and that skele-
110 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
ton too intimately associated together to enjoy the whiskey part
of it."
"That was a fine experience you had, major," said a retired
ranch man, "and since you have told the story I will give a bit
of my own experience in the same line."
"I had been in Richmond for about two weeks enjoying myself
with the boys. I had drunk lots of whiskey but had not eaten
a thing. Finally I got so that I could not get any action at all
out of whiskey. It would not make me drunk or do me any
good at all except for a few minutes, when it would die out and I
would have to fill up again. One of my friends was running a
saloon, and upstairs over the saloon he had a faro layout and
other fixtures, among them a billiard table. I was in his place
one morning, feeling awful. I took four or five drinks and he
persuaded me to go upstairs and lie down on the billiard table
and try to get some sleep. It was a big room and was not
sealed, having all the rafters bare. I lay down on the table
and was thinking how much I would give to be sober so I
could take a fresh start and enjoy myself with the boys, when
I heard a scraping sound down at the end of the room on one
of the rafters, and looking up I saw a big rattlesnake about
fifteen feet long, trying to slip up on me without my knowing
it. He'd creep along a little bit, slip, catch himself, and then
begin it all over again. I got interested, and it aroused the
sporting spirit in me, and I lay there betting, first that he would
make it and then that he would not. He would stretch away
out, get a good hold, and then try to draw himself forward, would
slip, nearly fall, and catch himself. I got so interested that I
did not realize that he was gaining all the time, and the first
thing I knew he was right over me. Then he turned himself
loose and did not try to catch himself. But I was too quick for
him. By the time he hit the table I was half way down stairs,
and the next moment I was across the sidewalk, heading for
the other side of the street.
"Just as I left the sidewalk a man riding a big black horse
came charging down on me with a long sword in his hand. I
realized somehow that he could not touch me so long as I was
on the sidewalk and T made a dash for it and just got there
in time. I also realized that I had to cross that street, so I
waited until the fellow's back was turned and started again, but
he whirled his horse and came near getting me. Then I waited
until he got away off and made another dash, but he gaw me out
of the back of his head and I just barely reached the sidewalk
in time. Then I made out I was going down the sidewalk, and
as soon as his back was turned I made a quick dash, but he was
there all right, and again I just barely saved myself. That
made me mad and I started into the barroom to get a gun to
do him up, when the saloon man and a number of my friends
jumped on me and tied me. They sent for a doctor and for
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 111
about three weeks I had a time of it. Like you, I associate
Whiskey with a snake and that fellow on a black horse. I have
never taken a drink since and I never intend to take another."
INTERVIEWING AN OLD-TIMER.
DURING some years of active newspaper work, I have had,
of course, some funny experiences, but I had one the
other day that beat anything with which I had ever come
in contact. I wanted some special information and sought one
of my old-time friends to obtain it from him. Before I could
ask a question, he asked me one and that set him going, with
the following result:
He asked me who was the editor of a certain paper published
in Houston, and when I told him, truthfully, that I had never
heard of the paper, he launched out as follows:
"You are like Sarah Bernhardt. When some one asked her
about Mrs. Potter, she said: 'Mrs. Pottair! I don't know there
is an actress by such name as Pottair.' That was her way of
ignoring all competitors. I'll tell you a good story about Sarah.
You know what a great actress she is, but to my mind there
used to be better than she in the French companies in New
Orleans. Ah, those were fine days! I was in the telegraph
business then. There was no Western Union then. It was the
Washington and National, or something of that kind. Old
Thompson was manager and he allowed us to send private mes-
sages as much ajud as often as we pleased. Old Thompson was
a thoroughbred. He built the lines to Natchez and then he
built the Red River line. Speaking of Red River, reminds me
of a certain class of fools who you hear speaking of the 'Rio
Grande River.' Wouldn't that jar you! They don't know that
'Rio' means river. It's like a fellow I heard talking about hav-
ing 'the la grippe.' There's another who don't know that 'la'
means 'the' in French. But one thing gets on my nerves more
than anything. That is the new word they have made to fix on
a driver of an automobile 'chauffeur'."
Here I ventured to suggest that it was not a new word, but
an old one, and meant a stoker, fireman, or something like
that, but he would not listen to me, but went on.
"They don't even know how to pronounce the word. Some
say 'showfer,' some say 'chawfer,' while the proper way to say
it is 'shaw-fer,' sorter lengthening out the 'fer' part. Do you
catch it?
"I pride myself on my French, for I learned it first from old
-Loui du Pies in New Orleans. There was a man for your money.
As polite as a basket of chips, but always looking out for a fight,
and never so happy as when he found one. I saw him clean out
a barroom in New Orleans one night. I say barroom, but they
call them 'coffee houses' over there, but I don't know why, for
112 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
they never sell coffee in them. Loui always had half a dozen
duels on hand after he had had his fun. Those duels in New
Orleans are the same as the French duels. They go out and
poke at each other with little swords that look like knitting
needles, long drawn out. Finally one will stick the other through
the skin of his arm and their honor is satisfied. Then they em-
brace and go off somewhere to eat a good breakfast.
One night a little Frenchman came in our office to send a
telegram and got sassy about it. Old man Thompson called him
down and started to kick him out of the door, but the chap was
too quick for him and got away. In half an hour two young men,
who said they were their friend's "witnesses," brought Thompson
a challenge. The old man accepted it at once and told the 'wit-
nesses' that since he was challenged he had the right to choose
weapons and that he would take double-barrel shotguns, loaded
with buckshot and fight at ten paces.
"The 'witnesses' left, and we never saw any of them after
that. The old man used to say that if his terms had been ac-
cepted he would have been the one to leave.
"I did see a sure enough duel over there, though* It was
fought between a man named Williams and another named
Sydnor. This Sydnor I'll tell you about it was a big planter.
He owned one of the largest plantations in Mississippi. He was
fine folk, too. He married a Guafney and one of his brothers
was talked of for tfie Senate at once. He raised long staple
cotton, which, you know, is the best in the world. I have often
wondered why they don't try to raise more of it in Texas, There
are lots of things the Texas farmers could raise if they would
only realize that they can do so. Texas is certainly a great
state. I have been living here for over 40 years and the longer
I stay here the prouder I grow of the state.
"By the way, I started to tell you a good .joke. What was it
about? Do you know?"
I did know that it was about Sarah Bernhardt and I also knew
that he had started to tell be about a real duel he had witnessed,
but I had too much sense to refresh his memory, and made my
escape. I realized that I had not gotten the information I
wanted, but I concluded it were best to give that up and seek
elsewhere, and thus escape having to listen to a condensed,
though rather disjointed history of some one's life.
The foregoing perhaps reads as if it were prepared for the
occasion. It is an aboslutely correct report of what occurred and
I have a good witness who will testify that it is correct. The
worst part about it was that it was told very slowly and con-
sumed nearly an hour in the telling.
* * *
AN ALL-'ROUND NEWSPAPER MAN.
I ONCE heard a public speaker who got his quotations mixed,
declare in the most dramatic manner: "A rolling stone
is the noblest work of God." If that be true then Wm. R.
Sinclair has about as much nobility about him as one man can
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 113
stand, for he has rolled a great deal during the 30 years I have
known him. He has rolled from Houston to Dallas, from Dallas
to Galveston, from Galveston to St. Louis and then back to Texas
and begun his endless chain of rolling all over again. He is
here in Houston now and says he is going to buy a home and
settle down for good. I think he believes he is going to do so,
too, but I do not.
"Sin," as the boys love to call him, is well qualified to lead
any life he chooses and to see as much of the world as he cares
to see, and that too, on the easiest terms, for there is no better
newspaper man in the country than he. One great advantage
he has over most newspaper men is the fact that he is as fine a
printer as newspaper writer. If there is no opening in the
"brainery," he turns to the mechanical department, for he is as
much at home in one as in the other.
Twenty-five years ago Sinclair was considered to be the best
telegraph editor in Texas. At that time the positon of telegraph
editor was one of the most difficult and responsible on a news-
paper. It is hard to realize that today when "copy" comes in
typewritten on a clean white paper, with no abbreviations and
all that has to be done is to read it, put on a suitable head, and
send it to the composing room. In that day it was different.
The copy was on flimsy tissue paper and was in skeleton form.
Every word, not absolutely necessary to make sense, was left
out and a dispatch of, say a column, frequently came in half
that space and the telegraph editor had to fill in, straighten out
and make it read sense. Sometimes the abbreviation was car-
ried to such an extreme that it was difficult to make any sense
out of the dispatch , at all. Here is where Sinclair shone, for
he could take a condensed story, rewrite it and turn out better
copy than the original writer had produced.
Sinclair was also a good reporter and all-'round man in the
editorial room, and as he was always on deck and could be re-
lied on, he was very useful. You notice that I speak of him in
the past tense. I do that in deference to his announcement that
he is going to quit and settle down, which, as I have said, I do
not believe.
In 1884 Sinclair and I were running the Houston Morning
Chronicle. He was foreman of the composing room. He was
then and is now an intense Democrat. When the dispatch came
saying that Cleveland was elected president, it was about 2
o'clock in the morning. Sinclair had come down after something
and was in the editorial room. I showed him the dispatch. He
seized my hat and b'roke for the market house, where the fire bell
was located. Climbing the ladder that led to the tower where
the bell was, he seized the rope and in a few moments had the
whole town aroused. Captain Jack White, who was chief of
police, could see no fire and concluded that a drunken or crazy
man had gotten hold of the bell, and went up to investigate.
When he got up there he found Sinclair.
114 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
"What are you doing with that bell? There's no fire any-
where," he said. "You come with me." So saying he grabbed
Sinclair by the collar.
"Hold up, captain," said "Sin;" "Cleveland is elected."
"Is he?" said the captain. "Give me that rope," and the two
took hold and woke the town up some more. By the time they
reached the sidewalk, after tiring themselves out, the whole
town was in an uproar, for the news had spread and everybody
was rejoicing. The captain invited "Sin" over to have a
"snifter" and as they were taking it he looked at "Sin" and said :
"Sinclair, if you have got the jimmies and have spread a false
report, I'm going to lock you up in jail if it takes me a year to
catch you."
The news seemed too good to be true.
During the whole thirty years I have known Sinclair I have
never heard of his doing a small or mean thing. I am sure ex-
Mayor John Browne will not say the same thing, for he holds
different views and, perhaps, has reason for doing so. Some
years ago Sinclair, while on the Post, got up his famous goat
races. He had the whole town goat mad. Mayor Browne met
him on the street one day and told him he would give him some
goats if he would come after or send for them. Sinclair thanked
him, and going to his office he put the following in the Post:
NOTICE.
"Any boy in Houston who wants a fine goat for nothing can
get one by calling at Mayor Browne's residence this morning,
As there are only a few goats, it will be first come, first served.
The first boy there gets the pick."
The next morning Mayor Browne thought every boy in Hous-
ton had gone crazy. His yard was full of boys, the street was
full and they kept coming. When he could get away he went
gunning for Sinclair, but "Sin" hid out until the mayor's wrath
had died down a bit.
If Sinclair would only settle down and write his memoirs and
tell of his journalistic experiences, it would make a most inter-
esting book. He has seen both the tragic and humorous side
of newspaper life and can tell his story well.
To meet the quiet, affable gentleman that he is, for the first
time one would never suspect that so youthful a man could be
one of the oldest and most competent newspaper men in Texas,
and yet Sinclair is all of that. I believe he has filled every
position on a newspaper, from printer's devil to editor-in-chief,
except that of society editor. I would not swear, however, that
he has not tried his hand at that, too, on the sly.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 115
FRANK LE MOTT'S POKER STORY.
1MET Frank LeMott in the street the other day. He was
either coming from the country or going there, I don't
know which. He had the most mournful expression on his
face when he greeted me, and he began at once to state his
grievance: "That article you wrote about me being a reformed
sport has injured me seriously. It has about destroyed my repu-
tation as a citizen, . and has done more than that, for it has
caused me actual financial loss." Of course, I felt sorry and
asked for particulars.
"It's this. way," said he, "I have been in the habit of stopping
over at a little town in East Texas, and whenever I hit the town
the sheriff, the judge and a few of the leading citizens would
get busy and organize a 'little game' for my entertainment. That
game was always to be depended on to increase my funds from
$12 to $20, and I looked for it regularly. The other day I hit
that town, and while they all seemed glad enough to see me,
not one of them said a word about the 'little game.' I did not
understand it until the next day when some one told me about
that article in The Chronicle. It seems the paper beat me to
the place, and my friends were afraid to sit in with me after
reading what you wrote.
"I have not seen the article yet," said he, "but it must have
been awful, for I heard of it all over Texas. Everywhere I have
been people have asked me about it."
Then his manner changed, and nudging me in the ribs he said:
"Tell them about Farmer Bill, about t)ld Fish and about Weston,
and if you don't catch them I will eat my head."
He was referring to three distinguished citizens of Texas, New
Mexico and Arizona, who flourished in the early seventies and
whose doings furnished Frank material for some of his best
stories.
One evening Frank and I were sitting on the gallery of the
Surf Bathing House in Galveston when I asked him if gambling
paid. He thought some time before he answered and then said:
"That's a hard question, for it has several sides to it and can
be answered properly only after knowing which side of the table
your man sits on if it's a bank game or how your man plays his
hand if it's short cards. Off hand I would say that gambling
does not pay, and yet I see no reason why a square man running
a square game can't make good. He has all the advantage of
making the other fellow do the guessing and to that must be
added the legitimate percentage in favor of the bank, A sport
like that who has a good game, has as sure a thing as a national
bank, and if he sticks to business and does not go against some
other sport's game, he is bound to get rich.
"The best poker player I ever knew was a fellow named Wes-
ton. He was a genius and could put the value on a set of threes,
two pair or a bobtail quicker than any man I ever came across.
It was an education to watch his play. He had real scientific
poker sense and he won all the time. He wins at poker, but
116 ; TRUE STORIES OF OLD
he can't keep away from faro bank and that game gets all his
winnings. Of course, everybody has an explanation of how he
wins all the time. They know his play is straight, for they
watch him too closely for there to be any crooked work. They
charge it up to luck and predict that it will change and run
against him the same as it does with everybody else. But it
doesn't and he continues to win. An old fellow named Wagner
puts out a theory that becomes very popular. It is that Weston
is a mind reader and that when he is ruminating over his cards
he is reviewing the minds of the gents who are sitting in- with
him and finding out what cards they hold. If he has kings up
and finds aces in some gent's hand he goes to the discard, while
if he finds his hand is the best he raises them out of their boots.
Wagner cinches his theory by pointing out that when Weston
goes against farobank the box ain't got any mind to read and
that Weston stands to lose and does lose the same as anybody
else.
"Finally it gets so that nobody will sit in the game with Wes-
ton. But he must play poker and he gits to going against the
public poker games, where one man does all the dealing and any-
body can sit in who has the price of a stack of chips. His luck,
or mind-reading, follows him there and he continues to win. He
would tote off a wad every night. Finally the fellows who were
running the games got tired of it and concluded to put up a job
on him. I had nothing to do with it, but they let me in to see
the fun. The plan was to ring in a cold deck, give out four or
five stiff hands and give Weston the next to the best one. When
they mentioned it to me I suggested that Weston might not
stand for a flimflam and as he always toted a gun there might
be trouble. They told me they were on to that and had provided
against trouble by giving Donovan, a big Irishman, who acted as
bouncer, a sawed off billiard cue and telling him to stand behind
Weston's chair and if he reached for a gun to pacify him with
the club.
"That night Weston took his seat and placed a big roll of bills
by the side of the chips he bought. The game opened and
dragged along with no plays of any interest for some time. Then
I saw Happy Jack shuffle the cards pretty fast, put them down
like he was going to cut them and pick up a deck one of the
house men had slipped near him, and I knew the play was on.
Jack dealt out the hands and almost before he got through a
little shoemaker, who was playing a five-dollar stack, opened the
pot. A butcher, who is next to the shoemaker, raises and the
next man, who is a booster, tilts her again. The next man just
comes in. The play then reaches Weston. He comes in and
boosts her a fifty-dollar bill. The next man hesitates a long
time and then drops out. The next one, who is a booster, comes
back at Weston with a hundred-dollar bill, after looking up at
Jack. The shoemaker who had opened the pot shoved in what
chips he had left and claimed a show for his money. The butcher
quits. Then the first booster raised her $200 and the man be-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 117
tween him and Weston quits reluctantly. This brings the play
back to Weston. He ruminates as usual for some time and then
throws his whole bundle into the pot. Jack asks what is in
her and Weston counts out four 100 and two 500-dollar bills. The
last booster has only $300, but he shoves that in and claims a
show for it. I saw one of the house men slip the first booster
a big roll, and Weston saw it too. There's a big fuss about how
much money the booster who wants a showdown has in the pot,
and Weston pretends to take a heap of interest in what is going
on at his left, though I see he is watching the right, too, and his
letting the house man in on the play that way does not look good
for the house to me. Still I know the hands are fixed and I con-
strue it that Weston has a stiff hand he is willing to back on
general principles; that he can't read the minds of the boosters
because they are too excited, and that he is going on pure poker
judgment, though I know, of course, that he is all wrong.
"When the dispute is settled the first booster nearly breaks
his arm getting his wad in, and Weston is called for the whole
pot. Then cards are drawn. Everybody takes one card except
the shoemaker, who takes two, and Weston, who stands pat. All
the money is up, so its a show-down all 'round. Donovan draws
up so as to be in easy reach of Weston with his club, and every-
body leans over to look at the hands. Then the two house men
nearly faint and Jack turns green, for Weston shows down four
aces and rakes in the pot.
"Yes, sir; justice had miscarried. Jack had made a fatal mis-
take and had given Weston the hand intended for the booster,
who showed down four kings.
"The house is broke. The two house men look at me and I
look at them. I want to laugh, but I don't do it till I get out-
side. Jack is scared nearly to death. Everybody looks foolish,
but the worst looking man in the crowd is Donovan, who is trying
to hide his club.
"Next day the story gets out and old Wagner's theory about
mind-reading falls flat. The chaps who back the luck argument
win out easy."
* * *
FUN AT THE FAIR GROUNDS.
I THINK it was at the state fair that was held in Houston in
. 1871 or 1872, I forget which, that one of the funniest sights
I ever witnessed occurred.
At that time there was a very prominent physician here, who
had been a lawyer before studying medicine and who was one of
the finest speakers I ever heard. He could make a speech at any
time on any subject, and when he got about half loaded he was
very eloquent. He delighted to hear his own voice and never
missed an opportunity to give himself a treat in that way. I tell
this because it has bearing on what occurred.
118 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
That year Colonel James, who had charge of the military
school at Austin, brought the cadets down to the fair. There
were several hundred of them and they made a fine appearance.
Major Brokenbourough, who was the military instructor at the
school, had command of the battalion. He and I had been col-
lege mates in Virginia and I was delighted to meet him again.
His father was Judge Brokenbourough, one of the most distin-
guished lawyers in Virginia. While the major and I were talk-
ing, my friend, the doctor, came up and I introduced him to the
major. The doctor was loaded just right, and was very effusive.
"Is it possible," he said, shaking the major's hand, "that I grasp
the hand of a son of my old and esteemed friend, Judge Broken-
bourough, of Virginia?" Now, as a matter of fact, I don't be-
lieve the doctor had ever heard of the judge until I mentioned
the fact that he was the major's father, but he made the play
all right and created the impression on the major's mind that he
and his father had been raised together.
"This occasion," said he, "deserves to be commemorated.
Corns and take a glass of wine with me."
He led us over to a stand and ordered a quart bottle of cham-
pagne. The major protested against such extravagance and
declared he would rather have a glass of beer, but tbe doctor
would not listen to him and the champagne was opened. Just
then a band nearby began playing and the wine and music com-
bined to make the doctor feel awfully good and talkative.
There was to be a grand parade of the cadets at 4 o'clock and
as it was near that hour the major tried to excuse himself so
as to go and get ready. Then a happy thought occurred to the
doctor. He told the major he would like to make the boys a
talk. The major thought it was merely a passing whim and
made some casual remark about being most happy to hear it and
things of that kind. The doctor insisted and then the major
told him he would go and get Colonel James* permission. Now,
had the major known the doctor as well as I did, he would have
gone to the colonel and secured his permission, for the talk
would have been a good one. As it was, thinking that the doctor
would forget all about it after taking the next drink, instead of
going to Colonel James he went direct to where the cadets were
and commenced preparing them for the parade. The parade
and drill were to take place on the race track in front of the
grand-stand, so, taking my arm, the doctor led me out there and
took up his position where the colonel generally stands during
a dress parade. Major Brokenbourough was busily engaged in
forming his battalion across the track. The grand-stand was
crowded with ladies, the band was playing and the doctor was
absolutely in the seventh heaven of delight. He was feeling
mighty good. He took off his hat and the wind blew his long
hair about and he evidently felt like a war horse about to charge.
The charge was there all right, but it was to come from the other
side. After a little while Colonel James showed up on a fine,
prancing horse.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 119
If he noticed the doctor and me standing there he said' nothing,
but, drawing his sword, he took command of the battalion, which
the major had formed. . For the benefit of the ladies he put the
boys through the manual of arms and then gave the order: "Fix
bayonets." His next order was "Charge bayonets," and then
"Forward, quick time, march." I saw what was coming and de-
serted the doctor at once, getting away on one side. The doctor
thought that the colonel was bringing his battalion up closer,
so the boys could hear his speech, so he stood his ground with
his head thrown back and his nostrils distended. He was in his
glory. Some soldiers to talk to, a fine brass band playing and
thousands of pretty women to hear him talk. He held his hat
in his hand and the wind was scattering his long hair about in
the most charming manner.
In the meantime that solid wall of bayonets was sweeping
down on him. I was off on one side in a safe position where I
could watch him and see the expression on his face. When the
battalion readied a point about thirty feet away and continued
to advance, a troubled and surprised look came over his face.
The next moment he realized that there had been a blunder com-
mitted and that he was in a tight place. People began to shout
to him to get away while he could. At last he realized the truth,
but it was too fete to reach the end of the line and escape that
way. He realized that and did not try it. He slapped his hat
on his head and turning his back to the advancing troops bent
over and awaited them. There was a sudden break in the line,
the ranks parted on each side and the doctor emerged, tail fore-
most, from the confused mass. The grand-stand gave vent to a
mighty shout and the doctor straightened up and came over to
where I was rolling all over the ground, half dead with laughter.
He was so angry he could scarcely talk.
"Where is that ." said he, referring to the son
of his "old and highly esteemed friend." "Get up. I want you
to take my card to him. He must answer to me for this outrage.
He must have been drunker than I thought, for evidently James
knew nothing of why I was out there."
I had hard work to keep him from attacking the battalion
right there so as to get at the major, who was hopping along
before the girls and entirely oblivious to the proximity of the
great volcano he had stirred up. Finally I got the doctor to wait
until he got to town, where he could draw up the challenge in
regular form, which I promised I would take to the major.
After another drink, the doctor's mood changed. "I find myself
in a nasty position," he said, "I can't make up my mind to kill
the son of my old friend and comrade-in-arms, for his father and
I served together in the Army of Northern Virginia. The boy
deserves killing, of course, for he has made a monkey of his
father's most intimate friend, but then he is only a thoughtless
boy. I might execute James, but that would be unjust, for he
knew nothing of what he was doing. What do you advise?"
120 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
Of course I told him I would drop the subject and never think
of it again.
That night the cadets left for home and the major left with
them and left in absolute ignorance of the terrible fate that
came so near overtaking him.
FRANK LA MOTT'S STORY.
ONE day I was sitting out in front of the old Gray Front
Saloon in San Angelo, smoking a cigarette," said Frank
La Mott, "when I saw a little old dried-up looking chap
ride up on a dilapidated broncho, and recognized 'Old Fish.'
Now, 'Old Fish' did not get his name from having been named
Fisher or anything like that, but he got it in a queer way.
"One night a crowd of cowboys found him all spraddled out in
the middle of a trail over in Arizona. He was flat on his belly
and was moving his arms slowly up and down and. waving his
feet about as if he were swimming. The boys hails him and asks
for information: 'Don't muddy the water, boys. I'm a fish,' he
said. He had the jimmies and thought he was a fish. The boys
toted him to a doctor and he got rid of the jimmies, but he did
not get rid of the name and from that time everybody calls him
'Fish."
"I hated to see him coming for I knew how trifling and no
'count he was. He could drink more whiskey than any man I
ever came in contact with, and it took more of it to get him
drunk, but when he did get drunk he would be drunk all over.
I knew he would prove to be a great nuisance, and I hated to
see him, as I say. A man named Riley is keeping the big faro
bank and owns the Gray Front, which I have told you before
was the big thing in San Angelo. Riley being the big saloon
man and big gambler has acquired big standing as a citizen and
is eminently respectable, therefore it makes me laugh when Fish
rushes up to him and shakes hands with him and gives it out
right and left that h'e and Riley was partners out in Arizona.
Fish was sober, but Riley and I knew that he would not stay
that way long, and that when Fish got drunk it would lower
anybody's standing who recognized him as an old friend and
partner.
"Well, Riley shook hands with him and pretended to be mighty
glad to see him, but he wasn't. He asks all hands to the bar
and introduced old Fish and then slipped away. Fish acts
pretty good for a few days, not that he don't drink lots of whis-
key, for he does. But he is one of those accumulative drunkards
who has to lay a big foundation for what's coming. A week
passes and Fish ain't drunk yet. Riley sees him drinking all
the time and can't understand it. Finally he concludes Fish
has discovered some system by which he can drink all he wants
without getting drunk and lets it go at that.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 121
"It comes at last, just as Riley knew it was coming, and Fish
strikes him for a stake.
" 'Look here,' says Riley, 'I've been watching you and I think
I can trust you to make your own stake. I won't give you money
for whiskey, hut I'll stake you for a monte game against these
Mexican pikers.'
"Riley does it, and when he does so he makes Fergerson, who
runs the regular monte game, mad, for Fergerson can't stand
Mexicans around him.
"Riley gives him a place for his table and stakes him for about
$40. Fish is happy and the Mexicans are happy, but Fergerson
is mad plumb through. The first night Fish blows the whole
bank roll in at the bar before Riley finds out what he is doing.
When Riley comes in and finds what Fish is doing he kicks him
out in the street and chases the Mexicans out, too. Fish is in
a bad fix. His money and loafing place are both gone, so he
takes up at a low dive where Mexicans are treated the same
as folks. In about a week they get tired of him there and chase
him and he is in for good. Fish finally takes up with a tinhorn
gambler who lets him sleep in his room, but they ain't got no
money for whiskey, so Fish gets sober. He comes whining to
Riley and strikes him for enough money to buy a coat. Riley
sees how ragged he is and feels sorry for him so gives him the
money. Instead of getting the coat he buys a couple of gallons
of whiskey and he and his tinhorn friend set in for a good
drunk. Finally the whiskey gives out and Fish don't know what
to do. He comes to Riley and fairly slobbers for help. Riley
won't listen to him and tells him he better go off somewhere and
die. Fish don't get mad. What Riley says to him about dying
puts an idea in his head. 'Look here/ he says to Riley. 'That's
a good point you makes. Suppose I just makes out I dies, won't
that turn the trick?"
"Fish gets close to Riley and says: 'Supposing I make out
I'm dead. Then you collect funeral expenses from the boys.
You kin bury a box, give me the funeral expenses and I kin skip
out of town.'
"Riley falls for it at once. He sees a chance to get rid of
Fish and at the same time make the boys pay nearly all the
expenses. He tells Fish to come up to his place and talk it
over. They do talk it over and then Riley and Doc. Matchet
have a talk.
"The next evening Fish comes in Riley's place and he don't
look good, either. He is feeling bad sure enough, for he is
needing whiskey bad. Riley gives him a couple of scoops and
some of the boys throw other drinks into him. After he gets
to looking so much better that nobody notices him particular, and
just when everybody forgets he's there, he throws up his hands,
jerks up one leg, falls down on the floor and goes off in about
twenty fits to the minute. You've seen chickens with their heads
cut off. Well, they ain't deuce high to the capers Fish cut up.
Finally he subsides a little and Doc. Matchet and Riley makes
122 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
a landing on him and lugs him into a room where Riley has a
bed. Riley tells me to stay and help hold Fish and then sends
everybody else out of the room. Soon as they are gone Fish
sits up in bed and demands a drink. I'm astonished to see Fish
get well so soon, but Riley tells me what's doing and asked me
to help him. We got a lot of chalk and rubbed Fish's face with
it. We pulls his clothes off and lays him out like sure enough
dead folks. The Doc. goes out to get a drink and tells the boys
that Fish is playing nothing but white chips and ain't got more
than a half stack of them left. In a little while he goes out
again and announces that Fish has lost his stack and backed off
from the table for good.
"It's pretty near dark now and we are having some trouble
with Fish, who wants more whiskey. Finally we give him a big
drink and laying him out again, we invites the boys in to view
the remainders. Everybody comes except Fergerson, who stays
away and sends in word that he's glad the dead-beat, old bum
is dead. After the review is over Riley goes out to the bar and
starts a subscription to bury Fish. He heads it and in no time
he has over a hundred dollars put down. Fergerson puts down
for ten dollars and tells Riley he will pay next day. All the rest
is cash.
"Riley brings the list in and shows it to Fish to let him see
how anxious the boys are to bury him. Fish takes the list and
reads it carefully. When he comes to Fergerson's name and
sees it not marked paid, he raises a row. 'You can bet your
sweet life that ground hog can't git no credit from me; I want
the cash and I want it right now. He can't git no credit on my
funeral.'
"Riley argues with him but it does no good. Finally Riley got
mad and told him what Fergerson said about him and how glad
he was when he heard he was dead. That makes Fish wild and
he swears if he don't get that cash he will go out and whip
Fergerson if it breaks up the funeral. Fish demands more whis-
key. Riley gives it to him to keep him quiet, though he is afraid
Fish will be too drunk to get away when the time comes.
"After awhile Fish gets quiet and Riley says he will go out
and get a box to bury Fish in. He leaves me with Fish and cau-
tions me to keep the door locked. As soon as he is gone Fish
commences again. He is still thinking about Fergerson and
can't get over the idea of his wanting credit on his funeral, and
then abusing the deceased behind his back. He cusses Ferger-
son and then demands more whiskey. I argued with him and
tried to show him that if he got drunk he would bust the funeral
and then the boys would take back their money and run him
out of town dead broke. That stopped him for a time, but not
for long, for he came back demanding more whiskey. I saw
there was no way out of it so after swearing him to keep quiet
I slipped out to get a small bottle. He cusses Fergerson real
good and hard as I go out, but stretches out in bed like he was
dead. I walked out looking as solemn as I could and called for
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 123
a drink. There is a big crowd there and everybody wants to
hear how Fish cashes in. I am right in the middle of my tale,
and I admit it has taken more time to tell it than I had calcu-
lated, when the barkeep, who is setting out the bug juice for
another round, gives one look over my shoulder, jumps over the
counter and goes out of the front door like a prairie on fire. The
crowd looks where the barkeep was looking and before I know
what's doing I'm alone. I turns around and if I don't know that
Fish is alive I'm here to tell you that I would have gone after
the crowd too. Fish was standing in the door and had the sheet
drawn all around him. His face was white like a dead man and
having so much whiskey in him made him wabbly in the legs
just like a dead man who has just stood up out of his grave. It
sure was a scary sight. Before I could do anything Fish turned
off and made straight for the back room, where Fergerson was
dealing monte. The room was pretty full and when Fish butts
in nobody looks around, thinking its only some of the boys com-
ing in to buck the game.
"Fish gets right in the middle of the room before anybody sees
him. Then a Mexican looks round and instantly climbs over
everybody in front of him and lands right on Fergerson's monte
table. Fergerson rises to squash the Mexican and sees Fish.
There's a window back of where Fergerson was sitting and he
goes out of it backward. He is in such a hurry that he don't
take time to turn round. The other boys and the Mexicans see
Fish and hell breaks loose. They all try to get out the window
at the same time and naturally tear the whole side of the house
out.
"Riley hears the racket half a mile away and comes in his
buckboard like a streak of lightning, for he guesses something
has taken place. When he gets there he finds nobody but me
and Fish. I am on the floor laughing, while Fish is behind the
bar helping himself to a big drink out of a bottle. Riley don't
ask for explanations. He grabs Fish, throws him on his buck-
board and hurries away with him. He told me afterward that
he gave a Mexican he could trust $20 to take him to the next
town with orders to keep going if he wanted to keep from being
hung by the boys.
"Riley explained to the boys that it must have been a case
of 'revived mortality,' and that Fish must have wandered off and
been eaten up by wolves. Of course, he gave Fish some money
to live on and he gave the money back to the boys that they
had put up to bury him with, so instead of getting rid of Fish
cheaply, as he calculated, it cost him a good deal. Fish wandered
around and died in San Antonio a few years ago. The funny
thing was that when he died sure enough and the boys were
chipping in to bury him, Fergerson examined him carefully be-
fore he would subscribe a cent. When he found Fish was really
dead he doubled his subscription, he was so glad."
124 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
A FAMOUS DEER HUNT.
FORMERLY, in the good old days of the seventies, there was
a much more intimate association between the drummers
and the citizens of the small cities and towns than exists
now. At that time every drummer who traveled in this terri-
tory was as well known to everybody as the residents of the
towns, and met with both a personal and professional welcome
wherever he went. I suspect that there is something of the kind
prevalent today, but it is not so widespread and general as it
was then. The drummers have become more keenly alert to the
business side of their calling and attach less importance to its
social side, while the small towns have become more dignified
and are striving to put on city airs.
The drummer who could tell the best and latest stories or
work off a good practical joke was very popular everywhere,
while the citizen who worked off anything good on a drummer
became famous at once and was the talk of the whole country.
There was one well known drummer who was famous for his
practical jokes and equally famous for his ability to dodge
every trap that was set for him. From Houston to San An-
tonio there was not a practical joker who did not lie awake at
night trying to devise some scheme to catch that fellow. He
was finally landed, or rather he landed himself by taking serious-
ly a joking remark made by Colonel McCarthy of Eagle Lake.
The colonel was a great sportsman and spent his time hunting
and fishing. It was hard to say whether he was the king fisher
or the king hunter, he was so good at both. He rarely went
hunting that he did not come home with a fine deer or other
big game, while his friends used to say that he could actually
catch fish on dry land where there were no fish.
His constant and never-failing success as a hunter excited sus-
picion that he had some secret charm or something of that sort
which gave him an advantage over the ordinary hunter. One
day the colonel drove into town in his hunting wagon having
two large bucks prominently displayed. Just as he passed the
depot the train arrived and our drummer got off. He was de-
lighted to see such fine game and asked a thousand questions
about how and where the colonel had killed them. The colonel
made no secret of where he had killed them, but he was less
communicative about how he had done so. The drummer in-
sisted on knowing, so, finally, the colonel, never dreaming that
he would be taken so seriously, agreed to tell him, provided he
would never reveal it to any one.
"If it got out," said the colonel, "there would be no deer left,
for it is so simple that even the boys can work it, and the deer
would be exterminated." The drummer swore by everything holy,
and unholy, too, that he would never tell, so the colonel gave him
the great secret.
"You must know," said he, "that deer have more curiosity
than any of the wild animals. They will run away from anything
that scares them, but if there is anything mysterious about it
HOUSTON AND HOUSTQNIANS 125
they will come back to investigate. Now, I get my deer by tak-
ing advantage of that peculiarity they have. I drive a very
gentle horse, as you know one that will stand and keep quiet
no matter where I leave him. I go out on the prairie and when
I see deer I drive up as close as I can, then sit perfectly still
until they go to feeding again if they have noticed me, and
then I slip out, get behind the wagon and pull off every stitch
of clothes I have on. Then I get down on my all-fours and back
up to the deer. Never go head first, for a deer will recognize
you at once and light out. Be careful not to show your head
at all. You must take plenty of time, move slowly, and you will
be surprised to find how close you can back up on a herd of
deer."
Now all that sounded right to the drummer. He had often
heard of the curiosity of deer and the colonel's plan was very
much in line with other plans of which he had heard. He said
nothing to the colonel about it but he made up his mind to try
his hand at the new scheme the very next day. He hired a two-
horse rig from the stable, got his gun and slipped off all alone
before daylight the next morning. About six miles out he dis-
covered a bunch of deer. He followed directions to the letter,
and though the deer gave no indications of having seen him, he
waited some time before getting out of the wagon to strip him-
self. Finally he got out, went behind the wagon and was soon
in the condition that he was when he entered the world.
The next thing he did, after carefully placing his clothes in
the wagon, was to get down and begin backing on the deer
who were almost a mile away. He had a tough time of it with
hard clods and tough pieces of grass, but he was so excited
and elated at the idea of killing a deer that he did not mind
the hardships. He crawled and crawled, or rather he backed
and backed for a long time, keeping the general direction of*
the deer by guess work. Finally he ventured to take a peep.
The deer were gone. He took a good look and could see them
nowhere. Then he looked back to the place he had left the
wagon, but could see no wagon either. Then it dawned on him
that the deer had seen him and had left for parts unknown and
that the horses not seeing him had left for home and had taken
every stitch of his clothes with them. There he was. six miles
from home, as naked as a picked bird and no way to get home
without creating a riot, except by waiting until it got dark.
The horses trotted quietly back to Eagle Lake and went to
their stable. When the drummer's clothes were found in the
wagon the people, naturally, supposed that he had gone in bath-
ing and been drowned. Searching parties organized and soon
the whole town turned out searching for the dead man. They
searched the prairie, dragged the ponds and searched the river.
The drummer, who knew nothing about what they were after,
saw them and took good care that they should not see him,
for every time they started in his direction he hid himself.
That continued all day and towards night the search was aban-
126 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
doned and the people returned home. They mourned for the
drummer as for one dead. About midnight they heard shrieks
coming from the back of the hotel and on rushing there found
a half crazy negro stable boy who swore that he had seen a
ghost. Investigation resulted in finding a very naked and half
dead drummer hiding in the horse lot. He had attempted to
get into the back door of the hotel but unfortunately ran across
the stable boy. In a few minutes the story was all over town
and the drummer left town on the first freight train that passed
without waiting to kill Colonel McCarthy as he had sworn to
do more than a hundred times that day.
EARLY HOUSTON DOCTORS.
AS old "Uncle Remus" used to say to the "Little Boy"
when he began one of his stories, "This ain't no tale."
It is merely writing down some memories that came to
me the other day when Judge J. K. P. Gillaspie allowed me to
look over an old court record that belonged to Judge Andrews,
one of Houston's early justices of the peace. The record is for
the year 1859, and aside from the memories evoked by reading
the names of those who had business in the court, it has no
great value. There is the usual number of disorderly conducts,
breaches of the peace and suits for small debts. One feature
that stands out prominently is the number of suits filed against
delinquent patients by the doctors of that day.
Now in reading over those old names I find something en-
tirely foreign to the court and its record connected with nearly
every one of them. The personality of the actors appears vivid-
ly before me, and when I read that Dr. W. H. Howard is suing
Mr. Blank for $25 for medical attention I do not think of the
suit at all, but of Dr. Howard and of his ways and doings. The
doctor was one of the leading physicians of Houston, for years.
He was a man of profound learning and one of the best equipped
physicians of his day. His great and leading characteristics
were absolute loyalty to his friends and his detestation of
shams and frauds. He had the courage of his convictions and
was always willing to back up his opinions. He was a large
man, had injured his knee, which resulted in making it stiff, and
always carried a heavy walking stick. His size and that stick
generally combined to bring him out winner in every combat
he entered. It may be said here that only strangers ever
tackled the doctor, for his combative nature was too well under-
stood by those who knew him to allow them to make the mis-
take of "riling him." Personally, I never saw the doctor in
but one engagement, but that was a good one and might have
been a record one but for our interference. Of course, it was
with another doctor and occurred during a consultation of phy-
sicians over a case of supposed yellow fever. That was an occa-
sion that afforded lots of amusement outside the fight. Yellow
fever was dreaded by everybody and by none more than by the
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 127
merchants, because it put a stop to all business, of course. The
old citizens, "yellow fever nurses," they styled themselves, took
about as much dish in an investigation of the kind that we
were making as the doctors themselves. Dr. Howard was con-
tending that the case was a genuine one, but one of the doc-
tors, who had a vast amount of book knowledge about yellow
fever and no practical knowledge at all, was contending that
there was a doubt. That led to the fight, finally, but before
it started a funny thing occurred.
One of the old and eminently respected citizens butted right
in the sick man's room and reappeared in a few moments
with his head thrown back, "sniffing" briskly. "That's no yel-
low fever," he declared, positively. "The hell you say," said
Dr. Howard. "How can you tell so easily?"
"Why, by the smell, of course. Come in here and take a sniff
and you can tell it yourself."
"I'm no hound dog to go round sniffing for yellow fever," the
doctor retorted, hotly.
They had some words, and the doctor ended by telling him
he not only knew nothing about the case, but that he doubted
if he had sense enough to give a sick man a glass of water.
"Why, doctor, you are certainly not in earnest in making such
a statement as that," said the gentleman. The doctor told him
that he certainly was and asked him how he would do it.
"I would get a clean goblet, go to the cistern, pump the water
a long time until it was cool, then I would place my left hand
under the man's pillow, raise his head gently and give him the
water."
Here the doctor broke in: "I knew you would do some fool
thing like that when I asked you. Your goblet, with its long
stem and broad base, would spill all the water out of the glass
before a drop of it reached the patient's mouth."
Then Dr. Howard turned his back on the citizen and re-
newed the discussion that ended in the fight. I may say here
that the patient was on Dr. Howard's side, for soon he began
to throw up black vomit and after his death the autopsy re-
vealed a genuine case of yellow fever.
The doctor was loyalty itself and would wade through fire
in the interest of a friend. He, Dr. W. D. Robinson, Dr. L. A.
Bryan, Dr. George McDonnel and I, am proud to add, myself
were very intimate friends. We all had offices, of course, but
Conlief's drug store was headquarters and a general loafing
place. Conlief had a number of slates with our names painted
on them hung on the wall near the front door. Any one wanting
one of us would leave his order on the slates. One hot summer
day Dr. Bryan and I were sitting near the door when Dr. How-
ard drove up in his buggy. He called to Dr. Bryan and asked
him to look and see if there was anything on his slate. Dr.
Bryan did look and then answered in the affirmative. Dr. How-
ard commenced getting out of the buggy to come in and read it,
when it occurred to him that Dr. Bryan could do it for him. He
128 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
was halfway out, but halted and asked Dr. Bryan to read it. "I
can't dp that," answered the doctor. "Why not?" asked Dr.
Howard. "Because it is nothing but a fly," said Dr. Bryan. Dr.
Howard climbed back in his buggy and drove away in deep
silence.
Here, on another page of this old book, I find where Dr. W.
D. Robinson was suing some fellow. The chap must have been
a hard case to drive Dr. Robinson to do anything of that kind,
for a better hearted, more generous and charitable man never
lived than he. He was the "family physician" of Houston for
many, many years, and was the friend and confidant of more
people than any priest who ever lived here. He was a very
handsome man, warm hearted and generous, and was beloved
by everybody. His practice was very large and he did more
charity practice than any two or three doctors in the city. He
told me a funny story once that will bear repeating. He said
that when he first came to Houston he had had but little ex-
perience as a doctor and was very modest and retiring. On one
occasion he attended a Mexican circus that was performing here.
One of the actors fell from a high bar and sustained serious
injuries. A call was made for a doctor. Robinson kept his
seat, hoping that some other doctor was present and would take
the case. None did so, and he finally got up and went forward.
He said the man was stunned, so he got out his pocket case
and prepared to bleed him right there. Just as he was about
ready he heard a voice asking him what he was going to do. He
looked around and saw Dr. Ashbel Smith, whom someone had
sent for.
"I am going to bleed him," said Dr. Robinson.
"Did anyone hear you say you were going to do that?" Dr.
Smith asked.
"Well, it is the wrong thing to do," whispered Dr. Smith; "but
if anyone heard you, go ahead and bleed him, if it kills him."
Dr. Robinson bled him and he did not die after all.
Now, as a fine accompaniment to the suits of these two doc-
tors, I find one filed by Mr. Pannel, the great undertaker, of
whom I have spoken before. The suit is evidently for money
due him for putting away some of the doctors' work, as he used
to say. Old man Pannel was a great character. On one occa-
sion the doctors got up a big hunt over on the San Jacinto.
They asked Pannel to go, but he would not consent until he
secured the promise of every doctor in the city to go. Every
one promised, but at the last moment Pannel showed up and
announced that he could not go, because Dr. Robinson had a
case and he knew his services would be needed before he could
get back. An investigation revealed the fact that Dr. Robinson
did have a case, so he and Pannel were left behind.
Now, I don't know that one word of all this will be interesting
to the readers of The Chronicle. All of it is interesting to me,
though, and I think some of it will interest some of the older
people who knew all the people I have mentioned. When Judge
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 129
Andrews was making those formal entries in this little leather-
bound book he little dreamed to what use they would be put
over half a century after they were written. They have served
the purpose today of carrying m e back to a day when some of
the greatest men of Houston tread the boards, and the experi-
ence has been very pleasant.
HANTS AND HOODOOS.
I WAS amused when I read in the papers the other day
about the negroes being so frightened by the .report that
the "Axe Man" had reached Houston and was looking over
the -field before beginning his destructive work here. The de-
scription of how the negroes were using charms to ward off the
disaster, which they feared was pending, was peculiarly amusing
to me because I recognized that the negro of today is the same
as the negro of my boyhood days. They are better educated,
of course, but you can't educate superstition and the belief in
charms out of a negro, and it is useless to try. "Hants," "hoo-
doos" and "spirits" are just as potent today as they have ever
been with the negroes.
When I was a boy I had as implicit faith in the reality of
ghosts as I had in anything, notwithstanding the fact that I was
born a Doubting Thomas. The negroes taught me all kinds of
nonsense and I became as superstitious as they. I was not
alone in this for my state was common to all boys raised in the
South among the negroes. I would no more dream of going in
swimming without a string tied round my ankle to ward off
cramps or to allow another boy to stunt my growth by stepping
over me while I was lying down than I would have thought of
jumping off the highest building in town. All three would prove
fatal and I knew it.
Ghosts, however, were our strong points. Graveyards were
shunned, even after early twilight, and after dark no boy would
venture near one alone for anything. One of the greatest panics .
I ever was mixed* up in was caused by this universal fear of
ghosts. Four or five of us had been out hunting up Buffalo
Bayou beyond the old San Felipe graveyard. We had stayed
longer than we intended and it was quite dark when we came
down the road by the side of the cemetery. Each boy recognized
the dangerous 'position we were in, but not the slightest reference
was made to the graveyard. We walked along boldly, each
trying to get as far away from the cemetery fence as he could
without attracting especial attention to what he was doing.
There were several negro boys with us, for in that day no hunt-
ing party was complete unless there were as many negro boys
as white ones. These negroes were frankly afraid and did not
try to disguise the fact that they were shunning that fence. We
talked loudly about everything we could think of except ghosts,
though each boy knew that these latter were on each boy's mind
130 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
and most prominently so, too. The real trouble was that none
of the boys wanted a stampede, through fear of being left alone
behind or of getting too far ahead and thus finding himself alone
there.
All went well until about half of our perilous journey had been
made. Then inside the graveyard a great white object was
seen to rise up and the only boys left on the scene were those
who had not seen it. Be it said to their credit, however, that
they asked no questions and started after their more fortunate
companions at a breakneck speed. It was only a newspaper
in which some one who had carried flowers out there had thrown
aside, but had it been a devil with ten horns it could not have
been more potent in starting that crowd. We did not stop until
we reached'town and then we halted only because we were out
of breath. That was quickest time ever made over that old
San Felipe road and that piece of newspaper was responsible
for our getting home much sooner than we otherwise would
have gotten there. The other day I read a story of a negro
who had been left in a haunted house with a bottle of whiskey
and the promise that he would be given $5 the next morning
if he remained there all night. About midnight something hap-
pened and the negro promptly tore out the front side of the
house and left. Four days after he was seen coming up the
road. "Where have you been?" asked one of the fellows who
had hired him to stay in the house. "Why, boss," the negro
replied, "I been comin' back." That was our fix exactly. We
reached our goal so quickly that getting there did not count
at all.
But the negroes' strongest belief was, and is yet, centered in
the hoodoo and they fear a hoodoo negro worse than they fear
the devil himself. It is somewhat remarkable that they are
prepared to believe in hoodoo white men as well as hoodoo ne-
gro men.
I remember a laughable instance of this kind of faith on their
part. A friend of mine had a cook who was absolutely no cook
at all, but his wife liked something about her and would not
consent to her being discharged. My friend was in despair, but
finally thought of a plan for getting rid of her. He acted mys-
teriously and when she was in hearing he would mumble non-
sense- and repeat a kind of jargon in a low tone. This bore
fruit and she began to watch his every movement with evident
suspicion. One day he saw her go in her room, which was in
the back yard, and he could see that she was watching him
through a crack in the door. He slipped up and made a mark
on the steps with a piece of red chalk. When she came out
she avoided that mark as though it were a snake and she poured
hot ashes and lye all over it. My friend, a few days later, saw
her go into her room again and take a position from which she
could watch him. He had prepared himself for just such a
situation. He slipped up and placed a small package, done up
in red flannel, under the steps and crept cautiously away. He
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 131
waited to see what the cook would do, but he waited in vain. He
saw nothing of her. Finally his wife wanted her for some pur-
pose and, receiving no reply to her calls, went out to investi-
gate. She found the room empty. The cook had crawled out
of a back window, had climbed over a high board fence and had
made her escape into the street. That evening a drayman
came for her things, but she herself never did show up again,
not even to get a small amount of wages due her.
Right after the war there was a little old negro here who was
known to everybody as "Crazy Harry." He was very eccentric
and would abuse and curse whites and blacks with equal im-
punity, for no one paid any attention to what he said or did.
The negroes got it in their heads that he was a great hoodoo
doctor and that he could summon the devil to help him when-
ever he chose. They feared and hated him, but they treated him
with marked consideration and courtesy whenever he was around.
Harry recognized his advantageous position and did everything
to add to his evil repute.
Some of his capers were amusing in the extreme and at some
future time I intend devoting an entire article to him and his
doings, for he was a character whose memory deserves preser-
vation. I will say here that his leading characteristic was
hatred of the Yankee soldiers who were in possession of Houston
right after the war. He hated every one of them, from the
commanding general down to the lowest private, and played no
favorites when he distributed his abuse of them. But enough
of Old Harry for this time.
RELICS OF THE WAR.
WALKING down Main Street the other day I saw in one
of the show windows an assortment of shot and shell
which, according to an attached card, were taken
out of the bayou near the Milam Street bridge. These had all
been nicely cleaned and painted black, so that they looked as
good as new, in spite of the fact that they had remained so
many years in the mud of Buffalo Bayou.
One would naturally suppose that they had been thrown in
the bayou to keep them from falling into the hands of the Fed-
erals who at that time were expected to invade Texas. Such,
however, was not the case. Lee had surrendered; Johnson had
surrendered and the Trans-Mississippi department of the Con-
federate states was alone in its glory to represent the Confed-
eracy. However, the soldiers of the Trans-Mississippi depart-
ment did not care for such an honor and those stationed at Gal-
veston, Houston and other points on the coast, having no enemy
in sight to whom to surrender, concluded to take matters in
their own hands and just quit. Having quit they concluded to
take with them everything movable that belonged to the Con-
federacy. Horses, wagons, guns and ammunition were seized
132 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
wherever found, and of these powder and lead were more sought
after than all else. At that time there was a large two-story
brick house on the corner of Travis and Congress Avenue, north
side of market square, owned by Jack Kennedy, the father of
the late John Kennedy and father-in-law of Wm. Foley. The
building extended back on Travis Street where Foley's store
now is. This building was occupied by the Confederates and
was used as a factory for making percussion caps and cartridges.
Where Foley's store now stands was used as a warehouse and
in it were stored boxes of cartridges, caissons filled with ammuni-
tion for field guns, rifles and any kind of ammunition except
that for heavy guns. There was a large quantity of cannon
powder, hand grenades and large bombs stored over in the old
powder house near the city cemetery, northwest of the Central
Railway depot. The powder house was broken open by the
soldiers and its contents, proving undesirable, were scattered
over the ground or rolled down the hill into White Oak Bayou.
The next move was on the Kennedy building and here they
reaped a rich harvest. Boxes of cartridges were broken open
and their contents appropriated. Sacks of powder were ripped
open and when found to be cannon powder, they were thrown on
the floor. Soon the floor was covered with powder, loose per-
cussion caps and an indescribable assortment and litter of
dangerous things. There were hundreds of rough shod men
trampling and stamping over this and the wonder is that the
whole place and everybody for blocks around were not blown
to pieces.
The remarkable thing is that no one seemed to realize that
there was the least danger and it was a good natured, jolly
crowd that went on with the work of looting. One shining ex-
ample of an opposite opinion was the owner of the building,
Mr. Kennedy. He realized the danger to the fullest extent and
did all in his power to check such recklessness. He begged
and implored the crowd to get out and let him lock the doors
and pointed out the almost certain explosion and consequent
destruction if a halt were not made. All his talk fell on deaf
ears and finally in desperation he took matters in his own hands.
He hired a lot of men and giving them buckets full of water
he flooded the place. There were no hydrants or water works
at that time so the water was drawn from a cistern and the
buckets passed from hand to hand until the place was flooded.
Late in the evening everything worth saving had been carried
off by the soldiers, but the shells and hand granades with a lot
of fuses remained. These were all dangerous/of course, so Mr.
Kennedy concluded to get rid of them. He hired some drays
and teams, loaded the shells on them and, carting them down to
the Milam Street bridge, known then as "the iron bridge," he
had them cast in the bayou.
There must be hundreds of them there yet. From time to
time during the prevaTence of a norther, the water in the bayou
falls so as to reveal those which were dumped off near the
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 133
banks. These were fished out and saved as relics, but no doubt
hundreds of others lie deeply buried in the mud or in such deep
water that they are never exposed.
In 1866 a severe norther blew the water out of the bayou, re-
vealing a number of these shells near the bank. Two young men,
who were machinists in McGowan's foundry, fished one of the
shells out of the mud and placed it on the bank to dry. When
dinner time came they took their hammers and tools and tried
to get the fuse out of the shell. They had worked but a few
moments when there was a terrible explosion and both young
men were instantly killed, being horribly mangled.
A negro living out near the Hardcastle place in the Fourth
Ward got two or three of these old shells out of the bayou. He
left them lying around his yard for a long time, not knowing
they were dangerous. One day while cleaning up his yard he
raked the trash up over one of the bombs and set fire to it. The
explosion that followed alarmed the whole neighborhood, but
fortunately did no damage to any one. It is safe to say that
the other shells belonging to the negro's collection now rest at
the bottom of the bayou which runs near his place.
"CONSTITUTION BEND."
I DON'T blame outsiders very much for laughing at Houston's
ship channel when they receive their only impression of
what the channel is from the end of it that lies within the
city limits. If I did not know that a short street car ride would
land me on the banks of the real channel, very wide and very
deep a waterway that by easy engineering can be made a sec-
ond Manchester Canal I would be tempted to laugh too. The
bayou at the foot of Main Street is not of proportions to sug- '
gest great confidence, nor is its greasy, dirty and sluggish water
such as to inspire much respect.
As the city has grown the bayou has shrunk. The bed has
gradually filled up with debris, washed from the streets, and
the bayou has become much smaller. In former years Buffalo
Bayou was really an attractive stream. Its water was clear,
its banks were grassy and full of wild flowers, and on the whole
it was a beautiful stream. I can remember when all that part
of the Fifth Ward that comes down to the point where White
Oak and Buffalo Bayou meet was a dense forest and a great
picnic ground. A steamboat or barge would be swung across
the bayou and the picknickers would cross on it as a bridge.
The baou was very deep, too, having a natural depth at the foot
of Main Street of from fifteen to eighteen feet. I don't know
how deep it is now, but it can not be very deep anywhere along
there, owing to the sand and mud that has filled it up.
Some miles below Houston there used to be a big beifd in
the bayou called "Constitution Bend." At this point the bayou
is very deep and wide. I can remember when I was a child
134 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
trying to find out why it was called "Constitution" Bend. I do
not remember to have ever found any one who knew. Lately I
discovered the reason, or rather, a possible explanation.
In 1838 Mr. John K. Allen gave the captain of the steamer
Constitution $1000 to bring his boat to the foot of Main Street.
The Constitution was an ocean-going vessel that plied between
Galveston and New Orleans. She had a terrible time getting
from* Harrisburg to Houston and after she got here she could
not turn around, but had to back down to a big bend below the
city. There is no record of her having made a second trip, but
it is evident that she gave her name to the bend. Constitution
Bend has been eliminated by a cut-off channel dredged in re-
cent years.
The Laura and the Yellowstone, the two steamers that had
been in the trade for about a year before then, were small affairs
and could turn with ease. Had the Constitution been on to the
trick developed later by the steamboat men she could have
turned also. The thing was very simple and easily accom-
plished. The bow of the boat was tied to the bank beyond the
mouth of White Oak Bayou and then the stern was backed into
that bayou, the bow hauled down stream, and there you were,
as nice a turn as possible. In later years much larger boats
than the Constitution came to Houston regularly and none of
them ever had the slightest trouble in turning.
The Laura, Captain Griffin, was the first boat that ever came
up the bayou to Houston. She arrived at the foot of Main
Street January 22, 1837, and it took her two days to get from
Harrisburg to Houston. Not long after the Laura's exploit the
Yellowstone, Captain West, arrived here, coming through the
West Bay at Galveston, from Quintana.
However, the largest ocean-going steamer that has ever been
to the foot of Main Street was a blockade runner. I don't re-
member her name. She came up here during the spring of 1863
and anchored at the foot of Main Street, but afterward dropped
down and discharged her cargo of war munitions near the foot
of San Jacinto Street. There was a big flood in the Bayou and,
the water being very high, she had no trouble either in coming
or getting away. It is possible that Captain Bill Flagg knows
something about this steamer, for he was in the Confederate
navy and had much to do with blockaders and blockade running
during the war.
It is not going to be so very long now when genuine, bona
fide ocean-going vessels will be running regularly to the foot of
Main Street, and it is well to put these pioneer steamers on rec-
ord for the use of future historians.
* * *
LEFT HAND FISHING CLUB AS CRITICS,
NEARLY all the moving pictures bear this announcement:
"Censored by the national board," etc. That, of course,
is to guarantee that no improper shows slip by. I under-
stand that Houston also has a board of censors, whose duties
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 135
are to guard the good people from being shocked. In the olden
days there was nothing of that kind attempted and the places of
amusement had everything their own way and did whatever they
pleased. Of course, some of the plays and exhibitions they put
on were outrageous and scarcely fit for anyone, but there was
no other remedy than to boycott them or literally run them out
of town.
I remember a novel and most effective plan adopted by Chief
Coyle and a number of the members of the "Left Hand Fishing
Club," for suppressing one of those shows, which created immense
amusement at the time. It was a sort of Adamless Eden Com-
pany and had about 15 or 20 girls who were traveling on their
shapes. The first night the house was crowded, but nearly all
the respectable people left before the show was half over. The
next night the "Left Hand Fishing Club" took the matter in hand.
A number of them secured seats, all in a row, near the front.
They sat quietly and with a wonderful amount of dignity, until
the curtain rose on the great scene, which was the troupe of
girls all dressed up, or more properly speaking, all undressed
up. Then each member of the club, with a face as serious as
if he were at a funeral, produced from under his coat a big tin
cylinder, which he carefully extended into a telescope about
four feet long and with it slowly reviewed the whole line of
beauty. The effect was marvelous. The girls could not stand
the thing and broke for cover behind the wings of the stage,
while the audience went wild with delight and the show came
to an abrupt end. The funniest part of the whole thing was
the serious faces of the "Left Handers." Not one of them
smiled and all seemed puzzled to understand what had occurred.
In the early seventies there were several good amateur and
semi-professional actors in Houston. There was Charley Wal-
lace, a professional actor, who had great talent, and Charley
Evans, a scene painter and actor, besides a number of amateurs.
Above and far beyond all was Captain Charles Bickley, who
wrote plays and often took prominent parts in them. He was a
great favorite among the professionals, for he had written a play
for a young actress which had made for her fame and fortune.
He gave it to her and as it proved a success and had a long run
in New York and made a fortune for her all the actors watched
the captain closely, hoping he would do something of the kind
for them. They always gladly helped him to put on anything he
would write.
On one occasion the captain produced one of his plays at Per-
kins Hall. He insisted on taking the leading part, but unfor-
tunately he took so many drinks during the first act that it be-
came necessary to kill the hero, which was Bickley, in that act,
an event scheduled to come off at the end of the play. Then
the plot was changed and the piece was played kind of back-
wards, presenting the most confusing and amazing complica-
tions imaginable. It was wonderful and to add to the fun of the
situation, Captain Bickley could be heard behind the scenes,
136 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
insisting that it was his time to go on. He and the other actors
were having more work off the stage than were those on it. If
anyone ever found out what the plot of that play was I never
heard of it. It was said by some who had read it before its
murder, to have been very good, but it never had a fair chance
to display its merits. There is one thing sure, the audience
would not have, had such a good time as they did if the captain
had remained sober.
Now I don't want anyone to form a false idea of Captain Bick-
ley. He was just exactly as I have pictured him a real Bo-
hemian, and he would, if he could write about himself just as
I have written. He was really a remarkable man and a genius.
He wrote the play I have mentioned in the foregoing, for a little
actress named Elsie Weston. She belonged to a stock com-
pany here and had considerable talent both as a singer and
actress. Captain Bickley wrote several songs for her and finally
wrote a play for her. It was called the "Shadows of London"
or something like that. Elsie went to New York, got the play
put on by some manager and it met with instant success and
had a long and brilliant run. Elsie then went to Europe and
the play was successful over there. She made a fortune out of
it, but I don't think Captain Bickley ever received but one or
two short letters from her after she went North. I am sure he
never got a cent of money from her.
The most amazing thing about Bickley was, when, where and
how he found time to write anything at all. He was always on
the street, night and day, and apparently did nothing but enjoy
life. After midnight he was generally loaded and singing that
favorite song of his which was a sort of barometer telling his
condition.
I was talking to Dr. George McDonnell the other day and he
told me about a green policeman arresting Bickley one night.
The policeman, who was a new hand, saw Bickley staggering
along and "pinched" him. Bickley was indignant and tried to
explain 1 . "I am Br-uic-ly," he mumbled, "Br-uic-ly, don't you
know?"
"I don't care if you are a bricklayer," said the policeman, "you
are going with me," and he took him to the station where he
was at once released, of course, for he was as great a favorite
with the members of the "force" as he was with everybody else.
OLD PEG.
I SUSPECT that I have been rather more than half Bohemian
all my life without being conscious of it. In no other way
can I account for the fact that every tramp printer or tele-
graph operator that has been in Texas during the past 20 or
30 years has gravitated toward me as naturally as if I were the
object point of his search. I have known them all, and I confess
the wide acquaintance I fca-v had m that line has giveA me
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 137
more pleasure than annoyance. Jim Baker, "Shorty" Parish and
one or two others among the printers and "Peg" among the
telegraph operators were characters whose acquaintance at times
was rather embarrassing, but on the whole rather beneficial.
All of the even moderately old printers remember the first two
I have named, while I am sure all the telegraphers of the 80's
remember the last, for he was a character never to be forgotten.
"Peg" was not his proper name, of course. He had a Christian
and a surname, too, but he also had a wooden leg, and that took
precedence over everything else, and he became "Peg" and
nothing else.
He was one of the most expert operators that ever struck
Texas. He was what was called an Associated Press operator
and could take and send more copy during a night than any-
body. He was high-toned and swore he would never work for
less than $35 per week, and as such jobs were scarce and, even
when he got one, hard to hold, because he would celebrate his
success at the end of the first week when he was paid off, he
was generally idle. He had lost one of his legs in a railroad ac-
cident, having gone to sleep and fallen off the brakebeam, or
something of that kind. The railroad patched him up in one of
the hospitals and gave him a fine wooden leg to say nothing
more about the matter. The leg was really a fine one, and
"Peg" could, and did, get from $10 to $15 on it at any pawnshop.
During his periods of temporary pecuniary embarrassment he
had another leg for everyday use. This was simply an old-fash-
ioned broomstick looking affair, which while not ornamental was
quite useful. It got so that one could tell the financial standing
of "Peg" by the style of leg he wore. He had been all over the
country, knew all the newspaper men from Chicago to San
Francisco and in every city and big town in Texas. He was
a great talker, and when only half-loaded was very amusing.
He told some good stories, too. I remember one in particular
that will bear retelling, though, of course, I can't tell it as he
did. It was in the News office one night after "30" had been
sent to the composing room and we were all indulging in a talk.
"Peg" held the floor.
"Gent-teel-men," said he, "you can talk about your 'hot towns'
as much as you want to, but Santone takes the cake. I was out
there last winter and I had the time of my life. There was a
big variety show going on down on one of the plazas and, of
course, I went to see it. The place was crowded and I got a
seat away back near the door, and I was glad afterward that I
did. The show was nearly over when a drunken cowboy came
in. He had two big guns strapped round his waist and a bowie
knife that looked like a young sword. He refused to take his
hat off and made a terrible row about it when a man asked
him to remove his hat and sit down. He swaggered about and
the show had to stop for a minute or two. He ordered a bottle
of champagne and then, catching sight of the boxes on the edge
of the stage, he made for one. Everybody seemed to be afraid
138 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
of him and tried to quiet and pacify him. When he reached
the box he tore down the curtains and ordered three girls to
bring him three bottles of champagne, which they did in a hurry.
The show had been forced to come, to a standstill by now and
everybody was watching the cowboy.
"While he was drinking his wine a fellow on the stage began
to sing. The cowboy promptly ordered him to stop. The fellow
paid no attention, but went on singing. The cowboy hammered
on the box with a bottle and made a terrible racket. Finally the
singer got mad and, advancing to the front of the stage, asked
if there was not an officer in the house to take that drunken
nuisance out and lock him up. There was no response, for the
policeman, if there was one there, was hidden out. The singer
repeated his request for an officer and finally the cowboy said
to him that if he wanted him put out so bad he had better
undertake the job himself.
"The singer was game and accepted the challenge and an-
nounced that he would do so. He advanced to the side of the
stage and began climbing up to the box. It was about ten feet,
being on the second tier. The cowboy sat right still until the
fellow got nearly to the top, then he reached out and caught him
by the collar of his coat and dragged him into the box. They
dropped to the floor in a clinch, but as they fell I saw the cowboy
had his knife in his hand. The girls fled. The table was
knocked over and there was a terrible racket for a few minutes.
Then I saw them rise, the cowboy holding the singer by the
back of the neck. He rammed him face foremost against the
wall and rammed that big knife through him twice and then,
slamming it plumb through him between the shoulders, he left
it sticking in his body and, picking him up, hurled him out of
the box to the stage below.
"It was all over in a minute and there was the biggest stam-
pede you ever saw. The whole audience made for the door in
one solid mass, and I was working well in the lead, in spite of
having only one good leg to work with. When I struck the side-
walk I lit out in good style and ran two blocks before I stopped.
I saw a policeman and I rushed to him: 'You better go down
yonder,' I said; 'a cowboy just murdered a man in the theatre
down there.' H looked at me and grinned. 'That's all right,'
he said. 'They have been killing that same man for two nights
now. It's part of the show.' Then I realized that I had been
sold and I took the policeman into the Buckhorn Saloon and
threw a couple of scoops into him to keep quiet."
"Hold on," said "Peg," as we started to leave, "that story is
not finished. The best part is to come. The next night I went
back to enjoy the fun of seeing the stampede, now that I knew
it was all a part of the show. I got a seat near the end of a
row near the middle of the house, and there is where I was a
fool. The cowboy came in and went through the same perform-
ance. There was the same stampede, too, but it started sooner
than I calculated. There was a big Dutchman near me and he
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 139
stampeded at the first flash of the knife and took the whole
tier of seats with him. In the rush they got my leg, the broom-
stick one, jammed in the seat and broke it square off. Then
they walked all over me, and I never saw a thing. When the
dust settled they found me all spraddled out on the floor. The
proprietor acted pretty square. He set 'em up two or three
times, sent me home in a hack and had a carpenter come round
early the next morning and fix my stem, and that- night I left
for El Paso. Santone was too strenuous for me."
INDIANS IN HOUSTON.
ONLY the real old, old timers can remember the days when
Houston had free "wild West" shows the days when
the Indians were here. There was a tribe living near
Houston in the early days and they used to come to town quite
often. They brought venison, bear meat and other game and
also brought skins and pelts. In 1836 there was a trading post
down near the bayou, where the residence of Mr. Horace Taylor
was located afterward, but in 1850 and for a few years later
the Indians had no particular place at which to trade. Generally
they did most of their trading with John Kennedy and Cornelius
Ennis. Mr. Kennedy got most of the trade, however, because
his whiskey was the strongest, perhaps, and then, too, old Mingo,
the chief, was a great friend of Mr. Kennedy, whom he consid 1
ered a great man.
Those Indians would come in town like lambs but would go
away like raging lions. They would come in looking like a lot
of dirty vagabonds, but a few drinks of whiskey would trans-
form them into veritable warriors and wild west acrobats.
Their capers and antics were amusing and everybody turned out
to see them. On one occasion Mr. Ennis presented Mingo, the
chief, with a dilapidated buggy and harness. Mingo at once
hitched his war horse, a little mustang pony, to the buggy and
the pony resented the indignity, of course. There were all kinds
of antics cut up before the pony could be brought to enter into
the spirit of the game, but Mingo persevered and finally con-
quered. Then he proceeded to get drunk, or, more properly
speaking, proceeded to keep drunk, to celebrate his added glory.
He drove all over town and would not leave his buggy even to
get a drink, and he drew the line on going home and stayed two
days to celebrate. I remember those Indians well, for all my
life I have been afraid of Indians, of the tame ones as much as
the wild ones. They generally had their knives and guns with
them, and I was not alone in being afraid of them. I was talk-
ing to ex-Mayor Lord, who is also an ex-officer of many kinds,
the other day about those Indians, and he told me that while
he was city marshal, or something of that kind, some of the
Indians got drunk and one big fellow got very bad. He had a
big bottle of whiskey. Mr. Lord said he did not care to tackle
140 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
a drunken Indian because he did not know anything about In-
dians, and he did not care to have any of his men tackle them
either. Still he recognized the fact that the Indian had to be
arrested and locked up. Finally he hit on a plan. He had one
of his friends grab the bottle of whiskey and run into the old
calaboose with it. He knew the Indian would follow the whis-
key. The plan worked all right. The Indian ran into the lockup
and the decoy duck slipped out and then Mr. Lord locked the
door.
There^ was another tribe further up on the San Jacinto who
used to come to Houston also. I can remember a gang of them
bringing a big buffalo which they had captured or stolen some-
where, and hauling it a'bout market square. Perhaps it would
be more truthful to say that the buffalo hauled the Indians about
the square, for that is what it did. They had two hair lariats
around his horns and guided him when he was not guiding them.
I don't know what they ever did with the buffalo, for all I can
remember is seeing the fun.
Now, one would suppose that having a lot of drunken Indians
about would be a great nuisance, and I suppose it was at times,
but as a rule they were a source of much fun and amusement.
It is really a pity that "high life" was unknown at that time, for
its possibilities for extracting strenuous action from those Indian
ponies would have been most welcome by the fun makers. As
it was, turpentine had to do duty, and many a drunken Indian
found his horse prepared to share his wildness and activity when
he staggered out of a saloon or a back room of a grocery, all
through the kind attention of some unknown gentlemen who had
invested their money in turpentine to help the play along. For-
tunately there was only soft mud for the Indians to fall on, so
no damage was ever done. The Indians died off rapidly and
finally a few survivors were moved to the Indian Territory, north
of Red River.
The old chief Mingo was really an Indian gentleman. He
would get drunk, of course, just as any and every other Indian
will, but that was his only fault. He spoke rather good English
and was liked by the citizens of Houston with whom he came in
contact. I think he died before his tribe moved away, but I am
not certain.
* * *
A WAR STORY.
I HAVE no patience with the latter day heroes. A telegraph
operator is on a sinkmg boat that he can't leave, much as
he would like to do so. He sends a wireless message,
secures aid and is proclaimed a hero and given a reception on
his arrival in New York. An engineer discovers a burning bridge
in front of his train. He reverses his engine, puts on the air-
brakes and rides to his death and is proclaimed a hero. Now
the case of the telegraph operator is too ridiculous and absurd
to discuss at all, while the engineer is scarcely better. When
he had reversed his engine and applied his air-brakes he had
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 141
done all that possibly could be done, and when he did not jump
or try to save himself he showed that he was more of a fool and
idiot than a hero.
Perhaps one reason why I am so prejudiced against the latter
day "heroes" is that I have known one or two of the genuine
ones.
For a number of years Houston entertained an angel unaware
in the person of a man who was regarded as a crank and miser,
but who was in fact one of the grandest men and heroes that
ever lived. This was Judge John Duncan. As I write that name
I can see some of the old-timers who thought they knew him,
sit up and take notice. I admit that I would be with them in
doing so too, if I did not know the judge's history. As a matter
of fact only two persons in Houston knew anything about the
judge, for he was not given to talking about his private affairs
and resented all attempts to pry into them. He told me part
of his story and Judge George Goldthwaite told me the latter
part of it. The judge had but one leg, having lost the other
while in command of a Mississippi regiment during the war.
He had an old-fashioned wooden leg and one could hear him
coming down the sidewalk a block away. He was very sensitive
about his missing leg and no one ever made allusion to it in
his presence. One evening he and I were sitting in front of the
Capitol Hotel and I asked him where he lost his leg.
"Sir," said he, "it is a story that sounds so absurd and improb-
able that I hate to speak of it for fear that my friends will doubt
either my veracity or saneness. I lost it in battle, which, of
course, was not strange, but the circumstances were most won-
derful and almost incredible.
"I was lieutenant colonel of my regiment and we had been
sent up in Missouri to take part in the campaign ,there. Our
colonel had been wounded the day before and I was in command.
Early one morning I received an order to advance my regiment,
drive off a small detachment of the enemy from a woods on the
opposite side of a big field and hold the position until more troops
could be sent to me. It was supposed that the enemy had only a
small force in the woods, so you can judge of my surprise when
as we reached a point about half way across the field the enemy
opened on us at easy range with a withering rifle fire. Instead
of a small force we found ourselves confronted by a full brigade
that had been moved up during the night. There was an old
rock fence, about two feet high and I ordered the men to lie
down behind it, knowing that assistance would be sent us so soon
as our desperate situation was discovered by our people. For-
tunately the enemy had no artillery or they would have exter-
minated us right there. The rifle fire was fierce and one had
only to raise a finger above the stone fence to have it shot off.
I was lying there expecting relief every moment, when I heard
a voice behind me and, looking around, I saw a boy about 16
years old, seated on a big white horse. The bullets were flying
142^ TRUE STORIES OF OLD
all about him, but he seemed to have a charmed life, for none
of them struck him.
"'Why don't you charge?' he called out. 'Get up and go at
them.'
"The question and command were so absurd that nobody
thought of paying any attention to him. Then the climax came.
" 'If your officers are a lot of cowards I will lead you,' he
said and spurring his horse he leaped the low wall. The regi-
ment rose to a man and made a dash forward. The next mo-
ment the ground was strewn with dead and wounded, I being
among the latter with my thigh shattered. Human blood and
bone could not stand against that wall of lead and the regiment
broke, and what few were able to do so got back to the shelter
of the fence. The boy was unhurt and rode up and down the
line trying to get the men to make another charge. I shall
never forget the conflicting emotions that wrenched my soul and
body at that time. One moment I prayed that the young fool
would get his head shot off and the next moment I was so afraid
that he would get hurt that my heart almost stood still. There
must have been thousands of bullets fired at him, yet not one
touched him or his horse. Seeing that his efforts to move the
men were hopeless the young fellow waved his hat, put spurs
to his horse and rode away. I was left on the field and after-
wards fell in the hands of the enemy, and when I came out of
prison I could never learn who the boy v was or anything about
him."
That was the story Judge Duncan told me, and since the only
hero mentioned was an unknown and foolish boy, your readers
may be wondering where Judge Duncan's heroism comes in.
That was the part of the story told me by Judge George Goldth-
waite, who was the judge's confidential friend and attorney, after
the death of Judge Duncan.
Judge Duncan was practicing law here in Houston and was
apparently starving to death when his friends interested them-
selves and got him elected city recorder. The salary was not
a princely one, but it was about $1800 a year, and the judge's
friends expected him to live a little more comfortably than he
had been doing. It was at this time that he earned the name
of miser. He had a little office and an old lounge. He made this
lounge his bed and took his meals at some cheap restaurant
near the market. He made no explanations to any one and all
the people knew was that he was too close-fisted to spend a cent.
Finally he die.d and after his death Judge Goldthwaite told me
this part of his story:
After he was shot down, as I have described, the Confederate
army fell back, and the judge, having had his leg amputated,
was left in a house near the roadside; with a lady whose hus-
band was away in the Confederate army. This lady nursed and
cared for him, although the commanding general in Missouri had
issued a proclamation announcing that anyone who harbored a
"rebel" would be put to death.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 143
While Judge Duncan was yet unable to get qjit of bed, the
lady's husband came home on a furlough one afternoon, and the
same night the house was surrounded by Federal troops and the
husband was captured. He would have been simply made a
prisoner of war had they not found Judge Duncan there. When
they discovered that the people had been harboring a "rebel,"
the officer held a drum-head courtmartial and ordered the hus-
band to be shot at daylight.
Judge Duncan begged them to shoot him instead, but they re-
fused and the next morning they took the husband out and
shot him. The poor woman was left a widow 'with two little
children.
Judge Goldthwaite told me that Judge Duncan had deprived
himself of everything except the actual necessities of life, to
send money to that woman. Being a cripple, past middle life
and extremely poor, it was uphill work, but he faced it manfully
and at the time of his death, he had succeeded in giving the two
children a fair education and had kept the lady from actual want,
at least.
When I heard that story I felt like tearing my hair and kicking
myself for ever having even thought that the judge was a miser.
He was a noble man, and I and all others who had laughed at
him were unworthy to unloose his shoe. Had the judge ever told
his story it would have been different, for then it might have
seemed that he was asking sympathy or trying to get praise for
his act. He did nothing of the kind. He went through life quiet-
ly and silently, performing the great duty he felt rested on him.
Now by the side of this man, place your wireless operator calling
for help or your fool engineer staying on his engine because he
had lost his head and was too scared to jump these so-called
heroes, and note the difference. Once or twice I have thought of
writing this story for the Confederate Veteran, but I am glad now
that I did not do so, for it is much better to tell it through the
columns of The Chronicle, where it will be seen and read by
hundreds who thought they knew Judge Duncan, but who will
find that they did not, and like me they will want to breathe a
prayer for the rest of his soul, now that it is too late to do any-
thing else.
* * *
CAPTAIN CHAS. BICKLEY.
ONE reads a great deal in newspaper circles about "Bohe-
mians," but the fact remains that one seldom comes in
contact with a genuine one. In all my experience I have
never met but one, though I have met several of the spurious
article, fellows who were simply more or less refined tramps and
bums, and who were glad to be called Bohemians because it gave
a bit of respectability and gloss to their otherwise dissolute be-
havior. There are tramp newspaper men just as there are tramp
printers and telegraph operators, but there are few genuine Bo-
hemians. The race, or whatever they may be called, died out
144 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
years ago. As I have already said, I have never met but one,
but he was a good one all right, and all the old-timers will recall
him with pleasure. I refer to Captain Charles Bickley. He was
a comparatively young man when he first appeared on the scene
in Houston. Of all the devil-may-care, heedless and care-free
fellows on earth he was the greatest. He lived, not for the day,
but for the immediate present and gave no thought to the hour
that was sixty minutes ahead. He was a brilliant writer, drunk
or sober; a fine talker, and, what may sound strange, a highly
honorable man.
He wrote poetry and drank whiskey, wrote plays, short stories,
and drank more whiskey. He could always get a job when sober
and he could hold it as long as he could manage to hold his
pencil, for he gave rather more than value received, for his
writings were first class and editors were glad to have him with
them. He would hold a job for a time in Houston, get drunk, get
fired and move on to Galveston or San Antonio, go through the
same performance there and then show up in Houston again.
He got passes over the railroads whenever and wherever he
wanted them and trusFed to luck for drinks on the way. His
title of captain was genuine, for he had actually been a captain
in the Confederate army. When the war ended he took a trip
abroad, though he did it without money and simply on cheek.
He came to Houston about 1867 and secured a position on the
Telegraph. He at once became the best known man in town
and was popular with everybody. He was stage struck, of
course, for one never finds a true Bohemian who is not, and he
wrote several plays which were produced by amateurs and pro-
fessionals. One of his plays made quite a hit, locally. It was
somewhat on the order of the "Chanticleer" and was written at
the time the old market house was being pulled down. The place
was overrun by big rats who had possession of the building for
generations of rats. The captain had these rats as his char-
acters and made them review the history of the old building
and of all the doings of the early Houstonians who had passed
through it.
It was a historical review of Houston from a rat's point of
view. The captain took a leading part and acquitted himself so
well that he would have gone off with the first strolling com-
pany that passed through Houston and become a professional,
if any of the managers would have taken him.
The captain revolved between the desks of the local papers
and those of other Texas cities for several years and then dis-
appeared and no one knew what had become of him until an
announcement of his sudden deajih appeared in one of the New
Orleans papers.
In those days there were no managing editors to blue-pencil
things, but the local editor, as he was called, wrote what he
choose to write and stood all the consequences. When an objec-
tionable article appeared the aggrieved one never thought of
going after the editor of the paper, but went direct after the
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 145
local editor. Bickley rarely wrote anything that got him in
trouble, but occasionally he would do so. On one occasion he
wrote a local item that reflected rather severely on a well known
gambling saloon. The proprietor took his medicine and kept
his mouth shut, but one of his dealers got drunk and the more
he thought of it the madder he got. Finally about dark he was
on the warpath good and strong and taking his gun he started
out to destroy Bickley. Some one told him that Bickley was in
Gregory's saloon and the fellow started down there after him.
He had his pistol in his hand and went down Main Street knock-
ing people right and left in his haste to get at his victim. Sure
enough, Bickley was there and he was ripe, too, for he was sing-
ing, and that was a good way to let people know his condition.
Unfortunately for the gambler's plans, just as he made a rush
through the latticed doors to get at Bickley he collided with
Big Bill Williams, who was as large and almost as strong as
John Sullivan. Instead of 'making an apology, the gambler
swore at Bill and tried to pass him.
Bill was feeling pretty good himself and the next instant he
swung onto the gambler's left jaw and curled him up on the side-
walk. Bill never said a word. He walked out to where the
gambler was lying, kicked his pistol out in the street, and
walked up the sidewalk, just as though nothing out of the or-
dinary had occurred. There was a dead silence and the cap-
tain's voice could be heard as he continued his song:
"I kissed her in the kitchen,
I kissed her in the hall,
Good morning, ladies,
I've come to kiss you all."
One could always tell the exact condition of the captain when
they heard him singing that favorite song of his.
About the funniest scene I ever witnessed was seeing the cap-
tain, an eminent lawyer and a leading doctor all drunk in the
back room of a barroom. Each was singing his own song and
paying not the least bit of attention to the other two. The doc-
tor was singing, in a low, crooning tone:
"How in hell did that gal know
That I took sugar in my coffee-o?"
The judge was singing at the top of his voice in a growling
bass:
"The ship she lay four miles from shore,
"The ship she lay four miles from shore,
And there came on board a gay buccaneer," etc.
While the captain was singing the classic referred to above,
14_6 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
as the negro porter expressed it, "they shoe was enjoyin' their-
selves."
Now Captain Bickley would last on a modern newspaper about
half a minute, but in those days he was just looked upon as
quite the thing, just so long as he could keep sober enough to
write copy.
* * *
JIMMY DAW.
JIMMY DAW has been dead and buried for forty years, but,
if I were a Spiritualist, I would swear that he has been
around me for the last three nights. I have not thought
of him for about forty years and yet he was not a man to be
soon or easily forgotten. Two or three nights ago I woke up
thinking of Jimmy and he has been with me ever since. Perhaps
he has gotten hold of a Chronicle and has seen where I have
been writing about some of the old boys and wants to come in
for his share. Anyway, I am going to pretend that I believe
that and gratify him. However, he is entitled to a place in The
Chronicle on his merits, as Captain William Christian, Mr. A.
B. Nibbs, Mr. I. C. Lord, Henry Thompson, Colonel Phil Fall or
any of the real old-timers will bear witness.
When Mr. William R. Baker was county clerk, or something
of that sort, in the very early 50's, Jimmy was his chief clerk
and right-hand bower. He was devoted to Mr. Baker and thought
there was no man on earth like him. He was a man of some
education, good manners, and, while he knew nothing of "sona-
tas," "movements," "positions" and all those kind of things
violinists love to talk about, he was quite an accomplished
fiddler and made delightful music. I remember him first on
account of his fiddle and next, in after years, by the strange
philosophy he developed and the strange theories he fathered.
He was always a bit of a character and in his old age he de-
veloped into a most pronounced and highly entertaining one.
He lived out near the old graveyard, not far from hangman's
grove, and I used to go out there to hear him talk. Mr. Baker
took care of him in his old age, so he was quite comfortable
and had nothing else to do but think and talk. One of his pet
theories was that the world had been ruined by education.
"It makes me mad to hear the preachers talking about hell,"
he said one day. "There ain't no hell. It's all education; that's,
what it is. You take the lowest form of life, the jellyfish or
the earthworms. They don't know anything; they float or squirm
around, picking up what they want to eat as they go. They
don't know anything, they don't have to work or do anything
but eat, sleep and enjoy themselves. That's heaven. Now, come
a little higher to the birds and small animals. They know
something and they have to pay for it, too, for they have to
rustle for a living. That's sorter between heaven and purga-
tory. Next, we come to horses, cows and animals that have got
more sense, and they have to work and toil for everything they
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 147
get. The smarter they are the more is expected of them. That's
purgatory. Now, come to man. He knows everything, and the
result is that he is in hell all the time. The more a fellow knows
the worse off he is and the more you educate him the more hell
you fix up for him."
All my life I have been fond of "characters," inordinately so,
I fear, and in Jimmy Daw I found a most entertaining one. He
had a great contempt for history and historians and swore that
all the stories about Napoleon and Julius Caesar and George
Washington had been fixed up by sharp Yankees to work off on
the people, just as the wooden nutmegs were fixed up.
"Why," said he, "it stands to reason that those things are
fixed up. Even a hundred years is a long time for a man to
remember anything. I know that for a fact, for once when
I was a boy I walked five miles to see a man who was a hundred
years old and all he could tell me was something about a bear
hunt. He didn't know anything about George Washington and
if George Washington had have been a sure enough man and
had done all the big things history says he did, don't you know
this old fellow would have remembered all about George instead
of about that bear?"
Jimmy had some original ideas about astronomy and held with
the ancients that the earth is the center of the universe and
that the sun, moon and stars revolve around it. He admitted
that the earth is round, but claimed that it is round like a bowl,
and that it is surrounded with a wall of ice to retain the water
and that the land floats about the water.
When I asked him about ships sailing around the earth he
said all such tales were lies hatched up by historians; that if
anybody claimed to have gone around the earth they lied, for
they had simply gone off somewhere and hidden out and then
come back with their story.
"If stands to reason," he would say, "that if anybody got off
on the far edge of the ice, they would have slipped off into
nowhere and never come back again."
I think it was in 1872 that I saw him last; then I was out
of town for several weeks, and when I returned I learned that
he had died during my absence. He was a queer character. As
faithful and true as any living being could be. He never in
his whole life injured any one and, though the peculiarities
I have mentioned developed late in life, even as a comparatively
young man he made few friends. He lived to himself, and his
violin seemed to afford him all the company he desired. Mr.
Baker and I went to see him often, but I do not remember to
have ever met any one else there.
* * *
IN THE GRAND OLD TIMES.
ONE gets in the habit of speaking of "the gool old times,"
without ever stopping to think what those "good old
times" really were. Distance lends enchantment, and
only the pleasures are remembered, while the discomforts are
148 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
either forgotten or ignored. Things today are so vastly better
and superior in every way that instead of pining for the good
old times one actually wonders how one could have put up with
all the discomforts and inconveniences of former days.
I remember when the first street car service was established
in Houston and what a great thing it was considered. There
was one little car drawn by a diminutive mule, that had a sleigh
bell attached to its necfc to let people know he was coming.
There were no conductors, the passenger going up to the front
of the car and depositing his fare in a box, under the eye of the
driver. No one could get into that box except the man at head-
quarters, for it was locked with a padlock and only he had a
key. At fixed hours he would take out the fares deposited in
the box and then lock it 'again. The service was just barely
better than walking, though frequently not so expeditious, for
from time to time the car would jump the track and it would
take some time for the driver and passengers to get it on again.
When a wreck occurred it was expected that every male passen-
ger would get out and work like a section hand to help matters
along. The cars were so small and so light that the driver felt
safe against long delays if he had two or three men among his
passengers.
Now, about the time those street cars made their appearance
in Houston there was a kind of anti-corporation feeling all over
the state that caused the street car drivers and the conduct-
ors of the big railroads to make predatory war on the various
companies they served. "Knocking down" became one of the
fine arts and the company that got a fair proportion of its
passenger earnings at the end of the year considered itself for-
tunate. This is no joke; it is an actual fact, and the cause for
it was a mistake that the railroads made in assuming that
every one of its conductors was a thief and setting spies to
watch them. The conductors resented that action on the part
of the railroads and went in to get the benefits of being dis-
honest since the roads assumed them to be so. Honest men
were classed as rascals by the roads and they became rascals.
There were no gates, ticket punching or things of that kind
in those days. If there was the least trouble about the matter
the passenger did not go to the ticket office at all, but got on
the train and paid the conductor. But the whole thing came
to an abrupt termination through the mistake of a green hand
who was put on a run in place of a regular conductor who had
been taken suddenly ill just as his train was about to pull out.
That was on the northern division of one of the big roads running
out of Houston. The conductors on that division had "gotten
together" and agreed on what proportion of the fares they would
give to the railroad when their run was over and they made
their report.
When the regular conductor was taken sick he did not have
time to instruct his subordinate, who was a baggagemaster
from the south division, or to warn others, so the baggagemaster
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 149
went through the whole run without any of the other conductors
knowing he was there. He went to the division superintendent's
office, made his report and turned over about $600 in cash.
Now, according to the rules adopted by the regular conductors,
the railroad should have received only about $150 for that run.
The superintendent asked many questions and when he found
that there had been no convention, picnic or anything of that
kind and that it was just an ordinary run, he reported the mat-
ter to the president of the road by wire, and within an hour
or two every conductor on that division was out of a job.
Of course, the street car drivers had no picnic like the big
conductors did, but they managed to hold up their end of the
line pretty well. In place of nickels, the street car companies
issued tickets, and these passed everywhere just as actual
nickels or five-cent pieces would do. Once I was on the old
fair grouLds car when several railroad men were in the cai
One of them, a long-legged fellow they called Judge, went forward
and was soon busily engaged in a conversation with the driver.
One of the others said: "I'll bet Judge is telling that fellow to
rob that box." We slipped up closer where we could hear the
conversation and sure enough he was. Here was what he was
saying: "Catch a young grasshopper and tie a thread round his
wings, leaving the legs free. Then lower him carefully into the
box. The minute he touches bottom he will grab onto everything
in his reach and you can't shake him loose. Then all you got
to do is to haul him out, clean his feet and drop him back again.
You can empty that box of every ticket in it in a few minutes."
I never had a chance to find out if the driver followed his
advice or not, but I suspect he did, for I noticed he kept a good
lookout on each side of his track after that, evidently fearing
that some fool grasshopper might come out of the. grass and
attempt to cross the track.
Now when I began to write this I intended to point out that
in the "good old times," it took as long to go from Preston
Avenue to the fair grounds and return, on the old mule car,
as it takes to go from here to Galveston on the Interurban.
There were several other points I wanted to make, all going to
show what humbugs the "good old times" are, but I got switched
off on the north end conductors and the Judge's grasshopper and
have used up all my space talking about them, so I will have to
postpone my comparisons until some other time.
YELLOW FEVER EPIDEMIC.
THE present agitation over meningitis reminds me of
some of the really exciting times they used to have in
Houston when that great enemy, yellow fever, made an
invasion. For the first few days pandemonium broke loose, and
then people settled down and waited, in grim desperation, for
150 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
the inevitable, knowing full well that only a complete exhaustion
of material or a frost could stop the ravages of the fever.
Of course no one knew anything about the mosquito causing
the disease, and some of the methods used to kill the "miasma"
that was regarded as its cause, were novel. For instance, every
exposed place was inundated with lime and, at night, huge bon-
fires, composed largely of tar barrels and tar, were burned at
the street crossings. I remember, when I was a child, seeing
those bonfires, which were ordered by the city authorities. Now,
no doubt, both the lime and the fires did good, the first pre-
venting the breeding of mosquitoes and the second by driving
them away with the smoke.
The present generation can not appreciate the horrors of a
yellow fever epidemic. One case would appear, then two or
three, and then people would be taken down by the hundreds.
In a week the death, roll would begin to swell and everything
like business, except at the drug stores, would be suspended.
Those who had had the fever became nurses and looked after
the sick. One good thing was that yellow fever requires nursing
rather than medicine, and as there were numerous nurses and
few doctors, the patients generally got along pretty well. The
doctors were so overrun that when they found a patient in the
hands of a competent nurse, that they knew to be such, they
turned the case over to the nurse and went elsewhere, where
conditions were not so favorable.
I will never forget the time I had the fever, and as my case
will give a fair idea of how the disease was treated, I give a
short description of my experience. It was in 1858, on a Sun-
day morning, that I was stricken. I got up that morning feeling
as well as ever, dressed, ate a good breakfast and started to
Sunday school. On the way to Sunday school I was stricken
suddenly with a terrible pain in the back of my head and then
my head began to ache so terribly that I could scarcely see.
It was with great difficulty that I managed to walk the two or
three blocks home, and when I got there I was in such pain
that I could scarcely talk. My mother knew at once what
was the matter, for she had had much experience with the fever.
I was hurried to bed and given a hot mustard foot-bath, and
then blankets were piled over me. They gave me a dose of
castor oil. That is one feature of the treatment I shall never
forget, for after I had taken it they found I had eaten a large
breakfast and they gave me a mustard emetic, made me throw
it all up and then repeated the dose of oil.
The weather was warm, but they kept the bedclothes piled
on me and the only thing they allowed me to drink was orange
leaf tea. There I lay and sweated and famished for water for
three days, or until the fever left me. It was tough treatment,
but it did the work, and wherever people got the same treat-
ment and nursing that I got they got well.
There was no ice in those days, and if there had been any,
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 151
the man who tried to give a yellow fever patient any would
have been looked upon as a would-be assassin.
Where patients could not get proper nursing, they died like
sheep, and they died in a hurry, too. I remember the great epi-
demic of 1867. I had come home from college during the sum-
mer vacation, and just about the time I was getting ready to go
back the yellow fever broke out and I could not go because
Houston was quarantined again at once and travel ceased.
Having had the fever I was safe in going everywhere and saw
a great deal of the fever. I remember four young men who had
just come to Houston from the North. They were not the least
afraid of the disease and laughed at their friends who warned
them against exposing themselves to the night air. I remember
ex-Mayor I. C. Lord telling them of the danger and warning
them to be careful. They had rooms in the Kennedy building
on market square and were over at the market at the time the
conversation took place. That night the oldest one was stricken,
the next morning the others were down and four days after old
man Pannel buried all four of them.
There used to be all kinds of queer stories floating about,
saying this and that one died, come to and then died again. A
story was current to the effect that a horse drawing a dray-
load of coffins to the graveyard became frightened, ran away
and spilt part of the load. It was said that one of the coffins
burst open and that its occupant, a negro woman, got up and
made a bee-line for home, got in bed again, got well and "lived
happily for years after." Now, I don't vouch for the truth of any
of these stories, but some funny things happened. Dr. Massie
died and was laid out. All preparations were completed for bury-
ing him, when he came to life. He was placed in bed again and
heroic efforts were made to save him, but all in vain. He lived
24 hours and died, the last time for good.
It was during that epidemic that one of the funniest panics on
record took place. As all grown folk, who were able to nurse,
were engaged in that way it became necessary for the boys to
sit up with the dead, when the death occurred too late in the
afternoon to permit of burial at once.
The editor of one of the leading newspapers in Houston died
late in the afternoon and Dick Fuller and Fish Allen volunteered
to sit up with the body. The editor was living in the Ennis resi-
dence on Court House square at the time of his death and the
body, after being placed in a coffin, was placed in the back par-
lor on the ground floor. Dick and Fish began their lonely watch.
All went well so long as they could hear people moving either
in the house or in the street. Finally about midnight every-
thing became quiet and they began to feel depressed. Like boys,
they endeavored to cheer things up by talking about ghosts and
such cheerful subjects. Dick asked Fish what he would do if
the dead man should rise up in his coffin. Before Fish could
reply there was a terrible shriek near the open window and with
a great bound an immense black cat leaped on the window sill
152 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
and with arched back and bristling tail, let out another blood-
curdling cry. Then, without warning the single lamp in the
room went out, leaving them in darkness. Neither Dick nor
Fish could ever tell how they got out of the place, but when
the neighbors arrived and went in to find out what had happened,
they found the dead man on the floor, the coffin overturned and
most of the furniture that stood between the window and door
totally wrecked. Nothing could pursuade those two boys to
go back in the house, so substitute watchers had to be found.
The boys worked themselves up to the highest point of nervous-
ness and excitement, talking about ghosts and dead men and
that cat managed to put in an appearance just at the psychologi-
cal moment. I don't blame the boys for not going back, neither
do I blame them for coming out.
I don't care whether people believe in ghosts or not, I know
everybody is afraid of them just as I am.
FOUGHT WITH FIREWORKS.
I HAVE never seen it mentioned in any history of Texas,
though I remember that a long account of it was published
in the Houston Telegraph of December 25, 1871; nor is it
generally known today that one of the most remarkable battles
of modern times was fought on Preston Avenue and on Main
Street for several blocks on Christmas Eve, 1871.
The great combat was the result of a joke. It started in a
small way, but soon grew to great proportions, involving prom-
inent railroad men, professional men, staid bankers, merchants
and a good sprinkling of every day kind of people. An account
of that great battle is worth giving, and as I witnessed the firing
of the first shot and actually dodged the first ball I feel that I
am competent to give it.
Dr. Louis A. Bryan and I came out of Conlief's drug store, on
Preston Avenue, about 9 o'clock that night. As we stepped on
the sidewalk, Captain J. Waldo, who was on the opposite side
of the street, shooting off a big roman candle, lowered it and
sent a great, green ball directly at us, following it with others
in rapid succession. We dodged into a nearby store, which
happened to have a good supply of fireworks on hand and each
of us got the largest roman candle we could find. Out we went
and opened fire on Waldo. Andrew Hutcherson came to Waldo's
assistance, then Sandy Ewing joined Dr. Bryan and me. Mr.
Fred Stanley joined Waldo and Andrew. It kept up that way
until within 15 minutes there were full 100 men shooting at
each other with roman candles. At first they kept apart and
fired from across the street, but getting excited they closed up,
made charges and almost reduced it to a hand to hand conflict.
By common consent Dr. Bryan was chosen as leader of one
party and Captain Waldo was chosen as leader of the other.
They kept boys busy bringing up ammunition and it was not long
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 153
before they had bought every roman candle to be found within
blocks of the battlefield. Dr. Bryan and I were wearing stove-
pipe hats, and, of course, we received marked attention. Our
hats were something wonderful to look at within a few minutes
after the fight got under headway.
Finally, just as we received a fresh supply of ammunition,
that of Waldo's party gave out and the fun commenced in
earnest. We charged them and they fled towards Main Street.
It was intensely funny and I remember seeing Sandy Ewing
chasing Mr. W. R. Baker up fiie middle of Main Street, shoot-
ing him in the back at almost every jump. There were more
hats and clothes destroyed that night than on any other occa-
sion in the history of Houston. Fortunately there were no
serious casualties. Several of the combatants on each side
received severe burns, and many lost mustaches, beards and
heads of hair, but no eyes were put out, and only temporary dis-
figurement resulted.
Now, when you consider that nearly every man engaged in
that battle was a leading and prominent citizen, that nearly all
of them were prominent merchants, bankers, railroad officials
or professional men, it will be seen what a remarkable fight
it was. Had it been a lot of boys ft would have been quite
natural, but it was nothing of the kind. It was a spontaneous
determination on the part of a lot of grown men to be boys
again, and the battle was the result. I can remember only a
few, but the mention of their names will show the character of
the crowd, for they were all of the same class. There was Dr.
Louis A. Bryan, Captain J. Waldo, Captain A. Faulkner, Mr.
Fred Stanley, right hand and confidential adviser of T. W.
House, Sr., Sandy Ewing, Andrew Hutcheson, Judge George
Goldthwaite, Dr. Alva Connell, Dr. James Blake, Charley Gentry
and a score of others whose names escape me.
Just imagine the general officers of the railroads, the leading
merchants, bankers, doctors and lawyers of today getting up
such a racket as that. Why, the mere idea is preposterous! 1
was talking to Dr. George McDonnald, the only one of the old
crowd left, the other day, and he remarked that the people
of Houston do not know what fun is, and I believe he is right.
I don't remember whether Dr. McDonald was in the roman
candle battle or not, but if he was, he and I are the only sur-
vivors, for all those I have named have crossed over the river.
That is the one sad feature about recalling the happy days of
the past. There are so many sad thoughts connected with the
subjects I write about.
* * *
HOW THEY BEAT FARO.
IF CAPTAIN JOHN STEEL, Jim Martin, Jack Martin or any
of the old time sports could come back to life and see their
former gambling "palaces" being used today as moving
picture places, shoe shops and for other unworthy purposes they
154 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
sure would have the right to mourn over the degeneracy of mod-
ern Houston. In "the good old days" gambling was wide open,
and while enough deference was paid to appearances to keep
the halls on the second floors of the buildings, everybody knew
what was going on and access was very easy and unobstructed.
It is true that every time the grand jury met the keepers of
the places were indicted, pleaded guilty and paid a fixed fine,
which was looked upon as a kind of tax and therefore was con-
sidered perfectly proper, even by the proprietors themselves.
Occasionally a grand jury would get too inquisitive and get
after a bunch of the players and then there was sure enough
trouble. I remember an occasion of that kind when a number
of very prominent lawyers, doctors and business men were
indicted for indulging in poker. Of course they did not want
to appear in court and at the same time they did not want to
pay a heavy fine. They clubbed together and employed Colonel
Manley to defend them and, selecting the man in whose room
they had played, they placed him on trial, all agreeing to abide
by the decision in his case. I forget the details of the trial, but
I remember that Colonel Manley won the case, on the ground
that there was a bed in the room and that a bedroom was not a
public place in the meaning of the law, which he read.
I just happened to think of that case and jotted it down here,
for I did not intend to write about the moral or legal aspect
of gambling. Perhaps the best known gambling saloon in Hous-
ton was the old "Iron Clad," so named because its second story
was covered with sheet iron, which was above Gregory's saloon
on the corner of Congress and Main, where Krupp & Tuffly's
nice store now is. That was a great resort and everybody who
had sporting blood knew all about it. Some of the most prom-
inent gamblers in Houston held forth there from time to time
and thousands of dollars changed hands almost daily at that
place.
There was a game of some kind going on all the time and* the
doors were never closed night or day. Some very amusing
things took place there, too. One night there was a big crowd
around the faro table and a big game was in progress when
two men came up the stairsteps, one carrying a large sack. They
were perfect strangers and no one Tmew who they were. They
at once introduced themselves by commanding the gentlemen
present to hold up their hands, backing their command with two
nasty looking six-shooters. All held up their hands and while
one of the intruders kept the gentlemen covered with his gun
the other advanced with his sack and put the entire "bank roll"
in it. Then he paid his attention to the guests of the house,
taking all their money and jewelry. It was a clean sweep and
when they got through there was not the price of a glass of
beer in that crowd. Having gotten all the wealth in sight, the
robber backed out of the room and went downstairs, leaving
his partner to keep the crowd quiet. When he was safely out
with his sack he whistled and robber No. 2 began to back out
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 155
of the room. The crowd had been so taken by surprise that not
a word had been spoken. As the robber was just going down
the steps a little fellow who was sitting at the end of the table
said:
"It's a good thing I did not have my gun with me."
The retiring robber took a step back into the room and, cover-
ing the little fellow with his pistol, asked him what he would
have done if he had had his gun.
"Why, I would have lost that, too, as well as my watch," was
the reply.
Now, the strange part about this performance was the fact
that neither of the robbers made the least attempt to disguise
himself. No one had ever seen either of them before nor has
anyone ever seen either of them since.
They simply came, conquered and disappeared. Probably
they were the only men who ever beat that faro game.
Now of all of the superstitious people on earth, gamblers are
the worst. Anything strange or unusual will get on their nerves
and unfit them for any and everything. One night I saw a
splendid illustration of this. Dick Fuller and I were going fish-
ing and had gotten up about 3 o'clock to make an early start. We
were near Gregory's corner and noticed that it was brilliantly
lighted, so we judged that there was a good game going on.
"I'll bet I can break that game up," said Dick, "and I will not
go in the building either."
There had been a man killed near there a day or two before.
Dick told me to hide behind the corner and watch him break
it up. Then he took a seat on a big dry goods box near the
corner and commenced pounding it with his heels, at the same
time crying out, in a hoarse voice, "Woah, you scoundrel! Woah!
you scoundrel!" Blang! Blang! he would hit the box and then
utter that cry of distress. In a moment it sounded like a drove
of mules coming down the steps and a whole gang of anxious
players were on the sidewalk trying to see what the trouble was.
They rushed up to Dick and asked what was the cause of all
that racket. He pretended not to know what they were talking
about and declared he had been sitting there for some time
and had heard nothing. After looking around carefully they
went upstairs again. In a little while Dick began the same per-
formance and down they came with a rush. They found no horse
kicking a buggy or wagon into kindling wood, nor could they
see any horse at all. Dick expressed surprise at their action
and declared that he had neither seen nor heard any horse or
anything else cutting up as. described.
They hesitated some time and one or two decided not to go
upstairs again and in a few minutes all came down and went
home, no doubt convinced that they had had an experience with
a ghost.
Whenever I speak of gamblers and their ways I think of my
friend "Frenchy." He was a gambler right and was never guilty
of speaking of anything in the past tense which, as everybody
156 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
knows, is a habit with most gamblers. One night I was talking
to Frank La Mott about that robbery in the "Iron Clad."
"Frenchy" came up just in time to hear me say "hold-up" in con-
nection with the story. He concluded that we were talking
about that time the gambling saloon was dynamited and robbed
here in Houston, so he butted in.
"Hell," said he, "that is no holdup. That is a bombshell. I
am there. I am playin' bank. There's a big crowd so I can't
get to the table. .'Limpy' George is in front of me and I have
to reach over him to get my money down. Just as I get my
bet placed hell breaks loose right behind me. I don't know what
it is and I don't stay to find out. I breaks for the street and I
thinks I'm the first one to get out, but when I hits the sidewalk
I see 'Limpy' George goin' up the street, 20 yards in front of me,
and he ain't got no crutches, either. I tell you that bombshell
shore works a miracle with 'Limpy's' legs. He can't walk across
the room without crutches before it goes off, but here he is down-
stairs and out in the street ahead of me with my two good legs."
If any one will read that description over carefully . they will
know "Frenchy" as well as I do.
BEST FIGHTER IN THE ARMY.
THE other day I told about James Longstreet, the famous
mule that was the mascot of Hood's Texas Brigade.
Soon after the article appeared I met Captain Mat Ross,
who was a member of Company H, Fifth Texas Regiment, of that
brigade and he jumped on me for not having mentioned another
equally famous member of the brigade, another James Long-
street, too. That was a little red rooster, the pride and glory
of Company H, but the immediate property of Mat Ross and
Major E. G. Goree, now a resident of Huntsville.
"That rooster was the greatest little fighter in the Army of
Northern Virginia," said Mat. "That is how he got his name.
He would fight anything that had feathers on it and when he got
stirred up would tackle a man or anything that got in his way.
Why, it is a matter of regimental history that our rooster kept
Ed Goree and me in ready money for a year or two. There was
no rooster anywhere that could stand up in front of him. He
whipped everything and never put on the least bit of airs over
the fact. He got one eye knocked out in one of his battles,
but that did not seem to interfere with his fighting qualities the
least bit. I really believe it helped him, for it had a kind of
demoralizing effect on the old roosters to have Jim Longstreet
come at them with his head turned sideways so he could get a
focus on them. They were not accustomed to that kind of an
advance and he generally 'got their goat' before the fight lasted
one round. We kept him in perfect condition and while we had
no gaffs, we took charcoal and rubbed down his spurs so that
they were always bright and sharp as needles.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 157
"Ed Gore and I thought as much of that rooster as though he
had been our son. We took turns in carrying him when we were
on the march and if we had only one handful of corn for our
ration Jim got half of it. He was always getting in some trouble
by being too familiar with the men. Usually he roosted on me
or Ed Goree, but one night he took a notion to roost on Jim
Langston, who was perfectly bald. About daylight Jim Long-
street woke up, and, stepping over on Jim's bald head, he threw
back his head and sounded reveille. Now if Jim had re-
mained quiet nothing would have occurred, but instead of doing
so he made a grab for Jim Longstreet, who, in his haste to
get away, closed his claws and cut three or four long gashes on
Langston's head. He jumped up and, grabbing his gun, tried
to, shoot Jim. It was all we could do to keep him from shooting
Jim, but finally we got him quieted down.
"When we went down to the peninsula Jim went with us and
won a small fortune for us, for we met some North Carolina
troops down there and th'ey had some fighting chickens with
them. One great secret of our success was that Jim was mighty
deceiving in his looks. He was mild mannered and to look at
him you would not think butter would melt in his mouth. He
would walk about looking as if he would rather eat than do
anything else and would actually pretend not to know what we
were talking about when we were trying to arrange a fight. He
was awfully cute that way. But after he found we had covered
all the money the other fellows could rake and scrape his whole
manner would change and he became a warrior at once. It
would have done your heart good to see Jim going into battle
with his head on one side so he could get a focus on the other
fellow with his one good eye, and picking out. the exact spot
he was going to puncture. Ed Goree and I had as much faith
in that rooster winning as we had in General Lee, and neither
one of them ever deceived us. We would follow Lee anywhere,
and we would bet our last dollar on Jim Longstreet.
"It is rather remarkable that both our favorites, Lee and Jim,
should have met their first reverses at Gettysburg. General Lee
had taken us into Pennsylvania and we had taken Jim Long-
street with us, of course. When I realized what a big fight it
was going to be at Gettysburg, I took Jim back to the commis-
sary wagons and gave him to Jim Stanger of company A, who
was acting commissary clerk. I told Jim that from the looks of
things there was going to be hell to pay and that some of us
were going to get hurt. I told him if anything happened to me
to give Jim to Ed Goree, and that if anything happened to both
Ed and me, that he could have the rooster, but he must promise
to take good care of him.
"We had been in the fight all the morning when the fire grew
so fierce that we could hardly hold our position. So many men
had been killed and wounded that our line was dreadfully thin
and weak. Colonel Powers ordered me to go back and bring
every available man to the front, even those who were wounded
158 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
but not entirely disabled. I went back and got about twenty. I
went as far as the wagons and there I saw Jim Stranger. He
was almost crying and pointed to a wrecked wagon and several
dead horses. 'Mat,' said he, 'poor Jim Longstreet is gone. A
little while ago a stray shell landed square on that wagon and
you see what it did. Jim was roosting in the wagon and the
shell did not leave a grease spot of him.'
" 'You see,' said Mat, 'Jim died the death of a soldier and
warrior. I know that if he had been given the choice of deaths
he would have taken what he got. After I had gone back to the
firing line and broken the sad news to Ed Goree we lay behind
some rocks and discussed the. matter. We finally concluded that
the shell had come up on Jim's blind side and thus caught him,
for we knew him so well that we felt certain he would have
gotten well out the way before it lit, had he seen it coming.
"Jim Longstreet, the mule, was all right in his way, but at
best he was a camp follower and loafer, while Jim Longstreet the
rooster was an ornament to the regiment and a producer. After
we had been camped near any other troops for a few days there
was not a dollar left among them, for Jim would whip any chicken
they could produce and we would rake in the money. The loss
of Gettysburg was a sad blow to General Lee, but the loss of
Jim Longstreet just naturally knocked the stuffin' out of Ed
Goree and me. It was a great financial disaster."
MIKE CONNOLY'S ESCAPE.
A JEALOUS "bad man" with a six-shooter and a modest and
retiring philosopher, when thrown together suddenly, are
apt to produce complications either tragic or ludicrous.
Some years ago such a mixture was made here in Houston, and
caused more laughter than all the funny papers combined have
produced since.
Mike Connoly, poet, philosopher, expert telegrapher, electri-
cian and all-'round newspaper man, is too well known to need
other introduction than the mention of his name. It is true
he has confused the situation somewhat, since leaving Houston
and going to Memphis, by becoming a colonel and changing the
spelling of his name. He is today Colonel Mique Connoly, though
that is the only change in him; he is the same old Mike.
In the early eighties Mike was chief electrician for the West-
ern Union Telegraph Company, the office of which company was
located on the second floor of the Fox building, corner of Main
and Preston.
His duties requiring him to be up at night, he had to sleep
during the day and therefore sought a room as far away from
the business center as possible, so as to avoid noise. After
much search he obtained what he wanted a room in a cottage
situated down in "Frosttown," which was the name given that
part of Houston down where the gas works is now located. This
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 159
cottage was owned by a real "bad man," a killer, who was in-
tensely jealous of his wife. Just why he should have been jeal-
ous of her no one could understand, for she was as ugly as a
brush fence. But he was jealous and took no pains to conceal
the fact.
It was late in July when Mike got located, and everything
moved along smoothly until about the middle of August. One
very hot Sunday night Mike, being off duty, went to his room
and retired early. Unfortunately, that same Sunday night the
bad man's wife concluded to visit her mother over in the Fifth
Ward and the bad man himself concluded to get drunk. That
combination was hard to beat, and, as a matter of fact, it was
not beaten.
The bad man arrived home about midnight, and, finding no
wife in his room, he instituted a search. Of course, he suspected
Mike at once. Going to Mike's door and finding it locked he
tried to kick it open. That got Mike out of bed in a hurry. The
man, finding he could not kick the door open, drew his pistol and
shot the lock off. But Mike was too quick for him.
Before he could get the door open Mike was out of the win-
dow, out in the street and was well on his way to the banks
of the bayou. The man entered the room, shot under the bed
and into the wardrobe, but by that time Mike had buried himself
in the weeds on the bank of the bayou and was beginning to
realize what a fix he was in. He was safe, but he was clad
only in a thin summer undershirt that reached scarcely to his
hips. Aside from that undershirt he had not a stitch of clothes
on and he was barefooted. The moon was full and the night
was almost as bright as day. Such a thing as returning to his
room for his clothing never entered his head. If he could only
get to some friend's house he knew he could get some clothes,
but how to get anywhere was the problem.
Finally he crept along the bank of the bayou until he reached
the foot of Main Street, and then began working his way up
that highway. His progress was slow, because he had to hide
in doorways and behind barrels and boxes every time he saw any
one coming. At last he reached the Fox building, long after
midnight, skipped up the steps and appeared before the aston-
ished, lone night operator.
Mike explained the situation and persuaded the operator to
lend him his clothes so he could get out and rustle some for
himself. Mike, as everybody knows, is long and lank, while the
operator was somewhat squatty. Mike had to have clothes, how-
ever, so he forced himself into the borrowed ones and started
out to find others. Unfbrtunately, he had a desire to refresh the
inner man, so he headed for the old Capitol bar, where he knew
the "barkeep." In the bar he met a number of his friends and
had to tell the story of his escape and take a drink so often that
he forgot all about the naked operator he had left in the office
and went to bed in the hotel, oblivious to everything. He slept
until midday, and when he awoke he realized what he had done.
TRUE STORIES OF OLD
He got other clothes and hurried to the office, to find a half crazy
operator, two-thirds suffocated, hiding himself in the battery
room.
Mike was a long time squaring himself with the operator. He
never attempted to have the bad man square himself at all. He
sent a drayman for his trunk and sought other quarters.
* * *
UNCLE DAN AND CAPTAIN FAULKNER.
THE other day I was talking with a lot of old printers
when one of them recalled an incident that had escaped
my memory completely. I have said once or twice, in
speaking of Uncle Dan McGarey, that there was but one man on
earth to whom Uncle Dan would tip his hat. That man was
Captain Andy Faulkner, who had commanded Uncle Dan's com-
pany during the war. The old fellow knew the great worth of
the captain and knew that he was a man under all circumstances
and conditions and he always paid the captain the utmost de-
ference when in his presence. Of course the captain thought
much of Uncle Dan and was constantly doing something for
him. He liked him but that did not prevent his playing a prac-
tical joke on Uncle Dan that nearly drove him crazy for awhile.
Dud Bryan, Frank Small, Uncle Dan and several others of the
Bohemian Club went to Austin one winter while the Legislature
was in session. There was some bill affecting the railroads
being discussed and there were also several representatives of
the railroads in Austin. Among the latter were Captain Faulk-
ner and Major Waldo, representing the Houston and Texas
Central road. The newspaper boys and the railroad men were
together for a few days and then the newspaper representatives
returned home. An exception was Uncle Dan, who could not
be found when the party got ready to leave. Captain Faulkner
said he would look out for him and ship him down on the next
day's train. The truth was that Uncle Dan was out with some
friends he had found in Austin and was painting the town a
vivid red. Finally his friends fell by the roadside and about mid-
night he found himself alone somewhere, he did not know where.
He made an effort to get to the hotel where he was, nominally
stopping, but ran against a policeman on the way. Acting just
as he always did at home, he ordered the officer to get out of his
way and let him pass. The policeman did not know him from
a side of bacon, and, judging from his personal appearance that
he was a drunken tramp, he promptly arrested him and started
for the station house with him. That sort of brought Uncle Dan
to his senses and he began to explain who he was and to offer
proof of the truth of what he said if the policeman would take
him to the hotel where his friends, Faulkner and Waldo, were
staying. The policeman did not believe one word of the story,
but finally concluded to stop at the hotel, as he had to pass it
on the way to the station.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 161
Captain Faulkner and Major Waldo were having a last cigar
before retiring, when a bell boy announced that a policeman
having a tramp in tow wanted to see them for a moment. They
guessed at once who the tramp was and told the boy to bring
the policeman and his prisoner in their parlor. In came Uncle
Dan, looking as bright and happy at the prospect of release as
it would be possible for him to do. As soon as the policeman
opened his mouth to explain, Uncle Dan cut him short and ad-
dressed Captain Faulkner himself.
"You see, Captain," he said, "this man has made a mistake
and pinched me. Tell him who I am and let him go."
"Tell him who you are?" asked the captain, looking Uncle
Dan straight in the face without batting an eye. "I never saw
you before. Take him out of here, officer, and lock him up."
Uncle Dan could scarcely believe his own ears. He was too
far gone to realize that he was being made the victim of a joke
and he concluded that either the captain or he himself had gone
stark mad.
The policeman chuckled, and grabbing Uncle Dan by the
collar, commenced dragging him out of the room. The poor old
fellow was too surprised and indignant to say a word until he
got nearly to the door when he concluded to make a last stand
and a last appeal. Captain Faulkner waived him away and
pretended to be intensely indignant that such a looking creature
as Uncle Dan should dare to claim to be a friend of his. "Take
him out of here and take him in a hurry, too," he said to the
officer. "I am surprised that an officer of any intelligence
should listen to such a story as he has been telling you. Take
him away and lock him up."
Then the captain turned his back on the officer and his pris-
oner and pretended to resume his conversation with Major
Waldo. So soon as the door was closed they fell over in con-
vulsive laughter, for either of them would have paid good money
for a chance to play such a trick on Uncle Dan. Half an hour
later they sent a note to the chief of police to release Uncle
Dan and tell him to come to their hotel at once. They waited
in vain for him, for he caught the next freight train out of
Austin and the next time either of them saw him was weeks
later when he showed up on Main Street in Houston. He was
so indignant that he threatened to write both of them up in
the Age, but Captain Faulkner threatened to give a full account
of Dan's Austin experience to Dud Bryan for use in the Gal-
veston News and that scared Uncle Dan off.
* * * .
POKER SUPERSTITIONS.
PEOPLE laugh at the negroes for being superstitious, and
I suppose when all the returns are in they are justified
in doing so. However, if the most superstitious and ig-
norant negro can beat the average well-educated white man
who plays poker, then I am willing to quit.
162 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
I remember years ago, when I was young and giddy, "sittin'
in" with a lot of professional men. There was one, a young
doctor, one of the honor graduates, who had tough luck from
the start. First he blamed his seat. Then he discovered that
the man next to him had his foot on his chair. Then he located
his hoodoo in the coat; then in his vest; then in a nice pink
shirt he was wearing. One by one he discarded these garments,
but his bad luck continued.
Just as he was about going further in his disrobing his luck
changed and he began to win. "I knew it was that shirt," said
he, and, that being the last garment he had taken off, he
promptly ordered the negro boy who was waiting on us to put
it in the stove and burn it up.
Some very funny things result from the active display of
poker superstitions, as every one with the least experience
knows. I remember once in Galveston, before the electric cars
were established and the old horse and mule motive power was
used, I was in the oar with a very distinguished newspaper mi\n,
who was a bit of a sport.
There was no conductor, the driver -ringing up the fares as
they were deposited in the box by the passenger. There were
two cords extending the length of the car, one to notify the
driver when a passenger wished to get off and the other to
register the fares.
We were in the midst of an interesting conversation when
the distinguished journalist leaped to his feet, grabbed the rope
and began a series of most vigorous jerks, shouting at the same
time for the driver to stop. In his excitement he got hold of
the wrong rope and before the wild-eyed driver could get to
him and release the rope from hand he had rung up about $14
worth of fares against the driver.
I looked out ahead and saw a funeral passing down the inter-
secting street just ahead of us.
"Why, that fellow liked to ruin me," he said to me. "He was
going to pull us right through that funeral. I had that to happen
to me once and I never held a thing for six months."
He was quiet now that the great disaster had been averted,
but the driver was gone "off his nut" completely when he looked
at the register and recognized that he was a financial wreck
unless my friend paid for all those fares he had registered. I
am convinced that he would have deserted the car right there
in the street and never gone back to the barn again if my friend
had not volunteered to go with him to Colonel Sinclair, the
president of the company, and explain matters to him.
The driver readily agreed to that arrangement and since the
returns had been tampered with and the box stuffed it gave him
a splendid chance to fix the genuine figures at any point he
pleased, which no doubt he did to his own personal advantage.
Another friend of mine, who is an educated man and who no
doubt ridicules negro superstition, will abandon any business
enterprise he may be engaged in and will not resume it again
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 163
that day if he meets a cross-eyed woman face to face. He claims
that such a meeting is absolutely fatal and that every particle
of luck abandons him right then and there.
Now the strange part of the matter is that not one of the
superstitious men has the slightest respect for the pet super-
stition of any of the others. Each fellow will ridicule every
other superstition except his own. He feels that he has the
only genuine article.
Any one who has "fooled with cards" knows that there is
such a thing as luck, in spite of the fact that it can be demon-
strated mathematically that there is no such thing. With mathe
maticians chance does not exist. For instance, when a per-
fectly fair dice has been thrown and has shown "six," or any-
thing else, for four times hand running, it will be mighty hard
to keep a gambler from betting odds that the number will not
show up again. I mean by odds more than the legitimate odds
of 5 to 1.
There are six sides to a dice, therefore 'there is one chance
in six of the same number showing again, and yet any gambler
will be willing to give greater odds than that after the number
has shown even twice consecutively. As a matter of fact, all
the throws thaj; have been made have not the least influence
on those to follow, so the odds remain as they were at the be-
ginning, 5 to 1.
Now the mathematicians can prove all that, but what I would
like for them to prove is that there is no good or bad luck
when a fellow one night makes every hand he draws to and
the next 'night can't hold a thing and loses every time he backs
his hand. If it is not luck, what is it? Is it that great mystery
the mathematicians have recently evolved called the fourth
dimension, by which they can explain things that have no ex-
istence and have a man in jail and outside of it at the same
time?
* * *
CAPTAIN ANDY FAULKNER.
EVERYBODY remembers Captain Andy Faulkner, for he
has been dead for such a few number of years that
maybe some of the new-issue Houstonians remember
him. He was a man not easily forgotten, for his individuality
was such as to stamp itself indelibly on any community. He
was for many years general passenger agent of the Houston
and Texas Central Railroad. His love for and devotion to that
road was sublime. You could say mean things about the
captain, behind his back, and there was a chance for you to
escape the consequences of your indiscretion. The chance was
very remote, I admit, but still there was a chance, for the cap-
tain might forget it before he caught you. But if you said any-
thing mean about the Houston and Texas Central, you were
doomed, for the captain took no chances about forgetting; he
had it penciled in black and white. He had all the Texas news-
164 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
papers sent to his office, and had a clerk who did nothing but
read those papers and clip out every line that made reference
to the railroad and paste it in a hig scrap-book he kept for that
purpose. This book was properly indexed, so the captain had
no trouble to turn to the record of any particular paper at once.
When an editor applied for a pass the captain looked over what
he had said about his road during the year, and if there was any-
thing against the road in the book, the pass was refused and
the editor was referred to his own paper, such and such a date,
for the reasons.
Captain Faulkner and Colonel Bill Sterrett were warm per-
sonal friends to the day of the captain's death, but professedly
they were at daggers' points and if Colonel Sterrett wanted to
reach any point on the Houston and Texas Central road he had
either to dig up his cold cash for a ticket or walk. The colonel
had so far forgotten himself as to refer to the captain's road
as "the angel maker," because of the frequent and fatal wrecks
that were taking place on it. That settled him. Captain Faulk-
ner placed him on his black list in box car letters and kept him
there. Colonel Sterrett got no more favors, nor did he ask
for any. He practically kept his reference to the Houston and
Texas Central as "the angel makers" as standing matter and
ran it in nearly every issue of the paper.
One or two papers were silly enough to copy Colonel Ster-
rett's remarks and make some of their own. They also went
on the black-list. Colonel Nat Q. Henderson was among the
erring ones. He was living in Georgetown, but happened to be
in Austin and wanted to come to Houston, so he wrote to
Captain Faulkner asking for a pass. The captain looked up
his record and found that it was generally good and that he
had sinned but slightly. But he wanted to punish him, so he
sent him a pass "good from Austin to Hempstead and return."
Colonel Henderson glanced at the pass and without reading it
boarded the train for Houston. He did not discover the trick
until he got to Hempstead and the conductor refused to let
him come farther without a ticket or pass. They had to wait
some time at Hempstead for the main line train, so Colonel
Henderson persuaded the conductor that Captain Faulkner had
made an error and had written Hempstead instead of Houston,
as he should have done. He got the conductor to telegraph to
the captain for instructions what to do. The answer came back:
"Make Henderson pay fare or put him off." He paid and came
to Houston, in no good humor, however.
But I did not start to tell of Captain Faulkner as a railroad
man. What I wanted to speak of was his remarkable gift as a
story-teller. He had a fine sense of humor, and was one of
the best talkers I ever knew. In 1883 nearly every Sunday night
Tobe Mitchell, Colonel O. T. Holt, Colonel Sye Oberly and I
would sit out in front of the Capitol Hotel, now the Rice, and
listen to Captain Faulkner talk for hours. He was always full
of good, clean, healthy stories and told them in the most charm-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 165
ing manner. I remember quite a number of very funny ones he
told, but about the best was one he used to tell on himself.
He said he was in one of the fashionable barrooms in Austin
with a number of friends one evening when he noticed two
rather seedy-looking fellows eyeing each other keenly. Finally
one advanced to the other and said:
"Was yo at the battle of Gettysburg?"
The other seedy fellow said he was.
"When yo rebs drove the Pennsylvania troops back, going to
Little Round Top, did you pick a wounded Yankee boy up and
put him behind some rocks?"
The other fellow became much agitated and said he did.
"I was the boy you picked up and I knew you as soon as I
saw you come in and have been trying to place you."
With that they fell into each other's arms and embraced warm-
ly, after which they sBook hands over and over. Finally each
dug down in his pocket, but found nothing. "If I had any money
with me," said the Yankee, "we shore would have a drink over
this."
The captain said it was all very touching. He had been a
soldier himself and knew what such meetings as this meant,
so he slipped the Confederate a dollar and told him to treat
his friend. But the other gentlemen who had witnessed the
scene were also touched and became deeply interested and in-
sisted on buying an unlimited number of drinks for the two old
war horses, with the result that the two got so drunk and
boisterous that the saloon man had to put them out.
The captain said that a month or two later he was in Dallas
and went into a saloon for the purpose of getting a drink.
There was a crowd near the bar and as he entered he heard a
familiar voice say:
"Was you at the battle of Gettysburg?"
He looked and saw the two old "heroes" go through the same
scene he had witnessed in Austin. Then he realized that they
were two old bums, who had invented this plan for getting free
whiskey from a sympathetic crowd. It worked, too, just as it
had done in Austin, and as it no doubt worked in every place
they visited.
I think Captain Faulkner was the only man "Uncle" Dan
McGary ever took off his hat to. "Uncle Dan" held him in the
highest regard and esteem, because he knew him. He had
served in the captain's company during the war. The captain
also had a warm place in his heart for "Uncle Dan." He said
"Uncle Dan" was one of the best soldiers he had and one who
could always be depended on. He told a story of an old fellow
who was a Union sympathizer and who refused to sell anything
to the Confederate soldiers. The old fellow had lots of corn, but
would not give or sell any of it to the Confederates, and as he
was a fiery old chap and backed his refusal with a double-barreled
shotgun there were only two things to do: kill him or give up
all hope of getting corn. One day Captain Faulkner told "Uncle
166 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
Dan" to take a wagon and go over and buy a load of corn from
this old fellow. He gave him the money to pay for it and told
him to avoid all trouble, but to get the corn if possible. After
a very short time "Uncle Dan" came back with the corn and the
money, too.
"Oh, he didn't raise any objection when I commenced loading
up the wagon," said "Uncle Dan."
"How was that?" inquired the captain.
"Well," said "Uncle Dan," "as soon as he showed up with his
gun I took it as a declaration of war and I pied him right then
and there. I knew I would have to do it before our interview
closed, so I didn't waste any time, but plugged him and argued
the matter with myself afterward."
MIXED TEXAS HISTORY.
HE other day I was in a Main Street store making a small
purchase. The young man who waited on me was an
intelligent looking chap and was as talkative as the
proverbial barber. I did not know him but he knew me, and
after discussing the paving question and kindred matters he
made pleasing reference to some of my articles in the Chronicle,
saying he had enjoyed reading them very much.
"I read your article on the battle of San Jacinto," he said. "It
was fine and I enjoyed reading it very much. I was greatly sur-
prised to find that Col. Hamp Cook was as old as that makes
him out to be. Let's see, the battle of San Jacinto was fought
in 1861, was it not?"
. I thought he was joking, of course, but a glance at him con-
vinced me that he was in dead earnest, so I said: "Oh, no, the
battle was fought in 1873."
"Why, of course. What was I thinking about? It was the
battle of the Alamo that was fought in 1861. Somehow I always
get the two mixed up."
Now, that remarkable interview actually took place just as I
have described it. One marvels at such ignorance of Texas his-
tory, yet that ignorance is more general than anyone imagines.
To the credit of the Texas boys I am glad to be able to record
the fact that the young clerk was not a Texan but had come
to Houston a year or two ago from Chicago. I have never met
a Texas boy who could not tell all about the Alamo and San
Jacinto.
Last winter I met with a more remarkable example of ig-
norance than my clerk exhibited. It was in San Antonio at the
Gunter Hotel. There was a large party of excursionists going
to California. They stopped over in San Antonio for a day. In
the party was a young man who had just been graduated from
one of the theological schools in Massachusetts. He was on his
way to some place between Los Angeles and San Francisco to
take charge of a church. He was an Episcopalian. and was well
HOUSTON AND HOUSTANIANS 167
educated in everything except Texas history. We took a walk
and when we reached the plaza I pointed out the Alamo to him.
"Really, I am ashamed to ask the question, but what is the
Alamo and what does it stand for?" he said.
I thought he was trying to make fun of me at first, but a
glance at his face showed me that he was seriously seeking in-
formation. With such a text; with the Alamo itself in front of
me, I was able to make rather a good talk and when I finished
up with San Jacinto, my young preacher was about as enthusias-
tic over Texas history as I was. We returned to the hotel and
after lunch he asked me to go with him to the smoking room.
When we got there I found that he had gathered about a dozen
of his traveling companions and after making a short talk himself
he begged me to repeat what I had told him about the Alamo
and San Jacinto for the benefit of his friends.
For the first time in my life I found myself lecturing on his-
tory. I began with Bradburn's misdeeds at Anahuac in 1831,
which really started the Texas Revolution and ended with San
Jacinto. They were all greatly interested in what I told them and
I was intensely proud of being a* native of a state which has
such a history. The preacher became enthusiastic again and
before he left the city he purchased every book he could find
that had any Texas history in it.
It seems strange to us that there should be anybody ignorant
about our state's history, and yet the average Texan is about
as ignorant of the history of most of the other states of the
Union. It is true that no other state has a history so striking
and so worthy of being^ known, yet some of them do have worthy
histories and the average Texan knows no more about them than
those northern gentlemen knew about Texas.
I suppose the self confessed ignorance of the Massachusetts
gentlemen is more general and widespread than is supposed, for
those who do not know what the Alamo is are wise enough not
to admit the fact, but keep their mouths closed until they inform
themselves. That is the way, I know I would do if I visited Mas-
sachusetts and any point or incident in the state's history came
up for discussion about which I knew nothing.
The Alamo has always been an incentive to Texans urging
them to the performance of deeds of patriotism and valor, and
at times it has been something of a heavy handicap. Everybody
remembers the speech made by President Davis at the breaking
out of our great war to the Texas troops in the Army of North-
ern Virginia. "The troops from other states," he said, "have
reputations to make; you Texans have one to sustain."
EARLY NEWSPAPER MEN.
WHO among the oldtime newspaper men does not remem-
ber Dr. McBride? There was a yellow journalist that
would make some of the yellow of today look like
pure white. The doctor simply lived thirty years too soon. Had
168 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
he been of today he. could have commanded his own salary, and
Hearst would have gone down on his knees to get him on any
of his papers.
He was the Texas representative of the St. Louis Globe-Demo-
crat, which made a special feature of crimes in Texas. They
could not have gotten a better man than he, for he had absolute
genius in handling such matters. He could take an ordinary item,
such as an exchange of shots between gentlemen, which would
be dismissed with a few paragraphs today and turn out a couple
of columns of as sensational and readable stuff as anyone could
wish to see. The doctor got to be a monomaniac on the subject
of crime. He thought of nothing else, and with him no other
item had even the flavor of news. Tell him that a syndicate
was going to build a million dollar hotel and the chances were
that he would forget it before he had gone a block, but tell him
that a negro bootblack had used a razor on a competitor and he
would run all over town to get the details, or the hints for details
to be supplied. I met him one afternoon and he was in great
good humor: "The old town is waking up," he said. "Things
are beginning to boom. Why, I got a suicide and a murder this
afternoon and I haven't had two such good items in a long time."
Just that little remark will show you what kind of a reporter
he was.
Very frequently the doctor furnished some of the sensations
himself, for he published the news as he found it, painted and
exaggerated, of course. He spared no one, and, of course, was
frequently in hot water. It is an actual fact that on one occasion
there was a woman with a bull whip in her hand on one corner,
a banker with a six-shooter on another corner and a policeman
with a club further down the street, all waiting for the doctor,
because he had written them up in the Globe-Democrat. Now,
the funny part of it was that the doctor, totally oblivious to
the fact that there was so much war fixed for him, just at that
very time, was engaged in a knock down and drag out with little
Quick, a reporter on the Age, not two blocks from where his
friends were waiting for him. The trouble between the doctor
and Quick had no connection with the St. Louis paper, but it
surely saved the doctor a lot of trouble that morning. I believe
the woman and the banker did catch him afterward, but they
had had time to cool off and were not so enthusiastic as they
would have been while the grievance was fresh on their minds.
When I was about six years old a German stabbed his wife in
the street and she was taken into my grandfather's house and
died in his dining room. The man was convicted and sent to
the penitentiary for life. Thirty years afterward he was par-
doned. One of the newspapers mentioned the location of the
murder and also mentioned the fact that the woman died in my
grandfather's house. Dr. McBride hunted me up at once. I told
him all I knew, which was simply the fact that she was stabbed
and brought into the house and died a few minutes afterward.
That was enough for him. He got three columns of as magnifi-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 169
cent reading matter out of it as you ever saw. Old Uncle Dick
Wescott was running the Age at that time and was perfectly
familiar with all the details of the crime. He went for the
doctor hot-footed and heaped ridicule and scorn on his head, but
he might as well have poured water on a duck's back. The doc-
tor was simply incorrigible.
Another great character of that same time was Colonel Charley
Martin, who was city editor on the Telegram. He was of a
different type, and he had nothing of the sensational or startling
about him. He was a good newspaper man and a dignified gen-
tleman. He was a scrapper from away back, which made for
his success, for in those days there were no convenient managing
editors to stand sponsor for everything in the paper, but every
reporter had to fight for his own items.
Charley soon established a "reputation" and after that he had
clear sailing, and his whole career might have been one of dig-
nity and success to the end but for an accident.
One cold winter night, after a hard day's work, the colonel
sought pleasure, relaxation and, incidentally a warm place, at the
theatre. Milt Noble was playing "Phoenix" at Perkins Hall and
there was a big audience there. The house being full the man-
ager gave the colonel a box all to himself. He watched the play
for a few minutes, then being weary and the seat in the box
being very comfortable, he promptly went to sleep. He was
snoring away peacefully, when a noise on the stage brought him
to earth and he opened his eyes on the famous fire scene. He
did not know for a moment where he was. All he knew was
that the house was on fire, and yelling "Fire ! " "Fire ! " at the top
of his voice, he leaped out of the box onto the stage. The au-
dience thought it was part of the play and applauded loudly,
but Charley knew better. He slipped out of a side door and left
town the next morning before the story got out. He went to
Dallas and did not come back to Houston for ten years.
PROOF THAT FLIES THINK.
BEING somewhat bald I have had rather more difficulty and
trouble with flies than the average man. They have acted
meanly with me, too, and at times, have actually gone
out of their way to annoy me. I have read all about their spread-
ing disease and of how filthy they are and furthermore I know
that everything that has been said to their disparagement is
true, yet in the face of all this I have learned to admire and to
almost honor the fly. I have discovered that they have sense
just like folks and that they have a fine appreciation of the hu-
morous side of things.
Not long ago they formed the habit of coming in my room and
sitting on my bed waiting for me to try to take my afternoon
nap. I got a towel and went for them. They simply dodged,
laughed and made such a lot of fly racket that others from the
170 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
outside came to see the fun and having come, stayed to join in
the play.
Those flies thought I was playing tag with them and they
entered into the spirit of the game in a whole-hearted way that
discouraged me. Actually my efforts to kill them with a towel
increased their number and I gave up in despair. One day I
spoke of my trouble to a friend and he suggested that I go to
the drug store and get a "swat the fly," a piece of iron screen
hitched to a handle. As he explained, the wind from my towel
blew the fly aside before the towel reached him and that is why
the fly enjoyed the game so much, knowing he was in no danger
and that he was exhausting me by hanging around and encourag-
ing me to hit him with the towel. Well, I got the swat thing
and laid for my flies. So soon as I made out I was going to
take a nap, they put in an appearance, abandoning everything
else they were doing to devote themselves to me. But I fooled
them. Two settled down on the bed and pretended not to be
noticing me, sat there as if it were they who were going to take
a nap instead of I. I brought down my swat thing on them and
as there was no wind to warn them I got both of them. Others
came and others fell, too, and for half an hour I had everything
going my way. I killed every fly in sight and, having become
bloodthirsty by now I hunted for more. Some who had seen the
slaughter and retreated must have spread the news, for I longed
for more flies to swat, none came. They would come as far
as the window and look in but you could not hire a fly to enter
the room and strut around as they had all been doing.
Having thus been brought in such close communication with
flies I learned to respect them greatly. I also learned that they
are keen observers and that having seen a thing once they rec-
ognize it thereafter. Now sometimes when I am absent the
flies will take things easy just as they used to do. They even
go so far as to ignore my presence completely and pay no at-
tention to me at all. But they watch me closely and stand pre-
pared to act promptly. When I get ready to clear the room of
their presence, I do not exert myself at all. I merely pick up
my swat the fly machine and they leave in a body.
Learned professors may argue that flies can't reason and that
they can't talk, but I want those professors to explain to me how
those flies know the difference between a towel which gives
warning of its approach and the wire contraption that gives none.
Furthermore, how do the flies inform each other that I have
picked up the swatter? They can't all be watching me at the
same time and yet every one of them departs at the sight of the
swatter. As a matter of fact, I have not been able to get near
a fly with my swatter in a week and if I want a quiet nap
all I have to do is to place the swatter on the bed where the
flies can look in the window and see it and not one will venture
in the room.
I don't know anything about flyology, if there is such a thing,
but I do know that a fly has as much sense as a man about
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 171
some things and that the fellow who takes Mr. Fly for a fool
is almost one himself.
Now, the concerted action on the part of flies when I pick
up my swatter, precludes any other idea than that flies can
talk. If I could hear and understand their language I am con-
fident I would hear some old fellow call out: "Git He's got
his swatter. This is no place for us!" When you see dozens
of them take wing as one fly and rush out of the window, you
can safely bet that something like that has been said by one
of their pickets and that they have acted promptly on the warn-
ing.
This is not written to fill space but is a record of actual oc-
currences and of the evidence of high intelligence of the fly.
He has simply got more sense than anybody credits him with
having.
* * *
JIM AND SHORTY.
MY FIRST meeting and acquaintance with those kings of
Bohemian printers, if there are any such things,
"Shorty" Parish and Jim Baker, dates from the sum-
mer of 1880. I had just begun newspaper work and was in the
editorial room of the Post late one night when "Shorty" and
Jim came in. They had evidently been in luck, for they were
pretty well loaded and were in the best of humor.
"So you are going to run a newspaper," said "Shorty." "You
are making a big mistake. There's nothing in it. Quit it
while you've got time. It eats up more money than anything in
the world. A newspaper is the only thing that ever beat the
devil and that is the only good thing I ever heard about one of
them. Yes, I'll tell you how it was. A man sold his soul to the
devil for all the money he could spend, the devil to produce
every Saturday night. That man sure had a good time. He
spent money for everything he could think of, but the devil al-
ways had the cash on Saturday night. The man built railroads,
ship canals, erected big dams and went into every big thing he
could hear of, but the devil always promptly paid the bills. The
man got desperate, for the time was drawing near for him to
settle with the devil. One day he established a newspaper, just
as you and Gail Johnson are doing. The first and second pay-
ments were made promptly by the devil, but the old chap
began to look blue. In a few months the devil asked for a
little extension of time and at the end of the next week he
gave up the job altogether and tore up the contract. Now that's
a true story and you better take warning from it."
"Shorty" then asked for what he called "brain food," which
was his name for newspapers, and taking a large bundle of
exchanges, he waddled away in company with Jim Baker.
These were the two most distinguished members of the
"bummers" crowd that ever graced Houston, Galveston and other
Texas cities, where there was any printing to be done. They
172 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
were fine printers, regular experts, but they worked only spas-
modically, and when they were forced to do so by stern ne-
cessity. There were no type-setting machines in those days.
The old fashioned printer set type by hand. Both Jim and
"Shorty" were good members of the union and could always
get at least a day or two's work in any union office and that
was all either of them wanted.
"Shorty" was in constant trouble with the barkeepers. He
would show up frequently minus a hat or coat, which articles
of wearing apparel had been ruthlessly seized by some irate
saloon man in liquidation of his bar bill. About 1882 "Shorty"
went to Galveston and Major Lowe performed the miracle of
sobering him up. Then the most wonderful things occurred.
"Shorty" turned out to be an exquisite, a regular dude. He
broke out in broadcloth, patent leather boots, stovepipe hat, kid
gloves and gold-headed cane. He was sober so long that he
was made foreman of the News composing room. It was really
a treat to see him walk down Tremont or Market Street. He
was a good looking little fellow and for about a year was the
envy of the men and the admiration of the ladies. One night
he was tempted and fell. His glory departed like a summer
cloud, just faded away, and the old bum printer was in full swing
before the end of the week. "Shorty" never attempted to regain
a new foothold, but went down with flying colors, the colors he
had chosen. He went to the News office and got an armful of
"brain food" one afternoon and about 9 o'clock that night
some one going to his room found him sitting in his chair with
his glasses on, a newspaper spread out on his knee, stone dead.
Jim Baker was somewhat different from "Shorty." He never,
for one thing, ever quit drinking voluntarily. When he quit
there was a cause, other than moral. He had a voice that would
have been worth a fortune for an ambitious tragedian. It was a
grand voice and when he would repeat a poem or some extract
from one of Bob Ingersoll's speeches, it was worth listening to.
He was a great schemer and could get a quart of whiskey
where "Shorty" could not get a drink. One of the amusing
things I remember about him was once when he tried to work
the Rev. Mr. Clemens, rector of Christ Church. Mr. Clemens
was one of the best and most tender-hearted men and was always
eager to respond to an appeal for assistance. He was in the
Post editorial room one night when Jim rushed in with the re-
quest for a half dollar, saying that he was hungry and had not
eaten for two days. Mr. Clemens listened to his tale of woe
and then, taking him by the arm, hurried him down to a res-
taurant and told the man to give Jim the biggest supper he
could fix up. Mr. Clemens took a seat to see Jim enjoy the meal.
It was brought, but Jim could not eat a mouthful of it. He made
a clean breast to Mr. Clemens and never tried to impose on that
gentleman again for drinks. Mr. Clemens forgave him his de-
ception and gave him an order for a night's lodging at a nearby
boarding house. Jim actually needed the bed, so he took the
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 173
order. Instead of going to the place at once, he got drunk and
went there about midnight. He had gotten an idea in his head
that he owned the place by that time, so when he descended on
the boarding place, he did so like a whirlwind and kicked up
such a row that the police were called in and they locked him
up. Poor fellow. He, too, is dead and gone. He died in Dallas
several years ago, keeping up his record and beating "Shorty"
to the grave.
* * *
A LIVELY ELECTION.
1HEAR that Houston is going to have an election next
summer and that already the pot is beginning to boil. It
may boil until it runs over, but it can never reach one-tenth
the heat and animation that characterized our elections in recon-
struction days. Those were the hot times, sure enough, and no
mistake about it. There was no Australian ballot, no registra-
tion, nor any of the modern devices to check an unlimited ex-
ercise of the franchise. A fellow could vote as many times as
he had nerve to do so, and if he took care to vote "right" when
the right crowd was around he could get away with it.
About the most strenuous election that was ever pulled off in
those strenuous days was the one held in 1873 or 1874, I forget
the exact date. Mr. William R. Baker was the Democratic
nominee for the State Senate, and Colonel John T. Brady was
supported by the Republicans, though avowedly running as an in-
dependent. Early in the action it became evident that the candi-
dates who could get the most outside voters here would carry
the day. The Republicans sent out their agents with dragnets
and secured a large number of negroes from Fort Bend, Brazoria
and adjoining counties. Some of these came in a week or two
before election day and hung around attending torchlight pro-
cessions and political meetings, but the bulk of the negroes
were held in reserve to show up the day before and on election
day.
The Democrats were apparently snowed under, for they gave
no indication of doing anything to overcome the black overflow.
It looked blue for "Billy" Baker and he apparently had no more
chance than a snowball in that unmentionable place. The night
before election the Democrats had a torchlight procession and
public speaking, but that was done apparently more for appear-
ance than anything else.
But Billy Baker, who was president of the Houston and Texas
Central Railroad, had a card up his sleeve that was worth all
those the Republicans were playing so openly. On the morning
of the election trains began to arrive at the Central Depot from
stations as far north as Denison, and every train had a full load
of section men and other railroad employes who had come to
Houston to vote for "the boss." Every one claimed Houston as
his home and every one voted for Baker, not once but as many
times and under as many names as he could. Baker was elected,
174 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
of course, but even with the enthusiastic support of the Irish
brigade he was elected by the skin of his teeth. His majority
was so small that it was scarcely worth the name. It would
be a most difficult task for any mathematician to figure out
just what Brady's majority would have been if Mr. Baker had
not thought of his Irishmen.
He could not have secured a better following or one more de-
termined to assert their "rights" than those Irishmen. They
could not be browbeaten or intimidated, and took pleasure in
bulldozing the negro voters, who showed good sense by keep-
Ing out of their way a-s much as possible. That was one day
and one election on which Uncle Dick Wescott was in his ele-
ment and perfectly happy. He had things going his way from
start to finish. It took several days to get the imported Irish
voters out of town. There were special trains that left on
schedule time to take them back, but they stayed to enjoy the
fruits of their victory, and they had a good time, too.
The next time Mr. Baker forgot to bring the Irish brigade,
or thought he could win without their help, and he got left.
Colonel Brady beat him, but by only a small majority, as the
negro vote also was rather lacking and lukewarm, owing to the
vigilance of the white voters. The sheriff was after some of
the leaders for various crimes, and they were afraid to show
up in Houston.
I know all such statements as these sound queer to the present
generation of voters, but they must remember that it was a
case of fighting the devil with fire, and a death struggle for white
supremacy. The most honorable men recognized that it was
right to do any and every thing short of actual murder to carry
their point and they did not hesitate to do it.
Major Lowe used to tell of an election in Louisiana, when the
Democratic manager telegraphed to an eminent lawyer and.fine
gentleman who lived in an out-of-the-way precinct, telling him
he must send in returns showing 450 Democratic majority. A
day or two after he got a letter in which the gentleman informed
the manager that he had done what he had been told to do, but
that it was a rather difficult task, as there were only thirty-five
votes in that precinct.
Now, it must not be forgotten that the Republicans were doing
exactly the same things and that it was simply a question of
who could do the most of it.
* * *
HOW THE RABBIT-FOOT WORKED.
PROFESSOR PROCTOR in one of his essays draws atten-
tion to the fact that there is as much superstition involved
in combating a superstition as there is in hanging to it.
He says that the man who holds that a ship that sails on a Friday
will have a prosperous voyage is just as superstitious in one
direction as the man who claims that the ship will have bad
luck if it sails on a Friday. When one thinks of it Proctor is
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 175
right, for both the good and the bad are problematical and each
is likely to prevail. Therefore it is just as superstitious to be-
lieve in the good as in the bad, so far as the influence of Friday
is concerned.
But I am not going to write about superstition from a scientific
viewpoint, but am going to tell of some of the pet superstitions
of some of my friends. I doubt if there are many telegraph
operators except Colonel Phil Fall and Colonel D. P. Shepherd
who remember little Jack Graham, the best operator and the
gamest sport that ever handled a telegraph key or bet on a four-
flush. Jack loved a "quiet little game" better than anything on
earth and would have resigned the presidency of the Western
Union had it come between him and a nice game. He was not a
plunger, but loved a small game better than he loved to eat, and
could always be counted on to take a hand when anything was
doing.
In those days there were a number of us who had more money
than sense, so we organized a small club and we had regular
Saturday night games, which generally extended over until nearly
daylight Monday morning. Jack was always there and among
the first to get there, too. As I have said, it was a small game,
and being table stakes, it was a safe game as well.
One Saturday night we had been playing for some time and
Jack was having the most outrageous luck. Every hand he got
he found that some one had a larger. He had visited the "lamp
post" (which in plain English means that he had gone out and
floated a check or borrowed some money) two or three times
and was fast losing his patience as well as his wealth. He got
cranky and tried all the tricks of \ poker game to change his
luck. He swapped seats, turned his chair around, and did every-
thing else he could think of. It was no use, and he continued
to lose. Finally, after about the fourth visit to the "lamp post"
he found he had misplaced his bag of tobacco and, searching
for it through his pockets, he found a rabbit foot that he had
put away and forgotten all about. You should have seen the
smile that lit up his countenance when he found that foot. It
restored his confidence and he was a new man at once. He
came back and, taking his seat, he carefully dusted every one
of his chips and then heaped them over the rabbit-foot.
"Watch me do you wolves now," he said. "From this moment
you are my meat."
Actually, I felt sorry to see an intelligent man give way so
blindly to superstition as Jack was doing, for he showed abso-
lute confidence in the potency of his talisman. He did not
have a doubt.
Four or five hands were played with no features of interest
about any of them, as a rule the opener taking the pot without
opposition. Finally I skinned my hand and found four eights
pat. A man named Bright just ahead of me opened the pot and
I simply trailed. When it reached Jack he came in and tilted
the opener modestly. One other man came in, but merely stood
176 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
Jack's raise. Bright stood the raise without tilting it and I
"saw" Jack and doubled the pot as a raise. I was so certain
of the pot that I did not want to scare anybody out. Jack
"saw" my raise, but went no further; the man next to him
dropped out, but Bright played, thus leaving three of us in the
game. On the draw Bright took two cards, I took one; to our
great surprise Jack took three, showing that he had only one
pair.
Without looking at his draw, Bright threw a blue chip in the
pot. I simply "saw" Bright's bet, but when it came to Jack he
tilted the pot away up yonder. I was certain that Bright had
opened on a set of threes and I was praying for him to catch a
pair and make a "full house," but he evidently did not do so,
for he hesitated a long time about calling Jack's bet. The pot
was now large enough for me to take an interest in it, and so I
played my hand. I "saw" all that was in the pot and gave it
a substantial boost. Jack instantly sized up my chips and then
set in a stack more. I felt certain that Jack had come in on
kings or aces and had caught his third man. Bright threw down
his openers, three sixes, and quit. The play was now up to me.
I knew the pot was mine and I hated to beat Jack further, but I
saw a chance to beat him and at the same time teach him a
lesson about the folly of depending on superstition in a poker
game. I looked at him and said:
"Jack, you are in bad luck, and I hate to pound a loser, but
I am going to teach you a lesson and impoverish you at the
same time. I tap you," saying which I shoved all my chips into
the pot.
Jack liked to have broken* his arm getting his chips in, but he
said nothing.
"Now, Jack," I said, "I had you beaten all the way through,
and I would not have bankrupted you except that I saw a chance
to teach you a good lesson about the folly of playing poker
with a rabbit-foot. I had these four eights all the time." Saying
this, I spread my hand out on the table and reached for the pot.
"Hold on there," said Jack. Then, without showing his hand
he reached over and carefully inspected each of my eights. "Yes,
you've got 'em," he said, "but why don't you stay out until you
get something better?" Saying which, he laid down four jacks
and raked in the pot. He had stayed on two jacks and had
caught the other two on the draw.
Now I hate to confess it, but nevertheless it is true, when
the game broke up I tried to buy that rabbit-foot from Jack.
Instead of converting Jack he had converted me. It has been
a long, long time since I played cards of any kind, but I 'admit
that if I were going to get in a game tonight I would feel far
more comfortable if I took a rabbit-foot along than if I went
without one, and I sure would let the fellow alone who had one
in front of him.
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 177
BILLY TOOLE.
ALL the old-time printers and newspaper men remember
little Billy Toole. There was never but one Billy and
there will never be another. The time and place were
just right and Billy fitted in just as a setting does in a ring. In
the strict business of commercial life today Billy would be an
impossibility, but in the late 70's and early 80's things were the
reverse of what they are today and Billy was enabled to flour-
ish in all his glory.
Now, as a matter of fact, Billy was a real and genuine Bo-
hemian. He was the real article in every sense of the word.
He was a skilled printer in the days when type was set by hand
and skill counted for something. He had a brilliant imagination
and was fond of writing blood and thunder stories, some of
which would have done credit to Ned Buntline. The only defect
about Billy's stories was that he never completed any of them.
He would leave the hero or heroine in the most blood-curdling
situation, and without taking the trouble to get him or her out,
would lay aside his manuscript and start in on another story,
the scene of which would perhaps be on the other side of the
world. Billy almost completed one story, which had such merit
that Professor Girardeau urged him to complete and publish it,
but he never did so.
Billy was "little but he was loud." No Spanish gamecock
was ever more eager for battle than he on any pretext or excuse.
It is a remarkable statement to make, nevertheless it is true,
Billy rarely went to war and met with defeat. In some way he
always managed to come out winner. The only time he suffered
absolute defeat was when he bucked against John Barleycorn.
He would try that game, too, being a genuine Bohemian, but he
met the fate of all those brave but unwise people who enter
the unequal fight.
Billy figured as the star actor in one of the most laughable
shooting affairs that ever occurred on Main Street, and by way
of parenthesis it may be said here that he had the sympathy and
backing of every man in town, when all the facts were learned.
Billy, after "looking on the wine that was red" went wander-
ing into the "Ironclad" gambling house on Main and Congress.
He did not like something that was said or done and expressed
his opinion of the whole crowd of gamblers from the proprietor
down. For this offense he was promptly handed over to the
official "bouncer," who was a great, big, strapping fellow. The
man was a brute and, though he could have taken Billy up with
one hand and carried him down stairs like a baby, he proceeded
to handle him in the most brutal and outrageous manner. He
slugged and beat him and then, grabbing him by the lapels of
his coat, he butted him in the face. Then he carried him down
and deposited him on the sidewalk.
Billy was pretty nearly dead, but he was so angry it put life
and energy enough in him to enable him to go off and borrow
178 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
a six-shooter. Unfortunately the only pistol he could get was an
old army pistol that was large, heavy and hard to handle. Billy
took this and went back to get his man. He stood on the corner
and waited. Before long the brute showed up, and, not knowing
Billy's intentions, advanced on him as though he were going to
attack him again. Then Billy pulled out his artillery and the
fellow turned and fled. Billy fired one shot and took 'after the
man. The gun was so heavy he had to hold it up with both
hands. He would run up close, stop, cock his pistol and, hold-
ing it with both hands, would fire at the fellow. It was strictly
a running fight and extended from Congress to Preston, clearing
the sidewalk of everybody except Billy and his victim. I am
not certain, but I think Billy hit his man once or twice. I am
certain of one thing, though: that is that Billy came in for gen-
eral condemnation for being so bad a shot and not having killed
the brute the first shot out of the box. The only extenuating
circumstance was that Billy claimed the gun was so heavy he
could not handle it with any degree of satisfaction and that he
had done his best and could have done no more under the circum-
stances.
Billy was fond of practical jokes, and on one occasion he
came near ruining a fine oration by one of Houston's most bril-
liant lawyers, by asking a question and making a fool remark
just at the wrong time. The occasion was a lecture or rather
oration on the tariff question, the object being to explain what
the tariff really is. The oration was in the opera house and
the great power of the speaker being known, the affair was
made something of a society event and the house was crowded
with ladies. Billy was there in all his glory, seated away back
in the gallery. The speaker had nearly completed his address
when Billy stood up and called out: "May I ask you a question,
major?" The major recognized him and answered: "Certainly,
Mr. Toole."
"Did I understand you to say that the tariff was a tax on
everybody, though so concealed that its presence is not recognized
by all?"
"That is correct in substance," said the major.
"All right, major," said Toole. "That puts the drinks on
you. It's all I wanted to know," and he went out of the hall.
The interruption and the irrelevant reply of Billy so upset
the major that he forgot "where he was at" and made a halting
and stumbling close of an address that had started off brilliantly
and been, to the time of Billy's interruption, one of the best
efforts of his life.
For many days after that Billy kept his eye skinned for the
major and always succeeded in seeing him first. He knew it
would not do to meet the major until he cooled off.
I have often wondered how Billy managed to die a natural
death, for, according to all chances and probabilities, he should
have been killed a dozen times. He did more to be killed for
than nine-tenths of those who were actually killed. Not long ago
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 179
I read of a fellow out in a West Texas town who armed him-
self with a piece of lead pipe and strolled down the street,
slugging every man whose looks he did not like. When I read
that my thoughts reverted to Billy Toole, for that was his
method of doing business, barring the lead pipe, of course.
KIRBY-STEEL FEUD.
1LIKE Waller County. I like Hempstead and I like the people
who live up that way. There are many reasons for this.
Personally I have none but the pleasantest memories of
the old town of Hempstead, for it occupies first place in my own
"first experiences."
My first stage ride was made from Houston to Hempstead,
though I must admit that my memory of it is only in spots, one
of the "spots" being a large drove of wild horses which we saw
on the prairie about fifteen miles from Houston, and another
"spot" being our arrival at Hempstead. The first railroad ride
I ever took was from Houston to Hempstead when the Houston
and Texas Central Railway was completed to that place. There
was a big barbecue and everybody in Houston went on that
excursion. Later I spent some very happy school vacations at
the hospitable home of Mr. Jarad Groce, near Hempstead.
All these things combined render my memory of Hempstead
and Waller County very pleasant. The people up that way
are noted for their hospitality and kindly reception of strangers.
That, of course, is commendable, but it is not the reason I like
them. I know I may shock some of The Chronicle's readers
when I say it, but my real admiration for the Waller County
people is due to the fact that they are not "pikers." Whatever
they do they throw their whole heart and souls into it and do
it completely. They remind me of a sleeping volcano that lies
dormant for years and then suddenly blows up and leaves only
the fragments behind.
When they are peacefully inclined, jack rabbits are as raging
hyenas compared to them, but when they start on the other tack
they do not raise any Sunday school "hades" or "Gehenna," or
anything so euphonious sounding as that, but start right in with
the genuine article and raise unadulterated hell. It has been
said that any sport who, ambitious of becoming a bad man, was
on the warpath seeking trouble, could find more of the genuine
article, done up in a greater variety of styles, in Hempstead than
in any other place in Texas. Just why this is so no one seems to
understand, for as a rule the people of Waller County are among
the best in the state and year after year the most profound
peace, law and order prevail.
Still there are always toes to be trodden on, and a Waller
County man was never known to thwart the intentions of a
would-be treader by withdrawing his toes. The trouble hunter
is always sure of being met fully half way. There must be
180 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
some cause for the existence of so much latent pugnacity, such
dogged persistency, when once the "warpath" is taken, and,
above all, for the reckless daring and coolness of the men when
"in action."
I have thought over the matter and concluded that it is all
a question of heredity. It was born in them and they can't help
it. My reason for saying this is that I know something of their
fathers and grandfathers. In early days that section was settled
by some of the best, most prominent and influential families
who came to Texas.
Conflicting interests, political differences and other causes
led to individual quarrels and difficulties; personal friends and
relatives took sides and soon there were fueds that resulted
in bloody conflict. The fights were always many fights the
stand up, give and take kind. Such a thing as an assassination
was almost unknown and when one occasionally occurred ten
to one both the assassin and his victim belonged to the lowest
order of criminals. The genuine feuds frowned on the work of
an assassin and when a Brown or two were killed by a Smith
or two there was no effort made to conceal the fact. It was
done in the open and everybody knew how, why and when it
was done.
In those days there was a powerful and influential planter
living near Hempstead Colonel Kirby. There was also another
man there who less prominent in social and financial circles,
but one possessed of strong character, personal bravery and
other admirable qualities that enable a man to establish himself
anywhere as a man. This latter was Captain John Steel, a
hero of San Jacinto. He had a farm which he and his son cul-
tivated. For some cause Steel and Kirby quarreled. Kirby had
a hundred friends where Steel had one, but that made no dif-
ference to Steel, who would not yield an inch. Kirby ordered
Steel to leave the country, while Steel flatly refused to go. Some
of Kirby's friends caught young Steel one night and just for fun
made out they were going to hang him. They did not hurt him,
but turned him loose after scaring him badly. This enraged
Captain Steel and he sent word to Colonel Kirby that he was
going to kill him on sight. Colonel Kirby treated the message
with contempt and sent back word to Steel that he was going to
treat him as a common criminal and that if he (Steel) were
found in Waller County by midnight the next night he was going
to have him hanged to the first tree he could find. That settled
it. It was no longer a matter between two men, but was one
of a single man against a dozen or more. Steel knew Kirby
would do exactly what he said he would do. So he acted with
discretion and left for Houston at once. He had to sacrifice his
home and everything to save his life, but he did so, bearing in
mind all the time that some day he would be able to square
his account with Kirby.
Steel remained in Houston until the close of the war. The
army of occupation came in and everything was under semi-
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 181
martial law. One day Colonel Kirby came to Houston to consult
with the commander of the post, whose office was on the second
floor of the old Wilson building,corner of Main Street and Con-
gress Avenue. On the same day and at the same hour Captain
Steel went to consult Judge Hamblen, his lawyer, who had an
office in the same building just opposite the commander's office.
Their business completed, both Kirby and Steel stepped out in
the hall from the respective offices and for the first time since
their trouble, came face to face. Not a word was spoken by
either. Like a flash Steel drew his pistol and fired and Kirby
sank to the floor and died. Steel was arrested and placed in
Jail. He was soon admitted to bail and then his case came to
trial and he was acquitted.
At the time when Colonel Kirby was killed he had a young
son only four or five years old. This boy was too young to
appreciate the great loss he had sustained, but as he grew up
he learned all the details, and though he never gave a hint of
that fact, he evidently brooded over it and determined to be
avenged. He was sent away to one of the older states and grad-
uated from a leading college with honor. He then entered a law
school, developed fine oratorical power and graduated at the
head of his class. He returned home, and as his fame had pre-
ceded him, he was given a royal welcome by his own friends
and by those of his father.
In the meantime Captain Steel had moved back to Waller
County and was living in or near Hempstead. Young Kirby
never mentioned Steel's name and gave no indication that he
knew of his existence. Kirby did know it, though, and had made
all his plans. The following Sunday morning Steel, now an old
man, was coming out of the church door with his old wife hold-
ing to his arm. As he got completely out he was confronted by
young Kirby, who had stepped from behind a tree, with a gun in
his hand. Again the old tragedy was re-started. Steel and
Kirby again faced each other, though in this last meeting the
ground of vantage was shifted and Kirby held the winning hand.
Again not a word was spoken. There was a sharp report and
Steel was sent to his final account in identically the same way
that he had sent Colonel Kirby to his. Young Kirby disappeared
at once. If any effort was ever made to catch him it was only
perfunctory and half-hearted, for everybody felt that he had
done only right in killing the man who had killed his father and
doing it in the same way that the first killing had been done.
Now, this is only one of many similar cases that took place
in Waller and neighboring counties, and while there are no feuds
up that way now there is lots of the same blood that caused the
old ones, and while conditions now do not favor family bicker-
ings and contentions, there is the same old martial spirit up
that way that occasionally slips its bridle and, as remarked al-
ready, proceeds to raise genuine hell.
182 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
NEGRO FIREMEN DURING THE WAR.
IN 1863 every able-bodied man in Houston who was anything
of a man at all had gone in the army. Houston's fine
volunteer fire department existed only in name, for all the
young men comprising it had promptly volunteered at the first
call. There were only the old men and boys left and as these
were poor material from which to make active firemen, the situ-
ation was rather grave. There was a good hook and ladder
outfit, that of Hook and Ladder Company No. 1, and two fire
machines I came near saying engines, but they were not. They
were the old-fashioned machines that had a pump somewhere in
the middle, worked by two side arms having at their ends long
bars, which were worked up and down by from ten to fifteen
men on each side. Doubtless many readers of The Chronicle
have seen pictures of these old fire fighting machines, which
texist now nowhere else except in pictures. But there was no
one here to work even these old machines, so it was finally de-
termined to detail a number of negroes to act as firemen under
white officers. The negroes made splendid firemen and enjoyed
it so much that it was feared by some of the timid citizens that
the negroes would start fires just for the fun and pleasure of
putting them out.
It was a pleasure to watch the negro firemen at a fire. They
threw their whole souls into the work and seemed never to
grow weary, although it was the hardest kind of work and fre-
quently lasted for two or three hours without stop or rest.
Nominally they were under the control of white men, but actual-
ly, after they got their pumps going and their streams of water
well directed, they were under their own control, so far as
running those handlebars was concerned. A little whiskey
handed around in a bucket and drunk out of a tin cup without
water was all-sufficient to keep them on the go under a full
head of steam for hours. They sang, of course, for a real negro
can do nothing that requires rapid action without singing, and
they composed their own words and, I suspect, their own tunes,
too.
I remember a big fire that qccurred down by where the gas
works now are, in 1863. Quite a number of small houses were
burned. Of course, with the present day fire department the
fire would never have extended beyond the first house, but at
that time whenever a house caught fire, if there was one near
it, it was pretty apt to go, too. Anyway, four or five went that
time, one after the other, the negroes fighting the fire like
demons, and singing like angels, for they do sing sweetly. One
of my grandfather's negroes, John Cook, better known to every-
body as "Big John," because of his great size, was choir leader.
He would sing a verse alone and then other negroes would take
up the refrain. I heard the song so often that I remember the
tune and one of the verses. I can't give you the air, but I can
give the verse, which was as follows:
HOUSTON AND HOUSTONIANS 183
"If I had a wife and she wouldn't dress fine,
Whiskey, oh whiskey!
I'd leave this world and climb a pine.
Whiskey, oh my whiskey!
Big John, who had a powerful voice, would sing:
"If I had a wife who wouldn't dress fine,"
and then the crowd would join in with
"Whiskey, oh whiskey!"
It was fine. There were about fifty verses, but the one I give
is all that I remember. The air was very musical and the
words fitted well to the beat of the handlebars, so that the work
of handling them became a real pleasure instead of hard work,
as it would have been without the singing. It was something
like going to a good concert to attend a fire in those days.
I don't know that there is such a thing as a negro fire com-
pany in existence today anywhere in the United States, but if
there is, it can't, with modern fire fighting apparatus, be any-
thing like the old negro company that Houston had during the
war.
* * *
HISTORICAL SPOTS.
PUTTING that tablet on the Rice Hotel building to designate
the point where the capitol of the Republic of Texas
once stood was a good idea, but there are one or two
other points whose historical memories also should be preserved.
One of the chief of these is the Preston Street bridge, for where
it stands once stood the pioneer bridge of Houston, over which
passed the commerce of Texas. Until 1842 there was no bridge
across Buffalo Bayou. There was little or no need for one, for
north of Houston there was only scant settlement and what
travel was done was mainly to and from the west over the San
Felipe Road, which passed to the west of the bayou. The stray
farmer or traveler from the north or east had either to go
around the head of the bayou or use Stockbridge ford at the
foot of Texas Avenue. But in the early 40's a bridge became
absolutely necessary, because Montgomery, Washington and
Grimes Counties were settling up rapidly and the farmers de-
sired some speedier means of getting to the "city."
The city built the bridge at the foot of Preston Street, as it
was called then, and it stood for a number of years, until swept
away by a big rise in the bayou. When it was replaced a longer,
higher and stronger bridge was built, and this was known as the
"Long Bridge." It stood for years and was the only means of
communication between Houston and the rapidly growing in-
terior. Over it passed the cotton, hides, corn and all farm prod-
184 TRUE STORIES OF OLD
ucts that were brought here to be marketed and all goods for
the interior, purchased in Houston, were taken back over this
bridge. Farmers and merchants from as far north as Waco
came to Houston to sell their produce and to purchase their
goods. Both for the sake of company and for mutual protection
they traveled in companies of four or five, and it was no unusual
thing to see a row of wagons, each drawn by from eight to six-
teen oxen, crossing "Long Bridge." Then, too, Main Street and
Market Square would present a strange sight when crowded with
oxen and ox wagons. It used to be a hard pull from the end of
the bridge on this side to Louisiana Street. Preston Street has
been cut down and graded since then, but in the early days it
was uphill from the bridge to Louisiana Street, and it was all
deep white sand. It was a regular sandhill and a big wagon
loaded with several bales of cotton had need of all the oxen
obtainable to get through safely. I have seen teams doubled up
more than once and two or three trips made to get the wagons
through.
Of course, from over on the Brazos the wagons came in over
the San Felipe Road, but the great bulk of the commerce of
Texas passed over the Preston Street bridge. All the cotton
raised in Texas at that time was brought to Houston and sold
here and all the goods consumed in the interior were bought
here. The cotton crops in those days were small affairs as com-
pared with those of today, hence it was possible for the Houston
merchants to finance the whole crop. Of course the fact that
very little cash was paid out, the cotton being traded for both
goods and cash, rendered it possible for even a small merchant
to do a big business and in this way the foundations were laid
for some of the big fortunes many of the Houstonians made.
In those days a favorite sport among the boys was sledding.
The sleds were made by rounding off the ends of two pieces of
plank, to serve as runners, and then joining them together by
nailing a stout piece in front and a broad piece behind to serve
as a seat. A long rope was attached to the front end and the
whole thing was ready for use. When an ox wagon came along
we would slip up behind it, pass the rope around the rear axle,
or whatever it is called, and then drawing it far enough back so
as to be able to sit on the sled and hold the loose end, we would
mount the sled and ride to our heart's content, or until the
driver discovered us. If he showed hostile intentions, all we
would have to do was to turn loose the end of the rope, grab
our sled and ge
