TEX RICKARD TELLS STORY OF HIS LIFE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18730, 9 April 1929, Page 14

TEX RICKARD TELLS STORY OF HIS LIFE.

Notorious Outlaw Betrayed By Member Of The Gang.

HANGING OF TWO MEN FOR ROBBERY CURED MANY PERSONS OF CRIMINAL IDEAS.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY of Tex Rickard, millionaire, the world-famous boxing promoter and sportsman, who died a few weeks ago, presents a rich and romantic chronicle of hardship and adventure, of adversity, daring and success.

This Is ths only autobiography written by Tex Rickard. It was prepared In collaboration with Bozeman Bulger for publication exclusively by the “ Star ” and the North American Newspaper Alliance. Shortly before Rickard’s death he discussed with Bulger plans for publication of these memoirs in book form. Following is the third instalment of the autobiography, which is appearing in daily chapters. By TEX RICKARD. (In collaboration with Bozeman Bulger.) There was a constantly discussed report in our section that Jesse James had never taken of! his gun-belt since he first joined the guerillas under Quantrell. He had even learned to sleep, it was said, so that if awakened in the night his hand would be on the grip of his gun as his eyes opened. That belt meant more to me than John L. Sullivan’s would have. It is needless to say that we little boys regarded Jesse James as a great hero. I guess most boys did. I had a big advantage, though, in that I played with Bob Palmer, the little son of Mrs Allen Palmer, the sister of Jesse and Frank James. Our yards were just across the street from each other. Little Bob had assured me that the report of his uncle never taking off his belt was correct. He had peeped through the keyhole to watch him go to bed.

On one occasion, we were told (and we believed), a man found Jesse’s hiding place and sneaked up to the door, which he found unlocked. A ray or moonlight flashed on the blue steel of his gun as he drew it to shoot the outlaw sleeping. Before he could pull the trigger, there was a flash from Jesse’s bed. The first bullet shot the gun from the man’s hand, and the next went through his heart. In ten minutes Jesse and his gang were riding to another town.

The virtues of Jesse James were openly extolled in our town. There was much sympathy for him, many people believing that he had been wronged and forced into his banditry. He made a point of never raiding in Texas. When he stopped at a farmhouse or ranch, he always gave the woman a twenty-dollar gold piece, and paid well for everything he got. Those people would not only hide him, but would try to throw the sheriff’s posse off the trail.

I remember his virtues being pointed out once in a gang of cattle men. Like all little boys, I listened. The James gang had just held up and robbed a train. In going through the passenger coach, one of the bandits had found a jug of com whisky. He called the attention of the others to it, yelping with glee. “Drop that!” ordered Jesse, the leader.

With that he fired a .44 bullet through the jug, shattering it and scattering whisky all over the place. The

business of holding up the frightened passengers then proceeded, the fumes of whisky filling the car. “ If you want to drink, do it when I tell you," Jesse told the man, “ but never let a drop of whisky pass your lips during business hours!" That story went the rounds, the idea being to impress upon people how Jesse James was pointing out the evils of drinking. As I have said, my eyes were riveted on his belt that night. Yes, there it was, even while he kissed his sister. Had his Hands up. The first time Jesse James removed that belt he was killed. With several of the gang, including Bob Ford, he had gone to his other sister’s home in Missouri. Feeling particularly good, Jesse had offered to help his sister fix up the house. They were all in the diningroom, Bob Ford sitting at the table. A picture on the wall was not right. “ Wait till I straighten it," said Jesse. The outlaw’ got on a chair to hang the picture. lie found his belt in the way. Forgetting for once, he undid the buckle and laid the belt, with the pistols in it, on the table. Then he reached up with both hands to hang the picture. It was the first time anybody had ever seen Jesse James with his hands up. Bob Ford caught the idea in a flash. Reaching for Jesse’s belt, he pulled one of the six-shooters and shot his leader dead.

A big rew’ard had been offered for Jesse James, dead or alive. Ford thought of that reward. Though he had rid the country of its most dangerous outlaw, nobody ever spoke of his cowardly deed except with scorn. Jesse James, you know, lived as a citizen under the name of Howard. In those days every child sang a song that rail like this:— “ The dirty little coward That shof Mister Howrard And laid poor Jesse in his grave." As I grew up into a man, the deeds of the James gang were still discussed. The evil effect of their' adventurous deeds was to lead many young men into a wrong way of thinking. For a long time—ten years or more—there was a spell of train-robbing and other outlawry. I had a job of line riding for a big ranch. That means it was my duty to ride along the border of a ranch and see that the cattle kept their own range. Another cowboy, Crawford Foster, ■ worked with me. He rode from one end and I from the other. We would meet at night and camp together. Rarely did a night pass but Foster would beg me to go into a scheme with him to rob a bank. lie had his hold-up all planned, and would point out very carefully how it could be worked out. Luckily I had enough sense not to be influenced. At that his talk was allurling. So strong did that idea stay in Foster’s mind that he finally got another young cowboy in with him, and

they actually did rob the bank at Wichita Falls, shooting the cashier. They were both caught ajad hanged to a pole directly in front of the bank they had robbed. Those dangling figures cured a lot of outlaw ideas then’ cropping up in youngsters. Cowboy Outlaws. A little later on I intend to relate an incident of the famous drive we made in taking a herd all the way from Texas to Montana for grazing. At this moment, though, it recalls another bit of train-robbing. In our outfit there were three young cowboys—Billy Newberry, Matt Shaw and Newt Gibson. Occasionally in camp the}' would sit about and discuss the advantage of train robbery and of organising another gang like that of Jesse James. Again I was wise enough to listen but keep my own counsel. The rfest of us thought it all talk, and forgot it when we finally brought the herd into Montana.

A little later I was sent on to Kansas City and Chicago with the cattle train, and then given a pass back to Texas. While I was gone, those boys actually did organise an outlaw band. They held up a Northern Pacific train and robbed the express messenger of 60,000 dollars in gold. They did not kill anybody, which was lucky for them.

In the pursuit that followed, Billy Newberry got all the way back to Texas, and gave his share of gold to his mother before they caught him. She in turn gave it back to the express company, and Billy was pardoned. Matt Shaw, after getting to Idaho, was caught and taken on a train, handcuffed and shackled. In the middle of the night, he jumped out of the train and escaped. Fearing to speak to anybody or seek help, he managed to cut the chain between his hands on a rock, and went all the way back home with the iron bands still on him. His people also found the money and returned it. These boys did not know what to do with their gold. When Gibson was caught, the family also found his pile. All of it was turned back, the express company recovering the entire 60,000 dollars. The restitution was considered so complete that not one of those boys ever had to serve a sentence.

They turned bandit, but they were the sort of lads who could be as kind to a calf as a young girl to a kitten. No chapter of a cattle drive would be complete without the story of Sitting Bull, the calf. Cattlemen's Pet. In relating the incidents of those ! hard boyhood days among the cattlemen and the tragedies that must have influenced my later life to a certain extent, I do not want to give the impression that we were devoid of tenderness. Quite the contrary. At the age of sixteen 1 was employed to go with a herd of cattle all the way to Montana. Look at a map and you may realise just what that meant. The cattlemen, always seeking a market, had found that by driving a herd of longhorns to Montana and grazing them there for a few months they would gain from fifty to sixty pounds a steer. They could then be shipped to Kansas City and sold at real proifit - I One night we had camped to let the herd bed down for the night. I was sent out to scout around the edge of the herd and see that everything was all right. On this ride I ran across a little calf, born during the day, that had lost its mother. The little fellow was so weak and hungry I knew it would die if left alone. To find its mother in a herd of five thousand was impossible. Besides, the calf could not have kept up with the moving herd when we started out next morning. I picked the calf up, threw him

over my shoulder and carried him into the camp. The cowboys all gathered around, offering many forms of advice. We had no condensed milk. ‘‘Wait a minute,” one of the cowboys suggested. “Come with me. So we went out through the herd at night until we found a cow. We roped her and carried her to the camp. There we tied her legs, everybody taking a hand, and made her let the calf have his supper. The next day we put the calf in the chuck waggon and carried it all day. At night we caught another cow and went through the forcible feeding. By this time every roughneck cowboy was a foster wet-nurse for that calf ! I never knew why, but that calf’s name got to be “Sitting Bull." Never a night came but the cowboys, riding in, would inquire about the welfare of Sitting Bull. They got to be rivals over who would superintend the feeding. Some day we would let Sitting Bull walk until tired, and would then take him in the waggon.

Upon our arrival in Montana we kept Sitting Bull until he was a goodsized little bull. He would never go with the herd. So with great care we found a woman who would give a calf a good home. A Town Marshal. When I went back to Henrietta I was elected town marshal. That was a mighty interesting job, but not altogether one that brought in great wealth. The marshals were not paid salaries, but had to depend upon fees for their livelihood. We got two dollars and a half for each arrest. Business, naturally, was pretty good on Saturday nights. Do not get the impression, though, that we arrested men just for the fun of it; that we could take advantage of a man being in his cups just to get a fee. When you arrested a man in those days he understood that you meant it. We understood it, too. The greater part of my fees came from impounding stray hogs. We had a law that when a man’s hogs were put in ,pound he had to pay one dollar each to have them released. That fine went to me. I had a valued assistant in a lad named J. Fred Eppler, later a business man in Philadelphia. At that time he was a telegraph messenger boy. He had a keen eye for hogs. Every time he located a stray one and penned it up I would allow him a fifteen cent commission, sometimes a quarter. We made just one very serious mistake.

“Say, Chief,” the boy came running to tell me one day, “I have just found a sow that is loose, and I think I can catch her.”

“Get her in, then,” I directed, seeing a dollar fee for me. Fred saw a quarter for himself. When he returned to his job that afternon the sow had given birth to fourteen pigs. Here was luck! Each pig would also bring in a dollar. Eppler got the sow’ and pigs locked up, and we began to look around to notify the owner. While doing so Sheriff Cooper Wright came in my marshal’s office. “Tex,” he said in that drawl, so feared by criminals, “what the devil do you think you are doing? That boy tells me he has got my old sow in pound.” “She has got fourteen pigs by now,” I informed him. “What! Me pay fifteen dollars? Where is that boy?" The sheriff walked right down with a switch in his hand for the boy, and with a kick opened the gate and drove that sow and pigs heme. You can bet that is one fee we never collected. (Next.—Alaska and 60.000 Dollars in Gold Dust.)

(Copyright 1929 by the “Star" and the N.A.N.A.)