In 1870, during January, Bud Morris and Henry Williams were riding toward Montague town from Forestburg, when they discovered signs of Indians near Dye Mound. They immediately turned back and rode to where I lived something like one-half mile from my present home, which is two miles west of Forestburg. Arriving at my home, they reported to me what they had seen. The trail was leading east, toward Cooke county and they proposed riding to the Loran Prairie, get help on the way, and attack them while they were in the open.

I contended that we should go to Dye Mound, as I felt sure they would camp at the spring at that place. We finally agreed to the latter course, leaving my house just after dinner. Morris was riding in advance of Williams and myself. When within about half a mile of Dye Mound I saw three Indians leaving the top of the Mound; they disappeared around the side. We quickened our pace and galloped forward, gaining the elevation, from which we gained sight of the spring.

We discovered that there were ten Indians — eight horsemen, and two afoot. They appeared to be breaking camp, some having already started down the ravine. We drew rein and fired at the Indians nearest us. They were almost solidly grouped and were less than 100 yards from us. From the volley, which was fired simultaneously, one Indian fell from his horse, taking with him his buffalo robe, butcher knife and belt.

The Indians charged us and we gave ground. They placed their fastest horses on the right and left extremes of their line, and were armed with pistols, bows and arrows and one rifle. Morris and Williams both had carbines and pistols, while I had only a pistol. When the Indians who rode the fastest horses would ride somewhat in advance of the others, we would turn and charge them and they would retreat, joining the others. We kept this up for some time, charging and recharging over the same ground, the Indians gradually giving ground and moving down and across the valley north and east of Dye Mound. Their leader, a stalwart buck, was riding a beautiful sorrel mare. He would send an Indian, on a fine yellow horse, on one flank in their charge, while he would bring up the other. After falling back several times I told the boys that we would draw the sorrel horse on, isolate him from his companions and capture him. On the next charge I permitted him to run almost even with me. I then reined in behind him, and the other two boys bore down on him at the same time.

During these charges we had been exchanging shots without any apparent effect. Morris told me that when I cut off the Indian who was riding the sorrel that the others centered their fire on me. I did not know this, as I had my back to them. The Indian, on realizing his peril, whirled his mare square around, dropping on the opposite side of her, leaving only his leg exposed, and began firing at me from under his animal’s neck. We were some thirty or forty feet apart. His shots went wild of their mark and my pistol failed to fire. He finally succeeded in making his way back to his comrades. They then turned and rode slowly back toward the ravine. We followed, and approached within seventy or a hundred yards.

I said: “Boys, kill that one on the sorrel mare!”

Henry Williams halted, took deliberate aim with his carbine, and fired. I heard the sound of the compact as the leaden missile found lodgement in the body of the red man. His cry of anguish brought the others to his side, and then began a chorus of Indian lamentations (which was their death song), and such sounds no one can describe, yet after once being heard are long remembered.

Another incident of this fight, and having a personal bearing on it, occurred just after our first volley at the spring. When they charged us I was slow in leaving. Both the other boys called for me to come on to the cover of a ravine nearby. I was anxious to see how many Indians there were. I saw an Indian on foot, with his blanket, making his way toward us. He appeared to be unarmed and I thought to shoot him when he got close enough, but while hesitating I saw him kneel and commence to draw something from his blanket, which I recognized to be a rifle. I whirled my horse, and as he sprang into full speed I realized that a horseman riding straight away was a fair target, so I swerved to the left and the Indian’s bullet passed under my hat brim, fanning my cheek. It came so close that it stung a little, but did not graze the skin.

Morris took a shot at them while they were holding their death ceremonies, but his bullet cut a limb off a tree between him and the buck he aimed at. Three or four of them came forward and we gave ground.

We then decided to go to Montague for help, having found that our ammunition was rapidly being exhausted. In order to mislead them as to our intentions I rode down close to the ravine, helloed, and jawed at the Indians, then slipped quietly away, and we went on to Montague.We returned from there late in the afternoon, and as we approached the ravine where we had left the Indians hidden, they fired a volley at us. My horse was shot behind the shoulder, but too low down for a fatal wound. We deployed and held a consultation. Bud Morris and myself decided to circle the canyon and approach from the opposite side. We crawled a considerable distance, keeping under cover. We approached them from the rear, thinking to kill one apiece, but when we got within forty or fifty yards of them Bud said:

“Levi, let’s go back; they have discovered us.”

I did not think they had, but he was most positive, so I agreed to return. When we got away he told me they had shot an arrow right between us, but I could hardly believe it. Next day I went with him to look the ground over and we found he was right, for we found an arrow standing perpendicular in the ground.

At dark we placed a force of men at the lower end of the gulch, and another force at the upper end, thinking we could keep them there till morning. But they seemed to have discovered our plan, and toward daylight, there being a thick log, they suddenly broke through our guards, about half of them going east and the other half west. We fired in the direction from whence the noise came, but without any noticeable results. Now and then we could sky-light one as he topped the hill. Bud Morris was in charge of the east side of the ravine and I on the west side. He fired at them several times and pursued them some distance. On coming back down the hill the men from below mistook him for an Indian, but he did not suffer any from their marksmanship—

“He had almost toppled over
With his own weight, but did recover”

In this fight we captured two horses — one was badly wounded — and killed five. We could not account for the eighth horse, but concluded that an Indian had carried off a dead comrade on it while we were absent on our way to and from Montague. When we drew away from them after our first encounter, and discovered we were about out of ammunition, Bud Morris found that an arrow had gone through his clothing, including his undershirt. It had struck just below the heart from the front, at an angle. and had forced the cotton padding of his vest out at the side. His skin was not scratched, and he may have thought —

“No living man can send me to the shades before my time.”

Leaving the scene of the fight, Morris, Williams and myself returned to my house, the others returning to Montague. The names of these six men, as I remember, were: Dick Boren, Aaron Anderson, Jasper Hagler, Sid Darnell, young Bonar, a doctor’s son, of Gainesville (his given name has slipped by memory), and Charlie Lorenzo, The two last named afterward fought a pistol duel at Red River Station, in which both were killed. I kept for several years the sorrel mare which we captured, until I accidentally met a brother of a Mrs. King, from whom the Indians had stolen her. He fully satisfied me of her identity, and of the band of Indians who stole her, and I turned her over to him. She, as well as my own horse, was badly wounded in the fight, but both recovered.
 
 

In August of 1872 Bob Bean brought, me reports of Indians. Bean and I rode from my house east toward Rosston. On our way we fell into company with old man Southward and his son Bell, Marion Walker, Jno. Harwell, Alex Perryman, Henry Williams and Creed Roberts., We rode to John Roberts’ house and there spent the night.

The next morning I was selected as captain of a company. I directed that we should ride in twos in a southerly course, as we had guessed that the Indians would be coming back from the head of Hickory with the horses they had stolen the night before. I rode in front with Henry Williams, and the understanding among us was that anyone seeing Indians, or their trail, were to convey the fact to the other members of the party by waving their hats to the first ones in sight, and they were to pass the signal in like manner to the next two, thus completing a system of signals that would bring the entire company together on short notice. The line of riders stretched into several miles, as the distance between each two riders was a half mile or more.

When Henry and I had ridden well into Denton county, about Lock Forester’s ranch, the boys behind us signaled, and on turning back we learned that the Indians had come in from Cooke county and crossed Clear Creek near where we had spent the night. We followed the trail west to Valentine’s Bluff. There I detailed Bob Bean to go up Denton Creek, gather as many settlers as possible and take his stand at Brushy Mound, on the head waters of Denton Creek. I agreed to overtake the Indians, if possible, and draw them into a fight, in order to delay them while he was hurrying with his men to head them off. We lost the trail in the rough country around Valentine’s Bluff, and in trying to find it the men became badly scattered. After searching for some time, one of the boys or myself found it, and it was still leading northwest. I called to those nearest to follow me, and if we could overtake them with our five men we would make the fight. I expected the rest of the men to join us when they heard the firing. After getting their course we galloped after them and came within sight of them in what was known as Dry Valley. There were six of us in the squad—the two Southward’s, Henry Williams, Alex Perryman, myself, and a man named Dillard, who had joined us after trailing the Indians from Cooke county.

The Indians were trailing single file behind the stolen horses. We stopped in the edge of the timber, and Dillard and I, each with a rifle, fired at them. They halted and commenced to form a line, as if they meant to charge us, I dismounted and stepped behind a small sapling, and, laying my rifle against the side of it, fired, just as an Indian made a good target by turning his horse broadside to me. The Indian toppled over on his horse but did not fall to the ground. Other Indians rushed to him and they immediately hurried on. They had returned our fire. The bullets struck close about, but did no damage. We had delayed them several minutes, but the other men had not come up.

The six of us followed the Indians to the edge of Denton Creek bottom, but we did not follow them through the bottom for fear of ambush, but skirted the bottom on the right and crossed the creek above what is now Ross’s Crossing. We rode a mile or two up the creek, on the west side, to the home of Cash McDonald, where we stopped to inquire if Bob Bean had passed with his men. On learning that they had gone we rode southwest, toward where we thought the Indians would probably be.
We soon struck the trail of the Indians,and a little further on we came in sight of them again. (I forgot to relate that old man Southward left us about the crossing on Denton Creek, and that Creed Roberts rejoined us at McDonald’s, having been forced to go by home from Valentine’s Bluff for a fresh horse). We opened fire on them, as soon as we were close enough, and they returned it.

I noticed them acting as if they were going to charge, so I directed the men to fall back, as there were sixteen Indians against only six of us. Seeing that my men were becoming demoralized I gave orders to dismount and fight from behind the thick timber. The men either did not understand or else decided it was a case of every man for himself.

Williams and I, who were the last to retreat, found ourselves targets for the Indians, who, in pursuit of the retreating men, had by this time come up even with us. Williams had been reluctant to leave McDonald’s without a fresh horse, he having ridden his hard all day. This was 3 o’clock in the evening. I insisted that he should come, as I counted on his splendid courage and good marksmanship. After exacting a promise from me that I would stick to him he agreed to come.

The Indians in front of the charge rode straight back down their trail in pursuit of the other men. Williams’ horse was completely exhausted, and I yelled to him to bear to the left through the thick timber and I would cover his retreat. The Indians had been firing at us as they passed, but seemed bent on overtaking the retreating men. I was watching those who had already’ passed on my right when a pistol shot blazed on my left. Turning, I saw a big Indian within thirty or forty feet, bearing down from my left. He fired three or four shots more. Then, calculating that his pistol was about empty, I reined up, thinking I would take a good shot at him with my rifle. Before I had time to raise my rifle two more Indians, coming from the same direction, joined him. I postponed hostilities until I could get some distance between us. Old Charley, my horse, responded to the spur, and I remember that a fallen tree, which had been blown up by the roots, blockaded his passage. The log was full breast high. I was looking behind, and a slight check in Charley’s speed caused me to turn just in time to set myself for the leap, and he cleared the log like a deer.

A little further on I came to Henry Williams. His horse was exhausted, and he was the most exasperated man I ever saw. I called to him to quit beating his horse, and he said: “Levi; how in the world did you get here? I saw that Indian shoot three or four times, and he was right at you.” I told him that I stayed behind to protect his retreat, and of course he expressed grateful appreciation. We waited for his horse to rest, and Alex Perryman joined us. He reported that his horse, which was a racing animal, had become uncontrollable when the other boys commenced to run past him, and that he reined him to the left and away from the trail.

We three then started north toward Denton Creek to find a house where we could leave Williams, or else get him a fresh horse, expecting to proceed to Brushy Mound and there join Bob Bean and his company. We came to a house known as the McFarland place. I have forgotten the name of the family who resided there at the time. Here we found Creed Roberts, and in giving his experience he told us that his horse had sprained his leg in a gopher hole and could not run, so he dismounted. When he saw these last three Indians, with whom I had the brush, coming, he hid in the grass. His horse passed on and two Indians passed him; the third rode almost over him, and, as he leaned over to look through the tall waving grass, Roberts drew his pistol and fired. The bullet struck the Indian in the head and he fell dead. He then crawled through the grass, out of danger, and had walked the remainder of the way to the house, which was about two miles distant. We rested awhile and then rode back to where the Indian lay, Roberts having borrowed a horse to ride.

The other members of the Company had rallied after the Indians turned back west and they had followed the trail up to and beyond where Roberts had killed his man. A mile or so beyond there they found Roberts’ horse. He was injured by a pistol shot, from the effects of which he soon died. The Indian that Roberts killed was riding a stolen horse belonging to Ben Leeper. He lost other horses in this raid but they were never recovered.

During the forenoon John Roberts had gone for more men, and they had been coming to us all day; — Palmer and old man Estez were among them. There were others, whose names I do not recall. Palmer had followed ;he Indian trail after the fight, leaving the remaining men in the vicinity of the encounter. It was now almost night and Palmer brought word that the direction taken by the Indians would take them to the left of Brushy Mound. Feeling sure that Bean and his men would not see them, we returned to our homes.

Palmer rode to Brushy Mound and gave Bean and his men the direction we thought the Indians had taken. They rode south two miles. They found the trail going northwest; they had passed about an hour ahead of them, and they did not pursue further. Bean’s men were citizens of upper Denton Creek valley, including the Willingham’s, McDonald’s, Wainscott’s and others—in all eighteen men —mounted and well armed.

This was my last encounter with the red skins, and my horse carried me out of the worst of it. He was the most remarkable animal I ever saw. He was a large chestnut stallion with almost human intelligence, and with such power and stamina that I was never concerned as to how far or how long I could ride. When the shadow of the red man was no longer a peril to the citizens of Montague county and of North Texas I let Charley go. Some of his offspring are in my pasture now, and the 3-P horses which are commonly found in Montague county are of the same stock.

The government interpreter reported that three or four Indians died from wounds. One was shot, through the jaw, which I am confident was the one that got my bullet when I shot from the sapling in the first fight in the morning. I have since thought it was probably best that we did not have enough men to engage in a pistol battle, for we no doubt would have lost some men. As it was we lost none of our men and only one horse, and captured some horses from the Indians.
 
 

In 1867 a small band of Indians came down on a raid and captured Dick Freeman and Tom Bailey, two boys aged 12 or 14 years. The boys were herding cattle in the valley southwest of Valentine’s Bluff, near where the town of Uz was afterward built. They also stole some horses, and on their way back came by my house. They tied the boys to trees, on the branch below my house, and searched my fields for horses. I had a bunch of cows running in my stock field and that probably kept them from finding my mare. They came within a few feet of my door, and my wife and I were sleeping in the hall. Tom Williams saw them and trailed them to my place, he bringing the news of the Indians. They did not molest me and I knew nothing of their presence until Williams came up the next morning. He lived less than a mile south of me. So far as I knew these Indians did not kill anyone or attempt to do so. They kept the boys about a year, or perhaps longer. Bailey was the first one released, and Dick Freeman was bought back by his parents, and released at the time the Muckleroy children were reclaimed.

In the spring of 1868 another band of Indians made their appearance. They killed Bob Lacky, a young man, a nephew of John Muckleroy. They captured three of the Muckleroy children — Nathaniel, Dora and Ellen. The Muckleroy’s were my neighbors and I heard the shooting and screaming. I saddled up and hurried to his house and on arriving found the children gone, young Lacky killed and all of Muckleroy’s horses stolen. Muckleroy and wife, afoot, were following in the direction the Indians had taken. The mother was screaming. I soon overtook them.

Jim White had joined me. Passing the parents in a gallop we reached a rise, from which we could see the group of Indians about half a mile away to the north. White turned back, saying he would get more men. I went on, determined to do my best to rescue the children. I took the wrong trail after having lost sight of them — a trail that had been made earlier in the day. The trail I followed led east and I decided that they were heading for Clear Creek Valley. I rode hurriedly to Wash Williams’ and Newberry’s and got started the report about the Indians. These men were among a few settlers in Willa Walla Valley. I then hurried back to my wife, whom I had left almost wild with terror.

A Mrs. Paschal was living at my house then; she was afterward killed by the Indians in the Kenon massacre. I found the women hiding, first in the sorghum patch and then in the house.

Some of the citizens struck the trail and followed it some distance, but the Indians were not overtaken. Muckleroy succeeded, with the help of friends, in buying his children back from the Indians several months later.
 
 

The Kenon massacre was perpetrated in the early part of a moonlight night, in 18—. (I am not sure of the date so will say that it happened between 1868 and 1873. The Kenon family were Germans and lived on the Forestburg and Decatur road, three miles south of Forestburg. Old man Kenon and the oldest daughter, a girl of 14 years, were away on a trip to Arkansas when the massacre occurred. These Indians dropped down from the reservation and were not discovered until they pounced upon the Kenon’s without warning, committing the most atrocious crime in the history of our section.
The Kenon house was built of logs, with a stick chimney, and still stands just to the left of the road going from Forestburg to Uz. Mrs. Paschal, a widow, with her five children, were staying with the Kenon’s at the time. The children were in bed, and only Mrs. Kenon was up. On hearing a noise and looking up she saw the form of an Indian approaching the window; at the same time another rushed the door. Using a club, bows and arrows and knives, they slaughtered the women and children as rapidly as they found them. Mrs. Paschal was killed, being struck on the head with a bludgeon. Mrs. Kenon was shot through the body, and was scalped, living eleven days. Will Paschal was literary butchered after having run from the house into the yard. His right arm was torn from his body and he was otherwise mutilated. Ben Paschal, the eldest boy, aged 12, leaped through the window. As he did so an Indian slashed at him with a spear or arrow, inflicting a flesh wound in the side, from which he afterward recovered. He concealed himself in the brush near by, returning to the house after the Indians left, and remained until morning. John Paschal, six or seven years of age, was struck across the bowels with a club or bludgeon; and lived only a day or two. Mrs. Kenon’s girl (whose given name I do not remember), a child of ten or twelve years, was killed outright, but do not know how she was wounded. Mrs. Kenon’s nursing baby was seized by the feet by an Indian, who slammed it against the window facing and threw it into the yard, where it lay unconscious till morning.

One of the Roberts boys — either Rufus or Pierce — who lived a mile or more east of the Kenon’s, discovered their condition early next morning. The wounded were taken to his house. Mrs. Kenon lingered several days, and it was from her that we got the particulars of the butchery. She seemed to have remained conscious throughout the massacre. A boy of the Kenon’s, a twin of the murdered girl, escaped entirely. He was either overlooked or succeeded in concealing himself. Mrs. Paschal’s youngest child, Dollie, was not injured, and Mary, the girl just older than her, was hurt in some way but recovered.

Some of the principals in this tragedy are still living. Ben Paschal lived until a few years ago on Denton Creek, not far from Denver, in Montague county. Mr. Kenon is a prosperous stockman and farmer of the Uz community. The two Paschal’s married and moved away from Forestburg years ago. I think Dollie, the youngest, married a man by the name of Fannin. Mary married a Mr. Williams, who lives near Uz.

The facts related concerning the Indian raids in and around Forestburg are fairly accurate as I remember them. Summing up: Old man Jones, living three miles west of me, was murdered by the Indians in 1863, and is buried in the Perryman cemetery. Van Roberts was killed and scalped on the ridge just south of Forestburg, in 1863. A Texas ranger, whose name I have forgotten, was killed by Indians about the same time and not far from the same place.

In the big raid of 1868 the victims of my community were old Mr. Long, whose daughter afterward married Charles Grant of Forestburg; a young Leatherwood, Tom Fitzpatrick, wife and baby. Two Fitzpatrick girls were carried off in this raid and were never returned. They were too young to have remembered their families.

This has been called the big raid, because of the fact that a hundred or more Indians were in the band, most of them being afoot.

The next victim was Bob Lacky and the three Muckleroy’s captured. Afterward occurred the Kenon massacre, with five victims and three wounded. I can recall fifteen who fell victims of the Indians, to say nothing about the children captured and the horses stolen.

These events are a part of Forestburg’s history, all having occurred within five miles of my house. I am giving these facts to my children at their request, so that they may know them and be enabled to correct any wild or exaggerated stories purporting to be a history of those times. It is sometimes the case that people write for amusement or profit, who have no scruples about imposing on the credulity of the oncoming generation.
 
 

What was known as the big raid was made on the 5th and 6th days of January, 1868. The number of persons killed and captured was fifteen, nine of whom were in Montague county. On the first day they killed Leatherwood and captured a Miss Sarelton, who made her escape while the citizens were fighting the Indians on the prairie after dark. They also came very near getting Duke Anderson and Henry Newberry. I will relate the incident just as it was related to me.

Allen Newberry and wife went to Forestburg to church. This was in the morning. Mrs. Newberry left orders for Henry not to leave the house during her absence. Anderson knew where there was a pecan grove, and he stated to Henry and Butler Newberry his intentions and asked them to accompany him on the hunt. Henry said: “I will go with you.” Butler said to Henry: “Your mother said for you not to leave the place in her absence.” To this Henry replied: “We will get back before papa and mama return from church.”

The boys accordingly set out on their pecan hunt. On their return, when they had nearly reached home with their pecans, one of them said to the other.

“Look yonder at the cowboys!”

A second look convinced the boys that the supposed cowboys were Indians. Dropping their axe and sack of pecans they started in the direction of home, which was some three or four hundred yards away. But they had gone only a few steps in the direction of the house when they jumped into the branch. They thought the Indians were going to cut them off from the house. Henry said to Duke: “Will we go up or down the branch?” but answered his own question by saying: “We will go up the branch.”

After going up the branch a short way they took off their shoes, continuing their journey upward about a mile. They knew where there was a dense thicket, and leaving the branch they entered it, remaining until late in the evening. Then and there Henry vowed that ever afterward he would obey his mother’s orders, if he was permitted to reach home once more. They finally left the thicket, crossing over one hill and down another to their homes.

Before the boys reached the house Mr. and Mrs. Newberry had returned from church. Imagine the pangs of his mother’s heart at the thoughts of her boy being captured by the red men, and perhaps killed and scalped. They at once began a search for them. First they found the axe and sack of pecans. Going further on they saw where the boys had pulled off their shoes. This gave them hopes of their safety. The mother on finding them safe was perhaps too much overjoyed to lecture them, but the boys had already learned a profitable lesson they could not soon forget. They had tasted of the bitter fruits of disobedience.

The last one killed on the first day’s raid in Montague county was old Mr. Long. The Indians then went into Cooke county, killed old Mr. Mensaco, and captured Mrs. Sheegog and her three children, one of them being her baby. The other two were her nieces, daughters of the Menasco’s. They also captured a Negro.

The remains of the two little girls were afterward found in the same county. The day was warm and bright, but at dusk a norther blew up. It sleeted and snowed, and it is supposed that these two girls and the Negro froze to death during the bitter night. Mrs. Sheegog’s baby was torn from her breast, carried to Blocker Creek and killed, according to the report of the mother, who was left near the town of Gainesville.

Tom Fitzpatrick, his wife and baby, also Arthur Parkhill, were killed on their return to Montague county, on January 6. The Indians also captured two little girls of the Fitzpatrick’s. They no doubt would have killed others but George Masonner, a mere boy, succeeded in getting ahead of the band, warning several families of the approach of the Indians. One of the families warned was that of Austin Perryman, an uncle of mine. His wife donned a suit of his clothes and, gun in hand, helped to stand off the savages. They robbed and burned the houses of Chastain McCracken and Joe (Chucky) Wilson. The houses of Alfred and Wash Williams were robbed but were not burned. These parties heeded Masonner’s warning and had fled to the brush.
 
 

On one occasion, on a Sunday night, while attending church at Forestburg, old man Southward came to me and whispered that he had just learned of the presence of a band of Indians near Valentine’s Bluff, and that they were coming in the direction of Denton county. Not desiring to disturb the services I passed the word along to a few of the men to come to my house after church. The report got out in the crowd, however, and the minister, Rev. Joe Weaver, had to dismiss services. I invited the crowd to my house, and a number of them spent the night with me. Others went out to gather men to report at my house the next morning.

We had decided to take a stand at Brushy Mound, twelve miles west of Montague town, and intercept the Indians on their way back, as I felt confident they would come on to Hickory Plains after horses.

There were fifteen or more men in our Company and on the way several more joined us. We heard nothing of Indians that day, and camped at Brushy Mound for the night. We were not provisioned, and next morning I sent man to T. L. Wade’s ranch for provisions. He very kindly sent us a quarter of beef and we had a good dinner. Failing to hear of Indians the men commenced leaving soon after dinner, thinking the Indiana had taken another route.

It had been raining all day and we were impatient to get into action. We broke camp and started home about 3 o’clock. Several of us on our return home met John Muckleroy and Dorah Boohermn coming from below to bring us word that the Indians had passed to the west and had a fight with Willingham on Sunday. We rode by Wade’s and he agreed that he would send all of his men, eighteen in number, well mounted and armed, if we discovered Indians.

I agreed to run up a flag from the apex of Brushy Mound in case we needed the men. We rode at once to the Mound, and I climbed a tree on the top of the mountain to get a survey of the valley below. I saw the Indians immediately. They had passed the Mound, going north, and were a mile or more away. John Loring hoisted his coat on a flag pole for the assistance of Wade and his men, and we at once gave chase.

This was late in the afternoon, and our horses were already much fatigued. There were about ten of us at this time, two or three having joined us on our ride back. We were depending on the men from Wade’s ranch, and we pressed the Indians somewhat recklessly, but they were not disposed to stop and fight. Their horses were giving out continually, and as fast as their saddle horses gave out they would abandon them. Some of the horses were killed and others stabbed in the flank with knives, while others — range horses — were not injured.

Just before sundown a horseman came in sight from behind us riding a fresh horse, and we thought sure it was an advance man from Wade’s men. It proved to be John Willingham. He had found out that Wade’s men were not coming and had hurried to get us word.

By this time we had followed them to the crossing of Little Wichita. Several of the men had dropped out on account of their mounts giving out. There were seven of us, including Willingham. We concluded that we could hardly hope to whip thirty-two Indians, on ground of their own choosing. Willingham said they had whipped him and his men that morning some twelve or fifteen in number — and that we were lucky that they did not turn around and kill and scalp us all.

Coming back over the road we had traversed, we collected quite a bunch of horses. I think we recovered twenty or more of them. We herded them into a glade of prairie a few miles northwest of Montague in the after part of the night, having driven them back this way until midnight or later. Next morning we left the wounded horses at Montague, to be cared for until their owners should come after them. The others we drove down the divide in the direction of their range, that they might find their way home. These horses belonged to Crow, Wright, Lock Forrester and a Mr. Clampett (former husband of Aunt Jennie Howard). This was one of the biggest horse stealing raids of which I remember. The Indians did not molest the citizens. There must have been more than a hundred horses in the herd I saw from the top of the mountain.

I am one of the old settlers of Texas; was born in Lamar county, Texas, March 29, 1839. I came to Montague county in May, 1860, and have since made it my home. I remember when Paris was called Pinhook. I served in the Civil War, in Co. I, 31st Texas dismounted cavalry, Hop’s regiment, Polignac’s brigade. My present post office address is Forestburg, Montague county, Texas.

LEVI PERRYMAN.
 

Forestburg, Texas, Oct. 21, 1914.

Below we give an account of the hanging of Chas. Harris, as given in “The Texas Northwest — Extra,” issued August 30, 1879. We do not know the editor. There are many people living today who were witnesses to this, the only legal execution in the history of Montague county. There were other executions out of the county on change of venue, but Chas. Harris was, we believe, the only man ever legally executed in the county.

The story of the hanging is headed “Chas. Harris Executed! 5000 people present. He meets his doom calmly, speaking to the audience and singing with them. He gives direction about the knot, and dies without a struggle.”

The story is as follows: “We have deemed it best to issue an extra sheet containing an account of the execution of Charles Harris for the murder of his brother John, on the 17th day of January, 1878, together with such written and oral statements concerning the matter as Mr. Harris has himself voluntarily made from time to time. While we deeply regret the existence of the cause that made the infliction of the death penalty upon Mr. Harris a necessity, we feel a pride in mentioning the admirable conduct and management of Mr. Perryman and his deputies while passing through this trying ordeal. The affair, in all its details, was most admirably arranged and conducted. While the dignity and authority of the law was duly honored and sustained, Mr. Harris had extended to him all the Christian sympathy and feeling compatible with his situation.

We were more than pleased to notice the good order and Christian decorum of the vast multitude present. It was truly wonderful to see how perfectly that vast ocean of human feeling and passion, whose swelling tides throbbed and surged in five thousand anxious aching bosoms, was controlled. We doubt whether so large and orderly a company of people could be assembled, under similar circumstances, in any other county in the State. That the Sheriff and his deputies, who conducted the execution, and the multitude who witnessed it, were preeminently governed by the laws of the State and the principles of Christian civilization, was especially manifested when, just before Mr. Harris’ execution, a few of his old acquaintances, who had known something of his parentage and childhood life, while weeping and sobbing, called to the Sheriff, saying: “Levi, may I ascend the scaffold and bid Charley farewell?” The Sheriff answered that a few could do so, but that there must be no disorderly conduct or confusion.

These old gray-headed and Christian men then ascended the scaffold and bid Mr. Harris farewell in a most affecting manner. While this was being done the order that prevailed showed how perfectly they were controlled by the principles of law and order.

Many citizens and Christian ministers visited Mr. Harris for two weeks previous to his execution. Between the hours of 10 and 12 o’clock a. m., on the day of his execution, Mr. Turner and wife, Mr. F. H. Jones, Miss Sloan, Attorney Matlock, Miss Hyatt, District Clerk Brown, Judge Rugeley and Rev. S. Crutchfield were permitted to enter the jail and spend a short time in singing. Mr. Harris was calm and resigned. After the singing they all shook hands with the doomed man and bade him farewell. Mr. Harris manifested feeling at the parting.

The Sheriff, with a chosen guard of 40 men, was present at the jail. The best of order prevailed, though the crowd of people was very large and constantly increasing.

Rev. S. Crutchfield expressed himself satisfied that Mr. Harris was prepared to die, and said the condemned man told him he would be with his mother in heaven in a few hours.

At precisely 12 o’clock m. the Sheriff took the prisoner from the jail and had him placed in a wagon, in which he was taken to the gallows. Arriving there, we found an immense crowd of people assembled to witness the execution. The gallows was located some three-quarters of a mile from town, in a small grassy opening between gently sloping timbered hills. Soon after reaching the scaffold the Sheriff ascended it with Mr. Harris, also Rev. S. Crutchfield.

We shook hands with Mr. Harris as he passed. He looked pale, but walked up the scaffold with a firm, even step. Deputy Sheriff Morris then read the warrant upon which Mr. Harris was arrested and tried, ant the verdict of the jury finding him guilty of murder in the first degree, and the order of the court for his execution. This being done, Rev. Crutchfield stated to the vast assemblage of people that Mr. Harris had requested him to sing the song, “Shall We Know Each Other There,” and that after the song Mr. Harris would address the people. The song being sung, Mr. Harris arose and said:

Ladies and Gentleman: I am here to pay the penalty of the law. I am sorry this crowd had to be called together to witness my execution. I do not believe they could be called around a better heart. I had a good mother, who taught me to be good, and I had no idea of ever coming to this. My aged father has been accused of being guilty of this crime. He is as innocent as the angels in heaven. He is an old man; I have heard lately that he was sick; he may already have gone; I hope I shall meet him in heaven. I hope to meet you all in heaven. I pray God that you will never be called again to witness such a scene as this. I am the first one ever executed in Montague county according to law, and I pray God there may never be another, and I pray God I may be the only one executed according to law in the whole world. I love everybody in the whole world. There is not a man in the world around whose memory there clusters one particle of hate. I hope my fate will be a warning to all the young men of this county. I ascend upon the scaffold high that others may take warning of me. My time has come; I must go; I do not dread to go, though it seems hard. I have been, and am now, a friend to Montague county. I love every one in the whole county. I love the prisoners in the jail; and here is the sheriff, as good an officer as there is in the whole world. I hope to meet him in heaven. I love you all. I hold no malice against any one. I hope that this may be a lesson to all. Remember, you all must die. I am young; in the prime of life. I hate to go this way, but I must. May God watch over you all. Think of the dying man’s words. I hope you may all think I am prepared. I hope to meet you all in heaven, in a better world than this.”

At the close of Mr. Harris’ speech Rev. Crutchfield said the condemned man had requested him, and as many of the people present who were willing, to sing the song, “Sweet Bye and Bye,” whereupon several hundred united in singing that beautiful Christian song, Mr. Harris singing with them. After the song Rev. Crutchfield knelt and made a solemn, feeling prayer, in which thousands of the spectators knelt and joined.

After the prayer a few moments were spent by a few of Mr. Harris’ old acquaintances and those who were with him on the scaffold, including the Sheriff and his deputies, in shaking hands and bidding each other farewell. At 1 o’clock p. m. Mr. Harris took his place upon the trap door. He seemed calm and self possessed. He looked around on the vast throng of people and bade them farewell. When Deputy Nix placed the rope around his neck the knot was placed on the right side. Mr. Harris requested that it be shifted to the left side, which was done. The cap, with its veil, was placed on his head and over his face. At 1:20 the drop fell.

Following is the report of Drs. Johnson, Wolverton, McDougal and Love, who were present to make such examination as would enable them to report to the Sheriff that life was extinct. The drop fell at 1 :20; 1:24 pulsations distinct; 1:30 pulsation slight; 1:34 no pulsation at wrist; 1:36 heart ceased to beat; 1:40 Dr. F. Johnson and the physicians present pronounced him dead. Cut down 30 minutes after the drop fell.
 
 

(We have learned the name of the editor of the Texas Northwest. His name was Roark, now of Dallas. We overlooked to mention that owing to the paper not being in good condition we are compelled to omit much of the details of the confession and take up the editor’s general narrative, which follows):

We glean from an unfinished narrative left by Charley Harris, in his own handwriting, with his comrades in jail, the following:

Charley Harris was born in Missouri, in the year 1857, and started to Texas in the fall of 1871. Lived with my father’s family until my mother died. Was not disposed to stay at home, so I sold out all I had in the spring of 1875 and started for Missouri. Like many wandering boys, I was not contented to remain at home.”

Here the narrative stops, but in another place we find: “Married on the 20th of December, 1877, to Miss Josie Simms, in Denton county, 16 miles from Pilot Point.”

Mr. Harris requested in writing that the Sheriff of Montague county bury his body by the side of that of his brother, on Farmer’s Creek, thirteen miles from the town of Montague. His request was granted. He further requested that the newspapers publishing the details of his execution be sent to D. W. Colvert, Colbert’s Station, Indian Territory; Franklin Pemberton, Fayette, Howard county, Mo.; Mrs. Lucy Hawkins, Gainesville, Cooke county, Texas; also that Mrs. Hawkins will please read and forward to her sister, who has always refused to write to him.

Some time before his execution Sheriff Perryman asked him to select some friend to cut the fall. Mr. Harris said he regarded the Sheriff as a friend, but when standing on the fall, and feeling willing to show his respect for Sheriff Perryman’s feelings, he requested Deputy Nix to cut the rope that held the fall. That officer, after being requested the second time, consented, and performed the duty reluctantly, because demanded by the law, but with something of mental reservation.

For some time past Mr. Harris has denied his first statements — those upon which he was convicted. He says he does not remember ever to have made them, and those who have been with him most are inclined to the opinion that when he made them he was in a state of partial insanity, during which he scarcely knew what he said — or that it was done at the suggestion of his counsel, who hoped by that means to secure his acquittal.

Mr. Harris was six feet in height, well proportioned but not corpulent. He had blue eyes and light hair. Nothing in physiological expression or general appearance stamped him as a murderer. Upon the scaffold he was neatly dressed, with coat and pants of navy blue, and a white vest.

At an early hour in the morning the people began assembling. The expression on their faces, and their general appearance, furnished an interesting field of study for the philosopher and Christian moralist.

Thinking men could not well suppress the inquiry: What particular principle of the Christian religion, as taught by Jesus Christ and contained in the New Testament, sanctions or demands the infliction of the death penalty?

Was it the spirit of Christ, as revealed in the gospel of love, that brought together this vast concourse of people?

Will the execution of Charley Harris develop and strengthen in the human heart the spirit and principles of the Christian religion, or was it a spirit of idle curiosity, or, what is worse, the spirit of vindictive wrath and revenge, and will it not weaken in the human heart the power and rulership of the Christian religion? (At this point a portion of the paper is torn off and lost, so that the editor’s argument is partially lost.)

The narrative ends with the following words:

“We have not made these remarks nor asked these questions in a captious spirit, or with the design of influencing the people to oppose the execution of the law. Our aim has been to elicit inquiry and thought upon the subject, and see if there cannot be some better method devised for the treatment of criminals than killing them. The subject is a broad one — one of vital importance. Its full discussion will involve the discussion of every essential principle of the Christian religion.”