A TEXAS RANGER: True Story of the Leander H. Mcnelly's Texas Ranger Company in the Wild Horse Desert. Napoleon Augustus Jennings
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invited me as his guest until he should be ready for the surveying trip.
On the way to the room, a cat ran across the street in front of us. It was too good a chance for Peterson to miss trying his marksmanship, and he pulled his six-shooter and blazed away at the cat. The animal gave a yowl and disappeared in the darkness. We continued up the street, but had not proceeded far before we found ourselves surrounded by a number of Mexicans. With them was the city marshal, a stalwart young man named Gregorio Gonzales. His companions were Mexican policemen. They at once put us under arrest for shooting in the street, but Peterson managed to throw his pistol away in the dark before they could search him.
I had a sword-cane in my hand, but they did not know it was aught but a plain, ordinary walking-stick. Despite Peterson’s protests, they took us to the house of a magistrate named Sixto Navarro, an uncle, by the way, of Mrs. John Ross. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when we reached Seilor Navarro’s house. The magistrate said he was willing to let us go on our own recognizances until morning, but City Marshal Gonzales insisted that we be made to give bonds for our appearance, or else spend the rest of the night in the “calaboose.”
“But I am the United States Commissioner, and you know I am not going to run away,” said Peterson. “Let this young man and me go for the night and I give you my word of honor that we will be on hand whenever you say in the morning.”
Senor Navarro was willing, but Gonzales was obdurate, and at last Peterson had to send for a friend and give the required bail. It was fixed at $300 each.
As soon as we were liberated, we went to Peterson’s room. He was as mad as a hornet. He lighted a lamp and began to rummage over a lot of papers which he took from his desk. At last he selected one and, turning to me, he said:
“Here, my boy, I want to swear you in as a special Deputy United States Marshal. I have some work which must be done tonight, and you must do it.”
“What kind of work?”
“Why, I want you to execute capiases on Gregorio Gonzales and Sixto Navarro. Navarro could easily have let us go if he had really wanted to do it. I have affidavits here that both of them have been smuggling goods across the Rio Grande from Mexico. I will make out the capiases for them, and I want you to arrest them. You have the right to summon as big a posse as you think you need in making the arrests, and the capiases call for their bodies, dead or alive. When you have arrested them, bring them here and I’ll show you some fun.”
It looked as though I was going to have some “fun” in the execution of those capiases. But I consented to be sworn in as a special Deputy Marshal.
“Now,” said Peterson, when he had administered the oath, “you go across the street and wake up St. Clair and his partner and take them along with you to help make the arrests.”
St. Clair and his partner were sign painters, who had wandered into Laredo looking for work, and had been kept busy repainting the sacred figures in the church. The shop was usually half full of saints in all stages of dilapidation. St. Clair, whose bump of reverence was not very strongly developed, used one of the figures for a hatrack, and the effect was startling.
I went across the street and aroused the painters, who at once entered into the spirit of the thing, and declared they were ready to kill Gonzales and the whole Mexican police force, if necessary. As soon as they were dressed, we started off to find the city marshal.
We didn’t have far to go. We found him in a barroom, in the middle of a graphic description to a number of Mexicans of the way he had arrested Peterson and me and taken us before Navarro. He seemed surprised to see me walk in with St. Clair and his partner, but he was still more astonished when I walked up to him and, touching him on the arm, said:
“I have a capias for your arrest. My orders from the United States Commissioner are to take you before him, dead or alive. You’d better come quietly and avoid trouble.”
“Wha—what do you want me for?” he gasped while his companions looked on in wonder.
“You are wanted for violating the revenue laws of the United States,” I answered in as harsh a voice as I could assume. “The capias will explain that, if you care to read it.”
“But you are not an officer.”
“I am a United States Deputy Marshal. Come, I haven’t time to stand here talking to you. I arrest you, and if you don’t come quietly, I will use force to make you.”
He saw that I was in dead earnest, and he had too much respect for the law to think of disobeying the mandate of an officer armed with a capias and backed by a posse and six shooters. He hesitated no longer, but came at once, followed by the men who had been listening only a few minutes before to the story of Peterson’s arrest. Peterson’s office was nearby, and in a very few minutes we were there. The Commissioner was seated at his desk. He wore an expression of great solemnity. Entirely ignoring the presence of the city marshal, he turned to me and said:
“Mr. Marshal, you will please open my court.”
I stepped to the door, and called out in a loud voice:
“Oyez, oyez, oyez. The Honorable United States Commissioner’s Court for the Western District of Texas is now open. All persons having business with said court draw near and ye shall be heard.”
I had never opened a court before, but I thought that was about the right thing to say. Having startled the night air of the sleeping town, I went back to Peterson’s desk.
“Mr. Marshal,” said he, “you have brought a prisoner into court.”
“Here he is, your Honor.”
“That man? Why, he is armed! Disarm him.’
Gonzales handed me his pistol and cartridge belt with an exceeding bad grace.
“Mr. Gonzales,” said Peterson, turning for the first time to the city marshal, “you are here, charged with a very serious offense against the revenue laws of the United States of America. A very serious offense, indeed, sir. It is, of course, impossible for me to give you a hearing now, at two o’clock in the morning, but I can put you under bonds at this time to appear before me later. As your offense is such a serious one, I shall have to fix the amount of your bail at $20,000. If you are not able to give that amount of bail, you must pass the night in the military guardhouse at Fort McIntosh.”
Poor Gonzales could only stand and stare helplessly at the Commissioner. He knew Peterson was in earnest, and that he would do as he said. He also knew he was guilty of smuggling. Many residents of Laredo at that time were smugglers. Peterson had a desk full of affidavits against hundreds of men. The affidavits were usually made by those having a grudge against the offenders. Peterson seldom did anything in these cases, but he carefully kept the affidavits. He thought they might be useful some time. This was one of the times.
“Mr. Marshal,” said Peterson to me, after flooring Gonzales with the twenty-thousand-dollar bail proposition, “you will now go and execute the other capiases. I will be responsible for this prisoner until your return.”
Taking my posse with me, I went at once to the house of Don Sixto Navarro. He had gone to bed, and we had some difficulty in arousing him. When we at last succeeded, and I showed him the warrant for his arrest he was greatly excited. There was nothing to do but come with me, however, and he accordingly dressed himself and came.
At Peterson’s office the same action was taken as in the case of Gonzales. Navarro was told he must give $20,000 bail or go to the guardhouse for the night. He started to protest that the amount was excessive, but Peterson said he was the best judge of that, and would not reduce it one cent.
“You may send for bondsmen, if you wish,” said the Commissioner, “but you must hurry, as I do not propose to stay up much longer on this matter.”
In ten minutes a dozen Mexicans were scurrying all over the town, waking up the wealthy men and explaining what was wanted of them. In half an hour Peterson’s office was crowded