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True Stories of Old Houston and Houstonians E-Book

Samuel Oliver Young

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Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
Sprache: Englisch
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The stories in this book, historical and personal sketches, owe their being largely to chance. The whole series was unintentionally begun and the letters letters have come from all parts of the state and from several Eastern and Northern states. The stories are highly enjoyable, for each one will bring back some pleasant memory of oldtimes Houston.

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True Stories of Old Houston and Houstonians

Historical and Personal Sketches

True Stories of Old Houston and Houstonians, S. O. Young

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9

Deutschland

ISBN: 9783849649289

www.jazzybee-verlag.de

[email protected]

IN THE BEGINNING

I SUPPOSE it must have been published many times, but if so it has escaped my notice until the other day. I refer to the original advertisement of the town of Houston by the Allen Bros. The following is the document in full, which appeared originally in the Telegraph, published at that time at Columbia, on the Brazos River:

"THE TOWN OF HOUSTON."

"Situated at the head of navigation on the west bank of Buffalo Bayou, is now for the first time brought to public notice, because, until now, the proprietors were not ready to offer to the public, with the advantages of capital and improvements.

"The town of Houston is located at a point on the river which must ever command the trade of the largest and richest portions of Texas. By reference to the map it will be seen that the trade of San Jacinto, Spring Creek, New Kentucky, and the Brazos, above and below Fort Bend, must necessarily come to this place, and will at this time warrant the employment of at least $1,000,000 of capital, and when the rich lands of this country shall be settled a trade will flow to it, making it, beyond all doubt, the great commercial emporium of Texas.

"The town of Houston is distant 15 miles from the Brazos River, 30 miles a little north of east from San Felipe, 60 miles from Washington, 40 miles from Lake Creek, 30 miles southwest from New Kentucky and 15 miles by water and 8 miles by land above Harrisburg.

"Tidewater runs to this place and the lowest depth of water is about six feet. Vessels from New York and New Orleans can sail without obstacle to this place, and steamboats of the largest class can run down to Galveston in eight or ten hours in all seasons of the year.

"It is but a few hours sail down the bay, where one can make excursions of pleasure and enjoy the luxuries of fish, fowl, oysters and sea-bathing.

"Galveston harbor, being the only one in which vessels drawing a large draft of water can navigate, must necessarily render the island the great naval and commercial depot of the country.

"The town of Houston must be the place where arms, ammunition and provisions for the government will be stored, because, situated in the very heart of the country, it combines security and means of easy distribution, and a national armory will no doubt very soon be at this point.

"There is no place in Texas more healthy, having an abundance of excellent spring water and enjoying the sea breeze in all its freshness.

"No place in Texas possesses so many advantages for building, having fine ash, cedar and oak in inexhaustible quantities, also the tall and beautiful magnolia grows in abundance. In the vicinity are fine quarries of stone.

"Nature seems to have designated this place for the future seat of government. It is handsome and beautifully elevated, salubrious and well-watered and is now in the very center of population and will be so for a long time to come.

"It combines two important advantages — a communication with the coast and with foreign countries and with different portions of the republic. As the country shall improve, railroads will become in use and will be extended from this point to the Brazos and up the same, and also from this up to the headwaters of the San Jacinto, embracing that rich country, and in a few years the whole trade of the upper Brazos will make its way into Galveston Bay through this channel.

"Preparations are making to erect a water sawmill, and a large public house for accommodation will soon be opened. Steamboats now run in this river and will, in a short time, commence running regularly to the island. The proprietors offer lots for sale at moderate terms to those who desire to improve them and invite the public to examine for themselves.

"(Signed) A. C. ALLEN, for

"A. C. & J. K. ALLEN."

"August 30, 1836, 6m."

That old document is as fine a piece of advertising as any turned out by the "artists" of today. It has one great merit, that of truthfulness, for whether intentionally or not the Aliens told almost the literal truth in every line they wrote, for all that they forecast has come true a thousandfold.

I was glad to come across that old advertisement for it settles two stories that have been told so often that everybody has grown to believe them to be true. No doubt, impressed by the fulfillment of so many prophecies made by the Aliens, some writers have deemed it safe to add a little to them, and have allowed their imaginations somewhat free play. An instance of this is the story that when they were laying out the streets and blocks for Houston, one of the Aliens placed his pencil on "Railroad Street" and remarked that the future railroad would have its start right there. Unfortunately for this story, there was no Railroad Street laid out by the Aliens, and the street that now bears that name was not created until over 20 years after the Aliens laid out their town. Their city was bounded on the north by Buffalo Bayou. All the territory north of the bayou was densely wooded and they paid no attention to it. Now, since Railroad Street is on the north side of the bayou and got its name from the railroads that run over it, it is quite evident that the Aliens could have had nothing to do with naming it, when the city was laid out.

Another story destroyed by that advertisement is the one about Mrs. A. C. Allen naming the town. She may have named it and if she ever said she did I know she did, but not in the way the story goes. Following is the story: While the Texas congress was in session, the Allen brothers were trying to find a suitable name for their city. One of them consulted his sister, Mrs. A. C. Allen, who without hesitation said: "Name it Sam Houston." She also offered to write to General Houston, who was then at Columbia and ask his permission to name the town after him. She wrote the letter and a few days later received a letter from him in which he said, "Leave off the 'Sam' and call it 'Houston'."

The fatal point for that story is the fact that the Texas congress, which the story says President Houston was attending, did not convene at Columbia until October 3, 1836, while the Allen brothers were advertising the sale of town lots in the "Town of Houston" on August 30, or over a month previous to any possible date for the story.

EARLY HANGINGS IN HOUSTON.

IT IS an historical fact that at the first session of court held in Harrisburg County, as Harris was then called, two men were found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. It is stated that those two men were hanged immediately because the jail was uncomfortably cold and the kind-hearted judge did not want the prisoners to suffer unduly.

The court sentence is true, no doubt, but the story about the jail being too uncomfortable must be taken with a large pinch of salt, since there was no jail to be uncomfortable. The first jail was not built for at least two years after the date of that incident. By the way, that first jail was a curiosity. It had neither windows nor doors. It was simply a one-story log house with a flat roof. On its top was a trap door. This was raised, a ladder was lowered and the prisoner went down into the jail. Then the ladder was withdrawn, the trap closed, and the prisoner was left to meditate on his sins.

The first legal hanging in Houston, about which old citizens know, took place many years after the date of the reported hangings. It was that of a man named Hyde. He had waylaid and murdered a man and had then left the state and gone to Louisiana or Mississippi. Someone recognized him there and reported the fact to the authorities here. Proper papers were made out and Hyde was arrested and brought back. That was in 1853, and the hanging took place in what was afterwards known as Hangsman Grove just on the southeast corner of the old cemetery out of the San Felipe Road. At that time and for many years after, that place was away out in the country, but is now thickly settled, with blocks of houses far beyond it.

Captain Thom. Hogan was sheriff of Harris County at the time and was so nervous and excited that he stood on the trap with the condemned man and was about to cut the rope that held it in position, but was dragged off before he could do so.

The next execution to take place out there was that of a negro named Johnson, in 1868, followed about two years later by the execution of another negro named Johnson. I witnessed both of these and at the last one I learned something that has done me more good and helped me to have faith in my fellow man than anything that has ever occurred to me. I suppose every reader of these lines has heard one or more honorable man get on the witness stand in court and swear to something that was not true. Such swearing is not confined to any one class, but the very best men — men of the highest integrity have been guilty of it. The majority of people put them down as willful liars and let it go at that, without attempting to go further. Not so with me. I have faith in them and know that they are telling what they think is true. The reason for my feeling that way is explained by this incidence. When the last negro was hanged, I was standing where I could see him plainly. I saw the hangsman adjust the rope about his neck and fit the knot under his left ear. I was on the right side. The negro wore a white shirt with a big, turned-down collar. When the drop fell I saw the rope peel back the black skin for about an inch, leaving the white flesh exposed for a moment. Then several large drops of black looking blood formed on the wound, slowly trickled down and fell on the white collar.

After the negro was cut down I went with the doctor to the old pest house on the bank of the bayou to see the postmortem examination he was going to make. Of course the first thing I looked for was the wound on the neck, but, to my amazement, I found none. The skin was unbroken, not even scratched. The truth is that I had simply seen something that I expected to see, without knowing that I expected to see it. I was greatly excited, but was not conscious that I was so. Ever since then when I have heard absurd and palpably false statements made in court, by reputable men, I have felt that those making them were telling the truth, or at least what they thought was the truth. I know that if occasion had arisen, and I had not have seen the negro's body after it had been cut down, I would have willingly staked my life betting that the rope had cut his neck exactly as I thought it had. Those two Johnsons were the last men executed at Hangsman Grove, for after that, all executions took place in the jail or jail yard. The general idea is that many men were hanged out there, but as a matter of fact only three executions took place there. That of Hyde and the two negroes.

SOME OF THE NOTED BAD MEN.

I HAD a most interesting talk a few evenings ago with my old friend, Dr. William Daniels. I know of no one who has had a more intimate acquaintance with the thrilling days of Texas and the men who furnished the thrills. The doctor, having served as one of the surgeons of Sibley's Brigade on the Rio Grande and in New Mexico and Arizona during the civil war, had exceptional opportunities for knowing all the real "bad men" of that day. It is pretty safe to say that from the beginning to the end one or more of them was connected with his command at some time. The doctor, while one of the quietest and most peaceable gentlemen and one, too, had he not practiced medicine for many years, one might safely say had never killed a man, always took great interest in "bad men" and made a study of them.

"One hears often of the gameness of 'bad men'," he said. "They are game, of course, but so are you, so am I and so are 90 per cent of the gentlemen one knows. It takes more than gameness to make a desperado or bad man, and that fact was recognized by the people who first gave them the name of desperadoes. Cold-blooded murderers who killed merely for the pleasure of killing and who gave their victims no show at all, should be classed as human fiends and not be dignified by calling them 'bad men.' Billy the Kid belonged to that class. He killed just as a wild animal kills — merely for the pleasure it gave him to see his victims die. He was a fiend in human shape and should have no place in the honorable (?) list of killers.

"The true 'bad man' differed from the ordinary man in many ways, the main one being his absolute indifference to taking human life. The only care he took about the matter was to have the semblance of being in the right before he acted. Ben Thompson, for instance, was noted for never firing the first shot. He always allowed the other fellow to shoot at him before? he shot. It never required but one of his shots to get his man, and both he and the man knew that. No doubt it had influence in getting the other fellow's goat, for I don't think any of Ben's many antagonists ever succeeded in hitting him, while if he ever missed one of them the fact is not on record.

"I knew Cain Norton, Tom Clark, King Fisher, Ben Thompson, Billy Thompson, Mat Woodlief and others of lesser prominence. There was one who, had he lived, would have made his mark. That was Buck Stacy, whose career was cut short by General John R. Baylor, who had him court-martialed and shot for killing a fellow soldier after Baylor had issued an order against any further private killings. Buck was really a very game man and had all the elements about him that go to make the real 'bad man.'

"The gamest man among all the game ones was Cain Norton. In all his private wars I don't believe he ever gave himself a single thought. His own safety was a matter of utter indifference to him. He made no calculations about the future or the present, except to get his man, which he always did. On one occasion I saw him when another 'bad man' had the drop on him. Cain had only a knife, while the other fellow had a pistol. Cain first laughed at him, and then cursed and taunted him, daring him to shoot. He was willing to risk being killed so that he would get a chance to close in with his knife and take the fellow with him. The man he was facing had a reputation as a killer, but Cain's coolness got his goat and he ended by backing out of the door and leaving town.

"Tom Clark was another cool one. I have often thought about Tom's case and have concluded that among some of his ancestors was one of those old knights errant, who spent their time hunting up wrongs or imaginary wrongs of other people, or doing something for the advancement of their lady love. Tom was a great lady's man and would fight for the protection of any woman, the wrinkled old hag as quickly as for the fairest girl. One or two notches on his pistol's handle represented the exit of men who had so far forgotten themselves as to strike women in Tom's presence. It was that knightly feature in his character that led to his taking off. One Sunday morning Tom was in the old market house in San Antonio when a Mexican struck a woman in the face with his hand. Tom knew none of the people, but he promptly bent his six shooter over the fellow's head. The chap drew a knife and made for Tom, who shot him dead. There was a big crowd of Mexicans there and they made a rush for Tom. He fired three shots and got three of them. Then the cylinder of his pistol got jammed and he snapped on an empty chamber and then, hurling the useless, pistol in their faces, folded his arms and quietly waited the inevitable. About 20 Mexicans mounted him with knives and when they got through they had him cut into shoestrings.

"Cain Norton was killed in one of the battles over in Louisiana, and so far as I can recall, he was the only one who met a soldier's death among the whole number. Every one of them died with his boots on, however.

"If I could find time I would write a book telling of those stirring days and of the men who kept things at fever heat all the time. That would be one book where style and literary excellence would be at a discount, for the contents of the book would carry it along."

KU KLUX DAYS .

IN 1868 reconstruction days were on in full blast all over Texas, and Houston, being so prominent a central point both in commercial and political matters, came in for a large share of shame and outrage. The "black belt" over on the Brazos being so near, it was an easy thing for the scalawags and carpetbaggers to bring negro voters by the hundred whenever a so-called election was held. There was no registration required and all that was necessary was to have a red or blue ticket or a white one with a big flag painted on it, so that the ignorant negro could tell what ticket to vote, and the Republican leaders were assured of success in advance. Governor A. J. Davis had appointed the negro state guard a special police, and had suspended habeas corpus and given these negroes the right to make arrests on their own judgment without writ or any legal process whatever. Not content with this, the scalawags and carpetbaggers went even further in their effort to put the negro above the white man. They organized the Union League, an organization formed for the sole purpose of controlling the ignorant negro votes and boosting the worthless white men, who were out for everything in sight, into office.

There was only one voting place for the whole county and city at first— the court house— but later this was changed and the country people were allowed to vote in their -own precincts. Everybody in Houston, though, had to vote at the court house and this was done because it enabled the Republicans to control things to suit themselves. It is almost incredible the power the scalawags had over the negroes. They owned and controlled them like so many dumb animals and voted them, not in blocks, but as a solid unit.

With so many imported negro votes in the field, the white men found themselves in a hopeless minority, but be it said to their honor and glory, they did their duty as voters and citizens, and that too under difficulties that were at times almost insurmountable.

In order to reach the voting place each voter had to get in line and keep his place, too. If he stepped aside even for a moment, unless he were a negro he forfeited his place and was forced to take a new one at the end of the line and begin all over again. Long before the polls opened there were hundreds of negroes and as many white men as could get there in line. This line was often one or two blocks long and two men abreast. Only two men were admitted to the polls at once so the voting was long drawn out and tedious. Extending from the court house down to the room where the voting took place was a double line of Federal soldiers with fixed bayonets, and every free American citizen, black or white, had to pass between a line of bayonets to express his will at the ballot box.

Republican strikers and henchmen were continually passing along the line of voters and were swelling the Republican majority by slipping belated negroes into the line ahead of the white men. It was a great outrage but it worked all the same and gave the Republican managers absolute control of everything. Of course, the voting time was limited, which enabled them to shut out the white vote in part if not in whole. The negroes in the advance voted leisurely, consuming as much time as possible, thus holding back the line. When a white man showed up he was put through a sharp questioning; his right to vote was contested and every obstacle possible was placed in his way. Finally he was either allowed to vote or was thrown out, and the negroes were allowed to vote rapidly in order to make up lost time. I have known of old citizens, holding their places in the line for hours and then losing their votes by having the polls close on them promptly at 6 o'clock, or just about the time the white voters would reach the polls.

Now, conditions such as these were enough to drive men crazy and irresponsible, but yet, strange to say, there was very little rioting or bloodshed. Most of the lawlessness came from the other side and Davis' state guard, all negroes, did more to overthrow the Republicans and scalawags than all the other causes combined. This was in two ways. The outrages committed by the negro policemen enraged the whites and the punishment meted out by the whites terrified the negroes and their worthless backers, causing them to become less open and aggressive in their diabolical work.

It is really hard to believe at this later day the outrages perpetrated by the negro state guards. By the authority given them by Governor Davis they were supreme and above all local authority. They arrested whomever they pleased. Little things like making a complaint or securing a warrant for an arrest cut no figure at all. They generally went in bunches of four or five and were heavily armed. It was no unusual thing for them to stop good citizens on the streets or county roads, cross-examine them in the most insolent manner and then curse them, using the vilest language in an effort to make them do something so they could have an excuse for killing them. They did kill a great many men in various parts of the state, but as the only witnesses to these killings were themselves, they never had the least trouble.

Things were in this shape when the climax came. Three or four of these negro police were in Brenham sitting on a bench in the public square. A highly respected citizen and merchant by the name of Ledbetter started across the square from his store to go to the post office. He passed some distance from the negroes and being hard of hearing, did not hear them when they called to him and demanded to know where he was going. They jumped up and ordered him to halt. Still not hearing them he continued on his way. He had taken only a few steps when he fell dead, riddled by bullets from the negroes' guns and pistols. The murder was so cold-blooded and unprovoked that the whole community rose in arms. The negroes made their escape, but the black flag had been raised and from that moment Davis' state guards were doomed to dogs' deaths wherever found. None of them was ever arrested for anything he had done, because when they were found they were wiped out. They were placed in the same class with snakes, wolves and other undesirable things and the average white man thought no more of killing one of them than he could have thought of killing a snake. I don't know whether it was true or not but it was currently reported and believed, that after the murder of Ledbetter not a single member of Davis' negro state guards, originally about 80 strong, ever died a natural death.

This change of front on the part of the white men had a salutary effect on the negroes. They became less bold and open, but the carpetbaggers and scalawags maintained their hold on them through great political organizations.

The time was now ripe for an organized effort on the part of the whites and that fact was recognized. One afternoon I was seated in front of the old Capitol Hotel, where the Rice Hotel now stands, in company with Colonel Jones, a young lawyer who had make quite a reputation as a Confederate officer and soldier; Major Crank, Captain Charley Evans and one or two others. After a desultory conversation Colonel Jones asked me abruptly if I believed in white man supremacy. Of course my answer was in the affirmative. He then asked if I was willing to take part in a movement to insure white supremacy. I told him I was. He then told me that a movement was on foot to organize the white men and he wanted me to join the organization. I agreed and on the following Tuesday night I was initiated in the Texas Klu Klux, though it was known by a different name. I was the first man initiated, my number being eleven. There were ten charter members. Colonel Jones being No. 1, Captain Evans No. 2, Major Clark No. 3 and I forget the others, but I do remember that the late General C. C. Beavens was No. 10, but being a strict Catholic the priest objected to his belonging to a secret society and he never took part in the organization. Aside from the advantage gained by making the order as mysterious as possible I could never see reason for any secrecy, for it was an absolutely lawful association, and its members were sworn to do all in their power to maintain the supremacy of the white men by lawful means and to restore law and order.

We picked our men and in less than a month we had over 300 members in Houston and the order had extended to nearby towns. In a month or two the order had gone all over Texas, and had thousands of members. The idea of profound mystery was carried out in every way. Members were known only by numbers, and no written record was ever made or kept. When investigations were necessary or when any outside work was to be done no one ever knew who was chosen to do the work except the general and those who were chosen. Of course the negroes, loyal leagues and carpetbaggers became greatly excited when they discovered the existence of our organization and they made every effort to find out something about us. That they could not do because there was absolutely nothing to find out. I belonged to the order from the day of its organization until it was dissolved and I never knew of an unlawful act done by it, nor of one done by some overzealous or silly member that was not 'promptly rebuked. The order accomplished its object the very moment it was organized, for its mere existence, surrounded as it were with so much mystery, struck terror to the negro heart and caused their white backers to pause and take notice. During a small riot and threatened uprising of the negroes one Sunday morning the old market bell was tolled in a peculiar way by some unknown person. Within a few minutes several hundred men armed with shotguns and pistols suddenly appeared on Main Street and the negroes and their white friends disappeared as suddenly. But, as Kipling says, that is another story, and as it is rather an interesting one, I shall reserve it for another time.

HOOD'S BRIGADE'S MASCOT.

DURING the winter of 1869 I was sitting in the reading room of the old St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans, when I saw in a stray copy of the Houston Telegraph the following startling headline:

"DEATH OF JAMES LONGSTREET."

Naturally I supposed that General James Longstreet, the great Confederate general and the loved and admired leader of the Texas brigade in Virginia, which brigade was so immediately under his command, was the Longstreet referred to. I read the article eagerly and was relieved to find that it was the death of a famous mule rather than that of the famous general that was chronicled. That mule was famous indeed, for it had the distinction of being the "mascot" of Hood's Texas Brigade in the army of Northern Virginia.

Just where Jim Longstreet came from I never knew. All I know is that Major W. D. Denney, who was commissary of the brigade, owned him as early as 1862 and that Jim was a conspicuous object around the commissary wagons during the four years of the war. Major Denney was killed at Elthams Landing the first time the brigade was under fire, on May 7, 1862, and was succeeded by Major Robert Burns, who fell heir to the mule and also to a big gray horse owned by Major Denney. I mention these facts so as to get Jim Longstreet's war record straight. He shared in the glory of the first battle, though from a safe distance, and laid down his ears at Appomattox. Jim was a beautiful animal. He was about the size of a small Shetland pony, perfectly formed, graceful, quick in his movements and, though by no means lazy, he never did a lick of work in his life. He was a camp follower in the strictest sense of the word, and before the war had continued very long he was considered the very best authority on the nearness of a fight. At the sound of the first gun Jim would break for the rear and remain there until the trouble was over. He was a great forager and would go off alone on private expeditions, but at the sound of a cannon he would duck his head and make a bee line for the wagons. His track was about the size of a silver dollar and was easily recognized, so that it frequently served as a guide for the two-legged foragers to find camp. Jim shared in all the hardships through which the army passed, but they seemed to do him good instead of harm, for he was always fat and sassy. He was with the brigade when it went to help Bragg out at Chickamauga and in Tennessee. He followed Lee to Gettysburg and finally, as already remarked, laid down his ears at Appomattox. When the end came Major Burns brought his gray war horse and Jim to Texas. How lie managed to do it is a mystery, but he did it and late in 1865 he arrived in Houston with both animals. He presented James Longstreet to Dick Fuller, whose brother, B. P. Fuller, had been captain of Company A in the Fifth Texas Regiment.

From the moment Jim became Dick's property his comfort and ease were assured and he led a life that suited him down to his toes. He was the personal pet of every boy in town and from the dignified air he assumed I am confident he felt his importance and knew how great a mule he was. He had sense just like folk and had the most cunning ways about him. There was absolutely nothing vicious about him.

James Longstreet, like many men who did no actual fighting during the war, never was convinced that the war was over. For him the war went on for many years after Appomattox. This was shown in a decided way. James continued his foraging expeditions to the day of his death. He would wander away and go clear out on the prairie, though he never crossed the bayou and went into the woods. No matter how far away he was or what he was doing, if a thunder storm came up he would duck his head and break for home at the first thunder clap. He was certain that a fight was about to begin and he hunted for safety at the discharge of what he thought was the opening gun of the engagement. When at home a thunder storm had no effect on him and he paid no attention to the most terrible crashes, but away from home he was keenly on the alert.

James Longstreet died in 1869, full of years and honors. He was given a decent burial, as was befitting his station in life, and the Houston Telegraph published a column obituary of him, reciting his many virtues. His record was remarkable and his life he made an easy one. He was the pet of the soldiers of Hood's Brigade four years and the pet of the boys of Houston during the remaining years of his life, after the war was over. He lived at peace with himself and the whole world and died lamented by all who knew him.

BIG GULLIES IN HOUSTON.

ABOUT the first thing that the Houston and Texas Central Railroad had to do when that road was begun, was to build a long trestlework over an immense gully that lay between the present Grand Central Depot and the old city graveyard. That gully began about on Houston Avenue and ran parallel with the track for a block or two and then turned to the northeast and extended to White Oak Bayou. It has since been almost completely filled, though traces of it still remain.

In the early days Houston was remarkable for its numerous large gullies. There was one great one that took up rather more than the lower end of Caroline Street. It was narrower after reaching Congress Avenue, and gradually narrowed until it completely disappeared between Prairie and Texas Avenues. There were two big bridges crossing the gully, one on Franklin and the other on Congress Avenue. Those were the two principal streets used at that time, very few people living south of Texas Avenue.

But the king gully of all was the one on Rusk Avenue. This began on Smith Street and before it had gone a block it was almost a block wide. It became much wider as it neared the bayou and really got so broad that it was two or three blocks wide. Both this and the Caroline Street one have been filled up and now one would never know that they had existed.

One of the famous gullies was that between Texas and Prairie Avenues. It began on Milam Street about in the middle of the block and ran down to the bayou. Unlike the other gullies, this appeared to have been quite ancient, for its banks were covered with vegetation and free from fresh erosions. Near where the gully passed Smith Street there was a very large spring overhung by a large oak tree. I can close my eyes now and see that spring and the little school of minnows that were always swimming about in it. I walked down that way a few days ago and found an immense brick building on a paved street, 40 feet above where that beautiful spring was. I found not a trace of the gully, it having been filled up and converted into building lots, all now covered with houses.

There used to be quite a large gully running from Preston Avenue to the bayou. My earliest recollection of this gully is of the spring that was at its head, near the southeast corner of Preston and Louisiana Street. As I recall it this spring was not much for beauty, though it was large enough to cause a standing mud hole on Louisiana Street. Going from Preston towards the bayou this gully widened rapidly and was quite an obstruction to travel by the time it reached Congress Avenue. It too has been filled and today not a trace of it remains.

Now, of all the mean and disagreeable gullies that ever existed anywhere, the big one on Rusk Avenue took the cake. It was caving constantly and its banks and sides were sticky, red clay. When it rained, this gully was a place to be avoided. At each street crossing there was a plank near the bottom of the gully to enable persons who had to cross to escape the water in the bottom of the gully. The descent was perilous and ascent equally so. Everybody that had any sense went around the head of the gully, but there were lots of people who preferred to risk the gully to taking the walk. Of course, none of the boys had any sense. As a rule they were barefooted and did not care much whether they got muddy or not. I remember one evening when a German "pardner" of mine and I got caught by darkness on the other side of that gully. We had been out on the San Felipe Road, had stayed too long and were making short cuts for home. I can look back now and see that we did not gain much by our short cuts, but then we thought we did and that counted at the time.

Finally we came to this big gully. I wanted to go around its head, but my friend would not listen to doing so. He announced that he was a goat when it came to going down a muddy gully and told me to watch him and then I would see how easy it was to do. I watched all right and he found it much easier to go down than he had anticipated. About the third step he took, his heels flew up and he started down with a rush. Just before he reached the narrow plank near the bottom, he succeeded in stopping himself, but the halt was only for a moment, for the next thing he did was to go head foremost into the mud and water at the bottom. I could not see him very distinctly because of the darkness, but you bet I could hear him, and he was not making a Sunday school address, either. Now the funny part of the whole thing was that having been whirled and twisted about so much, he lost his bearings and when he started to crawl out of the gully, he crawled out on the same side that he went in. He would dig his hands and feet in the slippery clay and yell for me to come on, saying that if I did not hurry up he was going to leave me. He was angry, anyway, but when he finally reached the top and saw me standing there and realized what he had done, he nearly had a fit. I wanted to get home and had no time for a fight, so I refrained from saying anything to him about being a goat. I knew it would make him supremely happy if I gave him the least excuse for starting a war. Finally I started off to head the gulley and he followed, bringing along with him a surprisingly large quantity of clay and mud, for which he had no use on earth.

I don't know that there is a single gully left in the city limits, and there should be none, for of all the useless things on earth they are the chief.

A SURE THING.

ALL the old Houstonians remember Frank LeMott. He was born in New York, but he claims to be from the old Huguenot family of that name, who originally settled in South Carolina. Frank is very proud of the blue blood in his veins, and claim that he is the only black sheep in the family. He also claims that he was a black sheep for a time only, and he is perfectly correct in saying that, as for many years past he has been as staid and circumspect as any Presbyterian deacon could be.

When Colonel Abe Gentry was building the Texas and New Orleans Railroad, he went to New York and met Frank, then a mere boy. He liked him so well that he induced him to come to Houston with him, took him to his home and made him one of his family. It was not long after his arrival here when the war broke out. Frank took the side of the South and when Captain Ike Stafford raised his cavalry company to go down on the Rio Grande, the first company raised in Houston, Frank joined it. He served four years in the Confederate army, and was with Baylor, Ford and all of the others in West Texas, New Mexico and Arizona.

When the war closed Frank found himself without home or employment and, what was worse, he had formed tastes that made him a wanderer and largely an adventurer. His career as a soldier had been just at that formative stage in his life when it stamped itself on his character and he could not stand the humdrum routine of everyday civil life.

He wanted excitement, and since he could not get that in war he took the next best thing and became a gambler. I would not refer to this at all were it not for the fact that he reformed many years ago and is now and has been for half a generation one of the most reputable and highly esteemed citizens of Galveston.

He is a superb raconteur, has had a wonderful experience, and it is a great treat to hear him relate some of his adventures. His stories are all good, but one is inclined to think the last one he tells is the best of all. When he gets deeply interested in what he is telling he is apt to lapse into the gambler's habit of speaking of everything in the present tense. Here is one of his best stories. He and I were talking about "sure things" one day.

"Don't you fool yourself," said he; "there are no such things as 'sure things.' I know, because I have had experience with them. Why, once I had such a 'sure thing' it was too dead to skin. The funny part about it is that it worked perfectly, too, but I don't press my luck working it but that one time.

"I'm over in Gonzales, where there is a big horse race meeting going on. There are lots of cowmen there, and they all have big money and they bet it free, too. The first night I got there I went against faro bank and dropped my roll. That didn't bother me much, because I knew I could get a stake from some of the boys next day. I went to my room and got to thinking about the races. Everybody was betting so free and easy that I saw a good killing could be made if I could hatch up a scheme. Before long a plan suggested itself to me. The Devil helped me, and before I went to bed I had one of the 'surest-sure things' that any sport ever got his claws onto.

"The next morning I tapped one of the boys for a stake. He was not very strong, having only $80, but he split that with me. It was not much, but I was satisfied, for my 'sure thing' was so good that all I wanted was to get my first bet down and it would work itself after that.

"I got out to the race track early so as to size up the crowd. There was a big bunch of red hot sports there and they were all howling to get their money down on a big horse that was a favorite at 2 to 1. I didn't make any bets, but just walked around looking for the right man to help me out. Finally I found him. He was a long, lanky fellow and had only one arm. I took him off on one side and interrogated him.

"Sawmill or gin?" said I, pointing to his absent arm.

" 'Army,' says he.

"Infantry or cavalry?" says I.

" 'Infantry,' says he.

"Then you ought to be able to walk like hell," said I.

" 'I can,' said he.

"I saw he was a man of few words and determined to trust him. Then I unfolded my plan to him. It was simple. I would make a bet and he would hold stakes. He would slip the money back to me and I would bet it all again. When the horses got started good he was to slip over the hill and meet me next day in Seguin and we would divide up.

"He agreed and I went out to slaughter 'em. I saw a sport waving a big bunch of bills he wanted to get down on the 4year-old that was the favorite at 2 to 1. I took him promptly, he putting up $80 against my $40. I remarked that I was a stranger and looked around for somebody to hold the stakes. 'Here's the right man,' I said; 'he hasn't got but one arm and we can know him easy.' The sport agrees and the one-armed man gets the money and then slips it back to me and I puts the $120 against $250 another sport is howling to get rid of, and my one-armed man holds stakes again.

"I don't know how many times I bet that roll. Finally the sports conclude from my betting so freely that I know something against the 4-year-old and I can't get any more bets. Then I force things and give odds against him — anything to get action on my money. Before the race started I had the whole bunch bet to a standstill. Finally the race started. Everybody is watching the horses except me. I'm watching my one-armed man, and I don't breathe easy until I see his head disappear over the hill. Of course I'm prepared to help the gang raise hell over the stakeholder getting away with the money, but there ain't any hell raised. A little flea-bitten gray mare, ridden by a nigger, comes under the wire a length ahead of the 4year-old.

"I'm crazy. I've bankrupted West Texas, and I break over the hill after my one-armed man. But I don't find him, for he sure tells the truth when he says he can walk like hell. I search the county for him that evening, but I don't find him. The next day I go over to Seguin, but he ain't there. I wait there two days, but he never did show up, and he must be going yet, for I have never seen him since his head went over the hill.

"That's the surest thing I ever had, and you see a plumb outsider got away with all its fruit.

"There are two things," said Frank in concluding his story, "that have worried me ever since. One is trying to figure how much money I beat those sports out of, and the other is how anybody could have acted as dishonest as that one-armed man did."

A COMPANY OF GAMBLERS.

EVERYBODY knows how scarce Confederate soldiers were in the South toward the latter part of 1863. As some wit expressed it, Jefferson Davis had robbed the cradle and the grave and was almost tempted to call out the cavalry. It is needless to say that the wit belonged to some other branch of service than cavalry. Texas was the only Southern state on whose soil the federal troops had not succeeded in making a permanent foothold. The naval and military forces had been driven off by Magruder at Galveston; the invading force of Banks had been defeated at Sabine Pass by Dick Dowling, and Banks' Red River campaign had resulted only in making large, though involuntary, contribution of food, clothing and ammunition to the Confederates who opposed him.

And yet with all this pressing need for men at the front there were hundreds upon hundreds of able-bodied men in Houston, the headquarters of General Magruder, who commanded the Trans-Mississippi department. There were blockade runners, cotton exporters and hundreds of others who, on one pretext or another, secured immunity from military service. Then, too, there were scores of gamblers. How these latter escaped the conscript officers no one knew, but they did and they lived on the fat of the land, too.

At that time there was an old gentleman, a distinguished criminal lawyer, living in Houston. He was eager to go to the front and had almost evaded his friends and succeeded in doing so on one or two occasions. Of course, being a criminal lawyer, who almost invariably won his cases, he was vastly popular with the gambling fraternity and it was principally they who raised such a strenuous objection to his risking his valuable life on the field of battle.

One night the judge had an inspiration. He thought of a plan by which he could not only get to the front himself, but could take all his troublesome friends with him. He would organize an independent cavalry company; make every man furnish his own equipment and would thus be in position to choose his own men. He knew that no others than the gamblers could stand the expense, so he determined to get his recruits from among them only.

The next morning he called at General Magruder's headquarters; outlined his scheme and, of course, readily received the authority to carry out his plan. The judge knew how futile it would be to appeal to the gamblers on grounds of patriotism, and he did not try to do so. He sent for two or three of the leaders and told them that he had just left Magruder's headquarters and that an order would be issued in a day or two revoking all exemptions from military service and all special privileges. He pointed out to them that since they would have to go in the army anyway, they might as well go of their own accord and thus be able to choose the branch of service they would prefer to belong to. He then told them that he had secured from Magruder authority to raise an independent cavalry company; that he, the judge, would be captain, but that the men could elect all the other officers and that Magruder had promised to confirm them.

The plan was instantly endorsed and before night about 80 men were enrolled, officers were elected and the work of securing equipments was begun.

The only delay was occasioned by their inability to secure things fine enough. The best and showiest horses and bridles and silver and gold mounted six-shooters were secured and within a week everything was in readiness.

As already stated, there were no Federals in Texas at that time. So after this fine company was organized it had everything requisite for a brilliant victory except the enemy to win it from. In this dilemma they took Horace Greeley's advice and went West. Their first halt was at Velasco, where they saw two or three Federal gunboats lying off the mouth of the river, hoping to pick up blockade runners. There was nothing to be done there, so they moved on and finally reached Matagorda Bay. Here they halted to rest for a while and it was here that they had the time of their lives.

Their camp was about four miles from the gulf in a live oak grove and they rode out every day over the prairie and down to the water front. A favorite excursion was far out on a peninsula that extended obliquely into the gulf. Occasionally a Federal gunboat would pass, always too far out to notice them, but it made them feel better to know that there were enemies about even if they were so far away.

One day the company concluded to have a big oyster roast out on the peninsula. So early in the morning they rode out to its end, where the grass was most plentiful, hobbled their horses, returned to the oyster bed and began operations. The oysters were on the bayside, so their backs were to the gulf and the view in that direction was further obstructed by high grass and shell banks. Some of them waded in the water and threw out the oysters, while others built fires or dug trenches in which to roast them. It was a hot and sultry day, and as they took their time, it was fully 10 o'clock before the feast was ready, A few black clouds had piled up in the west and thunder was to be expected, but the clap that came fairly drove every thought of oysters from their minds and nearly paralyzed them. It struck about half way between them and the main land, and pieces of it bounded off and went kicking up the water of the bay every three or four hundred yards for over a mile. They sprang up the bank as one man, and saw to their horror a Federal gunboat about a mile off shore and realized that they were about to receive their baptism of fire. Their first thought was to make for their horses, but a glance in that direction told them that the attempt was useless, for there before their eyes was a boatful of bluecoats nearing shore rapidly. Their plight was pitiful, for as every old soldier knows, bombshells frighten an infantryman, the rattle of minie balls among the spokes of his guns scares an artilleryman, while if you get a cavalryman away from his horse any and everything scares him.

To say that they hesitated would be a gross exaggeration. There was no hesitation. They faced the main land and fled, their valorous captain fulfilling the promise he had made at their organization by working far in the lead. The Federals behind them had now landed, and being within long range, opened fire with their muskets, while the gunboat sent a six or twelve-pound shell over their heads every few minutes. Their pace was fearful from the first, but it was sloth itself compared to the move they got on themselves when they discovered another boat loaded with marines trying to head them off. The peninsula was joined to the main land by a narrow neck of land with rather deep water on each side, so it was simply a question of beating the boat there or throwing up the sponge. However, in the language of Mark Twain's cowboy they "seen their duty and they done it." They beat the boat to the point by a neck and passed it gloriously, their pace being accelerated at the critical moment by the explosion of a big shell over their heads and a brisk fire from the marines in the boat, who now, realizing that they had lost, concluded to get an extra spurt or two from the land side of the race.

The main land was reached, but there was that broad prairie, and for at least two miles the noble band would be within reach of the guns of the gunboat. Shells began falling in front, behind and all around them. There was no abatement of the pace. It was a mad, headlong plunge forward, a mad desire to get anywhere, anywhere out of reach of the shells. Finally the shells ceased to fall, but the mad rush continued until an old deserted house on the prairie was reached. Here the gallant men fell in a heap and attempted to catch their breaths and to still their throbbing hearts.

After a while, one by one, they succeeded in crawling into the deserted house and lay there panting, bathed in perspiration, but silently congratulating themselves on their escape. The captain, a very large and fleshy man, was three-fourths dead, but after an hour or two regained sufficient energy to sit up and then announced that he would go upstairs and see if the gunboat had gone. The others sat or lay around too utterly played out to take the slightest interest in the matter or care whether it had gone or not so long as they were out of range.

A few moments after the captain had gone there was a tremendous crash as if the side of the house had been crushed in by a shell. There was but one thought — the gunboat had returned, had got the range of the house and had plugged it the first time. That thought cost the old house its front door for there was not room for the whole crowd to get out at once as they tried to do. Part of the old fence was swept away, too, as they, swerving neither to the right nor to the left, made a beeline for their camp in the live oak grove in the distance. It was another mad rush with the devil take the hindmost for several hundred yards, when, hearing no more shells, one of the boldest slackened his pace and then others, emboldened by his example, slowed down until they all came, to a dog trot. Now, for the first time they thought of their captain and noticed his absence. A council of war was held, which resulted in a determination to return and bear away his mangled remains, for there was no doubt among them that the shell had found a shining mark in his manly form. Slowly they wended their way back and when within long earshot they were startled by an unearthly rapping and kicking, mingled with smothered oaths and maledictions. There could be no mistake about that voice. It was that of their captain and he was very much alive and evidently very much enraged. They hurried round the house and found to their amazement that the sounds came from the inside of an immense wooden cistern. Yes, their captain was safe and not a mangled corpse as they feared. He was very much alive though a prisoner. They fished him out after a great deal of trouble and then learned the truth. He had gone to the second story to get a good view of the gulf and had incautiously crawled out on what he thought was a shed but which proved to be the top of a cistern. This being old and decayed had given way with the great crash that had stampeded the company, and he had been precipitated to the bottom. Fortunately there was no water in the cistern so the consequences were by no means disastrous.

About ten days later a train of dilapidated cars, drawn by a squawking engine, drew into Houston from Brazoria. After all the passengers had gone, the captain of the great independent company of Texas rangers and two or three comrades slipped off the step of the last coach and sneaked down a side street. The next evening other members of the company did the same thing and within a week they were all back and following their usual vocations just as though nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened.

How the judge ever explained Magruder's not issuing that order, the fear of which had caused the gamblers to fall such easy victims, was never known. The fact that every member of the company was strictly on the defensive no doubt helped him out of the difficulty.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH A CAMEL.

MONDAY when the circus was here I saw an old horse hitched to a buggy making a fool of himself because there were two or three elephants marching up Main Street. Now if it had been camels instead of elephants there might have been some excuse for that old horse, for, as everybody knows, horses dread camels as the devil dreads holy water. An explanation of this fact is given in an old story to the effect that when God made animals He made a horse among the last. He told the horse that he should be man's servant and be a beast of burden. At that the horse thought he would make some suggestions and said that if man were going to ride on his back he should have a natural saddle. God knew what he was doing and, just to show the horse the absurdity of his suggestion, He made a camel and placed it in front of the horse. The horse took one look at the horrible figure and then took to his heels. Since that day, the story concludes, the horse has never been able to come near a camel without having the most abject terror and fear.

Now, I don't know whether there is a word of truth in that whole story, except the concluding part, but I know that you can't get any horse to associate with a camel under any circumstances. I once had a very vivid demonstration of the truth of that. In 1871 Dr. Charley Owens and I went down to Galveston on a pleasure trip. There were no street cars then, as now, by which to reach the beach, so we went round to Gregory's stable and hired a horse and buggy. The buggy was a brand new one, but the horse was evidently second, or even third hand.

We drove out Tremont Street to the beach and by the time we got there we were pretty well worn out beating on that horse. We could not get him to go faster than a slow trot. Charley was for turning back and making the man give us another horse, but I talked him out of it, telling him that on the beach the drive would be better and probably we would get more speed out of the horse. My prediction proved to be true, for after we got on the hard sand of the beach the old chap showed marked improvement.