Rube Burrow, king of outlaws, and his band of train robbers

by George W. Agee

Then we lost all hope of getting Jim Burrow, and came on to Pine Bluff, crossing the Arkansas River nine miles south of Pine Bluff, and came on back through the country to DeWitt, and crossed the White River at a point twelve or fifteen miles north of St. Charles, Ark., and went on back to Helena, crossing the Mississippi River at Helena. Stayed all night at a little town on the Mississippi River, fifteen miles above Helena, on the east side of the river. Next day we came out through the bottom, wading our horses through mud knee deep for fifteen miles. Stayed all night two miles from the ferry, and there met Fletcher Stephens, who wanted to hire hands to pick cotton. Burrow proposed that we go to work picking cotton for Stephens. Stephens agreed, and gave us fifty cents per hundred and our board. This was about the first of October, 1888. Burrow was a good cotton picker, but I was not. We picked cotton until about December first, and Stephens paid us $50.

We then went from there to Sardis. Remained all night at Sardis, and crossed the Tallahatchie and went south to Berryhill’s, where we stayed one day. Went from there to Water Valley, Miss., and stayed there all night. Put our horses up at a stable there. Had decided at this time to rob a train, but no place or time had been set. We decided on robbing a train before we left Berryhill’s.

While looking at some horses at the livery stable at Water Valley, Burrow and I noticed a policeman eyeing us closely. This made us rather uneasy, and when the policeman went from the stable to the hotel where we were stopping, Burrow followed him and went to the hotel and got his saddle-bags, which he had left there. We then saddled our horses and left.

We stayed at a widow’s house that night, and as it was raining next day we stopped at ten o’clock at a house and remained there until next morning. We then went south, and took dinner next day ten or twelve miles from Duck Hill, Miss. Arrived at Duck Hill soon after dark on the night of December 15, 1889. I went into a store and bought two boxes of sardines; went back, and we waited a short while for the train. The horses were hitched out about half a mile or so from town, and east of the track.

When the train pulled into the station we were in plain sight. There was nobody out, as it was a bad night. We were there close by the station. We got on the engine just as it was ready to pull out, both on the same side, and each one of us had a pistol. I did not point my pistol directly at either engineer or fireman, but we covered them and ordered them to run out a certain distance, about eight hundred yards from the station, and stop. The engineer was in the act of stopping the train when we got on the engine, but we made him pull out. When he stopped the train I stepped on the ground first. Just as I stepped on the ground I fired off my pistol in the air, and about that time Burrow, the engineer and the fireman got out, and we all walked back to the express car. About the time I fired my pistol I noticed the door of the express car was open. Burrow went in the express car. I remained on the ground.

Pretty soon I saw a man walking towards me from the passenger coaches, and told him to go back. I thought he was going to shoot me, and I asked the engineer to tell him to go back, and the engineer did so. The engineer asked me at the same time not to shoot him—that the man had nothing to shoot me with—and I did not shoot him. The man did not turn back, and the negro fireman told him to turn back, and he then did so. In a few minutes some one down by the passenger coach spoke, and at the same time commenced shooting at us. The engineer ran, I don’t know where to, and as they commenced shooting (I think they had fired about two shots) I commenced firing. I kept advancing from the train, in order to dodge their shots. There was somebody else down in one of the coaches who shot out several times—probably four or five times.

After the shooting was over I walked back to the side of the express car and stood there until Burrow came out. I did not know there was anybody shot. I fired one shot when I stepped off the engine, and fired four shots while standing at the express car. I could see the man I was shooting at, but very indistinctly. Did not hear him cry out when shot. I remained by the car, after the shooting, until Burrow got out. The negro fireman said to me, “Don’t shoot me.” I said I was not going to shoot him.

I think I saw Burrow in the car door while the shooting was going on outside. We were all shooting rapidly, and I could not tell much about Burrow’s shooting. When we left the car we loaded our pistols. I put in five cartridges, and he put three, he said, in his.

We then made our way back to our horses, got on them and rode the balance of the night. It was raining all the time, and we waded the creek three times, crossing bends, to get to our horses. It began to rain very hard after we mounted our horses.

We rode at least forty miles by daylight. That day we camped in the woods, about forty miles from the scene of the robbery. Burrow got some corn for the horses. We were very wet. We built a fire to dry our clothes, and then ate something about the middle of the day. We dried the money and counted it. There was $1500 in greenbacks and $365 in silver. We divided it half and half. This was on Sunday. That evening we started out about sundown, and crossed the Illinois Central Road at Weirs Station. Went through the town, and took the Philadelphia road and rode all night, making about fifty miles; rode on next day until about eleven o’clock. Stopped at a house and got dinner, and stayed there about three hours. On Monday night we did not ride very far. Built a fire that night. Tuesday morning there was a heavy frost.