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A TEXAN TYPE. Some years ago, few names were better known in Texas than that ‘of ‘Wild Will' It is to be presumed that at some’ time of his life he pos sessed a surname; if so, it was soon forgotten, for during the greater period of his short but eventful career he was only known by his baptismal, or, to use an Americanism, here probably more appropriate, his given name, with the adjectival prefix. In his hot and unregenerate youth, Will had been un pleasantly notorious as the chief of a gang of ‘road-agents’ (highwaymen) whose depredations had made them the terror of the State. His skill with the pistol was extraordinary both for ac curacy and rapidity. On more than one occasion I have seen him with a revolver in each hand at arms length simultaneously hit a playing card on two adjacent telegraph posts, while riding at full gallop across the railway track midway between the poles. Then turning his horse, he would gallop back, repeating the feat, with his arms crossed. A playing-card is a small mark for a pistol-shot standing, at twenty-five yards. On the back of a running horse, the feat is simply won derful. It was Will’s boast that of all the men he ever killed, none wag ever hit save in the head. On one occasion, a band of sixteen United States soldiers, under the command of a non-commis sioned officer, were ordered out to arrest him, information as to his hiding-place having been given. They found Wil hiding in a thicket, and opened fire. He responded with his revolvers, and at the close of the action, fifteen of the soldiers lay dead, each with a bullet in his brain, whilst the other two managed to escape. Will himself was severely wounded, but he managed to drag himself to the brink of a little pool, where he lay until night, when he was carried off by some of his gang. Having recovered, Will after a time began to grow weary of the excitement of man-hunting, when he was the un fortunate ‘huntee,’ and thought a little sport, with himself at the other end of the chase, might not prove uninterest ing. By some means or other, he man aged to make his peace with his out raged government—never a very diffi cult matter in the western States —and got himself appointed a deputy sheriff of the State of Texas. In this capacity the apprehension of all criminals whose daring rendered their arrest dangerous was intrusted to him, and in Texas he was not often unemployed. On one occasion he was summoned to the sheriff's office and informed that a specially ‘tough’ job was in store for it. “Well, said the sheriff, ‘ Texas Charlie's wanted.’ * Yes,’ said Will. We want him alive, if you can , but at any rate, alive or dead.’ ‘So I responded Will. Will you take— ‘Don’t mind if I do. Whisky for choice.’ ‘No, no; I didn’t mean that exactly. Will you take any men with you ? © Guess not,’ replied Will. Well, well, just as you please; but remember we want him, alive or dead.—Now we'll have that drink,’ Will immediately set out on his expedition. He had received informa tion that Charlie, a noted desperado, had been making his headquarters at the little village of N . ‘Thither he proceeded; and, ly, chance [ hap pened to be in N , looking up some missing cowboys, on the day of Will's arrival. We had met before on several occasions, and Will greeted me pleas antly, and insisted upon my taking a ‘horn’ with him, whilst he told me the duty he was engaged on. After a short chat and further refresh ment, Will started for the door with a cheery: ‘See you again soon, old man ! Get through this job pretty slick, I reckon.’ Just as he reached the door, how ever, a shout of, ‘ Hold your hands up, Will?! called all the inmates of the saloon to the street. There stood Will, his hands in the air calmly whistling a half-melancholy tune, whilst on the other side of the road sat Texas Charlie himself on a fine Eastern horse, accompanied by several of his gang, and with a fourteen shooting Winchester pointed dead at Will’s heart, (I may here state for the benefit of the uninitiated that throwing one’s hands up is a sign throughout America that one doesen’t intend to draw a pistol and shoot, and that, therefore, the other party should also drop his muzzle. ‘Well, Will, said Charlie, ‘they say yer goin’ to take ma, alive or dead.’ ‘Them’s my orders, Charlie,’ What d’ye think ov yer, chance now ? Will calmly resumed whistling the unfinished tune, ‘Well, Will, ‘guess Dve got the better ov yer,’ *Thet’s so, Charlie. Now, look here, old man. I don’t want no kinder trouble in this yer town, so [ tell yer ye’d better walk backwards out thar to the brush’ (point ing to a thicket about half a mile away), ‘When ye get thar, I'l shoot ye, but keep yer hands up. Faust motion down ye makes, £ shoot,’ Well, it wasn’t altogether a lively prospect for a man to walk backwards for half a mile with his hands over his head, especially with the certainty of being shot at the termination of the journey ; but off Will set, still whist lings his tune as calmly as if he was going to a lyceum lecture. Two or three of the others and I followed, meditating a rescue; but the levelled rifles of Charlies gang were anything but comforting to fool upon. As for the townspeople, a murder more or less was not a rarity worth tramping half a mile out of town to see. A portion of the distance was passed, and still Will's clear bird-like whistle rang cheerily out. Charlie's rifle was at his shoulder, covering the deputy sheriffs heart, and behind, the boys, with rifles and pistols ready, warned off the spectators from approaching too closely. The affair grew thrilling, positively fascinating. I can never forget the calm, cheerful look in Will's eyes as he tramped along backwards, or the cruel, determined air of Charlie and his followers. Suddenly Will stopped. Waving his hands gently in the air, he shouted , ‘Don’t hit him, boys; he don’t know what he’s doin’.’ Like a flash, Charlie turned in his saddle, fearing treachery, and that someone was about to club or stab him in the back. For a second, the deadly Winchester swung from its line; that second was Will’s oppor tunity, and with the speed of lightning his hands were at his belt, his pistols out and levelled; and before the desperado could turn again in his saddle, he rolled to the ground with two bulletholes through his brain. His companions were so thunderstruck that they did not attempt to revenge his death, but turned their horses and galloped off; not fast enough, though, for Will’s bullets, swifter even than a Texas mustang, stopped two of them. The rest escaped, ‘* Alive or dead,” was my orders, sirres, said Will. ‘I’m sorry it ain't alive, but dead ‘s how to do.’ That was the last time but one that I saw Will alive ; on the next occasion he lost his life; but he fell gloriously— for a Texan, that is. The story, how ever, is too long to give now.— Charabers’s Journal,
Newspaper Details
Balclutha Clutha Leader
Balclutha, Otago, NZ
Fri, Jul 24, 1885
Page 7
Full Page
Clipped by
Bob H.
USA 03 Sep 2026
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Balclutha Clutha Leader
