Chapter 7

FOOTNOTES:[13]For official particulars concerning this incident and other work of that period, see Appendix B.

FOOTNOTES:

[13]For official particulars concerning this incident and other work of that period, see Appendix B.

XXXIII

Other Work in East Texas

DISTRICTS WHICH EVEN A RANGER FINDS HOPELESS. THE TOUCHSTONE MURDER. THE CONFESSION OF AB ANGLE

Itwas only a short distance—as distances go in Texas (only a hundred miles or so, in a southeasterly direction)—from the Trans-cedar country, made celebrated by the Humphrey lynching, to certain sections of Walker, Houston, Madison and Trinity counties, where similar social conditions have developed.

In Kittrell's Cut-off, for instance, and around Groveton, there has developed a special talent for assassination. Men walking along the road in daylight are sometimes shot from behind. When it is nightfall the assassin may lie in wait by the roadside. If he gets the wrong man by mistake, it is no difference—it keeps him in practice. Sometimes the victim is called to his door at night and shot down from the dark. These are a few of the methods for removing individuals not favorably regarded by the active set, and many other forms of murder are adopted or invented for particular cases. Even Captain Bill McDonald found these districts hopeless as fields for reform, he said.

"If a whole community has no use for law and order it's not worth while to try to enforce such things. You've got to stand over a place like that with a gun to make it behave, and when you catch a man, no matter what the evidence is against him, they'll turn him loose. In Groveton, for instance, when I was there they had only two law-respecting officers—the district clerk and the county attorney, and the county attorney they killed. Good citizens were so completely in the minority that they were helpless. Kittrell's Cut-off was probably one of the most lawless places you could find anywhere, though it was named after a judge. It's a strip cut off of Houston and Trinity counties and added to Walker, and its name is the only thing about it that ever had anything to do with the law. Many murders have been committed there and no one ever convicted for them, so far as I know."

Captain Bill was ordered to investigate a Kittrell's Cut-off murder during December, 1903. A man had been assassinated from ambush, in the fashion of that section, and such attempts as had been made by the local authorities to uncover the murderers had been without result. But such murders had become so common there that the few respectable citizens of the locality had decided to appeal to Governor Lanham for aid, and their plea asked especially for Captain McDonald.

McDonald went down; looked over the ground and sent for one of his men, Blaze Delling, to assistin handling the situation—the community being simply infested with men of low, desperate natures. Already the Ranger Captain had taken up the trail and had arrested three men, and these were brought for trial.

What was the use? Before the final trial, the three principal witnesses suddenly sickened and died; the District Attorney found himself without a case; the prisoners were discharged.

It was about this time that County Attorney H.L. Robb (himself a victim later), asked that Captain McDonald be sent to Groveton in Trinity County to unravel the mystery surrounding the murder of an old lady, committed about a year before. Captain Bill went reluctantly, for he was tired of that section and cared not much for a "cold" trail at best.

On arrival at Groveton, he learned the facts so far as known. A feeble old lady named Touchstone, living alone, had been murdered for a stocking full of money supposed to be hidden somewhere on the premises. She had only a life interest in the money, anyway, but the heirs to her trifling hoard of probably not more than a few hundred dollars, had been impatient and had frequently demanded their shares. They were a devilish brood, but the old lady did not seem to fear them and carried a stout stick for defense. She had been found murdered, one afternoon, her throat cut, and her body left lying in the dooryard, where it had been mangled by hogs. Naturally the relatives were suspected,but thus far no evidence had been found against them.

There was evidence enough, however, for a man who had eyes trained to follow clues and to distinguish signs. In a comparatively brief time, Captain McDonald felt warranted in causing the arrest of one Ab Angle, and several others. Angle had married a granddaughter of the murdered woman and all were relatives. In the course of time, Angle's heart failed him and he confessed the crime in full. In his sworn statement, he said:

"We all talked the matter over about going and robbing Mary Jane (Mrs. Touchstone) and Hill Hutto said: 'Let's have an understanding.' George Angle, Wash and Joe Tullis, Hill Hutto and Mrs. Tullis and myself (all relatives) were to meet over at Mary Jane's to see where she kept the money, and to get it. That was our intention—to get the money on Saturday night. Hill Hutto was to be there when we got there. It was just dark when we got started, and we went through the fields in an easterly direction, in a trail through the woods."The understanding was that Joe Tullis and I were to do the watching, and Joe was on one end of the gallery and I was on the other end—he being told to watch the east end of the road, and I to watch the west end. Hill Hutto was to be there, talking to Mary Jane, while George Angle and Mrs. Tullis were to go in at the front, and Wash was to go in at the back of the house. She (Mrs. Touchstone) had some meal spread out on the floor to dry. She was sitting down—I do not know on what—talking to Hill."Mrs. Tullis said, 'Mary Jane, we have come to see whether you have that money yet, or not.' Mary Jane started to get up, but Hill Hutto, George Angle, Wash Tullis and Mrs. Tullis grabbed her and carried her out on the gallery and told me and Joe to watch the road, good, and we told her (Mrs. Tullis) we would, as far as we could see. She (Mrs. Touchstone) started to holler, but Wash put a handkerchief over her mouth. He had a white handkerchief in his right coat-pocket...."

"The understanding was that Joe Tullis and I were to do the watching, and Joe was on one end of the gallery and I was on the other end—he being told to watch the east end of the road, and I to watch the west end. Hill Hutto was to be there, talking to Mary Jane, while George Angle and Mrs. Tullis were to go in at the front, and Wash was to go in at the back of the house. She (Mrs. Touchstone) had some meal spread out on the floor to dry. She was sitting down—I do not know on what—talking to Hill.

"Mrs. Tullis said, 'Mary Jane, we have come to see whether you have that money yet, or not.' Mary Jane started to get up, but Hill Hutto, George Angle, Wash Tullis and Mrs. Tullis grabbed her and carried her out on the gallery and told me and Joe to watch the road, good, and we told her (Mrs. Tullis) we would, as far as we could see. She (Mrs. Touchstone) started to holler, but Wash put a handkerchief over her mouth. He had a white handkerchief in his right coat-pocket...."

The confession then relates how they put out the fire (fearing its light) by throwing a bucket of water on it and how they jerked off a bonnet which the old lady had on. It proceeds:

"They (her precious relatives) carried her to the edge of the gallery and asked her to say where the money was, and she said she did not have any, and they pushed her off, and as they pushed her off, Hill Hutto struck her with a stick."

It was at this point probably that they cut their victim's throat—a detail which Angle's confession does not mention—through delicacy, perhaps. He says:

"They went out and examined her, going through her clothes carefully, in search for her possessions. Hill Hutto, Wash Tullis, George Angle and Mrs. Tullis did the examining, and they got one-half and one-quarter of a dollar. George Angle and Wash Tullis spent the money. Hill Hutto, Wash Tullis, George Angle and Mrs. Tullis looked over the house and went through the trunks and the bed. If theygot any money, I do not know of it. They came out of the house and looked under the house to see if they could find any dirt dug up, or any fresh signs, but they could not find any, and we went out at the west end of the gallery, and climbed over the fence and took the trail through the fields and Hill went the back way...."

Many half-burnt matches were found under the house by Rangers McDonald and Delling to confirm this statement. The confession proceeds:

"The stick and the bucket were thrown out near where she was. The stick was her walking-stick and the bucket the one Wash put the fire out with. Hill threw the stick out, and Wash threw out the bucket. Hill said he would leave the bucket out there and the people would think she just went out to slop the hogs and fell out. It was understood that night by all six of us that Wash and George would come back and get the hogs in there, and that they would dig a hole on the left of the gate as you go in."

He details how Wash Tullis and George Angle changed their shirts before breakfast—for the removal of ghastly evidence, of course-and howafter breakfastthey changed their trousers. He relates how the hogs were to be "tolled into the yard," and adds:

"The understanding was that we were to find her by the buzzards, but Jim Ray found her before the time."

Now, it would be natural to suppose that a confession like that would hang the confessor and hisconfederates as high as Haman. It did nothing of the sort. Angle's relatives prevailed upon him to retract his confession, and under the law, as administered in that district, they were all discharged except Angle himself who was sentenced for three years for havingcommitted perjury by swearing to a confession which he subsequently declared a lie!

It is hardly to be wondered at that men like Bill McDonald should lose interest in a neighborhood where conditions like these exist. What use is it to track and bring home criminals only to see them go free, perhaps vowing vengeance against their captors. A detective was assassinated in Groveton, and Ranger Dunaway, on invitation of Attorney Robb, went over to look into the matter. On their way to the court-house both Robb and Dunaway were fired upon from the window of a law office. Dunaway was severely wounded, and Robb, fatally injured, lived but a short time.

It would be monotonous to detail the instances of crime and of the captures made in the neighborhood of Groveton, Madisonville and neighboring communities; to record the careful and brave work of Captain McDonald and his Rangers which led only to failure in the end, through the lack of public and official co-operation. When the men who administer the law, and a controlling number of the citizens, do not want justice, then perhaps it is just as well that law abiding citizens should move away and let the rest murder one another to their hearts' content.

A father and son waylaid and killed an old man named Tummins in Madison County, and were arrested single-handed by Captain Bill. The two were discharged on the plea of self defense.

A young man by the name of Hunter Gibbs was entrapped and assassinated near Madisonville, and his murderers were traced home and arrested by McDonald and his Rangers. They were eventually discharged.

A man named Wright Terry (this was in Groveton) after killing an officer and a doctor and nearly killing a drummer, was brought to book by Captain Bill, and might have gone free like the others if he hadn't good-naturedly agreed to plead guilty and take a life sentence rather than discommode his friends. But enough, let us turn to pleasanter things.[14]

FOOTNOTES:[14]For certain details of the Touchstone episode and other work of this period, see Captain McDonald's report for two years ending August 31, 1904, Appendix C.

FOOTNOTES:

[14]For certain details of the Touchstone episode and other work of this period, see Captain McDonald's report for two years ending August 31, 1904, Appendix C.

XXXIV

A Wolf-hunt with the President

CAPTAIN BILL SEES THE PRESIDENT THROUGH TEXAS AND ACCOMPANIES HIM ON THE "BEST TIME OF HIS LIFE." QUANAH PARKER TELLS STORIES TO THE HUNTERS

Itwas early in April, 1905, that Governor Lanham summoned Captain McDonald and informed him that a wolf-hunt had been arranged for President Roosevelt, by these two big ranchmen, Tom Waggoner and Burke Burnett, somewhere in their pastures up in Comanche County, Oklahoma, and that he, McDonald, was to accompany the President as a special body-guard, particularly through the State of Texas.

Captain Bill looked unhappy.

"Governor," he said, "you know I'm a hell-roarin' democrat, and don't care much for republican presidents in general and this one in particular. I'd rather you picked another man for the job."

"All the same, Captain, we've picked you, and you'll have to serve," said Lanham.

Captain Bill saluted.

"Just as you say, Governor," he said, "only ifI'd done the picking I'd picked a man that wanted the job. There's enough of 'em."

Captain Bill proceeded to Fort Worth to join the President's party. Col. Cecil Lyon introduced the Ranger Captain to President Roosevelt, and Burke Burnett, also present, said:

"Now, Captain, you've got a very precious charge—the President of the United States. He's in your hands, don't let anything happen; don't let anybody assassinate him."

Captain Bill smiled, in his quaint fashion.

"Burke," he said, pleasantly, "if anybody gets killed on this trip I'll be the man charged with it, and the President of the United States won't be the victim, either."

Without delay the President and party took the Fort Worth and Denver train toward the Pan-handle. Once inside, out of the throng and under way President Roosevelt with his accustomed good-nature and friendly fellowship promptly struck up a conversation with his Master of Affairs.

"Look here," he said, "you were introduced to me as Captain McDonald: you're not Captain Bill McDonald of the Rangers, are you?"

Captain Bill nodded.

"That's my name, Mr. President," he said, "I've been captain of a company of Rangers for a long time."

"Is it possible? Well, I've heard a good deal about you."

Theodore Roosevelt has been accused of a good many things, but no one ever accused him of not being able to make friends, or to keep them.

Captain Bill smiled, as who wouldn't.

"Why, Mr. President," he said, "I didn't think you'd ever heard about the Rangers."

The President's teeth shone in an expansive appreciation.

"Yes, indeed I have, and I've heard all about you. I remember very well when you captured Kid Lewis and his partner, Crawford, up here at Wichita Falls, and kept the crowd from lynching them as long as you stayed there."

After that, conversation was easy, and Captain Bill's opinion of his distinguished guest improved steadily. They discussed hunting, marksmanship, the Rough Riders, the capture of bad men and all the subjects of the strenuous life of the frontier.

With the President had come a body-guard of four secret-service men, whose chief duty at this time was to protect him from the crowds who pressed upon him here and there when the train halted and he went out, as he did when there was time, to greet the people and perhaps make a brief address. Captain Bill noticed that the secret-service men did not seem quite equal to these occasions. Perhaps they were not accustomed to handling the range-bred enthusiasm of that elemental region. When the presidential party pulled into Wichita Falls the platform was thronged. The crowds made a rush asthe train came to a standstill—trying to climb over one another, it would seem—to get near the President. The secret-service men were helpless—they pushed and protested, but accomplished little. Captain Bill stepped out on the platform. Hardly a man in that crowd but recognized that lean weather-beaten face, and that white hat. A good many remembered that picture from a night and a morning nine years before when, at their jail, a lone Ranger Captain had risen up in wrath and ruled the mob. Some there remembered Bill McDonald a good deal longer than that—for twenty years or more, when he had found that place a lawless settlement on an untamed frontier and brought order out of human chaos and put a governor on the wheels of law. When he spoke, now, they listened.

"Get out of the way, boys! Stay down there, you fellows; don't crowd up here!" he said, and a sudden impulse of order was the result.

Now and then he added a word of caution, but it was hardly needed. Captain Bill knew his crowd, and the crowd knew Captain Bill. The President observed and marveled. At Vernon there was another crowd—rollicking and noisy—and again the Ranger Captain held the disorder in hand. When the train started once more President Roosevelt said to his body-guard of four:

"Boys, you ought to take a few pointers from Captain McDonald in handling a crowd," and the "Boys" agreed to do it, knowing all the time, aseverybody there knew, that it would need Captain Bill's twenty years' special acquaintance with that crowd to achieve his results.

At Vernon they took a train for Frederick—a little station in Comanche County, from which place they would ride a distance of twenty-five miles to the camping place, located on a creek called the Deep Red. At Frederick the President relieved his special guard of four, and sent them back to Fort Worth to wait his return.

It was on April 8th that they arrived at Frederick where a good share of the hunting party, and an enthusiastic crowd had gathered to welcome them. The hunting party set out immediately for the camp, arriving about nightfall.

Whoever chose the camping place made a good selection. The Deep Red—a branch of Red River—is a fine running stream, with plenty of timber and good grass. From all about the howling of their game—the small gray wolves, or coyotes, which infest that country. The surroundings were ideal.

There were about fifteen in the hunting party, which included their hosts, Tom Waggoner and Burke Burnett; also young Tom Burnett, who was in charge of the horses—himself a daring horseman—Lieut.-General S.M.B. Young (known to the Indians as "War Bonnet"); Lieutenant Fortescue (formerly of the Rough Riders); Dr. Alexander Lambert of New York; Col. Cecil Lyon of Texas; Sloan Simpson, Postmaster of Dallas; John R. Abernethy of Tesca, Oklahoma (later, by the President's appointment, United States Marshal); certain ranchmen and cowboys—by no means forgetting Chief Quanah Parker, of whom we have heard before in these chapters, now specially invited by the President's request. Chief Quanah was then about sixty—tall, straight as an arrow and a fine rider.

It was a pretty extensive camp, altogether. There were a hundred horses and a "chuck" wagon—a regular "cow outfit";—a buggy for Burke Burnett and General Young; two hacks, one of which belonged to Chief Quanah, and other vehicles. Then there was a pack of forty greyhounds, some stag-hounds, and about a half-dozen long-eared deer or fox-hounds, for special work.

The excitement and joy of the tents and blazing campfires, and the howling of the wolves, made everybody eager for morning and an early start. So when supper was over and the guard set for the night, the Great National Hunter and his friends and protectors lay down to rest, the campfires still throwing a wide circle of light, on the fading edges of which the coyotes gathered and looking up howled their anguish to the stars.

It was a little more than daylight, next morning, a bright cool morning, when the hunting party was up and away. The hunters were mounted, all except General Young and Burke Burnett, who were in the habit of following the chase in their buggy. The dogs to be used for the morning run mingled withthe riders, the others being confined in the chuck wagon in a large cage, to be kept fresh, and used in the afternoon, when the first detachment should be run down. At the head of the party rode Tom Burnett and "Bony" Moore and behind these came President Roosevelt of the United States, and Captain Bill McDonald of Texas.

It was no trouble to find a wolf in that locality. One was soon started up and the hounds were away, with the party of horsemen and Burke Burnett's buggy following pell-mell in a general helter-skelter, for which the President set the pace. As the Ranger Captain saw the Chief Executive of the nation go careering over ditches and washouts and through prairie-dog cities, his admiration grew literally by leaps and bounds. He wished, however, he hadn't promised to bring the President home intact. Bill McDonald was considered something of a rider, himself, but he was not entirely happy in this Tam O'Shanter performance. Still he stayed in the game.

"It looked mighty scary to me," he said afterward, "but I wouldn't quit. The others followed, but some of them would go slower."

It was great excitement, great sport and great fun—a wild race across the prairie—a final bringing of the wolf to bay with the "worry" and "death" by the dogs, and general rejoicing by all.

But when the next wolf—or it may have been the third one—was cornered there was a genuine exhibition. It was not killed by the dogs, it was taken alive, by one man. John Abernethy was that man, and he took that wolf with his hands. This was the manner of it. Whenever the dogs ran upon the wolf, the wolf would turn and snap savagely, and if those teeth of his happened to touch any part of the dog they left their mark, and sometimes that part of the dog remained with the wolf. This made the dogs careful—and shy.

But Abernethy was not careful—at least he was not shy. He ran up close to that cornered wolf and fell upon him, and when the wolf snapped at him, just as he had snapped at those dogs, Abernethy by a quick movement of his hand caught the wolf by the lower jaw and held him fast, and in such a way, that jerk and writhe and twist as he might he could not get free. Then Abernethy, who was about thirty years old and a muscular man, quick of movement and fearless, holding fast to the wolf's jaw, carried that wolf to his horse, mounted and rode away, still carrying his captive, alive.

Well, of course, President Roosevelt admired that beyond any feature of the expedition. He had Abernethy do it again and again, and Abernethy never made a failure. Sometimes he tied the wolf's jaws together with a handkerchief; just held him and tied him in a deft workman-like way and made off with him hanging on his saddle. It looked easy enough, to see Abernethy seize the wolf, and presently a young fellow in the group of hunters decidedthat itwaseasy. But when he tried it, he only got a knife-like slit across his hand and abandoned the contract. Then the President wanted to try it, himself, as of course he would, but there are some things which even a President cannot be permitted to attempt.

However, he was not to be kept altogether out of danger, and in the characteristic incident which follows, those who will, may, perhaps, find some allegorical significance.

As the party rode along—this was during a quiet recess between wolves—they came upon a big rattlesnake, about five feet long, and thicker than a man's wrist, coiled up, on a prairie-dog hill. When the President saw it, he got down from his horse and taking his quirt (a small rawhide riding whip about two feet long) he went up to the big rattler and struck him. The snake was coiled, and sprang, but Roosevelt stepped aside and quickly struck him again and again, then stamped his head into the earth. There were plenty of rattlesnakes around there, for the country was one great prairie-dog colony, and when they came upon another, the President, like Abernethy, repeated his special performance. The others did not like it—it looked too risky—and that night when the President was not in the vicinity, Cecil Lyon and Captain McDonald quietly removed the quirt which had been left hanging on the Presidential saddle, and said nothing of the matter at all. But the President was a good deal disturbed whenhe wanted to use the quirt next day, and wondered and grumbled about it, until finally Captain Bill confessed the fact and reasons of its disappearance.

"We were afraid you'd get snake-bit, Mr. President," he said, "and we're having too much fun to have it stopped by an accident like that."

Theodore Roosevelt saw the joke and laughed. Then he led them away on a race that if not as dangerous as coquetting with rattlesnakes was at least more boisterously exciting.

They got four or five wolves that first day and the next, most of them also taken alive by Abernethy, and these they carried to camp and lariated out. It was a good start for a menagerie, and they added to it daily.

It was on the second day that Chief Quanah's family arrived—his favorite wife, Too-nicey, and the two others whose names are not remembered, but may have been Some-nicey and Quite-nice-enough, together with a small boy and a papoose; and these in their hack followed the hunt with the others. It was a genuine jubilee when a coyote was started up and was followed by that boisterous company; the buggy of "War Bonnet," and Burnett hitting only the high places; Too-nicey and her matrimonial alliance bouncing along in the hack, with the dog-wagon, wildly excited—a regular canine explosion—bringing up the rear. Then, what excitement when the wolf was finally run down and killed or captured; what rejoicing by everybody—includingToo-nicey, Quite-nicey, and Pretty-nicey, or whatever their names might be.

IN CAMP WITH THEODORE ROOSEVELT."They gathered about the big fire, cowboy fashion."

But now it developed that the three Nicey's could serve a good purpose on a hunt like that as well as for mere decoration. They had eyes—marvelous eyes—that could see a wolf far across the prairie when the eyes of white men could not distinguish even a sign. There was no need of a glass when the wives of Quanah sat in their hack and scanned the horizon. Certainly that was an unusual hunting party, and very likely a unique experience, for all concerned.

But perhaps the best part of the hunting was the evening, after all. Then it was that they gathered about the big fire, cowboy fashion, with Chief Quanah Parker in their midst, talking to them—repeating the traditions of his father and his tribe—the tale of his mother's capture, the story of his own life and battles—his views and his religion of later years.

In a former chapter we have told of the massacre of Fort Parker and the capture of the little girl, Cynthia Ann Parker, who was adopted by the tribe, married a chief, and in time became Chief Quanah's mother. Gathered about the campfire on Deep Red Creek, in a wide circle of loneliness, with "Tom" Burnett, who understands the Indian language "better than the Indians themselves," acting as interpreter and the President of the United States listening, the son of that little captured girl toldthat story, now, and he supplemented it with the story of his father—a sequel that will not be out of place here.

The tribe had loved the little captive white girl, the story runs, and the little girl had learned to love her captors. She had learned their speech and forgot her own; then, by and by when she was no longer a little girl, a great chief named Nacona had wooed her and made her his wife. Nacona was a mighty warrior and made frequent raids on the white settlements and carried off much property—cattle and horses.

But finally his last raid came. Captain Sul. Ross (later Governor Ross), stationed at Fort Griffin with a troop of Rangers—sixty trained Indian fighters—was watching for an opportunity to fall upon Nacona, unawares. The opportunity came when Nacona, with his braves and many of their squaws and children, were camped one day at the mouth of Talking John Creek in Hardeman County. There was good hunting on Talking John Creek, and Nacona and his braves, fresh from a raid on the white settlements below, had stopped there for a few days to rest and recuperate before taking up the final homeward march. They felt secure and had no thought that Rangers were anywhere in the vicinity.

Then suddenly there was a clatter of horses' feet, a crack of carbines, and Captain Ross with his sixty fighting devils were upon them. There was no timefor preparation. Most of the Indians fled wildly, leaving their squaws and their captured plunder. Nacona's wife, who had been the little captured Parker girl, was in the camp with him; also their two children, Quanah, and his little sister, Prairie Flower.

With the first charge of the Rangers, Nacona seized his rifle, leaped upon his horse and rushed after his braves, in the hope of gathering them for battle. That his wife and children would not be harmed by the white men he knew. He knew also, that the case was desperate, and he realized this more fully when he found that his braves were hopelessly scattered, and in full flight.

Nacona prepared to meet his death. The mounted Rangers were already close upon him and he would die like the great chief that he was. Beneath a large mesquite tree he dismounted and seating himself began chanting the death song. Captain Ross and a detachment of Rangers rode up. Nacona still chanted on. Then suddenly it may have occurred to him that they meant to take him alive. They would imprison him, perhaps hang him. He would die fighting.

Rousing as from a dream, he ceased his chant and throwing his rifle to his shoulder, fired. The bullet missed, but it brought a quick answering shot from a Ranger at Captain Ross's side, and the chief dropped forward, his face in the grass.

So died Nacona, bravely, as a chief should die,and was buried where he fell. In time his grave became a landmark. And Nacona's wife, who had been Cynthia Ann Parker—no longer of the white race, but an Indian in language and habits and affiliations—was brought by her new captors, once more to dwell among her own kind, bringing with her the boy Quanah, and his little sister, Prairie Flower. The mother was never satisfied with civilization and always longed to return to the tribe. Little Prairie Flower—homesick and delicate—pined away and soon followed Nacona to the Spirit Land. The boy Quanah was sent back to his father's people, for he was a chief in his own right. In time he became a great leader of the Comanche Tribe, and, unlike his father, a friend of his mother's race. He surrounded himself with the comforts and many of the luxuries of white men; his home to-day is truly a white man's home, with handsome furnishings, a piano and pictures; his voice has been heard in the white man's councils, and a white man's city was named in his honor. But the language of white men he has never learned.[15]

Altogether that wolf hunt was a great success. Seventeen wolves completed the result of the five days of hunting, most of them taken alive and lariated out around the camp—a lively and musical collection that delighted all parties concerned, exceptpossibly the wolves themselves. As for President Roosevelt he enjoyed this vigorous isolated vacation continuously. But it was not easy to preserve the isolation of that camp. Every day visitors came riding or driving across the country, from somewhere, to seek an audience with the nation's Chief Executive. There were men who wanted office for themselves; men who wanted office for other people; men who wanted every sort of Presidential assistance under the sun; men who came merely out of curiosity and for the purpose of relating how they had visited "Teddy" in his hunting camp and taken a hand in the sport. A guard of soldiers from Fort Sill was supposed to picket the reservation, but would-be visitors eluded the men and somehow got through the lines. They did not get past Captain Bill, who met them and serenely but surely turned them back. If they had business, Washington was the place to transact it, he said. The President was here only for pleasure. Some went willingly enough—others protested, but all went. The President's days in the field, and those rare evenings about the campfire were not to be marred by business or any mere social diversions.

And when it was all over Theodore Roosevelt, in his enthusiasm pronounced it all "Bully!" and repeated it, and said he had never had a better time in his life, which was probably a correct statement.

And when they all rode back to Frederick he led the way again, and they set out with a whoop anda run and yell, regular cowboy style, and as they came into town where there was a great crowd waiting, the people went fairly wild, as of course they would. Then the President had to talk to the crowd again—he had said a few words on his arrival—and tell them what a good time he had had, and what a great country this was in general, and that part in particular, and how much he thanked them for letting him come there, and how he was going on to Colorado for a bear hunt, but how he never expected to have any better time than he had had right there in Comanche, on the Deep Red wolf-hunt with Tom Waggoner and Burke Burnett, and Bill McDonald and John Abernethy, and Quanah Parker and Too-nicey, Some-nicey and Plenty-nice-enough—

No, he didn't say all that either, but he said the right thing for the occasion, just as he always does, and especially on an occasion like that, where he is happy and full of life and the wild freedom of the open. And every man within sound of his voice was his friend forever, from that moment, regardless of his politics, and no man of all there, was a warmer admirer and friend than Captain Bill McDonald of Texas, who was a "hell-roaring" democrat and hadn't wanted to go.

He did not accompany the President to Colorado, though the arrangement would have just suited both sides. But after all, he was a Ranger, and there was other kind of game—game on which it is always open season—waiting to be brought home. He accompanied the President's party a distance on their journey; then he said:

"Well, Mr. President, I'm getting out of my jurisdiction. I guess I'll leave you, now."

"But Captain, you are coming to see me in Washington, some day," said the President as he grasped his hand.

"I don't know, Mr. President. I don't know how to put on a plug hat and one of these spike-tailed coats, and pigeon-toed shoes."

"Well, don't try. Come exactly as you are, and there are a few of those spike-tailed fellows around the Capitol that I'll let you take a shot at. Now remember, you're coming—just as you are!"

FOOTNOTES:[15]The story as told by Chief Quanah not having been preserved, most of the details here given are drawn from an article by Fred. Harvey.

FOOTNOTES:

[15]The story as told by Chief Quanah not having been preserved, most of the details here given are drawn from an article by Fred. Harvey.

XXXV

The Conditt Murder Mystery

A TERRIBLE CRIME AT EDNA, TEXAS. MONK GIBSON'S ARREST AND ESCAPE. THE GREATEST MAN-HUNT IN HISTORY

Itwas during the latter part of 1905 and the spring of 1906 that Ranger Captain McDonald was engaged in unraveling a mystery which gave opportunity for the employment of his natural talent for detective work, combined with the skill and experience acquired during a long period of following criminals and uncovering crime.

On September 28th, 1905, two miles from the little town of Edna, Jackson County, Texas, during the temporary absence of J.F. Conditt—employed in rice harvest, seven miles distant—his wife and four young children, ranging in ages from a baby boy of three to a little girl of twelve, were murdered in broad daylight—their bodies left as they had fallen in and about the premises. The murders were committed in the most brutal and bloody way, with knife, adz, and such household tool and implement as came to hand. Three of the murdered children were boys. The little girl of twelve had been violated. Only an infant of a few months had been leftalive. The story of that ghastly crime—its motive; its commission; its detection and the punishment of its perpetrators—can only be epitomized here, for its details would fill a volume and belong only in the official records; neither are they yet complete. We shall attempt, therefore, no more than the outlines, with such particulars as will show the scope and the importance of Captain McDonald's work in solving a mystery and fixing the guilt, not only without the assistance of those most interested, but in the face of their bitter opposition.

The Conditt family had but recently moved to Edna. They were working people, respectable but poor, and had taken a house formerly occupied by negroes. This in itself was an offense to their immediate neighborhood—a negro settlement—and when Mr. Conditt repaired his fences and thereby shut off from public use a windmill where the negroes had been accustomed to go for water, his offense in their eyes became a crime. They did not want him there and resolved to get rid of him. How many or how few were concerned, directly and indirectly, in the conspiracy to drive out or destroy the white family that had settled among them, will perhaps never be known. That negroes seldom betray one another, and that a negro conspiracy is the most difficult of all plots to illuminate, are facts only too well established by our recently recorded history. The Conditt murder plot furnishes an unusual example of this peculiar African phase.

The negroes were sullen, at first, in their manner toward the Conditts. Then one of them—a certain Felix Powell—spoke insultingly to Mildred Conditt, the little girl of twelve. Then came September 28th—nine o'clock in the morning—the day and hour of destruction.

It was one o'clock in the afternoon before the crime became known. Monk Gibson, a colored boy of sixteen who had been plowing for Mr. Conditt in a field about two hundred yards from the house, carried the news. He ran to the house of a white man named John Gibson, some distance away, and reported that he had just seen Mrs. Conditt being chased around the house by two men. John Gibson went on a run to the Conditt premises; found no trace of the two men, but did find the murdered family, a house like a slaughter pen, and in the midst of this horror, a wailing infant. Gibson, the white man, hurried the colored boy off to bring Mr. Conditt from the rice field, and set out to spread the alarm. In a brief time the country was aflame. Monk Gibson, returning with Mr. Conditt, was put under arrest, and it was now found that he was smeared and splashed with blood. He explained the stains by saying that his nose had bled and that he had hurt himself creeping through a wire fence, but there were no indications of his nose having bled, and he could show only the merest scratch of a wound. That he was concerned in the crime was never doubted, but only the unreasoning then believedhe had committed it alone. Questioned, he told conflicting stories, finally stating that men whom he did not know had dragged him to the house, compelled him to view their work, splashed him with blood and set him free.

Of course these statements were not believed. The whole country round about Edna, now terribly aroused, was determined to have the truth. If Monk Gibson was alone in the crime, and there were many who soon reached this conclusion, his punishment would not wait the slow process of the law. If he were one of several, he must reveal the names of his associates. He was put through the severest ordeal of examination, but he would utter nothing more than the confused contradictory stories already told. Every method was tried to extort information, yet he only repeated his conflicting stories and refused to tell names.

It was now pretty generally assumed that he had nothing to tell and that he alone had committed the crime. A lynching mob was forming, and a report came from Bay City that two hundred men had chartered a special train for Edna and were coming to destroy the boy murderer that night. Sheriff Egg of Edna and his deputies resolved to remove the prisoner to a place of safety, and quietly arranged their plan. As soon as it was dark they had swift horses taken to the back of the jail, one for Gibson and others for the officers who would accompanyhim. Then quietly they got him out through a back window; mounted him, unfettered, between two officers, and slipped away toward Hallettsville, where it was believed he would be safe.

They never reached Hallettsville. While galloping at full speed along an open road they came to a curve. The officers had no thought that Gibson would try to escape, and he was riding free. But at the curve, Gibson did not turn. He kept straight on, drove his animal over a fence and disappeared in the thick darkness. When the officers recovered themselves and made their way into the field, they found the horse he had been riding, but their prisoner had vanished. They came back to Edna crestfallen and discredited. The people at first declared that the deputies had put Gibson in hiding. Then, only half convinced, and fiercely angry, they joined in what was, perhaps, the greatest man hunt ever known in Texas. Every available horse and gun was secured—every available man was presently in the saddle.

But this was only a beginning. Within a brief time fresh car-loads of horses were shipped to Edna; ranchmen sent their cowboys; every pack of blood-hounds in south Texas was mustered into the service; commissary camps were established; leaders were appointed for the various bands; business was suspended, the country became one vast encampment and all for the purpose of running down a single boy of sixteen who had slippedaway from the deputies and was believed to be hiding in the swamps. In the midst of all this, Governor Lanham ordered Adjutant-General Hulen with four companies of State troops to invest the place; whereupon Edna became a military camp in fact.

Captain McDonald was working in another part of the State when he first saw the reports of the Conditt murder. His headquarters being now at Alice, the scene of the crime was in his territory, and before many days he was notified by General Hulen to report at Edna with men and blood-hounds to join in the search. Arriving at the front he found such a turmoil of excitement and animosity and trouble of many kinds as is not often gathered in any one place. Men and groups of men, each more distracted than the other, were rushing hither and yon on a hundred fruitless and mainly imaginary errands. Nobody was really doing anything; everybody was blaming everybody else; everybody was mad at the soldiers, mad at the arriving Rangers, mad at each other; and meantime Monk Gibson was still at large.

Captain McDonald looked over the ground, as quietly as they would let him, and gave it out as his conclusion that no one man could have committed all that crime in open daylight, let alone a boy of sixteen. The sentiment was almost wholly the other way by this time, and the Ranger Captain's opinion was bitterly opposed from the start. What thepeople wanted was a victim. If they could capture Monk Gibson they would have a victim, and they did not want any complication that would interfere with this elementary proposition and the summary idea of justice which lay behind it. The presence of military and especially of Rangers was a menace, and for Bill McDonald to try to confuse matters with his detective theories, which might result in Gibson going clear, even if captured, would not be lightly borne. He was given to understand that the people of Edna knew what they wanted, and when they wanted Rangers they would invite them.

Captain Bill, however, followed his own ideas. He felt sure that Gibson was only one of several that had perpetrated the crime, and was doubtless a tool of older men. Moreover there were bloody hand-prints, left by one or more of the Conditt murderers, and these he could not believe had been made by the hand of a boy of sixteen, small for his years as Monk Gibson was declared to be. He further believed that Gibson was somewhere in hiding near his home, for by long experience he had learned that the hunted negro will always go home, regardless of risk.

Meantime, Monk Gibson's parents were in jail, and their premises had been searched more than once. Other negroes had been arrested on suspicion, only to be discharged for lack of any tangible evidence. Captain McDonald went his own way, holding to the theory that the negro boy would be found in the neighborhood of his own home. His two blood-hounds, Trouble and Rock, he took there repeatedly to try to pick up the trail, yet always without success. He believed the boy would come home for food, and to the nearby windmill for water. The barn near his father's house was searched daily, and while for some reason Captain Bill did not attend to this detail himself he was assured each time that the search had been thorough.

Yet Monk Gibson was hiding in that barn all the time. There were some unthreshed oats in the barn, and he had found a place where he could work himself under the straw, leaving no trace on the outside. Sometimes at night he had crept out to a pig-pen for water, and had picked some ears of corn in a nearby patch. One morning when he could stand it no longer he came out and called to a negro named Warren Powell, whose brother, Felix Powell, already mentioned, was to play an important part in this tragic drama. Warren Powell immediately took charge of the boy, Monk, tied him and notified the officers. General Hulen, Captain McDonald, Sheriff Egg and others responded quickly, and putting the boy in a buggy made a wild gallop for the jail, by a circuitous route, to avoid the crowds. He was landed safely inside, tossed from man to man between a line of bayonets, and when the infuriated populace gathered they were driven back by a cordon of armed officials.

Captain McDonald now got himself disliked in more ways than one. For one thing he persisted in his theory that Monk Gibson alone could not have committed the crime; for another, he urged that Gibson be taken to a safer, quieter place for protection. Furthermore he would not permit them to obtain testimony from the prisoner by torture. Approaching the jail one night he heard screams of agony. Entering, he found an assembly of examiners in Monk Gibson's cell, with Gibson tied up by the thumbs, the boy screaming, but refusing to tell anything more than the conflicting incoherent stories told at first.

"Take that boy down," said Captain Bill. "Don't you know that anything you get out of a witness by torture is not evidence enough for a mob, let alone a court of law?"

Meantime, the Ranger Captain had been picking up threads of evidence of his own. For one thing he had observed that two negroes—Felix Powell, already mentioned, and one Henry Howard—had taken a curiously intense interest in all the investigations—seemingly fascinated by every movement of the officers, especially of the Rangers. He noticed, too, that certain other negroes of the settlement were acting in a manner which to one with a special knowledge of their characteristics, appeared suspicious. He made carefully guarded inquiries, and learned that while Powell and Howard claimed to have been working for a man named John Youngall day on the day of the murder, they had in reality worked for Young only during the afternoon. When he spoke to them about it their answers were contradictory. Finally Powell acknowledged that he had not worked for Young during the forenoon, and could give no satisfactory account of his whereabouts for the morning. It was generally believed, at first, that the murder had been committed about one o'clock—the time of the alarm by Monk Gibson—but the condition of the bodies when found made it evident that the crime had occurred much earlier—Captain McDonald believed as early as nine o'clock. McDonald finally questioned Powell directly, and believed he detected guilt in his every look and word. Powell denied knowing Monk Gibson at all, though the two had been raised in the same neighborhood. Gibson on the other hand had already acknowledged that he knew Powell, and had always known him. Finally Captain Bill said:

"Well, Felix, I think I will put you in jail awhile to refresh your memory."

The suspected man nearly collapsed at this and protested his innocence. Searched, a knife was found on him, which had a rusty, inoffensive look on the outside and according to its owner was very dull and used only for cutting tobacco. But when this knife was opened it was found to be of razor-like sharpness, and when a match was passed through the jaws and blade recesses, the end ofthe match brought up blood! Two of the Conditt children had died of ghastly knife wounds. Captain McDonald believed that this knife had made them.

Evidently he was alone in that belief. The arrest of Powell was condemned generally as a diversion, to aid in clearing Gibson—it being widely declared that such was the Ranger Captain's purpose. To this, however, he paid not much attention—his one desire being to get as much evidence as possible and bring the guilty to justice. He did not feel warranted in arresting Howard and the others at this time, though fully believing them concerned as accessories, if not as principals, in the plot to kill. That Monk Gibson had not been alone in the crime he was quite positive. The prints of the bloody hand-mark sawed out of the Conditt house could not be made to fit Gibson's hand by any stretch or adjustment of that member. Neither did it look as if it would fit Powell's hand, though the actual fitting was not then tried, for Powell was wary, and must be entrapped into a test that would require such nicety of adjustment. But there had been one more suspicious circumstance. A shirt had been found tucked away under a bridge over a creek where it had been washed, though it still bore evidence of blood stains. Captain McDonald approached Powell with the shirt in a small bundle under his arm. "That is not my shirt!" declaredPowell quickly, before a word had been said, and before it was possible to tell what the folded garment was.

Yet the grand jury then in session refused to listen to McDonald's evidence, or to indict any one but Gibson, who was charged by that body with the entire crime.

By this time the soldiers had gone back to Austin and only the Rangers and local officers were in charge of the jail. When the indictment was found, Captain McDonald demanded that the prisoner be removed to San Antonio for safety and the District Judge consented to the removal. Threats that such a removal would not be permitted were plenty enough, but the Rangers, without announcement or manifestation of any sort, made ready, and when the train was about due quietly and swiftly hurried him to the station and put him aboard. He landed in San Antonio safely and for the time the Conditt case was quiescent. Felix Powell was turned out of jail as soon as the Rangers were gone, evidently as an affront to McDonald, and to show the community's disbelief in his theories as well as their general disapproval of his efforts. McDonald with plenty of other work crying to be done was not eager to continue a thankless task, though it was work of a kind he loved. That winter, when Gibson's trial was coming on in San Antonio, he urged the prosecutors to try him as one of several and not as the one alone, who had committed the crime. They wouldnot listen to him, and they would not let him testify, declaring that his theories and so-called evidence would spoil their case. They tried Monk Gibson for the entire killing and a rational jury naturally failed to convict, though Felix Powell and Henry Howard were brought from Edna as witnesses and did their best to aid the prosecution. The jury was divided and Monk was taken back to jail.

It was not until the spring of 1906 that Captain McDonald was again actively concerned in the Conditt case. Early in the season, while attending the Stockmen's Convention at Dallas, he met prominent men from the South Texas districts and reviewed with them the story of the crime and the progress that had been made, or rather had not been made, in convicting the guilty. He stated freely his theories concerning Powell, Howard and other negroes and went over the details of his evidence.

The stockmen began by opposing Captain Bill's theories and ended by joining in a movement to have the State continue the investigation at Edna under his direction. They employed a young lawyer named Crawford to bring the matter before the Governor, who agreed to reopen the investigation, but suggested that it be done by another man than McDonald for the reason that the citizens of Edna were prejudiced against the Ranger. The stockmen's answer to this was, that unless McDonald could besent they would have nothing further to do with the matter.

The Governor agreed, then, and Captain Bill made ready to go to Edna and remain there until he should succeed in establishing his theory or be ready to acknowledge himself baffled.

XXXVI

The Death of Rhoda McDonald

THE END OF A NOBLE WOMAN'S LIFE. HER LETTER OF GOOD-BY

Itis at this point that we must pause to record a circumstance which seems totally out of place in the midst of an episode of this kind, but which, because of its association with events, cannot be elsewhere set down. Yet, after all, why should not the end of a noble life be written here, when that life had been always a part of the active service of him whose career we have been following—the life of an unfaltering hero of the home who never said "stay" but "go," no matter what the danger; who even at the very end sent him back to his duty, and died alone.

Rhoda McDonald had not been a robust woman for a number of years. Those early frontier days on Wanderer's Creek had been hard, and must have told on her in the long run, as well as all the anxious nights and days that had filled up the years of a Ranger's wife.

At Alice, though manifestly in poor health, she still maintained a home, doing such light housekeeping as her strength permitted. Her interest in herhusband's work was as active as ever; she knew every detail of the situation at Edna as reported by the press, and when in May, 1906, he was ordered there for further investigation, she bade him go, despite reluctance on his part, for she believed that he alone could bring to punishment the perpetrators of that terrible crime. They arranged that in his absence she should go to a sanatorium in San Antonio, and try to regain strength; and in accordance with this plan she closed the little household at Alice, and at San Antonio went under a doctor's care. When Captain McDonald had been in Edna a short time, he was notified that an operation would be necessary to save her life. He hurried to San Antonio and found her cheerful, though evidently aware of her danger. Her talk, however, was all of his work and the prospects of his further progress. When the ordeal was over and the physicians declared that her chances for recovery were very good, she would not let him stay to verify this opinion, but hurried him back to his work.

"I want you to find the men that murdered that poor woman and those little innocent children," she said, "and you must not waste your time here with me."

So he went back, and for a few days encouraging letters came from doctors and attendants. Then came a telegram which said: "Conditions not so favorable; come."

She was dead when he got there, but she had lefta letter of good-by. That letter is a classic. As an epitome of a simple, noble, unselfish life—calm and fearless in the face of the supreme mystery—it seems without a flaw.

"My Dear Husband:"When your eyes look on these lines I will have crossed the Great Divide, and these wishes of mine I am sure you will fulfil. Enclosed is a note from Lee (my brother), which matures next spring. I managed to save it from my means, or some of it, two years ago, and Lee has been so good to keep it at interest, which I have added to the original amount, until it has reached the amount of the note."Please send Sister, your sister, $25.00 and give Ruth $25.00. She has to work very hard. Allow Lee this year's interest for his kindness and trouble. I want Eula (your niece) to have the brooch you gave me; Dot (your niece) my fur and the small diamond ear-bob. Give Mollie (my sister) the other diamond ear-bob. Give Jim my books, which are at Quanah, and my cameo ring. I want Ruth to have my watch and the breast pin that was our mother's. Give Helen White my engagement ring—the little one with the small diamonds. In the little bag is $15.00 that belongs to the Lord. Be sure to give it to the 'Salvation Army People,' to feed the poor and hungry."My clothes, turn over to Mollie and Ruth and what they don't want tell them to give to the poor. Of course, the diamond ring will be yours."I want you to keep my Bible and read it, because you will derive more comfort from it than all else besides. My prayers for you have always beenmingled with those for myself, and I hope they have not been in vain."Please see that my grave has plenty of trees, so that the birds may build their nests in them. Give Ruth my black silk dress, which is at Wichita Falls. Get Ruth or Mollie to help you find the things."I am sorry for every cross word or look that I ever gave you, but feel sure you will not hold them against me."With lots of love—Good-by."Rhoda."

"My Dear Husband:

"When your eyes look on these lines I will have crossed the Great Divide, and these wishes of mine I am sure you will fulfil. Enclosed is a note from Lee (my brother), which matures next spring. I managed to save it from my means, or some of it, two years ago, and Lee has been so good to keep it at interest, which I have added to the original amount, until it has reached the amount of the note.

"Please send Sister, your sister, $25.00 and give Ruth $25.00. She has to work very hard. Allow Lee this year's interest for his kindness and trouble. I want Eula (your niece) to have the brooch you gave me; Dot (your niece) my fur and the small diamond ear-bob. Give Mollie (my sister) the other diamond ear-bob. Give Jim my books, which are at Quanah, and my cameo ring. I want Ruth to have my watch and the breast pin that was our mother's. Give Helen White my engagement ring—the little one with the small diamonds. In the little bag is $15.00 that belongs to the Lord. Be sure to give it to the 'Salvation Army People,' to feed the poor and hungry.

"My clothes, turn over to Mollie and Ruth and what they don't want tell them to give to the poor. Of course, the diamond ring will be yours.

"I want you to keep my Bible and read it, because you will derive more comfort from it than all else besides. My prayers for you have always beenmingled with those for myself, and I hope they have not been in vain.

"Please see that my grave has plenty of trees, so that the birds may build their nests in them. Give Ruth my black silk dress, which is at Wichita Falls. Get Ruth or Mollie to help you find the things.

"I am sorry for every cross word or look that I ever gave you, but feel sure you will not hold them against me.

"With lots of love—Good-by."Rhoda."

He took her to Greenville, Texas, for burial, for they had no settled home, while in Greenville there were relatives. Then he returned to Edna to carry out the mission which in her last spoken words to him she had bade him fulfil.

XXXVII

The Conditt Mystery Solved

CAPTAIN BILL AS A "SLEUTH." THE TELL-TALE HAND-PRINT. A RANGER CAPTAIN'S THEORIES ESTABLISHED

Captain McDonaldrealized that his task in Edna was to be a hard one—made harder by the fact that the citizens of Edna still bitterly opposed his investigation; still believed that his chief purpose was to cheat them of Monk Gibson's life. There was one important exception to this opposition. Sheriff Egg of Edna, though with little faith in the Ranger Captain's theories, volunteered to help test them and his assistance was valuable.

Another favorable condition for his work was, that certain of the suspected negroes had fallen out among themselves, and he presently discovered that there were strange insinuations and implied charges drifting about the settlement which might mean much, or nothing at all. Felix Powell had been arrested for knocking down his sister-in-law, Warren Powell's wife, and was working out his time on the road when Captain McDonald returned to Edna. The Ranger Captain gave the disturbed elements a little judicious stirring and they fomented.

"If I told all I know about that nigger, he'd hang for murder," Irene Powell blurted out. Detective McDonald smiled quietly, but did not use undue haste. He had Felix Powell removed from the public highways and once more put in jail. Then quietly he went to the negroes and made it easy and even enticing for them to talk. He knew the negro character very well—its weaknesses and its animosities, and these he played on—gently, very gently, at first, but effectively. Little by little he learned that Felix had already been accused of the crime by those of his own color—some of whom were said to know the facts. He learned that Felix had been greatly exercised over the arrival of the first blood-hounds.

"They'll trail a man to town," he had said, "but they can't follow a man that has oil on his shoes."

All night he had lain awake, listening for the bay of the hounds. Once he had sat bolt upright in bed.

"Here they come!" he had exclaimed to a man who was staying with him. Soon after, he said: "I could put my hand on the man that committed that murder." And again: "There's one woman knows, and she may tell. As for Monk, he's told so many lies, the white people won't believe him, anyway."

Two little children named Reed, looking at the bleeding legs of some tied chickens, said to each other that the bloody string reminded them of the clothes their mother had washed for Felix Powell.This was repeated and whispered, and one of Powell's acquaintances charged him with the crime.

"They'll hang you for it, Felix," he said.

"When they do, a lot of white folks will go to hell with me," was the reply.

All these things came in due course to Captain Bill, and by and by an affidavit for murder was prepared and Powell was formally accused of the crime. When he knew of this he became furious and attacked McDonald in his cell and had to be overpowered and chained. Later, in a fit of rage, he snapped these chains and tore the shackles from his limbs. Then a heavier chain was put on him and he was padlocked to the floor.

Besides Felix Powell, charges were brought against Henry Howard and four women believed to be concerned in the killing—directly or as accessories to it, either before or after the fact. One of these—Augusta Diggs—on the second day of the examining trial, confessed her knowledge of the crime. She confirmed Captain Bill's belief that the murder of the Conditts had taken place in the morning and declared that Powell had come to her with the story of how he and Monk Gibson had killed the Conditts, bringing his bloody clothes for her to wash. She had refused and he had taken them elsewhere—to Bethel Reed. Other witnesses, willingly or unwillingly, gave further damaging evidence. Listeners began to wonder if there wasn't something in all these accusations besides a mere negro feud—to suspect that perhaps Bill McDonald might be able to establish his theories, after all.

But it is likely they would still have doubted and the case would have come to naught, had there not been one more link in Captain Bill's chain of circumstance. He had been closely observing Felix Powell's right hand when he could do so without attracting the prisoner's attention, and mentally comparing it with the bloody print sawed from the Conditt house. The print was a peculiar one; it showed an oblong spot for the thumb; a longer one for the forefinger; then two somewhat shorter ones for the middle and third finger, with a mere dot for the little finger. It was as if the hand had been maimed by accident, and the fingers cut away. Captain Bill at first had made a sketch of the print, which he could surreptitiously compare with the hand of Powell, when opportunity offered. The comparison puzzled him. Powell's little finger might make the dot, for it had been deformed by a bone felon and had a crooked bone at the end. But his other fingers were normal, and it was hard to imagine they had made that bloody impress. Still, the Ranger detective did not give up. He wanted to see the hand and the print together, or to see actual prints of the hand, by the side of tell-tale evidence left on the Conditt walls. Finally, one day, he got Felix Powell, whose diversions were few enough, interested in an experiment of camphor-smoked paper upon which almost photographic reproductions of any yielding object could be made. The negro was attracted by the results and willingly enough made the impress of his open hand. Captain Bill felt a qualm of disappointment. Only the dot for the stub of a little finger compared at all with the print left by the murderer. Then suddenly he had an inspiration. He put an object the size of a closed knife into Felix's hand, and told him to make a print with his fingers closed. The shadow of the gallows stretched out toward Felix Powell in that instant, but he did not know it. He pressed his hand to the paper, and as he lifted it Bill McDonald's heart gave a fierce bound of triumph. The likeness to the print of blood was exact. As Captain Bill said afterward, "I saw that Felix Powell's hand with a knife in it, would fit the print left on the Conditt walls, to a gnat's heel." Something of what was in his captor's mind must have filtered into the skull of Felix Powell, then, for he became wary and frightened, and when Captain Bill urged him to make other prints he moved his hand each time and blurred them. He was anxious, too, to know what use was going to be made of the ones already taken. When later he learned what had been done with them, and that his hand was identical with a bloody print found on the Conditt premises, he broke out in a rage.

"Aren't there any other hand like that in the world?" he cried.

There could be none. The tests of measurementand the similarity of line had been applied. They tallied exactly. They convinced Sheriff Egg completely—they convinced the most skeptical in Edna. When that examining trial ended, Captain Bill McDonald, Ranger and detective, from being a man whose presence was resented and whose theories were despised, became suddenly to the people of Edna a mighty criminal sleuth; a veritable Sherlock Holmes; a hero whose name was on every tongue. Outside of Edna, Texas had suspected this before, but now Edna took the lead in singing his praises, and every paper in the State joined in the chorus.

It is not within the purpose of this book to follow here the case of the Conditt murderers through the courts. The evidence as finally accumulated was voluminous and damning so far as Felix Powell and Monk Gibson were concerned. That Monk Gibson was a tool of Powell (and perhaps of others) was most likely, for it was proven that Powell had been seen walking around and around the field with him as he plowed, early on the morning of the murder, and the big track and the smaller one had been found there, side by side. That Powell had enticed the negro boy to join in the crime, we may easily believe, and that Monk Gibsonhadjoined in that fearful tragedy cannot be doubted, and he had plowed on until one o'clock with those dead bodies lying there close by, thus giving his confederate, or confederates, a chance to establish an alibi, probably in accordance with a preconcerted plan.

Both Powell and Gibson paid the extreme penalty of their crime. Powell went to the gallows at Victoria, Texas, on the 2d of April, 1907. Monk Gibson was hanged at Cuero, Texas, a year later, in June. Neither made any confession that was of legal value, though Gibson, a few minutes before his execution, gave to Captain McDonald a rambling statement in which he involved others besides Powell.

The cases of Henry Howard and of the women arrested as accessories to the plot and its execution, had not been disposed of when this was written. Howard was then under indictment as principal and accessory on evidence supplied by McDonald. Whether that evidence is found sufficient to convict will only be decided by the juries of the future.

XXXVIII

The Brownsville Episode

AN EVENT OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE. THE TWENTY-FIFTH INFANTRY'S MIDNIGHT RAID

Theyear 1906 was Captain Bill McDonald's last and most important year in the Ranger service. He was still concerned in the work at Edna when there occurred not far away an event in which certain negro characteristics were even more strikingly manifested—an event which was presently to grow into an episode of national importance.

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