Chris Enss's Blog - Posts Tagged "lawmen"
Difficulties with Dick Vann
Last week to enter to win a copy of the award winning book
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
It was a warm September evening in 1886 when the citizens of Muskogee gathered in the center of town to enjoy a concert given by the Muskogee Amateur Italienne Musical Society. Horses and wagons lined the streets. The performers tuned their instruments and greeted crowd members anxious to express their support for them. Excited children chased one another around and families jockeyed for the best positions in front of a crude bandstand. Women huddled together in discussions of their own and comforted the infants with them that were unsettled by the flurry of activity.1
Before the event had officially begun, the sound of rapid gunfire echoed off the buildings that framed the main thoroughfare. The gunshots grew louder and suddenly a pair of horsemen appeared riding pell-mell toward the congregation. People scattered. Running for cover, they disappeared into businesses and homes. The cries of astonishment and fear from the unassuming townspeople had no effect on the two rides. Black Hoyt, a half-blooded Cherokee Captain Sixkiller had previous dealings with, and a white man named Jess Nicholson gouged the spurs on their boots into the sides of their mounts and charged down the street, shooting their weapons at anything that moved.2
The out of control men were drunk and enjoying the chaos derived by their wild behavior. Captain Sixkiller and the police officers that worked with him, including Charles LeFlore, rushed onto the scene brandishing their own guns. The captain shouted at Black and Nicholson to stop, but the men took their time at it. After a few moments waiting for the two rowdies to do as they were told, the Muskogee police force managed to corner the riders. LeFlore ordered them to throw their pistols down, and Captain Sixkiller informed them they were under arrest. Neither of the men complied.3
A tense hush filled the air as Black and Nicholson considered their options. The captain studied the belligerent looks on their darkly flushed features. “Give us your guns now,” he demanded, “before someone gets hurt.” Black shifted in his saddle and rubbed off the sweat standing on his chin with his right shoulder. His arm was missing from the elbow down, and his shirtsleeve was pinned over the remaining portion of the limb. Black had lost his arm in June 1886, after he was shot by an unknown assailant while at Fort Gibson, Oklahoma. A bullet fractured the lower third of the appendage, and amputation was his only chance of recovery. Black and his father objected at first but, after conferring with a second doctor, realized there was no other option. He recovered quickly from the chloroform, and as soon as he could left the post doctor’s office to avoid any further attempts on his life. With Milo’s help, he learned how to ride and shoot holding the reins of his horse and pistol in the same hand.4
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
It was a warm September evening in 1886 when the citizens of Muskogee gathered in the center of town to enjoy a concert given by the Muskogee Amateur Italienne Musical Society. Horses and wagons lined the streets. The performers tuned their instruments and greeted crowd members anxious to express their support for them. Excited children chased one another around and families jockeyed for the best positions in front of a crude bandstand. Women huddled together in discussions of their own and comforted the infants with them that were unsettled by the flurry of activity.1
Before the event had officially begun, the sound of rapid gunfire echoed off the buildings that framed the main thoroughfare. The gunshots grew louder and suddenly a pair of horsemen appeared riding pell-mell toward the congregation. People scattered. Running for cover, they disappeared into businesses and homes. The cries of astonishment and fear from the unassuming townspeople had no effect on the two rides. Black Hoyt, a half-blooded Cherokee Captain Sixkiller had previous dealings with, and a white man named Jess Nicholson gouged the spurs on their boots into the sides of their mounts and charged down the street, shooting their weapons at anything that moved.2
The out of control men were drunk and enjoying the chaos derived by their wild behavior. Captain Sixkiller and the police officers that worked with him, including Charles LeFlore, rushed onto the scene brandishing their own guns. The captain shouted at Black and Nicholson to stop, but the men took their time at it. After a few moments waiting for the two rowdies to do as they were told, the Muskogee police force managed to corner the riders. LeFlore ordered them to throw their pistols down, and Captain Sixkiller informed them they were under arrest. Neither of the men complied.3
A tense hush filled the air as Black and Nicholson considered their options. The captain studied the belligerent looks on their darkly flushed features. “Give us your guns now,” he demanded, “before someone gets hurt.” Black shifted in his saddle and rubbed off the sweat standing on his chin with his right shoulder. His arm was missing from the elbow down, and his shirtsleeve was pinned over the remaining portion of the limb. Black had lost his arm in June 1886, after he was shot by an unknown assailant while at Fort Gibson, Oklahoma. A bullet fractured the lower third of the appendage, and amputation was his only chance of recovery. Black and his father objected at first but, after conferring with a second doctor, realized there was no other option. He recovered quickly from the chloroform, and as soon as he could left the post doctor’s office to avoid any further attempts on his life. With Milo’s help, he learned how to ride and shoot holding the reins of his horse and pistol in the same hand.4
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
Last Chance to Win
Last week to enter to win a copy of the award winning book Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
In the hours leading up to Christmas Day 1886, Muskogee was crowded with trail hands, farmers, drifters, and families. Mothers with their children in hand filtered in and out of the various stores that lined Main Street. Upon exiting the businesses, they would stop to admire the few displays in the windows. Most of the people visiting the mercantile, restaurants, and hotels on December 23 and 24 were primarily interested in horse racing. They hurried back and forth from the two-mile-long stretch of track outside town carrying food, alcohol, and cash. Men laid money out recklessly on long-legged, sleepy-eyed geldings, some with United States Army brandings on their rumps. Spectators stood on either side of the unmarked track anxiously waiting for the races to begin. Horses and riders lined up for the ‘dropped flag’ start. The shouts and cheers from the onlookers nearly drowned out the sound of the animals’ pounding hooves hurrying toward the finishing mark.1
Dick Vann was among the enthusiastic group enjoying the festivities. Whenever the horse he bet on won, he would celebrate with a round of thunderous applause and a long swig from a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Alf Cunningham had had his share of drinks during the event, and he and Dick took turns slapping one another on the backs each time their wager paid off and laughing uproariously at their good fortune.
By early afternoon on Christmas Eve both men were well on their way to getting drunk. They were belligerent with anyone jockeying for a better position to see the races than they had and were not immune from spitting in the face of people who celebrated a win when they had lost. Vann had finished off his bottle of whiskey and persuaded Cunningham to return to a place in town that would sell them more bootleg alcohol. Heavy grey clouds hung over the busy hamlet. A great V-shaped mass of ducks and Canadian geese flying south passed overhead of the two as they walked away from the race track. The whole sky was filled with the soft whir of wings. Cunningham removed a gun tucked inside his coat pocket, pointed it at the birds, and pretended to shoot. Amused with himself, Cunningham laughed at his playful antics. Vann was too distracted by the sight of Tom Kennard, a Creek Lighthorseman to do more than grin.2
Kennard stood in the doorway of the Commercial Hotel surveying the plethora of activity around him. Vann watched the officer carefully, then crossed to the other side of the street to avoid coming in contact with him. Unaware that anything was out of the ordinary at first, Cunningham followed after his brother-in-law. When he spotted Kennard he slowed down. Deciding against continuing on with Vann, he crossed the street to the lawman. Cunningham wore a contemptuous look as he approached Kennard. The bitterness he had for the law grew with magnificent intensity as he drew closer to the Lighthorseman. Kennard, a descendant of black slaves once owned by the Creek Indians, saw Cunningham walking toward him but did not anticipate any trouble.3
Without hesitating, Cunningham jerked his gun out and pointed it at the lawman’s face. He swore angrily at Kennard and threatened to kill him. Neither calm reasoning nor the promise of jail could persuade Cunningham to lower his weapon. A passerby, Mrs. Renfoe (wife of the town butcher), witnessed the exchange and grabbed the pistol. Before Cunningham was able to wrench it free, Kennard drew his own gun. He brought the butt of the weapon down hard on the cursing assailant’s head, and Cunningham collapsed at his feet. Kennard took the gun away from him and left him where he fell.
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
In the hours leading up to Christmas Day 1886, Muskogee was crowded with trail hands, farmers, drifters, and families. Mothers with their children in hand filtered in and out of the various stores that lined Main Street. Upon exiting the businesses, they would stop to admire the few displays in the windows. Most of the people visiting the mercantile, restaurants, and hotels on December 23 and 24 were primarily interested in horse racing. They hurried back and forth from the two-mile-long stretch of track outside town carrying food, alcohol, and cash. Men laid money out recklessly on long-legged, sleepy-eyed geldings, some with United States Army brandings on their rumps. Spectators stood on either side of the unmarked track anxiously waiting for the races to begin. Horses and riders lined up for the ‘dropped flag’ start. The shouts and cheers from the onlookers nearly drowned out the sound of the animals’ pounding hooves hurrying toward the finishing mark.1
Dick Vann was among the enthusiastic group enjoying the festivities. Whenever the horse he bet on won, he would celebrate with a round of thunderous applause and a long swig from a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Alf Cunningham had had his share of drinks during the event, and he and Dick took turns slapping one another on the backs each time their wager paid off and laughing uproariously at their good fortune.
By early afternoon on Christmas Eve both men were well on their way to getting drunk. They were belligerent with anyone jockeying for a better position to see the races than they had and were not immune from spitting in the face of people who celebrated a win when they had lost. Vann had finished off his bottle of whiskey and persuaded Cunningham to return to a place in town that would sell them more bootleg alcohol. Heavy grey clouds hung over the busy hamlet. A great V-shaped mass of ducks and Canadian geese flying south passed overhead of the two as they walked away from the race track. The whole sky was filled with the soft whir of wings. Cunningham removed a gun tucked inside his coat pocket, pointed it at the birds, and pretended to shoot. Amused with himself, Cunningham laughed at his playful antics. Vann was too distracted by the sight of Tom Kennard, a Creek Lighthorseman to do more than grin.2
Kennard stood in the doorway of the Commercial Hotel surveying the plethora of activity around him. Vann watched the officer carefully, then crossed to the other side of the street to avoid coming in contact with him. Unaware that anything was out of the ordinary at first, Cunningham followed after his brother-in-law. When he spotted Kennard he slowed down. Deciding against continuing on with Vann, he crossed the street to the lawman. Cunningham wore a contemptuous look as he approached Kennard. The bitterness he had for the law grew with magnificent intensity as he drew closer to the Lighthorseman. Kennard, a descendant of black slaves once owned by the Creek Indians, saw Cunningham walking toward him but did not anticipate any trouble.3
Without hesitating, Cunningham jerked his gun out and pointed it at the lawman’s face. He swore angrily at Kennard and threatened to kill him. Neither calm reasoning nor the promise of jail could persuade Cunningham to lower his weapon. A passerby, Mrs. Renfoe (wife of the town butcher), witnessed the exchange and grabbed the pistol. Before Cunningham was able to wrench it free, Kennard drew his own gun. He brought the butt of the weapon down hard on the cursing assailant’s head, and Cunningham collapsed at his feet. Kennard took the gun away from him and left him where he fell.
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
