Story of William A. Paxton
Written by Kathlyn M. Lathrop, Duncan, Arizona
I was born in Llano County, Texas, 1862. My father fought in the Civil War and the Blackhawk War. After the Civil War, he became a captain of the Texas Rangers. He never received any Spanish Land Grant in Texas. He homesteaded and raised cattle, and younguns -- the younguns didn't bring him any revenue I don't allow.
I left home when I was fifteen years old. I had the idea that I'd find that said pot o 'gold at the end of the rainbow someday. I've never found it yet. Maybe I've not reached the end of the end of the rainbow yet.
I went to Lincoln County, New Mexico, with a trail herd in the spring of 1878. We drove around 4 or 5 thousand head of cattle across the Staked Plains of Texas to the head of the Pecos River in New Mexico.
That was a long hard ride, dry, hot, and dusty, with the cattle, horses, and men dying for water. Rustlers, and Indians infested the country from the beginning to the end of the trail. Some 90 men started out with that herd, a few less than fifty arrived at our destination in good health. Some never arrived atall, and we were about 2 thousand head of cattle short when we arrived.
I knew Billy the Kid (William H. Bonney) quite well. He was as fine a young man as I ever want to meet -- he just had the wrong outlook on life.
Some say Billy the Kid was never married, but I happen to know a little about that. Maybe there wasn't a marriage license ever on record, but some of his descendants are still living in New Mexico. In the city of Roswell one can find records and pictures of the widow and son of Billy the Kid.
I might say I knew nothing of the killing of Billy the Kid -- and I might be lying when I say it. There are those of us old timers who still won't admit that William H. Bonney is really dead -- or was ever killed by Sheriff Pat Garrett, or any one else. But if Billy the Kid wants to be dead, after all these years, why, of course, he is dead! Plum dead! as far as I am concerned. And there's even a grave at old Fort Sumner to prove it -- providin' no one ever dug into that grave to make sure there was a body there. He was killed July, 1881, so the records say, so we'll let it go at that.
Some argue that Billy the Kid wasn't left handed. He sure was. He shot that hair-triggered colt 45 of his from his hip -- his left hip -- I've seen him do it more 'n once. No, he wasn't one of them so called 'two-gun killers' one reads about in the magazines of today. Fact is, I've never seen one of them two-gun humbras operate in my time, and I've lived a long life time along the border in frontier times.
I went back to Brown County, Texas, in the fall of 1879, to help with Col. John Parks' cattle drive to the Seven River's range country. The chuck wagons, and the wagons containing the Parks family household goods, were drawn by oxen; Col. John and his family rode in a surry drawn by a spanking team of bays -- and a good thing those bays were speedy and Col. John quick on the trigger as well as thinking power.
We had crossed the New Mexico line and camped one night, when I was standing guard on the herd. Suddenly the entire herd jumped up and stampeded in every direction. I didn't know what had happened for several minutes; then all at once, there seemed to be a million Indians swarming into camp. Things had happened so fast and furious that it's hard to recall all the details of that attack.
Col. John, got away, slick as a whistle, with his family in that surry. I don't know exactly how he managed it, but he sure got away from there. The wagons were all burned, the camp wiped out. Only two other punchers and my self escaped that massacre. Yes, I allow we left a few 'good Indians' for crow 'n coyote bait alright -- I didn't wait to count 'em.
The oxen, cattle and horses were all taken. It was Chief Victorio and Chief Red Hen (Apaches) with their bands of cut-throat renegades. It sure took some quick thinking and acting on the part of Col., John to escape that massacre with his entire family.
Col. John changed his mind about settling in New Mexico after that. He came on over into Arizona Territory and settled on the Gila River. His descendents still live here.
Yes, I was in New Mexico at the time of the famous Lincoln County War of history, but I can't say that I was mixed up in it -- much. I know some of the fellows who were though. That war is still an ouchy subject in New Mexico you know. Some of the boys and their descendents are still living there. It's sort of 'whispered history' so to speak -- as if some of the ghosts might raise up and haunt a body who talks too much.
There were two outlaws from Texas, called Dixon & Sutton came in on the Penasco and hung around a little community called Mayhill for a spell.
Tim Valintine had a little gold claim over in 7ml canyon. Dixon & Sutton wanted that claim so it seemed. They killed Valintine and jumped the claim.
A man by the name of James lived on the Penasco. He had a very beautiful young wife who fell in love with the two outlaws named -- I don't know which one, if either in particular, she seemed to like both of them. After they had killed Tim Valintine, she ran away with them to their hide-out over in 7ml canyon.
A little after Mrs. James disappearance one of the outlaws came into the Mayhill store for supplies, and Mr. James shot him; he just creased him however, and after a few crazy whirls on his heel, the outlaw, made a get-away.
The wounded outlaw showed up at the McGee ranch, further up on the Penasco, and McGee, a Civil War Veteran, took him in -- knowing a posse would come along in time and take him off his hands.
Sheriff John Poe and his posse did come along before morning. The outlaw tried to make another get-away, but failed -- he was literally riddled with bullets. But before they got him, he managed to get one of the posse at a distance of 200 yards downhill with a pistol -- crack shootin' I call that! McGee, of course, was accused of harboring a criminal.
The killing of Tim Valintine was generally conceded to be the starting of the Lincoln County War between cattlemen and horse-men. I don't recall all the names of either party, and I don't place the blame on anyone. I allow every fellow in that war was fighting for what he thought was right.
Sheriff John Poe, stood for law 'n order, of course. Judge Fountain had the disagreeable job of passing sentence on the men who were supposed to have been in the wrong -- it cost him and his young son their lives.
A fellow by the name of Walter Good had been killed. Oliver Lee, the Altman brothers, and Tom Tucker, were the ones supposed to have killed Good, at the Altman ranch (horse ranch) over in La Luz Canyon.
Ralph Bates, a cattleman from the Penasco, came by the Altman Ranch, near sundown one afternoon -- he hadn't been mixed up in the way in any way. Ordinarily, he would have been invited to stay all night, but they didn't even ask him in. He didn't see any of the Altman's, except Mrs. Altman, who was sitting on one of the front windows of the house sewing -- the window blinds of the other front rooms were closed.
He walked to Tom Tucker in the front yard of the Altman place, and went around to the back of the house and got a drink of water on the back porch -- but he didn't go in the house. An Ominous tension seemed to hang in the air. He rode on thinking to himself "There's something wrong here."
He rode to the edge of the white sands and made camp. In a little while, after dark, Sheriff Poe and his posse came by, he could hear them talking and recognized every one of them -- they didn't see him. He gathered they were headed to the Altman ranch with the expectation of finding a corpse there.
They found no corpse that night at the Altman ranch, but they arrested Perry Altman and charged him with the killing of Good. Bates was subpoenaed as a witness -- whether by the State or by Altman -- I don't recall. But he had seen no corpse at the Altman ranch. They failed to ask him a lot of questions that might have convicted Altman -- he offered no information, of course. Altman was cleared. Walter Good's body was not found. Later, Judge Fountain and his small son disappeared on the way home from that trial, they were never found, their fate was never known.
In 1881, Will Parks (better known as "Hard Time Parks"), John Epply, and myself drove a herd of horses from Lincoln County, to Arizona Territory, landing on the old Horse Shoe Ranch over in Doubtful Canyon. We sold 'em to ranchers all along up and down the Gila. Some to the York's -- who were originally from the Penasco in New Mexico -- to the Irish Boys, south on the Gila, (where the town of Duncan now stands), to Col. Parks, the Stewarts, the Moor's, the Adams', and the Maddison's.
We joined a posse of ranchers on the trail of Nana's band (Apaches) who had murdered Judge McCommos and his wife over in Thompson Canyon -- toward Silver City, New Mexico. The McCoomos children, a boy named Charlie and a baby girl had been taken prisoners by the Apaches and were supposed to be someplace in the Serra Madra Mountain in Old Mexico.
Later a band of Geronimo's squaws, children, and old men, with a handful of warriors, were trying to escape from the reservation to join the main band in Mexico. Most of the women and children were on foot until they raided York's ranch, and come on to Maddison's ranch (at Duncan.)
They raided a ranch house near the Maddison's. The family were at Maddison's at the time of the raid, and probably escaped being scalped; they watched their home go up in flames and seen the Indians rip open the feather beds and the feathers sailed into the air like a cloud of birds on the wing.
The Indians took all the stock in the Maddison's corral -- the Maddison menfolks and most all the other men in the community were away at the time. Then they went on to a cabin in the mouth of the canyon where the Mexican school of Duncan now stands, and murdered a woman and two small children, and burned the cabin -- I think the woman's name was Moor. The mother and her two babies are buried there in the canyon -- their graves are still there.
A posse of ranchers and settlers from the Gila district were soon on the trail of the Indians. I joined that posse. I don't remember all the names of those men, but some of them were Col. John Parks, Jim Parks, (James V. Parks, who later became sheriff of Greenlee County), John Epply, Sherman Stewart, John Adams, Mr. Moore, Mr. York, Buck Tyson, Ike Williamson, Alex Martin, Tom Levi, Purdy, Newcomb, and Bachelder -- the others I don't recall.
We chased the Indians over into Doubtful Canyon, where we captured the Apache baby that had been talked about so much. Doubtful Adams. I picked up the baby myself, after it's mother had lost it off her back when her mount began to pitch -- while we were shooting at her. She didn't have time to retrieve the baby, her mount wouldn't stop, she went on without it.
Buck Tyson and me took turns carrying that squallin' papoose back to Duncan settlement. Some of the boys suggested pinchin' it's head off and leavin' it for crow 'n coyote bait, but I had an idea that we might trade it to the Apaches for the McCommos children. That didn't work. We were told that the McCommos children had been slain over in the Serra Madras. Some doubt to this day that the McCommos children were ever slain, but they have never been heard of since they were taken by Nana's band.
John Adams adopted the Apache papoose and named him Doubtful Adams. He turned out to be a son of old Chief Nana. He was educated and brought up as a white child. He is still living and is a prosperous sheep rancher, so I hear, some place over in Ari api Canyon.
I was helpin' build the first irrigation ditch on the Gila -- along in the 90's. I had finished work for the day and was lying on my bunk reading when all of a sudden the bed began to rock and roll, dishes rattled, and the windows began to act like dance hall gals on a spree.
I looked under the bed, thinking my old hound dog must be having one helluva fit, he wasn't even under there; I ran to the door and looked out. The Mexican ditch diggers were all down on their knees prayin' and crossin' themselves, "Santa Maria! Santa Maria!" Then I noticed the wheat field nearby, it was waiving and rolling like the waives of the ocean.
That was the first earthquake I had ever felt. I didn't know what it was at first, of course. When I did realize what it was I was more scared than the Mexicans. I was too scared to pray, or swear either. My insides seemed to double up and I began to vomit. It took my hair three days to lay down again!
No property damage was done in the valley that I know of, but there were several long cracks in the earth over on the mesa South of Duncan. One of these cracks is still there and it has grown considerably from the shakes from time to time.
It wouldn't surprise me none if the town of Duncan should split wide open one of these days, or be swallowed up by mother earth. There are plenty evidences of volcanic eruptions all through Graham and Greenlee Counties, but such eruptions must have been in some prehistoric age. Anyway I don't like earthquakes.
I didn't grown any more after I left Texas. Indians, outlaws, and earthquakes kept me scared until it stunted my growth. I am only six foot two and one half, and only weigh 190 pounds, and am only 76 years young now -- I don't allow I will ever grow any more.
I have had only one wife -- no other woman would ever have had me. Only three children, two sons and one daughters comprise my off-springs -- I couldn't have supported any more than that. But I am glad of having lived this long, and live for the pure joy of living now. I have my ranch and my cattle. I don't have to work in my declining years, and don't have to ask for an old age pension -- not yet.
The End
I was born in Llano County, Texas, 1862. My father fought in the Civil War and the Blackhawk War. After the Civil War, he became a captain of the Texas Rangers. He never received any Spanish Land Grant in Texas. He homesteaded and raised cattle, and younguns -- the younguns didn't bring him any revenue I don't allow.
I left home when I was fifteen years old. I had the idea that I'd find that said pot o 'gold at the end of the rainbow someday. I've never found it yet. Maybe I've not reached the end of the end of the rainbow yet.
I went to Lincoln County, New Mexico, with a trail herd in the spring of 1878. We drove around 4 or 5 thousand head of cattle across the Staked Plains of Texas to the head of the Pecos River in New Mexico.
That was a long hard ride, dry, hot, and dusty, with the cattle, horses, and men dying for water. Rustlers, and Indians infested the country from the beginning to the end of the trail. Some 90 men started out with that herd, a few less than fifty arrived at our destination in good health. Some never arrived atall, and we were about 2 thousand head of cattle short when we arrived.
I knew Billy the Kid (William H. Bonney) quite well. He was as fine a young man as I ever want to meet -- he just had the wrong outlook on life.
Some say Billy the Kid was never married, but I happen to know a little about that. Maybe there wasn't a marriage license ever on record, but some of his descendants are still living in New Mexico. In the city of Roswell one can find records and pictures of the widow and son of Billy the Kid.
I might say I knew nothing of the killing of Billy the Kid -- and I might be lying when I say it. There are those of us old timers who still won't admit that William H. Bonney is really dead -- or was ever killed by Sheriff Pat Garrett, or any one else. But if Billy the Kid wants to be dead, after all these years, why, of course, he is dead! Plum dead! as far as I am concerned. And there's even a grave at old Fort Sumner to prove it -- providin' no one ever dug into that grave to make sure there was a body there. He was killed July, 1881, so the records say, so we'll let it go at that.
Some argue that Billy the Kid wasn't left handed. He sure was. He shot that hair-triggered colt 45 of his from his hip -- his left hip -- I've seen him do it more 'n once. No, he wasn't one of them so called 'two-gun killers' one reads about in the magazines of today. Fact is, I've never seen one of them two-gun humbras operate in my time, and I've lived a long life time along the border in frontier times.
I went back to Brown County, Texas, in the fall of 1879, to help with Col. John Parks' cattle drive to the Seven River's range country. The chuck wagons, and the wagons containing the Parks family household goods, were drawn by oxen; Col. John and his family rode in a surry drawn by a spanking team of bays -- and a good thing those bays were speedy and Col. John quick on the trigger as well as thinking power.
We had crossed the New Mexico line and camped one night, when I was standing guard on the herd. Suddenly the entire herd jumped up and stampeded in every direction. I didn't know what had happened for several minutes; then all at once, there seemed to be a million Indians swarming into camp. Things had happened so fast and furious that it's hard to recall all the details of that attack.
Col. John, got away, slick as a whistle, with his family in that surry. I don't know exactly how he managed it, but he sure got away from there. The wagons were all burned, the camp wiped out. Only two other punchers and my self escaped that massacre. Yes, I allow we left a few 'good Indians' for crow 'n coyote bait alright -- I didn't wait to count 'em.
The oxen, cattle and horses were all taken. It was Chief Victorio and Chief Red Hen (Apaches) with their bands of cut-throat renegades. It sure took some quick thinking and acting on the part of Col., John to escape that massacre with his entire family.
Col. John changed his mind about settling in New Mexico after that. He came on over into Arizona Territory and settled on the Gila River. His descendents still live here.
Yes, I was in New Mexico at the time of the famous Lincoln County War of history, but I can't say that I was mixed up in it -- much. I know some of the fellows who were though. That war is still an ouchy subject in New Mexico you know. Some of the boys and their descendents are still living there. It's sort of 'whispered history' so to speak -- as if some of the ghosts might raise up and haunt a body who talks too much.
There were two outlaws from Texas, called Dixon & Sutton came in on the Penasco and hung around a little community called Mayhill for a spell.
Tim Valintine had a little gold claim over in 7ml canyon. Dixon & Sutton wanted that claim so it seemed. They killed Valintine and jumped the claim.
A man by the name of James lived on the Penasco. He had a very beautiful young wife who fell in love with the two outlaws named -- I don't know which one, if either in particular, she seemed to like both of them. After they had killed Tim Valintine, she ran away with them to their hide-out over in 7ml canyon.
A little after Mrs. James disappearance one of the outlaws came into the Mayhill store for supplies, and Mr. James shot him; he just creased him however, and after a few crazy whirls on his heel, the outlaw, made a get-away.
The wounded outlaw showed up at the McGee ranch, further up on the Penasco, and McGee, a Civil War Veteran, took him in -- knowing a posse would come along in time and take him off his hands.
Sheriff John Poe and his posse did come along before morning. The outlaw tried to make another get-away, but failed -- he was literally riddled with bullets. But before they got him, he managed to get one of the posse at a distance of 200 yards downhill with a pistol -- crack shootin' I call that! McGee, of course, was accused of harboring a criminal.
The killing of Tim Valintine was generally conceded to be the starting of the Lincoln County War between cattlemen and horse-men. I don't recall all the names of either party, and I don't place the blame on anyone. I allow every fellow in that war was fighting for what he thought was right.
Sheriff John Poe, stood for law 'n order, of course. Judge Fountain had the disagreeable job of passing sentence on the men who were supposed to have been in the wrong -- it cost him and his young son their lives.
A fellow by the name of Walter Good had been killed. Oliver Lee, the Altman brothers, and Tom Tucker, were the ones supposed to have killed Good, at the Altman ranch (horse ranch) over in La Luz Canyon.
Ralph Bates, a cattleman from the Penasco, came by the Altman Ranch, near sundown one afternoon -- he hadn't been mixed up in the way in any way. Ordinarily, he would have been invited to stay all night, but they didn't even ask him in. He didn't see any of the Altman's, except Mrs. Altman, who was sitting on one of the front windows of the house sewing -- the window blinds of the other front rooms were closed.
He walked to Tom Tucker in the front yard of the Altman place, and went around to the back of the house and got a drink of water on the back porch -- but he didn't go in the house. An Ominous tension seemed to hang in the air. He rode on thinking to himself "There's something wrong here."
He rode to the edge of the white sands and made camp. In a little while, after dark, Sheriff Poe and his posse came by, he could hear them talking and recognized every one of them -- they didn't see him. He gathered they were headed to the Altman ranch with the expectation of finding a corpse there.
They found no corpse that night at the Altman ranch, but they arrested Perry Altman and charged him with the killing of Good. Bates was subpoenaed as a witness -- whether by the State or by Altman -- I don't recall. But he had seen no corpse at the Altman ranch. They failed to ask him a lot of questions that might have convicted Altman -- he offered no information, of course. Altman was cleared. Walter Good's body was not found. Later, Judge Fountain and his small son disappeared on the way home from that trial, they were never found, their fate was never known.
In 1881, Will Parks (better known as "Hard Time Parks"), John Epply, and myself drove a herd of horses from Lincoln County, to Arizona Territory, landing on the old Horse Shoe Ranch over in Doubtful Canyon. We sold 'em to ranchers all along up and down the Gila. Some to the York's -- who were originally from the Penasco in New Mexico -- to the Irish Boys, south on the Gila, (where the town of Duncan now stands), to Col. Parks, the Stewarts, the Moor's, the Adams', and the Maddison's.
We joined a posse of ranchers on the trail of Nana's band (Apaches) who had murdered Judge McCommos and his wife over in Thompson Canyon -- toward Silver City, New Mexico. The McCoomos children, a boy named Charlie and a baby girl had been taken prisoners by the Apaches and were supposed to be someplace in the Serra Madra Mountain in Old Mexico.
Later a band of Geronimo's squaws, children, and old men, with a handful of warriors, were trying to escape from the reservation to join the main band in Mexico. Most of the women and children were on foot until they raided York's ranch, and come on to Maddison's ranch (at Duncan.)
They raided a ranch house near the Maddison's. The family were at Maddison's at the time of the raid, and probably escaped being scalped; they watched their home go up in flames and seen the Indians rip open the feather beds and the feathers sailed into the air like a cloud of birds on the wing.
The Indians took all the stock in the Maddison's corral -- the Maddison menfolks and most all the other men in the community were away at the time. Then they went on to a cabin in the mouth of the canyon where the Mexican school of Duncan now stands, and murdered a woman and two small children, and burned the cabin -- I think the woman's name was Moor. The mother and her two babies are buried there in the canyon -- their graves are still there.
A posse of ranchers and settlers from the Gila district were soon on the trail of the Indians. I joined that posse. I don't remember all the names of those men, but some of them were Col. John Parks, Jim Parks, (James V. Parks, who later became sheriff of Greenlee County), John Epply, Sherman Stewart, John Adams, Mr. Moore, Mr. York, Buck Tyson, Ike Williamson, Alex Martin, Tom Levi, Purdy, Newcomb, and Bachelder -- the others I don't recall.
We chased the Indians over into Doubtful Canyon, where we captured the Apache baby that had been talked about so much. Doubtful Adams. I picked up the baby myself, after it's mother had lost it off her back when her mount began to pitch -- while we were shooting at her. She didn't have time to retrieve the baby, her mount wouldn't stop, she went on without it.
Buck Tyson and me took turns carrying that squallin' papoose back to Duncan settlement. Some of the boys suggested pinchin' it's head off and leavin' it for crow 'n coyote bait, but I had an idea that we might trade it to the Apaches for the McCommos children. That didn't work. We were told that the McCommos children had been slain over in the Serra Madras. Some doubt to this day that the McCommos children were ever slain, but they have never been heard of since they were taken by Nana's band.
John Adams adopted the Apache papoose and named him Doubtful Adams. He turned out to be a son of old Chief Nana. He was educated and brought up as a white child. He is still living and is a prosperous sheep rancher, so I hear, some place over in Ari api Canyon.
I was helpin' build the first irrigation ditch on the Gila -- along in the 90's. I had finished work for the day and was lying on my bunk reading when all of a sudden the bed began to rock and roll, dishes rattled, and the windows began to act like dance hall gals on a spree.
I looked under the bed, thinking my old hound dog must be having one helluva fit, he wasn't even under there; I ran to the door and looked out. The Mexican ditch diggers were all down on their knees prayin' and crossin' themselves, "Santa Maria! Santa Maria!" Then I noticed the wheat field nearby, it was waiving and rolling like the waives of the ocean.
That was the first earthquake I had ever felt. I didn't know what it was at first, of course. When I did realize what it was I was more scared than the Mexicans. I was too scared to pray, or swear either. My insides seemed to double up and I began to vomit. It took my hair three days to lay down again!
No property damage was done in the valley that I know of, but there were several long cracks in the earth over on the mesa South of Duncan. One of these cracks is still there and it has grown considerably from the shakes from time to time.
It wouldn't surprise me none if the town of Duncan should split wide open one of these days, or be swallowed up by mother earth. There are plenty evidences of volcanic eruptions all through Graham and Greenlee Counties, but such eruptions must have been in some prehistoric age. Anyway I don't like earthquakes.
I didn't grown any more after I left Texas. Indians, outlaws, and earthquakes kept me scared until it stunted my growth. I am only six foot two and one half, and only weigh 190 pounds, and am only 76 years young now -- I don't allow I will ever grow any more.
I have had only one wife -- no other woman would ever have had me. Only three children, two sons and one daughters comprise my off-springs -- I couldn't have supported any more than that. But I am glad of having lived this long, and live for the pure joy of living now. I have my ranch and my cattle. I don't have to work in my declining years, and don't have to ask for an old age pension -- not yet.
The End