Chapter XI: Redeeming No-man's Land

BILL MCDONALD AND LON BURSON GATHER IN THE BAD MEN. "NO MAN IN THE WRONG CAN STAND UP AGAINST A FELLOW THAT'S IN THE RIGHT AND KEEPS ON A-COMIN'"

It was natural that other work in No-man's Land should follow this first experiment. It having been demonstrated that Bill McDonald could go into that infested place and not only come out alive, but bring back his man, other and more extensive contracts were laid out for him. There were several bad gangs there to be broken up before legitimate settlers could live there, and it was decided that McDonald was the man for the job.

McDonald on his part was ready for the undertaking, it being of a sort which he found always most congenial. Deciding that it was a good thing to have a reliable partner in the handling of a gang, he selected for his associate another deputy marshal--one Lon Burson of Henrietta--a quiet athletic fellow with plenty of grit and endurance.

"I could always rely upon Lon," McDonald said, in speaking of that period, long after; "I believed I knew just what he would do, every time, and he never failed me." It may be added that Burson on his part had complete faith in McDonald, and that their ideas of conducting a campaign were in exact accord.

They began on what was thought to be one of the worst gangs, a band of nine who had established on Beaver Creek a general headquarters from which they conducted a miscellaneous business in crime--stealing cattle and horses, robbing trains and shooting down bank officials when occasion offered, frequently crossing over into adjoining States for that purpose.

McDonald had laid out the plan of attack, which was to arrive on the scene at his favorite early hour--daybreak--and then to do no parleying or long distance firing, but to charge at once and storm the works. His theory was--and is to-day--that the criminal cannot stand up against the man who is not afraid of him and does not hesitate.

"If you wilt or falter he will kill you," he has often said, "but if you go straight at him and never give him time to get to cover, or to think, he will weaken ninety-nine times in a hundred. No man in the wrong can stand up against a fellow that's in the right and keeps on a-comin'. I made up my mind to that long ago, and I've never made a mistake yet."

Here in homely vernacular is expressed a mighty truth. Crime is always coward and cannot stand against the conviction of right. Error cannot survive in the face of truth that does not falter and "keeps on a-comin'."

McDonald and Burson proceeded in the saddle to Higgins, in Lipscomb County--a station on the Santa Fe Bail road, and their last base of supplies. Here they chartered a big three-seated hack in which to bring back their prisoners, should their raid prove successful. They put their own horses to this vehicle, loaded their saddles in behind and continued their journey.

It was toward evening when they arrived in the neighborhood of the outlaw den and camped in a secluded place, to wait for morning. The house stood in the edge of the prairie, near Beaver Creek and was easy of access. It was made of logs and seemed to be a deserted ranch place, probably built by some adventurous person who had long since departed for a locality where there was more law, even if less grass.

One of the band--an early riser--had just gone out to round up the horses when the two deputies, mounted, made their approach, next morning. He discovered them when they were about four hundred yards away and made for the house, McDonald and Burson following at full speed. The outlaw was a little in advance, and his eight companions were out in front with their Winchesters when the officers bore down on them.

"Go round the house, Lon, and come in from behind. I'll 'tend to them on this side," said McDonald as they dashed up.

This maneuver was immediately put into action and in less than a minute later the deputies were on the spot, their game between them. In another instant both deputies had slid from their horses and were in the midst of the confused, half awake outlaws.

"Drop them guns! Drop 'em, and put up your hands!" commanded McDonald--his own gun and Burson's leveled.

There was not even an attempt at resistance. The bandits were simply dazed, overwhelmed by the suddenness and vigor of the onslaught. Heretofore, attacks--always made by a posse--had begun with scouting and skirmish and ended with a running fight, usually at long range. The plan of two mere deputies coming straight upon them and demanding sudden and complete surrender was wholly new. As before remarked, there was something about it terribly convincing--almost supernatural.

McDonald kept the men covered, now, while Burson secured their weapons. Then, hand-cuffed and shackled, they were marched to the big hack, crowded into it and driven fifty miles to Higgins; thence by rail to the United States Commissioner at Wichita Falls.

McDonald, as usual, was sociable enough with his prisoners, once secure, and delivered to them his customary homily, as they drove along.

"I just want to show you fellows, up here, how easy it is to take you," he said affably. "You-all have got the notion that you can run this country your own way, and that there ain't any officers that can come up here and make you behave. Now, you-all are mightily mistaken. I'm going to put every one of you fellows in jail and a lot more like you. You know well enough it ain't right to act like you-all have been doing--driving off other men's cattle and robbing trains and shooting men that you had the drop on. You might know you'd get into trouble. The United States has made laws against such business as that, and them laws cover this country the same as anywhere else and every one of your kind up in here is going to find it out."

The gang was landed safely in Wichita Falls. Some of them were eventually convicted; the rest either became better citizens or sought quieter territory for their industries. The cleaning up of No-man's Land had begun.

The work of active reform was not allowed to languish. News of the first successful raid traveled quickly, and State Senator Temple Houston--son of Governor Sam Houston--notified McDonald that the Sheriff of Hansford County was in need of assistance to cope with a bad gang which had a rendezvous just across the border from Hansford, in No-man's Land. These bandits had been carrying on the usual business of horse and cattle stealing, and general highway robbery. Unlike some of the officials, the sheriff of Hansford, though not noted for reckless bravery, was in no way in league with the thieves and desired only their extermination. His jurisdiction, however, extended no farther than the Texas line, and thus far no State or federal officer had rendered any assistance. As a result, the band, becoming very bold, had pitched their camp just over the line, and had defied arrest, declaring they would shoot the first man that stepped across.

When Bill McDonald got the word from Senator Houston, he immediately sent over for Lon Burson and then proceeded to Canadian, Hemhill County, where Houston lived. Here they learned more fully what work was cut out for them, and presently continued their journey over into Hansford, where, from the sheriff, they secured the names of the offenders, as far as possible, and a partial list of their misdeeds. Complaints were now filed against six men, the usual commodious hack was secured; also, a light buggy for possible side excursions, and McDonald and Burson, accompanied by the sheriff as a guide, drove through the gray of early morning, to the line which divided Hansford County from No-man's Land.

Arriving at the border, the sheriff pointed out where the robber den--a log building--was located, not more than eight hundred yards beyond. Then he said he would wait there until they got back.

"Come right along with us," said McDonald, "we need you to identify the men."

But the officer said. "No," that the men knew him, and it might alarm them if they saw him coming. Besides, he had no authority over there.

"Never mind that," urged McDonald, "I'll risk the consequences, and I'll make you one of a deputy's posse, which fixes your authority all right."

But the sheriff still said "No," that he didn't care for any more authority than he had--that anything new in that line might make him proud. He said he thought he would enjoy sitting there in the hack where he would have a good view of what happened to them when they tackled that outfit.

McDonald and Burson, therefore, set out in the light buggy, driving leisurely across the intervening space. Arriving near the log-house, they discovered that five men were up, and sitting sleepily on the ground in front of their cabin, their Winchesters leaning against the wall behind them. Evidently they did not look for any attack, and even when they saw the approaching buggy, their wits were not sufficiently collected to suspect that these might be officers; nor could they realize that any two men in a buggy would drive over to attempt their capture. In another instant they were covered.

"Get up from there and throw up your hands!" was the word of greeting they received. "And don't try to touch them guns. The first man that tries it I'll kill him."

The five men rose--it was polite to do so--also, they refrained from offering any discourtesy in the matter of the guns. McDonald now called the roll of the names he wanted, and curious as it may seem, each man answered to his name. One man of the six wanted, being missing, the officers proceeded to hand-cuff and shackle the five captured men, and marched them back to the hack, where the sheriff of Hansford was waiting.

Of course the sheriff didn't believe it was true. He had had such dreams before and thought he would wake up, presently, at home, in bed. When he convinced himself at last that he was not asleep, he offered to aid in the search for the sixth man. He was well acquainted with the Territory trails, and McDonald decided to send Burson to Hansford with the hack-load and to proceed with the buggy and the sheriff after Number Six of the gang who, it appeared, had a place of his own some twenty miles away.

Number Six was out looking after his cattle--about thirty in number--the result of industry--when McDonald and the sheriff of Hansford arrived, and not expecting official guests, was unprepared. He had, in fact, "no more gun than a rabbit," as Deputy Bill said afterward, and his capture was child's play. That night the gang complete set out for Wichita Falls, to be tried later in the United States Court at Dallas.

Raids followed each other rapidly. One gang of cattle thieves after another was gathered in, and took up the march for Dallas and trial. Outlawing in No-man's Land became an unpopular occupation. Men of more legitimate enterprise began to wonder if the time was not coming, by and by, when they could do business on or within the borders of that territory without the protection of a company of soldiers. The fame of Bill McDonald was on every man's tongue, and those who had not seen him, especially the outlaws still at large, usually conceived him to be a very terrible person: large, bushy, heavy of voice and fierce of mien. Yet he was just the opposite of all these things. He was slender, quiet, blue-eyed, and gentle of voice--only, he had that gift of command--that look, and that manner of speech with law-breakers which they did not disobey. The time came presently in No-man's Land when his name alone and a rumor that he was coming was sufficient to cause a gang to contemplate emigration. Perhaps they believed he bore a charmed life, and it was useless to resist him. If so, they were hardly to be blamed for such a conviction.