Front matter (continued 5)

"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:

XXXV

The Conditt Murder Mystery

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

It was 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 left alive. 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 believed he 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 accompany him. 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 slipped away 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 the people 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 Young all 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 of the 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!" declared Powell 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 would not 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 be sent 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

It is 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 her husband'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 left a 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 been mingled 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 McDonald realized 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 measurement and 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 Gibson had joined 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

The year 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.

On the night of August 13, 1906, armed men, in number from ten to twenty, believed to be colored soldiers of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, quartered at Brownsville, Texas, appeared about midnight upon the streets and "shot up the town," firing recklessly into many buildings, killing one man, severely wounding another and endangering the lives of many citizens. Official investigation failed to identify the offenders, and three months later, President Roosevelt assuming that the offense was nevertheless committed by certain members of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, with guilty knowledge on the part of their comrades, dismissed the entire command, "without honor," on the ground that the three companies, numbering one hundred and seventy men, had banded in a "conspiracy of silence for the purpose of shielding those who took part in the original conspiracy of murder."

Captain William J. McDonald, then of the State Rangers, was prominently identified with the early investigation of this unusual episode, and the story of his court of inquiry, with its revelations, and of his remarkable experiences following the same, has become history.

Brownsville, Texas, is a city of less than ten thousand population, situated on the north bank of the Rio Grande, in the extreme southern portion of the State. It has long been a military point—its garrison, Fort Brown, being situated but a little way from the business center. Opposite Brownsville, on the Mexican side of the river, lies Matamoras.

Late in the summer of 1906, three negro companies—B, C, and D, of the Twenty-fifth Infantry, Major C.W. Penrose commanding, were ordered to Brownsville, and quartered at Fort Brown. They arrived July 28th, in bad humor. There was a military encampment of State troops at Austin, and they had not been permitted to participate in the maneuvers—drills, sham battles and the like—in progress there. They had been told that the Texas boys did not care to drill with them—that if they went to Austin and took part in the sham battles, blank cartridges might be discarded for real ones by the white troops. Of course this was idle talk, but they repeated it and nursed their resentment, becoming noisy and braggart, as ignorant men, whether white or negro, will. On the way they had torn down the signs, "For Negroes," placed by law, in the South, in the cars intended for colored passengers, and had boasted to the conductor that "all women in Brownsville would look alike to them, whether white, negro or Mexican."

They were not long in beginning their demonstrations. They set in drinking immediately upon their arrival, and their anger grew when they found they were not permitted to drink at the bar with white men, increasing still further in violence when one or more of the saloons set up a separate bar for their accommodation. They became loud and insolent on the street; crowded white women from the walks, and made themselves generally offensive and hateful.

Brownsville as a community did not openly resent these indignities, but individuals did. A Mr. Tate, an inspector of customs, whose wife was run over and rudely jostled by a negro soldier, administered summary correction with the butt of his revolver. In another case an ex-ranger named Bates applied like treatment for similar offense. A third instance is recorded of a negro soldier who, returning drunk from Matamoras—a favorite excursion point—was ordered to move on by a Mr. Baker, another inspector of customs, and upon becoming more obnoxious was eventually pushed into the mud. But public feeling reached the boiling-point when a Mrs. Evans—a lady of refinement—upon dismounting from her horse was seized by the hair and dragged violently to the ground by a tall negro soldier. She clung to the bridle of the frightened animal, that reared and plunged and finally tore her free from her assailant, who then ran away. As a result of this assault, patrols were put on and soldiers' passes canceled. This doubtless added to the ire of the negroes, and whatever purpose of retaliation they may have had would appear to have assumed definite form. The catastrophe was not delayed.

Monday, August 13, was a rather quiet day, owing to the new restrictions, and a majority of the citizens perhaps believed that their troubles with the military were over. But there were others who claimed to have heard muttered threats, and these, as evening drew on, were anxious and watchful. It was about midnight that a bar-keeper named Natus was serving a final round of drinks to a few belated customers, white men, in a saloon where a bar had been erected for the accommodation of negro soldiers. The men lingering about the bar were talking quietly, and it is certain that they had been discussing the possibility of an outbreak from the garrison. Suddenly they were startled by a succession of shots, loud voices and general commotion from the direction of the fort. One of the group cried out:

"That must be the niggers coming, now!"

A fusillade followed, coming nearer. The bar-keeper, Natus, sprang to the front doors, flung them shut, and fastened them. An instant later, he ran into the back yard to prevent entrance in that quarter. He was not in time. Before he could close the gate, he received a volley, and dropped dead.

The mob of murderers passed on, pouring their fire into houses where men, women and little children were asleep. Their course was up an alley, leading from the fort through the town. Already, before killing Natus, they had fired on a house in which were two women and five children—one of the shots putting out a lamp. Ten shots had passed through this house, all aimed about four and a half feet above the floor, evidently intended to kill. They had next met the chief of the police, fired upon him, killing his horse and shattering his arm. Next came the Miller Hotel, where they fired at guests in the windows, breaking the glass and filling the casements with bullets. They shot at whatever they saw moving, and wherever they saw a light. In a house where a woman and two children were asleep, two bullets passed through the mosquito bar that covered their bed. For two blocks and a half the assault on the defenseless street continued, then suddenly the assassins disappeared in the direction of the fort—the midnight raid was over. In ten minutes had been written a unique chapter in the history of the American Army—a chapter that would be told, and retold, and debated and deformed until its volumes would fill a library.

And now from the garrison came shouts and the sound of bugle—a general call to arms. The town, already in a turmoil, fell into a panic of fear and disorder. A renewal of the attack was expected at any moment. It was believed that a general massacre would take place. Men armed themselves with whatever they could lay hands on; women and children hid themselves and waited in terror and trembling.

Morning came without further assault. Daylight showed the shattered glass, the bullet holes in the weather-boards and window casings, and, on the street, empty shells, cartridges and clips—of government rifles. At one place in the mud lay a soldier cap. The night had been too dark and the town too poorly lighted to identify the individuals of the mob, but the evidence as to its origin seemed unmistakable.

A citizen committee to deal with the situation was quickly formed. Telegraphic reports of the outbreak, with urgent demands for immediate action and for the removal of the negro troops, were sent to Governor Lanham, General Hulen, Senators Bailey and Culberson and to the President of the United States. No immediate relief seemed forthcoming from any source. Governor Lanham waited for Washington, Washington waited for an investigation. The public at large took but a small interest in the whole affair—the metropolitan dailies according it but the barest mention in obscure corners. It would be a big matter to them some day. It was a big matter to Brownsville already.

"We cannot convince our women and children that another outbreak may not occur at any time. Their condition is deplorable. They will scarcely venture out of their homes and only feel secure there by our maintaining a heavy guard and patrol of armed citizens every night. We know the accidental discharge of a fire-arm, any overt act of an excited citizen—and our citizens are fearfully excited—would precipitate upon us the whole negro force at Fort Brown." ... This from a telegram sent to President Roosevelt on August 18, five days after the raid. Brownsville was in a sad plight indeed.

Three days more brought no relief from any source. At the fort, the soldiers were kept under arms, perhaps fearing a general attack from the citizens, while on their part the citizens expected a general outbreak of the troops, at any moment. The officers in command were supposed to be conducting an investigation, and when it was given out that the midnight attack could not have come from the garrison, but had probably been made by a gang of Mexicans from across the river; when it was further stated that the garrison had been attacked, and the shots said to have been fired from there during the raid, had been fired in defense; such statements only meant, to the citizens of Brownsville, that Major Penrose and his officers were going to protect their troops, or had been intimidated by them. Rumors of another outbreak continued. Women barely slept. Men began to move their families away. Two rangers of Captain McDonald's command—Blaze Delling and Sam McKenzie—came over from a subordinate ranger camp at Harlingen, twenty-five miles distant, and these undertook to collect evidence, and aided in patrolling the town. Other appeals for help had brought no result. Telegrams for relief were answered non-committally, or not at all. When Captain McDonald himself, with the other two members of his little company—Sergeant W.J. McCauley and C.T. Ryan—arrived on the evening of the twenty-first, Brownsville, resentful and despairing, hailed the veteran regulator with open arms.

XXXIX

Captain Bill on the Scene

THE SITUATION AT BROWNSVILLE. RANGERS MCDONALD AND MCCAULEY DEFY THE U.S. ARMY. CAPTAIN BILL HOLDS A COURT OF INQUIRY

Captain McDonald had been serving as Sergeant-at-Arms for the Democratic State Convention at Dallas when the Brownsville attack occurred. Brownsville was in his district and he had expected to be ordered there at once, but was counseled by Governor Lanham to remain in Dallas until Adjutant-General Hulen, of the State troops, then maneuvering at Austin, should be advised to act. On the morning after the outbreak, General Hulen had been implored by the mayor and citizens of Brownsville to come to their relief, and Captain McDonald supposed that Hulen would promptly respond, with troops from the Austin encampment. A few days later, when the convention ended, the Ranger Captain hurried to Austin and found that no action of any kind was in progress, or contemplated. The State troops were still at Camp Mabry, maneuvering, and firing blank cartridges. Captain Bill went out there.

"Give me some of the men that are over there bombarding the hills, and I'll go down and settle that Brownsville business," he said.

General Hulen replied that he had no authority to investigate any action of Federal troops; to do so would be to invite a charge to treason.

"Treason!" said Captain Bill, "Why, them hellions have violated the laws of the State, shooting into people's houses and committing murder. I don't care what else they are, they're criminals. It's my sworn duty to investigate such business as that, and I'm going to do it, if I have to go there alone!" And Captain Bill might have added, "If this be treason, make the most of it."

Certainly he did not consider that he needed other authority to hunt down criminals than that invested in him as Captain of Company B, Ranger Force. The Commonwealth of Texas and its laws had been for a quarter of a century—first, last and all the time—his chief consideration. To him, Texas was the biggest thing under the sky. Without further discussion, now, he proceeded immediately to his headquarters at Alice, picked up McCauley and Ryan, and hurried to Brownsville. At Corpus Christi, District Judge Stanley Welch, who had an office at Brownsville, boarded the train. He greeted Captain McDonald and his Rangers with enthusiasm, and spoke feelingly of the fact that nothing had been done by either State or Federal authorities. He assured the Rangers that they had full power to take such steps and to use such means as were necessary to identify and punish the offenders.

It was about six o'clock in the evening of Tuesday, August 21, that Captain Bill and his little force of two reached Brownsville. The Captain immediately paid a visit to Mayor Combe, and to Chairman of the Citizens' Committee Kelley. He learned that a Major Blocksom, under orders from Washington, had arrived at the fort, to join Major Penrose in his investigations, but that neither these officers nor the Citizens' Committee had made any progress toward the identification of the criminals. Members of the committee further informed the Captain that in spite of some existing prejudice among the townspeople, Major Penrose was an estimable gentleman, doing all in his power to bring the offenders to justice. He had stated, they said, that he would get to the bottom of the mystery if it took him ten years to do it.

"Ten years!" said Captain Bill. "What does he need all that time for! He could do it in ten minutes, if he wanted to and tried. He knows his men, and he could find out who was absent during the shooting. And he knows just about who would be likely to get into a gang like that. I'll find them out, myself, and I won't be ten years about it—nor ten days, neither."

They applauded Captain Bill, then, and added him to the Citizens' Committee. They knew the sort of thing he had done, time and again, and that he was not given to vain boastings. Also, they denounced their chief State officials and the country generally for indifference and inaction.

Captain McDonald now looked up his two men, Delling and McKenzie, to learn what they had done. They had done a good deal in a quiet way. They had discovered Mexicans living near the post who claimed to have seen shots fired from there, before and during the raid, and to have followed the track of the raiders by the flash of their guns. Further, the Rangers had learned that a squad of soldiers, with Captain Lyon of Company C, had visited the jail immediately after the shooting-up of the town, claiming that citizens had fired on the post, and making a demand for Captain Macklin (white) and Corporal Miller (colored), of Company B. Captain Lyon had not explained why he expected to find these officers in jail, perhaps leaving it to be assumed that they had taken refuge there during the attack mentioned. Delling and McKenzie also had located two ex-soldiers (negroes) supposed to have been out with the mob—at least, it seemed certain that they had inside knowledge of the matter. One of these ex-soldiers kept a saloon a distance from the center of the town, and the Rangers had ascertained that on the evening of the raid this saloon had closed earlier than usual, a suspicious circumstance. McDonald and his men worked most of the night, continuing these investigations. They located one of the ex-soldiers and lodged him in jail, where Captain Bill put him through a sort of "third degree" examination. Later he looked up the prisoner's wife and questioned her. By morning he had learned enough to warrant him in beginning an investigation in the fort itself.

With his sergeant, W.J. McCauley, "one of the bravest and best," he was on his way to the fort next morning, when he was stopped by members of the Citizens' Committee.

"You can never go into that fort and come out alive," they said.

"Why not?"

"Because those men are all under arms, and excited. Unless you can show an order from Major Penrose they will shoot you down, sure."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to get any order from Penrose. Them niggers have violated the laws of the State, and it's my duty to investigate the crime. I never yet had to have an order to go any place my duty called me. I'm going into that fort, and the only pass I want I've got right here."

The Captain carried an automatic shot-gun that would go off about half a dozen times a second, and his sergeant bore a Winchester repeating rifle, also automatic in its action. These lay in position for easy and immediate use. The two men had been together in many conflicts, and had faced death too often to waver now. McKenzie, Delling and Ryan had been left behind so that in event of a fight at the entrance, and another outbreak, the town would not be without protection. The committee stepped aside, and McDonald and McCauley proceeded to the garrison. At the entrance they were suddenly confronted by a file of about twenty soldiers, with rifles leveled.

"Halt!"

Captain Bill and his sergeant never even hesitated. With their own arms in position for instant action they marched steadily into the muzzles of those leveled guns—the Captain, meantime, admonishing the men behind them.

"You niggers, hold up there! You've already got into trouble with them old guns of yours. I'm Captain McDonald, of the State Rangers, and I'm down here to investigate a foul murder you scoundrels have committed. I'll show you niggers something you've never been use' to. Put up them guns!"

And the guns went up, with the quick, concerted movement of a drill. There was something in that total disregard of danger—in that tone and manner and in those eyes, now gray and hard and penetrating—that inspired awe and obedience. Captain Bill gave them no time to reflect.

"Now, where's Major Penrose?" he said.

The negroes became respectful, even deferential. One of them said: "Yes, suh, cap'n—yes, suh. Major Penrose is right over in his house—second building, suh."

"One of you niggers come and show him to me."

Captain Bill, it may be remembered, does not mince his words. A white man who has committed a crime is, to him, always a "scoundrel," or worse, openly. A black offender, to him, is not a negro, or a colored man, but a "nigger," usually with pictorial adjectives.

One of the men now hastily escorted the Ranger Captain and his sergeant to Major Penrose's headquarters. Major Blocksom, who already, perhaps, had seen enough to warrant his subsequent characterization of Captain Bill's willingness to "charge hell with a bucket of water," was on hand; also, District Attorney Kleiber. As the Captain entered, he said:

"I am Captain McDonald, of the State Rangers. I am here to investigate a very foul murder, which these men of yours have committed."

Major Penrose, rising, said:

"Come into my office."

They went in, followed by the others. Captain McDonald seated himself at the end of the table, with Sergeant McCauley at his left and Major Penrose at his right. Attorney Kleiber and Major Blocksom sat below, on either side. The court of inquiry was open. There were no preliminaries.

"Major Penrose," Captain Bill began, "I have come here to see what you can tell me about this murder that has been committed in Brownsville."

Penrose replied readily, and with apparent frankness:

"I can tell you absolutely nothing. I cannot find out a thing from my men."

Captain Bill faced him steadily.

"Well, it seems very strange to me," he said, "that you cannot find out anything about your own men. I've been in charge of men for twenty years, and I've never had any that I couldn't find out anything I wanted to know from, if they knew it."

Major Penrose looked a trifle depressed.

"Here in a little camp of less than two hundred men," Captain Bill went on, "fifteen or twenty of them break out and shoot into people's houses and commit murder and then come back to quarters. And yet you can't detect any of the criminals. How about the officer of the day and the guard in charge of the guns and ammunition? Don't they know anything?"

Major Penrose shifted a little.

"The colored officers probably know whatever there is to know about this matter," he said, "but I have no way of getting it out of them."

"Well then, I have," declared Captain Bill.

"Very well," assented Penrose, "I wish you would do it."

The Ranger Captain became suddenly a fox—his ears alert, his nose sharp, his eyes needle-pointed.

"What niggers were out that night?" he asked.

"Only two were out that night, and all answered to roll-call, at eight and eleven o'clock."

"You are sure only two were out that night?"

"Perfectly sure."

"How about Corporal Miller and Sergeant Jackson?"

"Corporal Miller was here, I know, because I saw him. Captain Macklin also saw him and talked with him."

"Where was Captain Macklin, at the time?"

"He was officer of the day, and in charge that evening."

"Send and get Captain Macklin; I want to talk to him."

Captain Macklin of Company B arrived, wearing a sort of uneasy bravado, which did not improve under Captain Bill's keen scrutiny.

"How many of your men, Captain Macklin, had passes on the evening of August 13th?" was the first question.

"Only two," replied Macklin, giving two names not down on Captain McDonald's list of suspects.

"Where were the others?"

"They were all in the barracks and answered to eight o'clock and eleven o'clock roll-call."

"What happened after that time?"

"I don't know. I went to my quarters soon after eleven o'clock and turned in a little before twelve. I was asleep when I heard somebody knock on my door. I got up and found it was about ten minutes after midnight. I didn't know what the knock was for, so I smoked a couple of pipes and drank a bottle of beer and went back to bed. I got up again at three o'clock, when everything was in commotion."

"Now, Macklin, your quarters are just back of Company B's barracks; it was a hot night and the windows were open, and according to your own story you were awake just when all this shooting and racket and the call to arms came off. How does it come you didn't hear it?"

Captain Macklin looked rather discomposed.

"Well, I was only awake a little while, and of course I was pretty sleepy."

"You were awake enough to smoke two pipes and drink a bottle of beer?"

"Yes."

"And you couldn't have done it in a minute."

"Well, no."

"And yet you say you didn't hear a thing of what was going on outside?"

"Well, of course, I suppose I did hear noises, but I didn't think them anything unusual."

"Nothing unusual about shooting and bugle blowing and a general call to arms?"

"I didn't say that I heard those. Of course I didn't hear them."

"How did it happen, Macklin, that Captain Lyon and some men, after the raid that night, went to the jail to find you?"

"They didn't do it. I never heard of it, at all."

"Where was Corporal Miller that night?"

Captain Macklin was clearly relieved to get away from the story of his own personal movements on the night of that fateful 13th.

"Corporal Miller was in the barracks. He was present at both roll-calls."

"Very well, send for Corporal Miller. Send and get that Miller nigger and let me talk to him."

Corporal Miller came promptly. He carried his gun and wore the air of a major general. His manner was distinctly defiant and insolent. Nobody said anything for a moment, but Captain Bill's X-ray eyes were boring him through. Miller grew uneasy, shifted his feet and seemed to be shriveling. Major Blocksom said:

"Corporal, Captain McDonald wants to ask you some questions. Set your gun down over there."

Miller obeyed rather sullenly, and came to attention.

"Miller," said Captain Bill, "where were you on the night this murder was committed?"

The tone and directness of the question dazed the man. He did not immediately find words. The Captain repeated:

"I want you to tell me, Miller, where you were when this murder was committed, on the night of August the 13th."

If Corporal Miller had any other story to tell, he had forgotten it.

"I was down town," he said.

"How long had you been down there?"

"All the evening, ever since dark."

"Where were you before that?"

"I was over in Matamoras. I came back to Mack Hamilton's house (Hamilton was the ex-soldier already in jail), and sat talking to his wife. Then I went up town. When the shooting happened, I was down the other side the beef market, at a saloon."

Captain Bill's eyes gleamed a little. All of this was in direct contradiction to the testimony of Major Penrose and Captain Macklin.

"Now, Miller," he said, "you couldn't have been anywhere you say, because you were here at eight o'clock and eleven o'clock, and answered to roll-call."

It was impossible for the man to reason, just then. He only realized that his statement was being contradicted, and that he was on the defensive.

"I reckon I know where I was!" he said sullenly.

Captain Bill was seemingly aroused.

"You scoundrel, don't you give me any of your back talk! You answer my questions, sir!"

At this point Major Penrose interposed a query as to the whereabouts of Miller at some previous time—during a shooting affair that had occurred ten years before. Captain Bill promptly checked this diversion. He said:

"Hold on there, Penrose, we don't care for that now. I'm investigating what happened last week. You-all failed to find out anything. I'm finding out something. When I get through with Miller you can ask him about ninety-six or seventy-six, if you want to." Then, to Miller: "What did you do after the shooting?"

The man's reply became a mixture of incongruities. He had stayed at the saloon, he said, until all was quiet, about one o'clock. Then he had come up to the Post, to defend it, having heard that it had been attacked by citizens. Captain Lyon had a squad of forty-five men out looking for Captain Macklin at the jail. He, Miller, had taken a gun from a gun-rack that had been broken open, and joined the search. He didn't know why Captain Lyon had expected to find Captain Macklin in jail.

Corporal Miller was excused and other negroes summoned and examined. Their stories were confused, contradictory and full of guilt. Finally a soldier appeared, whose name, C.W. Askew, corresponded with the initials written in the cap, found in the street the morning after the raid.

Askew came in with the usual "sassy" look, faced Captain Bill, wilted, and lost his memory. He had previously lost his hearing, it would seem, for like Captain Macklin, he had heard nothing of the shooting, or the confusion, until the call to arms, when he had hurried to a rack that was broken open and got the first gun he came to.

"Let me see your cap," said Captain McDonald.

Askew handed it over.

The cap was a new one. Inside were the initials, "C.W.A." freshly written and corresponding exactly with those in the cap found on the street.

Captain Bill handed it back.

"Where is your old one?" he said.

"I've got two or three old ones."

"I want to see them; get them and bring them here."

Askew started for his caps and Captain Macklin went with him. They returned, presently, with two old caps, in size 7¼ and 7¾, respectively. Askew's new cap and the one found in the mud were both number 7's. Captain Bill look them over, then turned to Askew.

"Don't you generally write your name in your caps?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, most generally. Anyhow, I do sometimes."

"Did you write your initials in this new cap? Is the handwriting yours!"

"Yes, sir."

"That will do. You can go, now."

C.W. Askew of Company B, Twenty-seventh Infantry, withdrew, and Captain Bill was alone with his board of inquiry. For some moments he regarded the two officers with silent scorn. Then, to Major Penrose, he said:

"When I came here you told me you couldn't find out anything. I've been here a half an hour and I've found out enough, with what I got last night, to warrant me in charging a bunch of your men with murder. How do you explain that?"

Major Penrose's face showed that he was unhappy. He said:

"You have had more experience in such matters, and understand better how to go at it than I do."

"Yes, I have only asked for the facts—that's all. I didn't try to get anybody to tell me a lie. I've found that a whole bunch of these niggers was out that you and your captain said was in. You-all are trying to cover up this matter, and it makes you just as sorry and guilty as these niggers, making you accessories to the crime."

In employing the word "sorry" here, Captain Bill meant "mean" and "paltry," but any one could see that the word applied equally well in its other uses.

"You are sorrier than these niggers," he went on, "because you, as their officers, and as men of the United States Army, ought to be first to hunt out the guilty ones, instead of trying to hide them. As for Macklin there I think he was out with the niggers, and when he didn't come home with them—he having got scared and hid out, I reckon—they thought he'd got caught and put in jail."[16]

Captain Bill turned to District Attorney Kleiber.

"I want to make a complaint," he said, "against these men here for being accessories to this murder by trying to cover it up. If this kind of thing is going on in the army, it's time the country found it out."

Neither Major Penrose nor Captain Macklin made any coherent defense to these charges, and Captain McDonald, with his sergeant, left the Post. The Rangers spent the rest of the day in completing the evidence against the thirteen suspects—one ex-soldier and twelve privates of Company B. It did not appear that members of the other two companies had taken part in the raid, though there was plenty of evidence to show that many of them had full knowledge of the affair and of the parties concerned. District Judge Welch issued the warrants, declaring the evidence amply sufficient, and heartily approving Captain McDonald's action throughout—District Attorney Kleiber assenting. They agreed that the statutes clearly gave the Ranger Captain the right to arrest and hold any offender against the State law, whether in federal or civil employ. The cases of Officers Penrose and Macklin, however, they decided to leave to military tribunals.

On the following morning, Thursday, August 23d, armed with the warrants, Captain McDonald and Sergeant McCauley again appeared at the entrance of Fort Brown. Evidently the garrison had recovered its poise a little over-night, and was again defiant, for once more a file of men with guns stood there to bar admission. Among this guard were Corporal Miller, Sergeant Jackson and most of the other suspects. As the Rangers approached, the U.S. rifles once more came to a level accompanied, as before by the peremptory word,

"Halt!"

Captain Bill, looking along the barrel of his automatic shot-gun, was inclined to be almost polite.

"What do you damned niggers want, this time?" he said.

"You must get an order from Major Penrose to come in here to-day," was the answer.

"You niggers put up them guns! You've already committed one murder!" was Captain Bill's single comment as with Sergeant McCauley he pushed straight ahead. Both Rangers entered with their own guns leveled, and would have opened fire instantly had there been the slightest movement on the part of the guard. But whatever their orders, the negroes gave way and made no further resistance.

The Rangers presently found Major Penrose and showed him a warrant for twelve of his men. The officer appeared to have cheered up a bit. He ran down the list with quite a business-like air.

"You've got six or eight of the right men," he said, "but the others were not in it."

"Oh, then you do know that some of your men are guilty—and who they are," commented Captain Bill. "Well, pick 'em out. Which ones are they?"

Penrose hesitated.

"I mean that you have six or eight of the right kind of men," he qualified.

"All right, then pick out the ones that are not the right kind of men."

But the major would not or could not undertake to do this. McDonald then said:

"Now, I'll tell you what I want you to do with these men. I don't want to put them in the jail; the sheriff is no good, and it would take too many of my men to guard them. I want you to put them in the guardhouse here and hold them on this warrant until I get through investigating. Will you do that much?"

Penrose first refused, but Major Blocksom, who was present, said that this was a fair proposition, and the major agreed to do it. The men were placed under guard and there seemed a reasonable chance that the whole matter would be sifted by the courts and that the guilty would be punished. The Rangers left the garrison to continue their inquiries about town, in the pursuit of further evidence, well satisfied with their progress thus far, and greeted everywhere with the congratulations of thankful citizens.

FOOTNOTES:

XL

What Finally Happened at Brownsville

HOW STATE OFFICERS FAILED TO SUPPORT THE MEN WHO QUIETED DISORDER AND LOCATED CRIME

But, meantime, something was going on. Telegrams were racing to and fro between Fort Brown and Washington, and in the course of the day Captain McDonald noticed that Major Penrose and his officers were paying visits to prominent Brownsville attorneys. A whisper came to him that the three companies were to be moved—the prisoners with the others. Noticing that the major and his companions went into the office of James B. Wells—a prominent lawyer, formerly judge of the district—the Ranger Captain and one of his men followed them. Immediately upon the entrance of the Rangers, the conference, such as it was broke up. Evidently something was on foot, but Captain McDonald, strong in his faith in the law as expounded to him by Judge Welch and Attorney Kleiber; also, in the co-operation of these officials, expected nothing more serious than the removal of the remainder of the troops. An order for such removal was, in fact, received on that day—August 23d.

It was on Friday, the 24th, that matters reached a climax. Early that morning Judge Wells—"Jim" Wells, as he was familiarly called—met Captain McDonald with some news. (The two were of old acquaintance.) Wells said:

"They are going to take your prisoners away, Bill, and you can't help yourself."

"The hell I can't! I'd like to see them take my niggers away from me, and me with warrants for them, issued on the authority of the judge and attorney of this district. Where'd you get your information?"

Wells replied that it had come through the telegraph operator, and that the order was to move the prisoners with the balance of the troops. Captain Bill did not fully credit this news, but he set out at once for the office of Judge Welch, who had issued the warrants. In front of the clerk's office he met Welch; also, District Attorney Kleiber and Major Blocksom. Captain Bill suspected that Major Blocksom was in league with Penrose to get the prisoners away, and he did not much like the appearance of the three there together. With his usual frankness he stated what was in his mind, adding the information just received from Judge Wells. He was assured by Judge Welch that no movement looking to the removal of the prisoners was in progress, and by Major Blocksom that Major Penrose's agreement to hold the prisoners subject to his (McDonald's) orders would be carried out.

Still, the captain was not entirely satisfied. For some reason there appeared to be a change in the official atmosphere of Brownsville since his arrival. When the city was in despair, he had been welcomed with open arms and accorded all authority. Now that he had entered the dreaded stronghold, in defiance of loaded muskets, and placed the very criminals behind them under arrest; now that nobody was any longer afraid of an outbreak, and women and children could sleep at night, there seemed a disposition to ignore his work and his authority. He could not believe that in their anxiety to be rid of the negro troops, the citizens of Brownsville would willingly surrender men who had committed murder in the streets, and trust to the meager chance of the offenders getting justice in a military investigation, a sample of which the city had already seen. It was his purpose not to allow the accused men to leave the jurisdiction of the county until a complete investigation could be made. He was satisfied that Major Penrose and his associates were fighting that investigation, and he suspected that they had by some means obtained the co-operation of the local authorities.

While considering what to do next, Captain Bill became aware that a company of negro troops had already left the Fort and were marching to the railway station. Promptly mustering his Rangers he accompanied the soldiers, making sure, meantime, that they had none of his prisoners among them. As a precaution against being taken unawares, he then notified the railway officials that the special train made up for the removal of the troops would not be permitted to leave Brownsville until he was satisfied that it had none of his prisoners aboard. It did not occur to Captain Bill that there was any suggestion of humor in the fact that he was ranging himself, with his little company, against what is usually regarded as a strong combination—a railroad company backed by the United States Army; the latter represented by three companies of armed and unruly negroes. It may be added that in the performance of his duty he would without a moment's hesitation have opened fire on all three companies. Captain Bill has almost no sense of humor, sometimes.

Returning from the station he saw another company of soldiers leaving Fort Brown. Seeing the approach of the Rangers, this company halted, hesitated, wheeled and once more entered the fort. The Rangers now arrayed themselves in front of the entrance, and stood guard. Presently the company that had marched to the station also returned and entered the enclosure. Nothing further happened. Nobody else attempted to leave the Fort. By and by, the Ranger Captain left his men on guard and went over to the office of District Judge Welch. As he entered, he noticed that Major Penrose and one of his officers, Captain Lyon, were in close conversation with Welch, and he heard Welch say:

"Well, that will be all right!"

Captain did not hesitate.

"Judge," he said earnestly, "you are not compromising with these people?"

"No, Captain, but the Major here has some orders about these men. I've agreed to send them out of the State, after we get through with them, so they won't be bothered," and to Penrose he added: "This is the man who will have to escort them out."

Captain Bill regarded him sternly. He believed this to be a subterfuge.

"Judge," he said, "those niggers are not going to be moved from here. They are my prisoners, and I'm going to hold them. I'm going to wire to the Governor for assistance to help me hold them."

"And I am going to move them away," said Penrose, "for I have an order from the President to do it."

Captain Bill looked interested.

"I should like to see something from President Roosevelt," he said. "I was on a wolf hunt with him once, and I know him very well. I should like to see something from the President."

Major Penrose replied:

"This is confidential. I have shown it to the judge, here; he can tell you."

"If it is confidential, how in the devil can you show it to the judge, and not to me, when they're my prisoners, and I'm here representing the State?"

Penrose qualified:

"It isn't exactly from the President; it's from the Secretary of War."

"Well, I should like to see that."

"I'm sorry, but I can't show it to you. I'm going to move those men, however, at all hazards."

"And I'm going to hold them at all hazards, until I get orders from Governor Lanham to the contrary. I'm going now to wire for instructions and assistance, and with my four men I can hold them niggers, and your whole command, if necessary, until the Governor says to let them go."

Captain McDonald wired Governor Lanham immediately, as follows:

"To Gov. S.W.T. Lanham and Gen. John A. Hulen, Austin, Texas.

"The military authorities are trying to take our prisoners from here for the purpose of defending them and defeating justice, and will attempt to do so at once, over my protest. Please send assistance to prevent this outrage. The officers are trying to cover up the diabolical crime that I am about to uncover, and it will be a shame to allow this to be done. I turned warrants over to them in due form, with the promise that they would hold the prisoners in the guardhouse, and turn them over to me when called for. Everything is quiet, but I propose to do my duty.

"Signed, W.J. McDonald, "Capt. Co. B, Ranger Force."

No reply came from the Governor after a reasonable wait, and without further delay Captain McDonald sent to the fort a formal demand for his prisoners, reviewing fully the nature of their offence. Major Penrose replied that he had been directed by higher authority to assure the safety of the said prisoners, and added that when such safety was assured they would be delivered to the civil authorities for trial. He added further,

"After a most careful investigation I am unable to find anyone, or party, in any way connected with the crime of which you speak."

The cat was out of the bag, and in full view, now. Major Penrose, regardless of the revelations made in his office, two days before (or, perhaps, because of them); regardless also of his own confession that Captain McDonald had got at least six of the right men, had determined now to make a general and complete denial. He had consulted legal advice—the best in Brownsville—and the result was a plea of "not guilty" for the entire command.

The captain immediately repeated the demand for his prisoners, closing his note by requesting Major Penrose, politely enough, to wait until he (McDonald) had received instructions from his superior officers (the governor and adjutant general), before attempting to move the men.

Major Penrose made no reply to this, and the eventful day wore on. Toward evening it was noticed that a group of officials was gathering in the office of Judge Wells. Captain Bill took one of his men and went over there, each carrying an automatic gun across his arm, as usual. They entered unnoticed, and found a group which included Judge Welch, Attorney Kleiber, Mayor Combe, Congressman Garner, State Senator Willacy and others. Some very earnest talk was in progress in this group, concerning a row and bloodshed which Bill McDonald was likely to bring down upon the community, when, as a matter of fact, the Rangers had brought to the community the only sense of security it had known since the raid. Judge Welch, who had been first to welcome the Ranger Captain and to accord him authority, was now strenuously condemning that very authority and advocating its removal. Just then he happened to catch sight of Captain Bill and his Ranger, standing close by, their guns across their arms. He came near falling over in his surprise and there followed a moment of general embarrassment for the "Anti-Ranger" party. Judge "Jim" Wells was the first to address the captain.

"Bill," he said, "you won't listen to us. You're going against the law and you're going to start a row here that can't be stopped without terrible sacrifice. Those nigger soldiers won't go away and leave those prisoners behind without breaking out again, and next time it will be a good deal worse. They think those prisoners will be lynched, if they're left here. They'll look after them all right, and turn them over to the proper authorities. Don't, for God's sake, get us into another row, Bill."

The Ranger Captain looked from one to another.

"There was a row here before I came," he said. "There's been none since. I come here when the town couldn't get anybody else to come, and you fellows was all scared to death. As for the law, I didn't go into that post until Judge Welch here and the district attorney told me it was all right, and I arrested them niggers on warrants that Judge Welch issued. It's a strange thing to me that the law ain't all right to-day, when it was all right yesterday and day before. As for the rest of the niggers leaving, they'll go fast enough when they get a chance, and I'm going to keep my prisoners here till I get orders from Governor Lanham to turn 'em loose. Furthermore, I don't believe the people of Brownsville want them taken away from here, and I'll tell you right now, that so long as I and my men are here, them niggers are in no danger, nor the people neither."

Judge Welch spoke up. He said:

"You haven't any sense, McDonald. You're running up against the local authorities as well as the United States. I'll settle this thing, right here. I want those warrants."

"Judge," said Captain Bill, "those warrants are not returnable until the third day of September, and this is the Twenty-fourth of August. I'm going to hold that bunch of niggers with those warrants until I hear from Governor Lanham. I've wired the governor for assistance, and I'm waiting now to hear from him."

Congressman Garner spoke up at this point.

"That is a very reasonable request of Captain 'McDonald's," he said, "that the prisoners be held until he can hear from the governor."

Captain Bill parleyed no further, but leaving the group, crossed over to the Miller Hotel—the same that had been fired on by the mob.

Still no word from the governor and adjutant general. That they were being bombarded with telegrams and protests, and that every influence was being brought to bear, the Captain did not doubt. Yet he did not wholly lose faith. He believed that in the end the governor would stand by what had been done and support him in the position he had taken. He left a part of his force to keep watch on the entrance of the fort, and went in to supper. When he had finished, he came outside to take his turn at standing guard. Presently he saw a body of armed men approaching. There appeared to be forty or fifty of them, most of them dressed in khaki, and in the dusk he at first took them to be soldiers. Then as they drew nearer, he discovered that they were led by Judge Welch, District Attorney Kleiber, and the Mexican sheriff, who for the first time was taking an active part in the Brownsville drama—having previously been safely locked up in his own jail. Viewed at this distance of time and space, how silly it seems that those officials, knowing Bill McDonald, as all Texas knew him, could have hoped to frighten him with a nondescript muster like that. They drew their posse—Mexican riff-raff—up in front of the hotel. Judge Welch asked:

"Where's Captain McDonald?"

Captain Bill himself came forward.

"What's the trouble, now, judge?" he said. "Looks like you're going to war, with all these armed men."

"I've come for those warrants," said Welch. "I've got an order for them."

"All right, Judge; you don't need an army, if you've got an order from the proper authorities. Come in here by the light, where I can see it."

So they went in, followed by the Mexican sheriff and his khaki muster, and all the other crowd that could get in—all the citizens and guests of the hotel; the drummers and ranchmen and tourists—they all pushed and elbowed in until the hotel lobby was full and the balcony around the court was crowded (and there were ladies on the balcony), a fine audience indeed for this, the closing scene. Everybody was inside that could get in, now, and the room grew quiet. In the center of the lobby, in a little group, were the chief actors. The Ranger Captain and his sergeant stood together, their automatic guns, as usual, in position for quick and easy service. They made a picturesque pair, with their typical Texas hats, and arms, and dress, and their determined faces. Judge Welch facing them, fumbled a little and produced his order.

Captain Bill held it to the light. It ran as follows:

"To Captain William J. McDonald, Company B, Ranger Force, Brownsville, Texas.

"You are hereby directed and required to immediately turn over the warrants for the twelve soldiers and one ex-soldier, delivered to you for the arrest of these men, without any further attempt at execution of the same.

"Signed, Stanley Welch, Dist. Judge, "39th Dist. State of Tex."

Captain Bill finished reading and regarded the judge steadily.

"This is your own order, Judge," he said. "What is the meaning of it?"

Judge Welch started in to repeat some of the arguments of the afternoon.

"You won't take the advice of your best friends," he said, "and are bound to start something here that will cause the blood to flow in these streets."

Captain Bill looked at him and let his gun rest a little more easily on his arm.

"If that is what you brought this gang here for, we'll start it now," he said.

There was a spontaneous round of applause, from both the lobby and the balcony. The ladies in the latter strained forward to get a view of the man who had defied a command of soldiers and who now, before their very eyes, was facing a sheriff's armed posse, undismayed.

"I'll tell you, Judge," Captain Bill went on. "You-all look like fifteen cents in Mexican money, to me, when I'm doing my duty, you and your ki-ki militia here, and your Mexican sheriff that you told me yourself was no good, and had done nothing, and was locked up in his own jail for protection when I come here."

There was more applause at this point—also, laughter, the latter rather nervous, on the part of the ladies. Captain Bill proceeded:

"Now, you bring him and his gang down here to arrest me for contempt of court, I suppose—you, and your district attorney, after you both told me that I had a full right to enter the post and use such means as was necessary to bring those criminals to justice. Looks like as soon as I get things started and some of the guilty men locked up, the law is all changed and you come here demanding my warrants, and expect to put me in jail if I don't give them up-is that it?"

Judge Welch assumed an air of superior virtue.

"I'm not afraid to do my duty," he blustered.

"Nor I," said Captain Bill, "so fly at it!"

There was more applause then, of course. It was the moment of the dramatic climax—the instant for a telegram from the governor, upholding the position of Captain Bill and putting his enemies to rout. The stage machinery was perfect, too, for a telegram did indeed come at that moment, only, instead of sustaining the chief actor in the drama, it cut the ground from under his feet. Captain Bill took the yellow envelope from the messenger, opened it and read the contents. There were just two sentences. The first was equivocal and meant nothing. The last meant surrender and humiliation.

"Austin, Texas, August 24, 1906.

"To Captain W.J. McDonald, Brownsville, Texas.

"Have requested Gen. McCaskey to prevent removal of soldiers charged with recent murder. Consult district judge and sheriff and act under and through them.

"Signed, "S.W.T. Lanham, Governor."

After all, it requires defeat to reveal true greatness. Few they are who with the eyes of the multitude upon them can stand with calm eye and steady nerve, unmoved and unfaltering, when the last support is snatched away. It was all at an end, now; all his effort had gone for little or nothing—his final hope had failed. But those watching him could not have told that the crushing blow had fallen. He folded the telegram with a hand that betrayed not the slightest tremor, and with a voice that was entirely steady, and even pleasant, he said:

"Well, Judge, if nothing else will do you, I am ready, now, to give you my warrant for those prisoners. Major Penrose has the other copy and is holding them with it. I can get along, I guess, without a warrant. The train won't leave until tomorrow morning, for the men in charge are instructed not to leave until I say so, and I don't intend to say so, to-night."

The crowd that had been still and breathless during the last few moments, gave a great round of applause at this, and the drama was over.

Captain McDonald still had a very small hope that affairs might take a turn before morning, and all night, with his little army, he patroled the entrance of the fort to see that the prisoners were not moved. That a battle would have followed any such attempt there is not the least doubt. He withdrew all interference next morning, and the train carrying the troops, including the prisoners, left about six o'clock, for San Antonio. The prisoners were taken to Fort Sam Houston, the remainder of the command to Fort Rena, Oklahoma. When the final investigations took place, the man who, according to Major Blocksom, had been willing to "charge hell with a bucket of water," in the cause of justice and duty, was lying ill—the result of his old wounds combined with the misery of unfair treatment. Sergeant McCauley, who was ready with all the evidence, was invited to testify, and did so, but not a single indictment was found by officials, civil or military. The "conspiracy of silence was complete."[17]

But, perhaps, after all, the efforts of Captain Bill had not been wholly without result; for he made a report of the matter to Washington, and President Roosevelt, doubtless recalling that wolf-hunt and knowing the integrity and courage of the writer, viewed that report in the light of evidence. When the official verdict, "Not guilty," was reached, he dismissed, "without honor," the entire command of the Twenty-fifth Infantry.

The Brownsville episode had become national history; a curious chapter—the end of which would not soon be written.[18]

FOOTNOTES:

XLI

The Battle on the Rio Grande

ASSASSINATION OF JUDGE STANLEY WELCH. CAPTAIN BILL ORDERED TO THE SCENE. AN AMBUSH; A SURPRISE AND AN INQUEST

Within three months from the night of the Brownsville raid, there occurred another tragedy in the banks of the Rio Grande. In the hours of earliest morning of Tuesday, November 6th—Election Day—while asleep in his office room at Rio Grande City, District Judge Stanley Welch, prominently connected with the Brownsville episode, was shot dead in his bed by some unknown assassin; this cowardly killing being doubtless the harvest of factional discord, widely sown and carefully tended in that hotbed of political corruption and violence along the Mexican border.

Rio Grande City lies up the river from Brownsville a distance of about one hundred miles. It is the county seat of Starr County, and has no railroad nearer than Sam Fordyce, the terminus of the St. L.B. & M., some twenty miles away. There are no railroads at all in Starr County—a big county, full of cactus, hard, spiny mesquite grass, Mexicans, and hot burning sand. Riot and plot would flourish naturally, in a place like that, as they do in all Latin-American territory.

Starr County, in fact, is rather more Mexican than Mexico herself, using the word to convey the less fortunate characteristics of that hybrid race. It is not the better class of citizens that leave Mexico, or Italy, or China, and the United States has suffered accordingly. The border counties of Texas, because of their situation have been peculiarly unfortunate in this regard. In Starr County the elective offices are held almost entirely by Mexicans, and the struggle for place is very fierce and bitter. Affairs generally are conducted by Mexicans, and even the schools are in Mexican hands. From a statement concerning the school trustees and teachers, in Starr County, it appears that out of twenty-four trustees only seven could speak and write the English language, and out of thirty-nine teachers nineteen of them had no knowledge whatever of our national tongue. Commenting on this report, D.C. Rankin of Dallas, in an article in the Corpus Christi Crony, says:

"The male teachers are political heelers for the party in power, and the lady teachers are backed by workers in the ring.... No wonder that law and order amount to nothing in that rotten section, and no wonder that District Judge, Stanley Welch, was assassinated while asleep in his bed. No wonder that when Rangers were sent there to preserve the peace and protect the citizenship from the ravages of the so-called Americanized Mexicans, that they were ambushed and fired upon by a lot of these desperadoes."

It is this story of crime and ambush that we shall undertake to tell in this chapter. When the assassination occurred, District Attorney Kleiber, who also may be remembered as having figured in the Brownsville story, was asleep in the room adjoining the one occupied by Judge Welch—the two inhabiting a small one-story brick building not far from the court-house. They had retired about the same time and Kleiber slept soundly until next morning at seven. Hearing no movement in Judge Welch's room, he called, but received no answer. Thinking the judge had overslept, Kleiber then rose, and opening the door between, called again. The judge did not stir, and going nearer the district attorney saw blood coming from his left side. Judge Welch was lying on that side; the window behind him was up—the shutter closed. He had been shot in the back, from without, through a broken slat in the blind. Attorney Kleiber recalled having been partially roused from his sleep by some sudden noise, and now supposed it to have been the fatal shot.

Mr. Kleiber at once notified the authorities, and by eight o'clock news of the murder was on the street. It was Election Day, as already stated, and excitement followed the report, with demoralization among the better element—the party to which Judge Welch belonged. It should be explained here that the two parties in that section are the "Reds" and the "Blues"—nominally Democrats and Republicans, though the distinction would seem one of patronage rather than of politics. In Rio Grande City the party of Judge Welch, called the Reds (Democrats)—is in the minority.

On this Tuesday, November 6th, 1906, its franchise was even more restricted than usual. When the fact of the murder became known about fifty mounted men, "Blues," went through the crowds, demanding that the polls be instantly opened. Local officers were either unwilling or unable to deal with this mob, and open warfare between the Blues and the Reds was imminent. To avoid bloodshed, Chairman Seabury of the Reds assembled the best men among the leaders of the Blues and persuaded them to agree with him that no armed men should approach the court-house, where the voting place had been established; also that one man of each party should be appointed as special peace officer at the polls, and that a Blue and a Red should vote alternately as long as there existed material for such an arrangement.