Captain Bill McDonald, Texas Ranger: A Story of Frontier Reform

by Albert Bigelow Paine

"Not at all," said Culberson, "you've undertaken to see me through this trip and I'm not going to let you desert now, Indians or no Indians."

"But I've got to, General. This is a pleasure trip, and that's business. Them devils are goin' to start something over there and it's my duty as Ranger to investigate it."

Culberson laughed.

"Now, Captain," he said, "you know very well that all you want is to get over there where there's a chance to give a shooting exhibition. You've got tired of hawks and prairie dogs and want to try your hand on Indians."

A new arrival just then furnished the information that the offending cowboy had been jailed at Mangum, and that the Indians were likely to storm the jail. This settled the matter, for Ranger duty and inclination now lay in the same direction. McDonald and Culberson drove as rapidly as possible toward Mangum, then about fifty miles away, changing horses once on the hard journey. The town was well-nigh deserted, as nearly everyone who could get a gun had gone to the scene of the killing. Captain Bill therefore established himself as guard of the jail where the cowboy was confined, and waited results. Nothing of consequence happened. The country quieted down, Culberson and Captain Bill presently returned to Quanah.

But a few days later when the Attorney General had arrived in Austin, Captain Bill received a package by express, prepaid. On opening it he was stupefied to find that it contained a "plug" hat of very fine quality. It was the first silk hat in the Pan-handle, where the soft wide-rimmed cowboy Stetson predominated, and it took more courage to wear it than to face an assault with intent to kill.

But Captain Bill was game. He was a "brother-in-law to the church" as he said—his wife being a member—and the following Sunday he put on the silk hat and accompanied her to meeting.

Their seat was up near the front, only a step from the pulpit—a good thing for the minister, otherwise nobody would have looked in his direction. As it was, all eyes were aimed toward Captain Bill and his hat. The congregation had seen him come in with it in his hand, and they could still observe the wonder, for it would not do to put so fine a piece of property on the floor, while to set it toppling on his lap would be to court disaster. It seemed necessary therefore to hold it in his hand, raised a little, and at a distance from his body, in order that by no chance movement the marvelous gloss of it should be marred. The people of Quanah who attended church that day were glad to be there. They are still glad. They do not remember the sermon they heard, but they do remember that hat. Even the minister wandered from his text in his contemplation of that splendid exhibition. Those of Quanah who remained away from service on that memorable Sunday have never entirely recovered from their regret. For it was their only opportunity ever to see Captain Bill in a plug hat. When services were over, the congregation crowded about for a nearer view. Cowboys stood up on the backs of the pews to look over the shoulders of those in front of them. Homesick women who remembered such things back east, shed tears. Many wanted to touch the precious thing—to stroke its silken surface, and among these were little children who insisted on rubbing the fur the wrong way.

Captain Bill got out at last and headed for home. Once there, the gift of the Attorney General was reverently damned and laid away. Somewhere in a secret stronghold, deep buried from mortal eye, it exists to this hour.