Chapter VIII

Table of Contents
Personal History of the Officers and Men of McNelly's Troop—Captain McNelly's Career in the Confederate Army—Roster of the Old Troop—Few Texans in the Command—Lieutenant Wright—The Captain's Little Boy "Rebel"—Reappearance of Some Rangers Among Roosevelt's Rough Riders.

Having given some idea of what the Rangers were and what their duties, I shall, before going into a detailed description of the fights and adventures of the troop, proceed to tell something of the personal history and character of the men and officers composing it.

Our captain, L. H. McNelly, was well fitted for the work he had to do. For nearly fifteen years he had lived in the saddle, and had done more than his share of hard riding and fighting in the war and during the troublous reconstruction times. From a number of old comrades of McNelly, notably Mr. W. A. Kerr, of Encinal, Texas, who served in the Confederate army with him, I have gathered the following incidents of his career.

McNelly was only seventeen years old when the war between the North and South broke out. He was engaged at that time in herding sheep for T. J. Burton, a sheep man, of Washington County, Texas. Captain George Campbell raised a company in the county to join Colonel Tom Green’s regiment, Sibley’s brigade, at San Antonio. Young McNelly wanted very much to go to the front, but was such a boy that he found it difficult to persuade Captain Campbell to accept him. He at last did so, however, and so became a duly enlisted private in Company F, Fifth Regiment, Texas Mounted Volunteers, C.S.A.

The first engagement McNelly was in was at Valverde, Mexico, just across the Rio Grande. Colonel Green was in command of the entire Confederate forces there and Captain Joe Sayers commanded the Confederate battery of light artillery. Captain Sayers was anxious to find out the exact position of the federal forces, so that he could turn his battery loose on them, and Green also wished to know their disposition. Young McNelly volunteered to try and get the information, and all day long was on horseback with a few men, pressing the federal pickets back in order to locate the forces.

Between the lines was open country, and McNelly was in plain view from both sides. He rode all day, thus exposed, amid a storm of bullets. In his shirt was a book he had been reading, and a bullet hit this book and tore it to pieces, but McNelly was unhurt. He did very valuable service, and when the charge was ordered he was in the front and the first of all to reach the federal battery. The Union forces retreated across the Rio Grande and McNelly led in the pursuit.

Colonel Green commended the young soldier very highly for his good work and made him an aide on his staff. When Green returned to Texas, he took his regiment to Galveston and captured the Union forces there. McNelly was on the cotton boat which captured the Harriet Lane, and was the first Confederate to board the Union boat. Colonel Green was promoted to a generalship and took his command in Louisiana, and it was there that McNelly did his best work for the Confederacy. He was commissioned to raise a scouting company, and he gathered about him a troop of reckless young riders and fighters. His dash and courage became proverbial and his exploits were the theme of many a campfire story.

At one time he was scouting between Brashear City and New Orleans, after the forces under General Green had captured the former place. The young captain had been sent about four miles from the main command to scout along the railroad. He discovered a large force of federals in the woods. McNelly had about forty men, and he found that the federals numbered about eight hundred, together with nearly two thousand Negroes who had flocked to them from the plantations.

There was a long bridge about a quarter of a mile from the Union men. McNelly waited until night and then started his men running back and forth over the bridge, at the same time shouting commands for colonels and generals to move up on the right and left. His men kept galloping and trotting over that bridge for an hour, and by that time the Union men were sure all the Rebs in the country were on them. Then McNelly took his forty men with him, at daylight, with a flag of truce to the federal camp and demanded an unconditional surrender. The Union officer was sure he was surrounded by a greatly superior force and was glad to surrender.

McNelly and his forty men led the eight hundred prisoners to the Confederate lines, four miles off, and delivered them to General Green. After that exploit McNelly, with his picked men of the brigade, harassed the enemy under General Banks continually. McNelly went into Fort Hudson as a spy for General Green and obtained valuable information which was used to advantage in capturing the fort afterward.

He was a thin, pale-faced youth, but was very athletic. On one or two of his spying expeditions he was disguised as a woman. During the last eighteen months of the war he had a hundred picked men under him and they did superb scouting work. The Union men called McNelly’s scouts guerrillas. McNelly’s command, his old comrades say, took more prisoners and killed more men than any regiment in Louisiana. Most of their work was done inside the federal lines and they had a fight about every day, generally in the Louisiana swamps.

In 1870 Governor E. J. Davis, of Texas, asked McNelly to take command of the State Police, McNelly went to see Governor Davis and said to him:

“I’m a Democrat, Governor, and you are a Republican.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Governor Davis, “but I’m not looking for a politician, sir; I’m hunting a soldier and a brave man for the place. My experience with you on the Mississippi, when I was in command at Morganza and you were on the other side, enables me to know you’re the man I want. You know how I am regarded by all who were in your army. You were there and you possibly may be able to mollify some of my enemies in the state.”

McNelly consulted General Shelby and Buck Walton, Davis’ most bitter opponents, and they advised McNelly to take the place offered him. He did so and rendered great service to the state, although he never succeeded in making either his police or Governor Davis popular in Texas.

McNelly was wounded but once during the war, but he had countless narrow escapes. He was literally the hero of a hundred battles and skirmishes.

When I knew him in the Rangers, he was a very quiet, reserved, sedate sort of a man, but he always had a pleasant word for those under him and he was greatly loved by all the men. I was his field secretary for a time and was brought much into personal touch with him, and I never saw him lose his temper or heard him raise his voice in anger. Although the life of the Rangers was exciting enough for the rest of us, it seemed tame, apparently, to our Captain after his war experiences. I saw him in a number of tight places, as will appear later on, and a more cool and collected individual under fire it would be impossible to imagine.

Such was our leader, and it may be believed that with his experience his choice of men to serve under him was excellent.

For the benefit of my old comrades in the Rangers who are still alive and who may find some little pleasure in the perusal of these pages, I here give the roster of the old troop:

Captain L. H. McNelly,* First Lieutenant L. B. Wright,* Second Lieutenant T. J. Robinson,* First Sergeant R. P. Orrel, Sergeant Linton L. Wright Sergeant J. B. Armstrong, Sergeant George Hall,* Corporals M. C. Williams, and W. L. Rudd, Privates J. Adams, “Black” Allen, George Boyd, Thomas Deggs, L. P. Durham, T. N. Divine, Thomas J. Evans, M. Fleming, __ Griffen, B. Gorman, Andy Gourley, Nelson Gregory, S. N. Hardy, N. A. Jennings, Horace Maben, A. S. Mackey, Thomas McGovern, John McNelly, Thomas Melvin, Edward Mayers, “Cow” McKay, Charles B. McKinney,’ W. W. McKinney, S. M. Nichols, A. L. Parrott, M. Quensberry, Jack Racy, II, J. Rector, W. O. Reichel, Horace Rowe, Jesus Sandobal,* G. M. Scott, F. Siebert, L. S. Smith,* D. R. Smith,* S. W. Stanley, N. R. Stegall, T. J. Sullivan, G. W. Talley,’ Alfred Walker, W. T. Welsh, James Williams, R. H. Wells, David Watson, F. J. Williams.

In the foregoing list I have marked those whom I know to have died, but, as a matter of fact, not more than a quarter of the old troop are living at this date, 1898.

Jesse Lee Hall, who at the death of Captain McNelly succeeded to the command of the troop, joined it as second lieutenant, August 1, 1876, at Oakville. He left the service in 1880 and was succeeded by Captain Ogilsbie. Hall was a famous Ranger captain, and I shall have much to say of his exploits later on.

L. B. Wright left the service in 1876 and became a practicing physician at San Diego, Texas. His brother, L. L. Wright, became sheriff of Duval County, of which San Diego is the county seat. Both brothers died in the fall of 1892, in the same week. Just prior to their death, they furnished me with notes and recollections of their Ranger experiences, and I have used them freely in the following pages.

Lieutenant Robinson was killed in a duel in Virginia, his home. He resigned his commission for the sole purpose of fighting that duel. He killed his man and was killed at the same instant. The duel was occasioned by an insult to Robinson’s sister in Virginia.

Charley McKinney was murdered in 1890, while attempting to arrest an outlaw. McKinney at the time was sheriff of La Salle County. His murderer was afterward hanged at San Antonio.

I wish to express here my indebtedness for much material used in this book to Captain Hall, Major Armstrong, Hon. T. N. Divine, John McNelly, and Edward Mayers, who kindly assisted me in gathering together the details of half-forgotten Ranger history during my visit to Texas, a few years ago.

As soon as the bill constituting the Ranger troop passed the legislature and received the Governor’s signature, Captain McNelly began to raise his company. He had thousands of applications from men who wanted to serve under him, but he was very particular in his selection of them. He would take only young men who were educated, of good character, and of a lively disposition. Then, too, the applicants had to convince the Captain that they possessed courage and were good riders, but the latter qualification was a common one in Texas. Although McNelly was himself a Texan, he was seemingly careful to exclude Texans from his troop and, with the exception of Evans, the McKinney boys, and one or two more, he had none. He reasoned that Texans might have friends or “kinfolk” among the very men he would have to hunt down, and he knew how important it was that he should be able to place absolute reliance in each individual member of the troop. The consequence was that it was made up of young men from nearly every Southern state. I was the only member whose borne was north of Mason and Dixon’s line. There were a number of Virginians; Georgia supplied a good quota; so did Mississippi; so did Alabama. There was one Scotchman (McKay), one Irishman (McGovern), and one Englishman (Rudd). Rudd was a little bit of a red-headed and red-faced Londoner, who always rode the biggest horse in the troop. He took his corporalship very seriously, but was lively, full of fun, and a great favorite with the boys. In reading Kipling’s “Soldiers Three,” the character of Ortheris has always brought Corporal Rudd vividly to my recollection.

McKay was a splendidly built young athlete and as handsome as a Greek god. His running broad jump was the pride of the troop. He had a sweet tenor voice and sang old Scotch songs in a way to make homesickness epidemic at night about the campfires. Corporal Williams, a royal good fellow, was known always as “Polly” Williams among the men. Horace Rowe was a small, dark, delicately made man. He was a poet of no mean order and had published a book of verse. Adams was also a poet, but rather of the cowboy variety.

Durham was the wit of the company, and as brave a fellow as ever straddled a mustang. Rector was as deaf as a post, but was not lacking in nerve at any time. We used to yell at him in a way which he resented at times, and once I nearly had to fight a duel with him in consequence. Parrott was from the far-off banks of the Swannee River, so famed in “The Old Folks at Home.” I shall give an instance of his courage in another place. Watson was a lame fiddler, but a man of reckless bravery. Boyd had killed his man in lower California and had escaped, by traveling on foot across Mexico, to Texas. Later, he went back to California, got out of his trouble there, and fell heir to a large estate. He was a handsome, jolly fellow and the best poker player in the troop. I remember how surprised I was, when we rode out from the camp near Laredo that first morning, to note the youth of Lieutenant Wright, who, mounted on a sturdy little black stallion, rode at the head of the troop. He certainly was very young to be second in command. I don’t think he could have been more than nineteen years old at that time; but his face was a determined one, and he had a trick of drawing his eyebrows into a straight line and knitting his forehead above them which hardened his expression, and made him seem older than he actually was. His straight, thin mouth and firm chin denoted much character, and it did not take a very expert student of physiognomy to see that he was eminently fitted, despite his lack of years, to lead men into danger.

By his side, and chatting merrily with him, was a little boy, not more than ten years old. This boy was the Captain’s son, and was known as “Rebel” among the boys, with whom he was a great favorite. It was only when we changed our base of operations that the Captain took his family on the march. Mrs. McNelly and her little daughter traveled in an ambulance, and the Captain was with them that morning so let Reb ride his horse. Reb was as much at home in the saddle as any cowboy. He was brimming over with mischief, and if he could get any of the men to lend him a six-shooter, took great delight in blazing away at trees, rabbits, or anything which chanced to cross his line of vision. As he was not a wonderful marksman, his target practice was, at times, a trifle dangerous to others.

Next to Lieutenant Wright was a long, lanky man, with a light sandy, sparse beard and long yellow hair. He was Sergeant Orrell, or, as the boys always called him, “Old Orrell,” a Mississippian and as good-natured a fellow as ever breathed. Although continually talking about military discipline, he wisely confined his ideas to words, and never attempted to put them into practice. He was brave as a lion, and remarkably cool in a tight place, but was also very conceited, and as proud as a turkey-cock over his sergeant-ship. Rudd was almost as precise and martial in his notions as Orrell, but both of them knew the Rangers too well to try to enforce their notions upon the boys.

Armstrong was a Kentuckian and, like many of the sons of the Blue Grass state, was a giant in size. His sweeping blond mustache and pointed goatee would alone have made him conspicuous among so many beardless young men, but there was a good deal more to John B. Armstrong than his hirsute charms. He had a singularly mild blue eye, and experience on the frontier has taught me that mild blue eves usually indicate anything but mildness of disposition. His handsome face was full of character. His carriage was as erect as that of a grenadier and, despite his great size, he was extremely graceful in all his movements. He was a dashing fellow, and always ready to lead a squad of the Rangers on any scout that promised to end in a fight.

The rest were, for the most part, beardless boys, full of deviltry and high spirits, and ready at a moment’s notice to rush into any adventure, no matter how dangerous to life it might be. Their broad brimmed, picturesque cowboy hats, flannel shirts open at the throat, high boots, well-filled cartridge belts with dangling pistol holsters and bowie knife scabbards, their carbines slung at the side of the saddles, their easy and perfect manner of riding, their suntanned faces, their general air of wild, happy, devil-may-care freedom and supreme confidence in themselves, showed that the Captain indeed chose wisely when he picked out the men for his dangerous mission.

Here were fellows who would not stop to count the cost beforehand, but would follow their leader with reckless enthusiasm no matter where he might go. Such was the impression I received in looking at the Rangers that morning, nearly a quarter of a century ago, and it was correct. Only once since then have I seen any body of men which could be compared to the Rangers. I refer to Colonel Theodore Roosevelt’s regiment of “Rough Riders,” which did such magnificent work in Cuba under his command. And among the “Rough Riders” I met a number of ex-Texas Rangers, who had all given good accounts of themselves in the fighting before Santiago de Cuba.

Colonel Roosevelt has written in his story of “The Rough Riders” the following:

“We drew a great many recruits from Texas: and from nowhere did we get a higher average, for many of them had served in that famous body of frontier fighters, the Texas Rangers. Of course, these Rangers needed no teaching. They were already trained to obey and to take responsibility. They were splendid shots, horsemen and trailers. They were accustomed to living in the open, to enduring great fatigue and hardship, and to encountering all kinds of danger.”

Chapter XVI

Table of Contents
Off for a Long Scout — Taking Everybody Prisoner— Capture of Noley Key—The Birds Flown—Attack on the Camp—Two Hundred Shots in Four Minutes— A Hand-to-hand Fight—Death of the Guide—Mc-Alister's Ingratitude—En route for Eagle Pass— Arrest of an Embezzler.

Late in September, Sergeant Armstrong told us, one afternoon, that we were to go on a long and important scout with him—McNelly had gone to San Antonio, sick—and he added, “I believe we’ll be lucky enough to have a fight before we get through.”

He was right. We not only had the fight, but we succeeded in breaking at last the reign of terror which King Fisher and his gang had established.

It was raining the morning we left camp, twenty-five strong, and started by an old, unused trail up the Nueces River. All day long the rain poured down in torrents, wetting us to the skin. I remember how, after emptying the water out of my pistol holster two or three times, I cut the end of the holster off, so that it would not hold water.

When we camped that night it was hard work to start the campfires, for everything in the way of fuel was soaked. Our plan under such circumstances was to get a piece of deadwood and split it so as to get the dry core. This we cut up fine and so started a little blaze which had to be carefully nursed until, by gradually adding larger and larger pieces, enough of a fire was under way to receive wet sticks and dry them.

I lay in two or three inches of water that night, on the ground, and protected my face with my hat to keep the cold raindrops from hitting it. My clothes and blankets were wringing wet, but so were those of every man in the party. The next day the rain continued as hard as ever, and so it was for the ten days we were on the march up the Nueces. There was not a minute that it cleared off. The river, which ordinarily was a small enough stream, was so swollen that it was three or four miles wide in places. Every night we lay in the rain and every morning we started out again to ride in it.

In any other country, the sick list would doubtless have been a large one under such conditions, but the Rangers suffered no ill effects from the continuous drenching. Horace Rowe, who was inclined to be consumptive, improved wonderfully in health on the trip and gained in weight. The spirits of the men never lagged for a moment. We were all as happy as so many ducks in a mud-puddle, and more practical jokes were played than there is room to tell about. I remember, one evening, two of the men and I hunted for an hour for a fictitious shepherd’s hut to sleep in, carrying our blankets with us through the chaparral until we gave it up in despair and lay down on the ground to sleep until morning. The boys had a good laugh at our expense the next day.

All the way up the Nueces we took every man prisoner we met and made him fall in with us. By the time we reached Carrizo Springs we had over a score of these prisoners, but we effectually prevented the news of our advance upon Fisher’s stronghold from becoming known, for it was his gang of desperadoes we were after.

On the night of October 1st, we reached a point near Fisher’s house, and succeeded in capturing one Noley Key, a member of his gang. I know not what threats Armstrong used to Key, but he at last willingly acted as our guide. He told Armstrong that Fisher and his men were away from home. We surrounded the settlement and closed in on it, only to find that Key told the truth and that no one was there but the women and children.

But Armstrong did not give up. He took Key aside and drew from him the information that a band of horse thieves were in camp on the banks of Lake Espintosa, six or seven miles distant. Key told Armstrong that seven men were in the band, and that they had forty or fifty stolen horses which they were going to drive farther north in a few days.

Armstrong immediately divided his men, sending eighteen of the Rangers down to another desperado settlement and taking six with him to go to the lake. The six were Devine, Durham, Evans, Boyd, Parrott, and myself. Key acted as our guide and we started off. The rain had ceased during the afternoon and a full moon was riding high in the heavens.

We rode slowly for about an hour and then turned off into some woods, where we dismounted. Key pointed out the location of the thieves’ camp and then was told to remain where he was, with Evans and Devine who were left in the woods in charge of the horses.

“Boys,” said Armstrong to the four men who were left with him, “we are going to capture those thieves or kill them. The reason I did not bring more men along was because I was afraid these fellows wouldn’t resist us if we were so many. Key tells me that they stood off the sheriff and his posse a few nights ago, and so they’ll be looking for officers and be prepared to fight. That’s just what we want. If they will only fire at us, we can rush in on them and kill the last one of them. Nothing but that will break up this gang. I only hope they’ll show fight. Now, come along and don’t make any noise.”

We advanced slowly and cautiously through the brush, and soon came to a wide, open space near the lake. We looked across the open space and saw the campfire of the horse thieves’ camp, but could see no one stirring. Very cautiously, bending down and moving as swiftly as we could in that position, we approached the fire. We were within twenty-five yards of it, when suddenly a figure rose and a yell split the silence.

“Here they come, boys! Here they come!” shouted the man who had arisen. In an instant the seven men at the camp were up and the one who had shouted fired at us.

I heard Armstrong cry, “Damn you, you’ll shoot at an officer, will you?” and then the firing grew furious on both sides. We rushed in on them and there was a continual blaze from the firearms.

Just in front of me was a man emptying his six-shooter at me and I raised my carbine and fired at him. The moment before I fired he had his mouth open, yelling curses at me; but with my shot he dropped like a dog. I thought I had killed him and turned my attention to the others, but, except for one man with whom Boyd was having a fierce hand-to-hand fight with knives, all were either dead or had jumped into the lake.

Over and over rolled Boyd and the desperado, but in the end Boyd jerked himself loose, his knife dripping with the thief’s heart-blood.

The fight lasted not more than three or four minutes, but in that time fully two hundred shots were fired. We turned over the bodies of the dead men. They were all well-known desperadoes John Martin, alias “One-eyed John”; “Jim” Roberts, and George Mullen. The man whom I shot was named McAlister. I was bending over and looking at his face, when I saw his eyes move.

“Hello!” I cried; “this man isn’t dead.”

McAlister looked straight at me and began to beg for his life. “For God’s sake, gentlemen, don’t kill me,” he begged piteously. “For God’s sake don’t kill me!”

“No one wants to kill you,” I said. “We are not murderers. Would you like some water?”

He murmured that he would, and I took a tin cup from beside the campfire and went down to the lake and dipped it full of water. When I returned to him, I put it to his lips and he drank. He told me he was wounded in the leg and part of his jaw was also shot away. I thought he would surely die, but we promised to send a wagon for him and made him as comfortable as we could before we left him. Then we returned to where we had left our horses with Devine and Evans.

As I was walking silently along in the woods with the rest of the boys, I heard suddenly, close in front of me, the sharp click of a gun being cocked, and the quick demand:

“Halt!”

I stopped so quickly that I nearly fell over backward. It was Devine who gave the command and in a moment we told who we were. Evans stood close to Devine.

“Where’s Noley Key?” asked Armstrong.

“Dead,” said Devine.

“Dead?”

“Yes. When he heard the firing, he jumped up and started to run, and we fired at him. One of us killed him, for there’s a bullet hole in his back.”

We went over and looked at Key where be lay, face downward. I felt badly about him, for on the way to the camp he had been talking in a pleasant way to me and I had given him some tobacco. He was no great loss to the community, however, for he was a well-known horse thief.

Before I go on with the record of this night’s adventures, I may say that McAlister recovered and, so far as I know, is alive to this day. When I went to Texas, in 1892, he turned up one day in San Antonio and told some men in a barroom that he was there for the express purpose of killing me.

“I’ve been camping on his trail for sixteen years,” he said; “and now I’m going to kill him for shooting my jaw off that night.”

I was told of this, and I lost no time in getting a six-shooter. Then I went on a hunt for McAlister. I thought I should know him, with his disfigured face, a good deal quicker than he would know me, and I relied on the virtue of “the drop,” the Texas way of expressing the advantages of being prepared to shoot before the other man is ready.

It got to McAlister’s ears that I was after him, and he left town in a hurry. Captain Hall told me afterward that he knocked this same man down one day, a few years before, for using threatening language. I’m afraid Brother McAlister is just a trifle revengeful and ungrateful.

As soon as we mounted our horses again, that night of the fight, we rode over to a ranch, about three miles away, on the banks of the Nueces. We found four men sleeping in the yard of the ranch house, and awakened them by uncovering them with the muzzles of our carbines. It must be a little alarming to wake up suddenly in the dead of night and find a number of heavily armed strangers yanking the covering from one by the aid of gleaming gun barrels. If I remember correctly, those men did not look pleased at the proceeding; but they did not protest very loudly. They just lay still and shivered with fright until we told them to get up. We had only been looking under their blankets for arms, so that they would not attempt any resistance, for we had had enough bloodshed for one night. Two of the men Armstrong decided that he wanted, and we made them saddle their horses and go with us. Then we returned to where we had parted from the other squad of Rangers.

Going back along the road, I was on the right hand of one of our prisoners. I believe Boyd was on his other side. We were supposed to guard them, but both Boyd and I went to sleep as we rode. We were completely tired out. Suddenly I was awakened by a confused sound of shouting voices and the rattling of a wagon. For a moment I hadn’t the least idea where I was or what the noise could be, and I was panic-stricken. My nerves, after all the shooting, were, I suppose, in a shaky condition, and the sudden awakening was horrible in the extreme.

That I was not alone in experiencing these sensations I discovered later, for nearly every man on that ride was asleep. Our prisoners could have escaped with ease if they had dared. Boyd described his awakening to me that night in a manner more forceful than elegant. He said that for a few seconds he imagined himself in the regions infernal—only he didn’t put it that way exactly.

When we got back to camp we found the other eighteen Rangers there. They had had a little rumpus, too, and killed a man who resisted arrest. He was Pancho Ruiz, wanted for murder at Corpus Christi. I believe Corporal Rudd was the one who killed Ruiz. We were all so tired out and sleepy after our long march in the rain and the excitement which followed it that we slept until late in the afternoon, each man standing guard for twenty minutes at a time. It was difficult for anyone to keep awake even as long as that.

That evening I wrote, with Armstrong, the report of the fight, and we started with three others and our two prisoners to Eagle Pass, some forty miles distant. We had captured about fifty head of stolen horses late in the afternoon, near the thieves’ camp, and a lot of cattle. As my horse was tired, I decided to give him a rest and ride one of the stolen horses to Eagle Pass. I picked out a fine, big brown horse and saddled him. Armstrong and the other three men also took stolen horses for the ride, but none as fine in appearances as the one I had.

Alas! it is not always well to judge by appearances. I quickly discovered that my horse was a hard trotter, and under no circumstances would he go in a gallop. All the other horses were galloping, with a motion as easy as the rocking of a cradle, but my old fellow did nothing but trot, and that in a way to almost jolt the teeth from my gums. I stood it as long as I could, and then adopted a plan to save myself from being shaken apart. I would make my horse walk very slowly until the others were far ahead—a mile or so; then I would go on a full run until I caught up with them. By adopting this plan and repeating it over and over again, I made that forty miles with some degree of comfort.

We reached Eagle Pass at daylight and made camp in the wagon yard of the little hotel. While we were eating our breakfast, two guests of the hotel came out and began talking to us. One of them seemed especially curious to learn our business and all about us. After awhile he turned and said he would go in and get his breakfast.

“Take breakfast with us,” said Armstrong, cordially.

“No, thank you; I’ll go inside,” said the man.

“Better stay and eat with us.”

“No; I’m much obliged, but I think I’ll go in the hotel.”

“I think not, my friend.”

“Why not? You’re not going to arrest me, I hope: I haven’t done anything.”

“No,” said Armstrong, who was looking through our book of fugitives from justice; “no, we won’t arrest you because, you see, you have been under arrest for the last fifteen minutes.”

The man’s jaw fell and he began to tremble, but he tried to bluster and brave it out.

“This is an outrage,” he said. “I’m a traveling man and a guest of this hotel.”

“I know you’re a traveling man,” said Armstrong with a smile. “You’ve traveled all the way from Missouri on funds you from a bank there. I don’t think you’ll travel much farther south my friend. You’ll do your traveling in the other direction now.”

The man grew ashy white, but he saw it would be useless resist. He was an escaped bank cashier arid had been wanted for some months. He was kept in jail in Eagle Pass until officials arrived from Missouri and took him back with them.

Chapter XX

Table of Contents
Disappearance of Hardin—Efforts for His Capture—On the Trail—Four Rangers Off for Florida in Pursuit —Hardin a Prisoner—Sentenced to Twenty-five Years' Imprisonment—Pardoned by the Governor— Killed at Last—Establishment of Law and Order Due to Rangers—Simms of San Antonio—The Old Command Disbanded.

When the Rangers began to make things so hot for the desperadoes in and near DeWitt County, Hardin disappeared. Try as we might, we could learn nothing of his whereabouts. He was a prize worth capturing, too, not only because he was such a notorious desperado, but also because the state offered a reward of $4,000 for him, dead or alive. Connected with the Rangers, and on the payrolls, were two or three men who were only known to the Captain. They were the detectives of our force. One of these men was John Duncan.

By order of Captain McNelly, Duncan had, months before, undertaken to find John Wesley Hardin. To this end, Duncan hired the ranch adjoining that owned by Hardin’s father, the preacher. The Ranger detective cultivated the friendship of the old man, but did it with such deliberation and naturalness that his identity or purpose was never suspected.

For days, weeks, and months the two met in the evening, smoked their pipes, and talked over matters such as naturally occurred to them; but never once was reference made to John Wesley Hardin, the son. The detective, however, was biding his time, and it was not until five months had passed that the chance for which he was waiting came. One afternoon, just as it was growing dark, Mr. Hardin remarked that he had a letter to mail, and would walk to the post office, which was in a grocery store at the junction of the highway, half a mile away.

“I may as well take a stroll with you,” said the other, rising to his feet. Hardin was glad to have him, and they entered the store together. Hardin asked for a pen with which to direct the letter, which was written in lead-pencil and enclosed in an envelope. The postmaster handed him a pen, and Hardin began writing the name slowly and with great care. Just before he finished, the pipe of the detective went out, and he leaned over the shoulder of the unsuspecting Hardin, to get a match. As he did so, be gave one quick glance at the envelope. It was enough for he read the name and address and was sure to remember them.