Chris Enss's Blog - Posts Tagged "oklahoma"
A Killing in Tahlequah
Enter to win a copy of the award winning book
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
Although his exploits on the job were as courageous as Wild Bill Hickok or Wyatt Earp, the name of Sam Sixkiller is scarcely recognized today. The criminal class that invaded the Indian Nation in the region now known as Oklahoma from 1870 to 1886 had to contend with an Indian police force known as the Lighthorsemen, of which Sam Sixkiller was a member. His ability to fearlessly handle horse thieves, bootleggers, murderers, and rapists that perpetrated such illegal acts on Indian land earned him the respect of his people and fellow officers.
As High Sheriff in Tahlequah, the capitol of the Cherokee Nation, Sixkiller apprehended white lawbreakers selling rot-gut whiskey to Indians and squared off against hostile mixed-bloods like “Badman Dick Glass.” Glass had a reputation that rivaled Jesse James; some said he was even more ruthless. The sheriff wasn’t intimidated by the outlaw and did what was needed to bring him in. Sam Sixkiller not only arrested outlaws and placed them in jail, but also served as the warden of the very facility that housed the lawbreakers.
From Tahlequah, Sixkiller moved on to Muskogee, in present-day Oklahoma where he was promoted to Captain of the Lighthorsemen and helped to bring peace to the volatile area. When the railroads sliced through the landscape, Captain Sixkiller was named a special agent to the rail lines, thwarting attempted robberies and staying off whiskey peddlers hoping to transport their goods across the region. Isaac Parker, the famous 12th Judicial Circuit Judge that held court at Fort Smith, Arkansas from 1868 to 1898, was so impressed with Captain Sixkiller’s tenacity and dedication to law and order he recommended the officer be given a commission as a United States Deputy Marshal. These additional responsibilities further exposed the lawman to some of society’s most dangerous characters.
A legal altercation between Sixkiller and a pair of violent repeat offenders named Richard Vann and Alf Cunningham sparked a vendetta that led to the lawman’s death. Off duty and unarmed, Sixkiller was ambushed and killed by the criminals on Christmas Eve in 1886.
The death of Captain Sixkiller exposed a serious void in the federal law as it pertained to those who murdered Native American U.S. Deputy Marshals. There was nothing on the books that made it a federal offense to kill an Indian officer. Although legislation to correct this heinous oversight eventually passed, it came too late to affect the cowards that robbed Sixkiller of his life.
Sam Sixkiller died a martyr to the cause of law and order. His story is not only about his life and untimely demise, but also about the everyday life of a frontier lawman and the duties he performed, from the mundane to the perilous.
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
Although his exploits on the job were as courageous as Wild Bill Hickok or Wyatt Earp, the name of Sam Sixkiller is scarcely recognized today. The criminal class that invaded the Indian Nation in the region now known as Oklahoma from 1870 to 1886 had to contend with an Indian police force known as the Lighthorsemen, of which Sam Sixkiller was a member. His ability to fearlessly handle horse thieves, bootleggers, murderers, and rapists that perpetrated such illegal acts on Indian land earned him the respect of his people and fellow officers.
As High Sheriff in Tahlequah, the capitol of the Cherokee Nation, Sixkiller apprehended white lawbreakers selling rot-gut whiskey to Indians and squared off against hostile mixed-bloods like “Badman Dick Glass.” Glass had a reputation that rivaled Jesse James; some said he was even more ruthless. The sheriff wasn’t intimidated by the outlaw and did what was needed to bring him in. Sam Sixkiller not only arrested outlaws and placed them in jail, but also served as the warden of the very facility that housed the lawbreakers.
From Tahlequah, Sixkiller moved on to Muskogee, in present-day Oklahoma where he was promoted to Captain of the Lighthorsemen and helped to bring peace to the volatile area. When the railroads sliced through the landscape, Captain Sixkiller was named a special agent to the rail lines, thwarting attempted robberies and staying off whiskey peddlers hoping to transport their goods across the region. Isaac Parker, the famous 12th Judicial Circuit Judge that held court at Fort Smith, Arkansas from 1868 to 1898, was so impressed with Captain Sixkiller’s tenacity and dedication to law and order he recommended the officer be given a commission as a United States Deputy Marshal. These additional responsibilities further exposed the lawman to some of society’s most dangerous characters.
A legal altercation between Sixkiller and a pair of violent repeat offenders named Richard Vann and Alf Cunningham sparked a vendetta that led to the lawman’s death. Off duty and unarmed, Sixkiller was ambushed and killed by the criminals on Christmas Eve in 1886.
The death of Captain Sixkiller exposed a serious void in the federal law as it pertained to those who murdered Native American U.S. Deputy Marshals. There was nothing on the books that made it a federal offense to kill an Indian officer. Although legislation to correct this heinous oversight eventually passed, it came too late to affect the cowards that robbed Sixkiller of his life.
Sam Sixkiller died a martyr to the cause of law and order. His story is not only about his life and untimely demise, but also about the everyday life of a frontier lawman and the duties he performed, from the mundane to the perilous.
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
Defending a Nation
Enter to win a copy of the award winning book
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
A springboard wagon topped a ridge surrounded by a grove of ancient juniper trees seven miles outside Muskogee. The wagon was weighted down with several heavy crates and made little sound. The contents inside the crates slouched as the vehicle slogged through the rain-soaked turf. The soft ground muffled the hardworking wheels and the horse’s hooves. Solomon Coppell, an unshaved man dressed in a dirty, fawn-tan suit with a long-tailed coat, drove the wagon over a crude trail cut deep in mud and dirt. His roving button eyes scanned the scene in front of him, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Just beyond Solomon’s line of sight, tucked behind a thicket of brush, Captain Sam Sixkiller sat on his horse watching him.1 Sweat rolled down the lawman’s face as the sun in late spring of 1883, riding up into a leaden sky, empty and cloudless, and touched the captain with a sticky heat. Solomon was uncomfortable too. He pulled off the flat-brimmed $50 hat on his head and backhanded a bead of perspiration off his hairline. He then put his hat back on as he continued along his way. The captain waited for just the right moment and then in one fast, flawless movement spurred his horse onto the trail directly in front of Solomon’s team.
A stunned Solomon quickly jerked back on the reins of the animals and brought the skittish horses to a stop. “Hold it, Coppell!” Captain Sixkiller announced in a sober, stern voice. “You’re under arrest.” Solomon glanced at the cargo he was hauling and back to the captain. The lawman was alone and the bootlegger was confident he could survive a confrontation with his wagon load intact. Solomon stared at the captain for a moment shaking his head. “I got a tip you were bringing booze into the Nation,” the captain informed him. Solomon didn’t reply and showed no signs of cooperating “Surrender, Coppell,” Captain Sixkiller warned him again. “Throw your guns out in the road.” The captain was empty-handed, his leg gun still resting in a holster on his thigh. Coppell made a grab for the shotgun on the wagon seat.2 The captain’s hand whipped forward in a short, small arc. There was no strain. He saw Coppell’s face, distorted and desperate. His gun kicked back against his wrist. One shot. He saw Coppell’s body jerk. Captain Sixkiller’s gun exploded before it cleared his coat. He saw the flame of the shot lick through the fabric and curl to form a smoldering ring. Coppell swayed and fell into the trace chains and wagon tongue. The team reared and snorted and pawed at the air. The captain calmed the horses and kept them from running away.3
Most Muskogee residences agreed that Captain Sixkiller was an effective policeman, quick to enforce the laws regarding the buying and selling of alcohol. Some thought the rules should be relaxed. Cherokee Indian business owners believed they should have the right to purchase liquor to be sold to white railroad workers and settlers passing through. Indian leaders maintained such measures would lead to an increase in violence on the Nation and insisted that troublemakers who peddled whiskey were to be stopped.4
Although Captain Sixkiller was never accused of being too harsh on those who violated the law, there were Indians like former chief of the Cherokee Nation, Lewis Downing and Indian agents like John B. Jones who thought that the United States marshal and his deputies went too far in upholding the law. “Some deputy marshals make forcible arrests,” Chief Downing told Indian agent Jones in a letter, “without regard to circumstances or the facts of the case, and without any of the forms of law.”5 Smugglers occasionally planted whiskey on innocent people making their way across the Nation. If they were stopped by Captain Sixkiller or his deputies and alcohol was found in their possession they were arrested and taken immediately to Fort Smith, Arkansas, to be prosecuted. Chief Downing strenuously objected to the captain’s rush to judgment and believed in those instances such individuals should be given the benefit of the doubt.6
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman.
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
A springboard wagon topped a ridge surrounded by a grove of ancient juniper trees seven miles outside Muskogee. The wagon was weighted down with several heavy crates and made little sound. The contents inside the crates slouched as the vehicle slogged through the rain-soaked turf. The soft ground muffled the hardworking wheels and the horse’s hooves. Solomon Coppell, an unshaved man dressed in a dirty, fawn-tan suit with a long-tailed coat, drove the wagon over a crude trail cut deep in mud and dirt. His roving button eyes scanned the scene in front of him, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Just beyond Solomon’s line of sight, tucked behind a thicket of brush, Captain Sam Sixkiller sat on his horse watching him.1 Sweat rolled down the lawman’s face as the sun in late spring of 1883, riding up into a leaden sky, empty and cloudless, and touched the captain with a sticky heat. Solomon was uncomfortable too. He pulled off the flat-brimmed $50 hat on his head and backhanded a bead of perspiration off his hairline. He then put his hat back on as he continued along his way. The captain waited for just the right moment and then in one fast, flawless movement spurred his horse onto the trail directly in front of Solomon’s team.
A stunned Solomon quickly jerked back on the reins of the animals and brought the skittish horses to a stop. “Hold it, Coppell!” Captain Sixkiller announced in a sober, stern voice. “You’re under arrest.” Solomon glanced at the cargo he was hauling and back to the captain. The lawman was alone and the bootlegger was confident he could survive a confrontation with his wagon load intact. Solomon stared at the captain for a moment shaking his head. “I got a tip you were bringing booze into the Nation,” the captain informed him. Solomon didn’t reply and showed no signs of cooperating “Surrender, Coppell,” Captain Sixkiller warned him again. “Throw your guns out in the road.” The captain was empty-handed, his leg gun still resting in a holster on his thigh. Coppell made a grab for the shotgun on the wagon seat.2 The captain’s hand whipped forward in a short, small arc. There was no strain. He saw Coppell’s face, distorted and desperate. His gun kicked back against his wrist. One shot. He saw Coppell’s body jerk. Captain Sixkiller’s gun exploded before it cleared his coat. He saw the flame of the shot lick through the fabric and curl to form a smoldering ring. Coppell swayed and fell into the trace chains and wagon tongue. The team reared and snorted and pawed at the air. The captain calmed the horses and kept them from running away.3
Most Muskogee residences agreed that Captain Sixkiller was an effective policeman, quick to enforce the laws regarding the buying and selling of alcohol. Some thought the rules should be relaxed. Cherokee Indian business owners believed they should have the right to purchase liquor to be sold to white railroad workers and settlers passing through. Indian leaders maintained such measures would lead to an increase in violence on the Nation and insisted that troublemakers who peddled whiskey were to be stopped.4
Although Captain Sixkiller was never accused of being too harsh on those who violated the law, there were Indians like former chief of the Cherokee Nation, Lewis Downing and Indian agents like John B. Jones who thought that the United States marshal and his deputies went too far in upholding the law. “Some deputy marshals make forcible arrests,” Chief Downing told Indian agent Jones in a letter, “without regard to circumstances or the facts of the case, and without any of the forms of law.”5 Smugglers occasionally planted whiskey on innocent people making their way across the Nation. If they were stopped by Captain Sixkiller or his deputies and alcohol was found in their possession they were arrested and taken immediately to Fort Smith, Arkansas, to be prosecuted. Chief Downing strenuously objected to the captain’s rush to judgment and believed in those instances such individuals should be given the benefit of the doubt.6
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
Winning Ma Barker
Latasha Sandoval is the winner of the Ma Barker giveaway! She’ll receive a copy of the new book Ma Barker: America’s Most Wanted Mother, a gift basket filled with goodies that would make Ma Barker proud, and a two-night stay in one of Ma’s favorite getaway cities, Reno, Nevada.
Another Ma Barker giveaway will be take place in October. Stay tuned.
Visit www.chrisenss.com for more information and to register for the next giveaway!
Another Ma Barker giveaway will be take place in October. Stay tuned.
Visit www.chrisenss.com for more information and to register for the next giveaway!
Unsettling and Ruthless
It’s the scariest giveaway ever.
Enter now to win a copy of the new book
Ma Barker: America’s Most Wanted Mother.
Everything Ma Barker’s fugitive sons grew up to be they
owed to their mother.
Kate Barker wanted the nice things of life: the lovely home, the fine clothes, and lots of money in the bank. She ended up with a police slug in her heart and $10,200 in her wallet.
According to the FBI records Kate Barker was an overbearing mother who somehow lost her way on the path of motherly love. In attempting to guide, she misguided. In trying to spread affection, she nurtured hate. In her attempts to fulfill a warped sense of motherly duty, she literally loved her sons to death. Ma Barker was a woman who saw crime as a means to an end, but who never counted on things ending like they did.
To learn more about Ma Barker and her boys read
Ma Barker: America’s Most Wanted Mother.
Enter now to win a copy of the new book
Ma Barker: America’s Most Wanted Mother.
Everything Ma Barker’s fugitive sons grew up to be they
owed to their mother.
Kate Barker wanted the nice things of life: the lovely home, the fine clothes, and lots of money in the bank. She ended up with a police slug in her heart and $10,200 in her wallet.
According to the FBI records Kate Barker was an overbearing mother who somehow lost her way on the path of motherly love. In attempting to guide, she misguided. In trying to spread affection, she nurtured hate. In her attempts to fulfill a warped sense of motherly duty, she literally loved her sons to death. Ma Barker was a woman who saw crime as a means to an end, but who never counted on things ending like they did.
To learn more about Ma Barker and her boys read
Ma Barker: America’s Most Wanted Mother.
