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Bad Company and Burnt Powder
Justice and Injustice in the Old Southwest
By Bob Alexander University of North Texas Press
Copyright © 2014 Bob Alexander
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-57441-580-3
CHAPTER 1
Battle at Bullhead Mountain
Cal Aten was a gentleman—and a gentle man. For a time, he was also a gutsy Texas Ranger. In annals of Old West literature he is scarcely mentioned. And though Cal sits prominently in one of the iconic and most widely published nineteenth-century Texas Ranger photographs, Winchester in hand, his presence is hardly noticed. He's overlooked due to foolish penchants for presupposing guys with baby faces own timid and unruffled dispositions. Cal was no showboat. Cal Aten would leave the swashbuckling to others. In truth, persons of that ilk, swanking and puffing about taking a life were not people worthy of emulating. Cal had been in tight places but talking big about those times was childlike, not manly. Certain things were—for the most part and to most folks—best left unsaid.
First seeing light of day on December 7, 1868, Calvin Grant Aten came into this world the sixth of seven children born to Austin Cunningham Aten and his lovely wife Katherine Eveline. Like Cal, none of the Aten children would be native Texans. They were products of Illinois, Cal and his younger brother Edwin Dunlap having been born near Abingdon. That the Atens were a close-knit bunch is evidenced by their next move—a real move. When but seven years old Cal and the rest of the family relocated to Texas. Whether the train trip had been filled with merriment or flooded with misery goes unspoken, but the passenger coach had been jam-packed with Atens. Making the trip besides Cal and his parents was the oldest sister, Margaret Angelina "Angie" Elizabeth and husband Americus Jerome "A. J." Kimmons along with their first born, Virginia May, more often than not just called "Virgie." Also managing the journey was Cal's sister Clara Isabel "Belle," plus both of his widowed grandmothers. Cal's three older brothers Thomas Quinn, Franklin Lincoln, and Austin Ira, were a part of the menagerie, as was baby brother Eddie. On the twenty-ninth day of October 1876 the whole crew detrained in the Lone Star State, settling into their newfound home just inside the northern Travis County (Austin) line. For practical purposes such as socializing and church going and acquiring commercial niceties, the closest trade center was Round Rock, Williamson County.
Situated but a reasonably short distance from the Texas State Capitol, Round Rock and her surrounding hinterlands was a good place to raise a promising family: A town large enough to host merchants and blacksmiths, bankers and dressmakers, barbers and butchers—and preachers. And that latter profession had earlier beckoned Mr. Austin Cunningham Aten. He answered the call, becoming first a circuit-riding man of the cloth, but later a full-fledged minister with a farm outside town to boost income from his parishioners' tithes. Away from town the countryside was neat: gently rolling lands scattered with shade trees—right at the eastern edge of the picturesque Texas Hill Country with her springtime carpets of bluebonnets. Drained by the San Gabriel River and her tributaries, the whole of Williamson County was a veritable playground—for a boy, especially a boy with a gun or a fishing pole—and curiosity. There were deer and rabbits and squirrels to be bagged for the table, beehives to be robbed for the sweet-tooth, and arrowheads by the thousands to be polished and pocketed.
Cal Aten, at eight years old, perhaps sitting on a big rock alongside the creek savoring the deliciousness of a wild plum, had no inkling about a more grown-up fellow eager to gather a few plums for himself—right out of the Williamson County Bank, the old Miller's Exchange Bank. Sam Bass and his gang were in the neighborhood, ready to taste a little sweetness before greenbacks in the bank soured and spoiled. The would-be Godfather coughed up blood, instead. Since the tale has often been told, quite proficiently, the recap herein is skeletal—decidedly so.
The long and the short of the story is this: On July 19, 1878, a Friday afternoon near four o'clock, outlaw Sam Bass, escorted by six-shooter-wearing Seaborn Barnes and Frank Jackson, slithered into Round Rock with larceny in their hearts. They were scouting, laying the blueprint for a bank heist. Unbeknownst to them their mission was no secret. They had been conspiring with a snitch in their midst, one who had tipped off the Texas Rangers. Major John B. Jones, the Ranger's big boss, was in town as were several of his fearless men, ready for action but keeping a low profile. All were clued in on the likelihood of a highjacking. Without delay—in policing jargon—it turned "Western." Prematurely it may be argued, but, nevertheless, gunpowder was exploding. It was not a good day! Williamson County deputy sheriff, Ahijah W. "Caige" Grimes was killed outright. A visiting deputy from Travis County, Maurice B. Moore, lending a helping-hand, was critically—though not mortally—wounded. The bad guys did not fare well either. Seaborn Barnes was dead, a Ranger's bullet having plowed into his head, just below the left ear. Twenty-seven-year-old Sam Bass suffered two fingers being shot off his right hand, plus a bullet missing his spine but raggedly exiting three inches left of his bellybutton. Sam Bass, severely injured, made it out of town, but was captured the next day. Considering the hellfire of Ranger's bullets Frank Jackson's feat seemed miraculous—he had made a clean getaway.
How does this play in the story of Cal Aten? Significantly it may be reasoned. Next day at Round Rock the good Reverend Austin C. Aten was on routine errands with two of his sons, Frank and Ira. He was besieged by church goers to carry the word of God to the brigand reposed on his deathbed in the tin shop, a makeshift hospital. Minister Aten finally acquiesced, agreeing to visit Sam Bass. Seventeen-year-old Frank was allowed entry into the tin shop with his father. Fifteen-year-old Ira was not. He was, according to the Texas Ranger posted as guard, just too young to personally witness death's doings. Turned away at the door, Ira Aten peeked though a window. Teenagers are generally impressionable, and the excitement was washing across Ira's imagination, swirling, drowning his formerly held aspirations. He would later write of the pivotal moment: "The Rangers were there in town with six-shooters on, swaggering around there. I thought it would be nice to carry a six-shooter and thought I would just stop the cowboy business and join the Rangers."
Ira Aten stopped the "cowboy business" and the clock just stopped for Sam Bass. He was a dead man by the afternoon of July 21, 1878. Although explicit conversations are lost to history, there would be nothing amiss at speculating Frank and Ira had big tales to tell little brothers Cal and Eddie after returning home. Good guys battling bandits was not everyday goings-on at Round Rock. It was newsy. It was thrilling. It was heady stuff for farm boys—or any other boys. So, while dramatic quotations are mislaid, there are hard truths: Austin Ira Aten would become a legit Texas Ranger and Cal, following in his brother's footsteps, would too. Little brother Eddie would also become a Ranger—but that came later and begs for a breakaway story.
At age nineteen, on the first day of April 1888, Cal Aten enrolled in Company D of the Frontier Battalion. The company was then headquartered deep in South Texas at Realitos, Duval County. Commander of Company D was Captain Frank Jones, and the top noncom was 1st Sergeant Ira Aten. By this juncture Ira had already earned five years' experience as a seasoned Texas Ranger. He also owned a favorable statewide reputation as a real lawman, not a fallacious self-promoter. By the time Cal had enlisted, Ira Aten had survived four gunfights, hunted fugitives, and worked undercover snaring fence-cutters. There was nothing counterfeit about Ira's law enforcing days.
After a swearing in ceremony before an agent empowered to administer oaths—and the payment of his 25¢ fee—Cal Aten was a private citizen no more: He was official, a real Ranger. He was in tough company. In speaking of his Company D subordinates Corporal J. Walter Durbin would remark that he had some pretty good men, even if they could be a "little fussy and dangerous" when drinking. Private Aten was not a drinking man, probably not very fussy, but when necessary Cal could be dangerous—if he had a gun.
Cal had arrived at the Ranger camp unarmed, wholly unprepared. Quickly Sergeant Ira Aten corrected the embarrassing deficiency: "Just think of my joy that first evening when my brother Ira handed me (A Belt Four Inches Wide).... full of cartridges with a scabbard and a .45 six-shooter in it. He told me to put it on and on it went. I wasn't afraid Ira would joke me. I looked around and saw that every man there, ten or more had their guns strapped on. It seemed to be a tradition that rangers must go armed and stay armed and about the only time we took off those guns were when we were asleep."
Private Aten had been in camp less than a week when a letter to Texas Ranger headquarters portended an upcoming and defining event in the young lawman's life, but little could he—or anyone else—have known it at the time. The sheriff of Uvalde County, Henry W. Baylor, had messaged the adjutant general at Austin, W. W. King. Part of the letter said: "If convenient I would like to have a detachment of Rangers sent to this place as there is plenty of work for them. Some in Edwards and Zavalla [Counties], as the horse and cattle thieves Seem to have broken loose afresh...."
There was other trouble on the near horizon, however, along the meandering Rio Grande in the ever hazardous Texas/Mexico borderlands. Working out of their camp near Realitos in southern Duval County, Company D Rangers were positioned perfectly for enforcing the law in several counties bordering the Rio Grande. And although Duval County's line did not actually touch the river, it was an important base for Rangers for two nuts and bolts reasons: First, Duval County had a long history of lawlessness. Second, it was at a primary geographical junction for commercial traffic. North/South commerce between San Antonio and Brownsville moved through Duval County—and vice versa. After start of the Mexican National Railway—Texas Division, East/West traffic from Corpus Christi to Laredo moved through Duval County—and vice versa. Duval County was gaining socioeconomic meaning, an international crossroads. As the population increased so, too, did the trouble. Ne'er-do-wells hound for the easy money.
Private Aten was overjoyed when approached by Captain Jones during the evening of his sixth day in camp. Cal was advised that at first light a three-man scout would be leaving for the border. Nineteen-year-old Ranger Aten was to accompany the Captain and his older brother, Gerry "Dude" (also called "Dood" by family) Jones on the trip. Next morning after packing the company's mule, Old Pete, "older in ranger service than anyone there," the trio set course in a southerly direction for their destination, Carrizo (now Zapata), Zapata County. Until reaching Carrizo their camp rations would be "a piece of salt bacon, a few pounds of flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, and coffee." The excursion would be memorable for Cal—for more than one reason. It would be his first overnight camp while on a scout. No sooner had they pulled in for the night when tenderfoot Ranger Aten goofed. After unsaddling Cal placed his carbine, still in its scabbard, against a mesquite bush, muzzle to the ground. "I remember how mortified I was when the Capt. said, 'Cal you didn't do that right. You should stand your gun stock down as if it rains the scabbard will keep your gun dry.' Then I noted my mistake." Cal also noted something else early-on during this outing. Though he kept his own counsel at the time, it was Private Aten's private assessment that Dude Jones was "grouchy and a little wrong in the head. Fell out of a tree when he was born.... He was, I think the original Gloomy Gus...."
After arriving at Carrizo the three Rangers were given a tour of the Zapata County Jail by Deputy Sheriff Thatcher. Cal's observations are not only interesting, but telling as later events about this scout to the Rio Grande unfold and reveals:
I have seen a good many jails since then, but none as crude as this one, a great stone dungeon with iron rings set in the concrete floor to chain the prisoners legs to at night. In daytime the prisoners would be loose with chains dragging. They looked to me like wild animals. But I was young and just beginning to see things. Everything around me seemed like a new world and was interesting, wonderfully interesting.
Making sure his guests received the best in borderland hospitality Deputy Thatcher escorted the Rangers across the Rio Grande and into the Mexican city of Guerrero. Cal was thoroughly impressed with the "beautiful little city" though he did not understand "how a town of this size, and stores full of beautiful goods could be supported in a country so barren as this." He was in a foreign land and made comparative notes, particularly about architecture and tradition: "All windows in Mexican houses have iron bars like our jail windows and I thought that there must be lots of thieves in that country, but I guess it is just ancient custom.... All Mexicans I think sit on the floor as I can't ever remember seeing a chair in a Mexican house." All too soon the cross border visit was over and the tourists returned to Carrizo.
On the morning of their departure, making ready to head back to the Ranger camp near Realitos, the echo of a pistol shot reverberated between adobe walls. Then, almost immediately, Deputy Thatcher's ten-year-old son rushed up to Captain Jones notifying him that prisoners were escaping and that his father had been wounded. Rushing to the county jail, which was but 100 yards away, the Rangers found "Mr. Thatcher holding his hand with a red handkerchief around it, a bullet had cut the flesh between the thumb and first finger." Although he could not let his emotions show at the time—a real lawman's not supposed to—Cal Aten was near busting with happiness inside: "Maybe it was for the boy ranger, anyway there was going to be excitement and that was what I was always dreaming of." And excitement there would be for a rookie Ranger; Cal was going to get to shoot his gun.
Updated, the Rangers had learned that during the night four prisoners had somehow sawed through the chains, grabbed Thatcher's six-shooter from a bench where he had laid it prior to preparing breakfast, shot the deputy, and were at the moment racing for the river. The Rangers, now giving chase horseback were but three or four minutes behind the fugitives. Promptly they were met by Sheriff Robert A. Haynes and a deputy who had captured an escapee, the one with the Thatcher's stolen Colt's revolver. Aten's preconceptions surface: "The man with the gun had emptied it straight up through the tree tops. That is the way with a Mexican they like to make a show unless they have all the advantage." Again, Cal Aten's innermost feelings come to light, "That was disappointing to me, there couldn't be any more fun hunting men I know were unarmed." Green as a gourd, Ranger Private Cal Aten was determined—dead set—on having some "fun!" Ranger Aten tenders more of the rousing story, and as legit history it's a gem:
Well, there were three others at large and we went down through the river bottom to the river. We expected them to try to swim the river. The river was up a little and was nearly a quarter mile wide with some drift floating in the middle. I spied a man's head amongst the drift about the middle of the river downstream from us. I asked the Capt. "Can I shoot at him?" He studied a moment and said "Shoot his head off." He then rode away, and I commenced shooting. However every time I would shoot Dude would grumble and tell me to quit. The Capt. knew I had no chance of hitting the head in the water at least five hundred yards away with the guns we carried those days, but he wanted me to have the fun of trying. When I had shot four or five times the fellow came to a narrow island with small willows. As he crawled out on the island I shot again. Then he stood up apparently naked and commenced shaking his fists at me and jumping up and down and I knew what he was saying about one wasn't nice. I took careful aim and shot again. I never could tell where my bullets were striking the water as it was very muddy and broken by waves and drift but this last shot must have come pretty close to him as he immediately dragged into the willows and I never saw him again. One of the others crossed on the ferry and the other was drowned while trying to swim a swollen arroyo several miles east of town. By noon the fun was all over and we were on our way to home camp.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Bad Company and Burnt Powder by Bob Alexander. Copyright © 2014 Bob Alexander. Excerpted by permission of University of North Texas Press.
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