Dee Cook

FOLKLORE

William V. Ervin, P. W.

McLennan County, Texas

District No. 8. - Life H[story?]

No. of words 3,5000

File No. 240

Page No. 1 Reference

Interview with - [Dee?] Cook, 629 South Fifth Street, Waco, Texas. Deputy under 
Ex-Governor Sul Ross.

"I was born in May, 1848, near Boydsville, in Graves County, Kentucky, about 
five miles from the Tennessee line. Later my father had a place in the line. 
The house was in Tennessee and the barn in Kentucky. There were a number of 
places like that. One man built a house across the line, and had a store in one 
end while he lived in the other. When the Kentucky tax assessor would come 
around, the man would be in the Tennessee end of his house, and when the tax 
assessor for the Tennessee county, would come around, he would be in the 
Kentucky end. At last, the two tax assessors got together and arranged to go to 
the house at the same time, coming to it each from his county end, and that way 
they caught the fellow.

"I served in the Confederate army. I came to Texas, the first time, in 1868, 
with my aunt. We started travelling by wagon, in October, and got to Texas in 
November. I went to Cook's Ferry on the Trinity River, near Palestine, Texas, 
but there was not much there in the way of a town, just a few log houses. A 
cousin of mine ran the ferry. At times, you could stop across the Trinity 
there, but my cousin told me he had seen a woman's hat knocked off by the limb 
of a tree as the ferry-boat went under it. The limb of the tree was forty or 
fifty feet from the round, and the river would rise that high. Once I saw it on 
a rise like that, while I was there, and I stood up in the boat and took hold 
of the limb. You wouldn't think to look at the river, when it was down that it 
would ever get that high.

"I got down with chills and fever, and told them I was not doing any good 
there, so I went back to Kentucky with my aunt. I came to Texas again in 1870. 
I had not got over the chills and fever, and I was in bed health. C12 - 
[2/11/41 - Texas?]

I came on the railroad to New Orleans, and from there went on a steamboat, 
called the Texas, up Red River to Shreveport. Then, I came from Shreveport over 
the Texas and Pacific railroad to Hallsville, which was as far as the railroad 
went at that time. I took the stage from there to Dallas, and intended to go to 
Hillsboro, but I got so sick the stage driver[md;]he was a clever fellow put me 
in a hotel at a little town about sixteen miles this side of Dallas. A cousin 
of mine was with me. I was nearly dead, it seemed to me. The man who ran the 
hotel, which was a big double log house with an open passage between the rooms, 
came to me and asked me if I hadn't been in New Orleans. I said, "yes". He 
said, "Now, young man, I want you to tell me the truth about yourself. My other 
place that I left when I came over here is a good house, and I can put you over 
there till you are able to go on. There is yellow fever at New Orleans. Do you 
think you've got it?" I says, "There was yellow fever there, but I didn't see 
any of it. All that's the matter with me is that I've got a chronic case of 
chills and fever." He took care of me five days, until I was able to leave, and 
didn't charge me a cent, and was as good to me as he could be. That's the kind 
of people there were in those days. They wouldn't [se?] anybody suffer or go 
hungry if they could help it. I went on to Hillsboro and then over here by 
stage.

"I freighted to [Bremond?]. I had six yoke of oxen. There were two roads 
between here and [Bremond?], and as long as you were in the right road you were 
all right, but if you got in the wrong one and [met?] somebody you had to get 
out of the road and let him by. It was a pretty good job to get an Ox-wagon out 
of the road as the ruts were deep. One trip, coming back from [Bremond?], I met 
a fellow with a mule-team and wagon. We stopped right up against each other. He 
told me to get out of the road, but I was in the right track. I told him, no, I 
wouldn't get out, that he was in the wrong track and he was the man to get out. 
He said, "No, I won't get out. I'll stay here till you do." I told him, "All 
right. I can stay here as long as you can. I can unhook my oxen and turn them 
out to graze. It'll probably cost you more to keep your mules here than it will 
me for my oxen." We were both good-natured about it. He was trying to bluff me, 
as he knew I was right. We stayed there for a while, and then he pulled out of 
the way and let me by.

"A man by the name of Garrison wanted me, and the man who was freighting with 
me, to freight to Fort Griffin, which was then in Indian country. Garrison was 
hauling Government supplies out there. It was about two hundred miles out 
there. The Indians didn't bother us, and we didn't see any, but we got a scare 
once. We thought we heard them in some post-oaks, and Garrison, who was ahead 
of us came back and said, "Boys, it's Indians. We'd better stop and get ready 
to fight them off." But it wasn't Indians. It was some hog-hunters.

"I was working for a man named Love, when an old negro who had about two 
thousand acres near Love's place and was well-to-do, had three oxen stolen from 
him. He told me that if I would follow the thieves and try to get the cattle 
back he would pay me two dollars a day and all my expenses and furnish me a 
horse. Well, I was a young fellow working by the day, and his offer appealed to 
me, so I took it. I got track of the thieves and followed them to [Bolton?], 
where I overtook them. They had three oxen of their own, and had one of the 
negroes oxen yoked with each of theirs. One of them was a fellow named [Kli?] 
McGuire and the other three were named [Patterson?]. I told the sheriff about 
them. They had stopped there at [Bolton?], and McGuire was on his horse talking 
to his mother. The sheriff didn't have his gun on, and he asked me to let him 
have mine. I let him have it, and we went over where McGuire was. The Sheriff 
said, "You're under arrest for stealing cattle." McGuire asked, "Who do you 
mean?" The sheriff replied, "You". The fellow whirled his horse and went out of 
town as fast as he could. The sheriff said to me, "You take this gun and go get 
him." I said, "I'll be damned if I will. You are the sheriff of this county, 
and it's you place to go after him." Later the sheriff asked the district judge 
what he should have done when McGuire ran away from him. The judge said, "I'm 
not saying what you ought to have done, but if it had been me I'd have shot 
him."

"I started as deputy sheriff under Sul Ross in 1874, and served ten years 
straight under four sheriffs, the three others were Pete Ross, Bill Harris and 
Dan Ford. I served four years as constable, and was on the [Waco?] Police force 
sixteen years, altogether, about thirty years. But it was not thirty years 
straight, because I went to farming a couple of times.

"Sul and Pete Ross were brothers, but they were entirely different. Sul was 
impetous and wanted [a?] thing done right now. If he wanted a man brought in, 
he would say to get him dead or alive. Pete Ross was the other way. He had to 
be sure of what he was doing before he would go ahead, and when he sent a 
deputy out to get a man he would say not to shoot unless it was necessary. Sul 
and Pete Ross were both fine men. Sul helped write the state constitution. He 
was a smart man, and was always the same whenever you saw him. He never put on 
airs. He knew everybody, and after he was governor, when he was in Waco, if he 
saw some farmer, he knew, driving up the street, he would holler, "Hello, 
John," and go out to the farmer's wagon and ask him all about how him and his 
family were getting along. Sul Ross liked to smoke cornshuck cigarettes, and if 
the farmer had a load of corn, Sul would be opening the ear up, while he talked 
to the farmer, to get the kind of shucks he wanted to use in smoking.

"There was lots of cattle and horses stealing going on in those times

It was hard to convict the thieves after they were caught, [as?] they had a 
good many friends and kinfolks who would get on the jury. Before I got to be a 
deputy sheriff there was a bunch of thieves caught, who were in with some big 
cattlemen across the river. The cattlemen sent word to the district attorney, 
who was named Perrea, that if he prosecuted those men they would kill him. When 
court started there were three hundred armed men, and I was one of them, there 
to protect the district attorney and see that court went on. Perrea prosecuted 
the thieves, and their bunch didn't do anything to stop him. He sent them to 
the pen.

"The horse and cattle thieves had their hang [outs?] on [Tehussana?] and 
Trading House creeks. They were not bad about shooting. They had rather get 
away when we got after them. They were hard to catch in the breaks and woods. 
Sometimes we would lead a [posse?] after them and shoot at them some.

"When Dan Ford and I were deputies together, we discovered a horse-stealing 
gang that had headquarters on Trading House Creek, and hideouts at different 
places away out into West Texas. Out there, they had three pastures, a large 
one that covered a good deal of country and, inside that one, a smaller-pasture 
and inside that one, a third one, the smallest one, in which they would put the 
stolen horses. They had the three fences to fool anybody looking for stock, 
because when [he?] [came?] to the second pasture, and didn't find any horses, 
he would give up the chase and turn back. We caught some of the gang when they 
stole some horses from a young man and young woman who were attending a 
[Bohemian?] dance at [Bremond?]. The young wo woman was a relative of a man 
named Davis, who was a member of the state legislature. We found the horses at 
one of their hideouts up north of Waco. We caught a man named Renno, and a 
young fellow by the [name?] of Henry Vaughn. Ford and I worked on Henry to get 
him to tell all he knew about the gang. Ford would be hard on Henry and abuse 
him; didn't hit, him, but would talk to him and I would sympathise with him. We 
had him about to the piont to turn State's evidence and tell all he knew, when 
the district attorney heard of it, and he went over to the jail and told Henry 
he had heard he was going to turn State's evidence. He said, no, he wasn't 
going to do anything of the kind, and so the district attorney spoiled all the 
work Ford and I had done. The district attorney said that Renno had promised to 
tell all he knew on the witness stand, but when he got on the stand he told 
mostly a lot of lies, and could have been convicted for perjury. He had told 
Ford and I about the three pastures and the hideouts over the country. He said 
Joe Thomas was at the head of it, Joe had his place on [Tehuacana?] Creek.

"Pete Ross told me he would have to send me to Joe Thomas' place to get Thomas' 
mother-in-law, and take her to Marlin as a witness, and I thought I was in for 
it, for she was a hell-cat. I got a buggy, and went out to get her. The house 
was way out in the woods and it was a lonesome looking place. The old woman 
flatly refused to come with me. I didn't want to use force with a woman to 
bring her along, so I sent in and did about the best piece of talking I ever 
did in my life, and got her to agree to go. She said, "If I go with you to 
Marlin, will you stay with me while I'm over there and bring me back?" I said, 
"Yes, I will be right with you all the time you are gone and bring you back 
here." She said, "All right, I'll go with you." She said for me to wait, she 
wanted to change her dress. While she was doing that Joe Thomas and two of the 
toughest-looking characters I ever saw came up, heavily armed, Thomas was not 
armed. I thought, "Now I'll have to fight these fellows. Well, I'll do the best 
I can. I can get some of them before they get me." I didn't know who the 
strangers were, but they didn't have a word to say. Thomas put in to get the 
old woman not to go with me as he was afraid of what she might tell in court 
about him and his gang. She told him she was going as she had told me she 
would, and he wanted to know how she would get back. She told him I had 
promised to bring her back. He kept trying to get her not to go, but she got 
ready and we started. As we drove off, with my back to that bunch, I felt my 
hair stand up and cold chills run up and down my back as I didn't know but they 
might shoot me in the back, but they let us go all right. I took her to Waco, 
and saw the sheriff, and he said he would send her to Marlin. I told him, no, 
that I had promised to go with her to Marlin and stay with her whild she was 
there and then take her back home. He told me to go ahead. When they let her go 
at Marlin, I brought her back here, and Joe Thomas came and told me he would 
take her home. I went and told her Thomas said he would take her home, but that 
I would if she wanted me to. she said no, she would go with Thomas. I kept my 
word with her all the way through. If I hadn't some of that gang might have 
shot me.

"One morning, when I got to the office, Pete Ross had a yellow paper in his 
hand, which had been torn from a book, the cotton men used. He handed the paper 
to me, sort of laughed, and said for me to read it. It was from the deputy at 
Moody, way down in the southwest corner of the county, and he said, "Hang 
[Dudley?] Hansford last night. [Aus?] Simms killed Melton. Got [Aus?] Sims' 
hat. If they had got him, they would have hung him. No harm done so far Parker 
Nailer."

"What Parker meant, was that a mob had hung Hansford, who was a cattle and 
horse thief. Aus Simms was a friend of Hansford, and had killed Melton who had 
caused Hansford to get caught. What he meant, too, by "no harm done" was that 
those who got killed, deserved killing.

"There was some fellow, I didn't remember his name, got run out of Lampasas 
County for stealing cattle, and we were sent word to be on the lookout for him. 
Pete Ross told me to look for the fellow, who was a small man. I didn't have my 
gun, so Pete gave me his. It was quick on trigger, but I didn't know it. I knew 
that when cowboys and freighters and such fellows got into town they usually 
went to the saloons, pool halls and tenpin alleys. There was a tenpin alley and 
pool hall then on Austin Street where Chris' Restaurant is now. I went in 
there, and this fellow was there, toward the back of the building. It was after 
night, before I could get to him he jumped through a window into the alley and 
ran to Fifth Street. I jumped out [of?] the window and fell and was nearly 
knocked out. I got up and ran to Fifth and saw him run into Austin. I followed 
him and he ran up Austin to the [Sedwick?] Lumber Company's yard, which 
extended from 5th to 7th Streets. There was a big double gate to the yard which 
was fastened with a chain and would swing inward some. The fellow ran against 
this trying to get through, and it opened and threw him down. As he ran at the 
lumber yard gate, I shot at him, to try to shoot him in two, but I was not 
familiar with the gun and it went off before I had it aimed good, and I missed 
him. I was on him before he could get up and caught him. He says, "You tried to 
shoot me." I said, "No, I wasn't trying to hit you. I was trying to scare you." 
He says, "Seemed to me like you was trying to hit me the way that bullet 
sounded." I said, "No, I wouldn't try to hit you." He said, "I had two dollars 
when I started." I haven't got a cent of it now. I guess I lost it when I hit 
that gate." I took him in. It was late and Ross had gone home. The next morning 
he says, "I heard you shot at a man last night." I said, "Yes, but I missed 
him." He said, "Be careful when you are doing any shooting." It had been Sul, 
he would have said "Why didn't you kill him?"

"We caught a Dutchman with some stolen horses, but he hadn't stolen them. He 
got them from another Dutchman who had stolen them. He was caught at McKinney, 
and I went up there to get him. He was big, powerful man, and I was afraid to 
try to travel with him at night, so I notified the chief of police at Corsicana 
to meet us and help me get him in jail. The chief met me and we put the 
Dutchman in jail, and the next day I brought him to Waco.

I don't know what was done with him.

"When I first [came?] to Waco and before I was on the sheriff force, I saw 
Lawless and Fisher, two outlaws who were around here then. They were fine-
looking young men, well-dressed. You wouldn't think they were thieves and bad 
men to look at them.

"About 1894, Judge Gerald shot and killed two brothers named Harris, who were 
publishers of a Newspaper here. The row started over something Brann published 
in his [?]. The Harrises took it up in their paper and printed some pretty hard 
things about Brann. Judge Gerald wrote an article in defense of Brann, and 
asked the Harrises to publish it, which they said they would. The Harris 
brothers and Judge Gerald were good friends. Judge Gerald lived right across 
the street from J. W. Harris. Judge Gerald was as fine a man as I ever knew. I 
loved him. The Harrises were fine men, too, and well-thought of. Judge Gerald 
was a little man, and one arm was crippled, it was shot when he was in the 
Civil War. "The Harrises didn't print the judge's article, and the judge went 
to their office in the Provident Building and asked Bob Harris why they didn't 
publish it. One word led to another until Harris lost him temper and knocked 
the judge down and kicked him out of the building. The judge said he would kill 
Harris, unless Harris apologized. A mutual friend, though, got Harris to agree 
to apologize, and then went to judge Gerald and asked him if he would accept 
the apology, which was to be published in the Harrises' paper, and the judge 
said he would. J. W. Harris went to Judge Gerald and told him that he would 
take no part in the quarrel between his brother and the judge, that he had 
always been the judges friend and hoped they would continue to be friends. 
Judge Gerald agreed with him, but later he told a friend that J. W. was lying, 
that he knew the Harrises were planning to kill him. They did not publish the 
apology as they were persuaded by their friends not to.

"Judge Gerald got word that the Harrises were waiting for him at the Corner 
Drug Store. He got in his buggy and drove down there. Bob Harris was at the 
drug store and J. W. was across the street. When the Judge drove up and got out 
of his baggy the Harrises started shooting at him. He threw up his bad arm to 
sort of protect his head. He said later that it wasn't much account and they 
couldn't do it much damage. He shot and killed Bob Harris, and then he turned 
and shot J. W. who fell out in the street. Judge Gerald went over to him and 
shot him twice more and killed him, if he wasn't already dead. The judge was 
badly hurt and it was [thought?] he wouldn't live, but he got over it all 
right. Some of us said that if the Harrises had known him like we did they 
would have known better than to fool with him.

"During my thirty years, I had so many narrow escapes from getting killed that 
it gives me the shudders when I think of it. When I get to thinking about it, I 
don't see how I got through it all. I resigned from the police force because my 
[eyesight?] and hearing were [getting?] bad and I didn't think I was competent 
to hold the job. Outside those things my health is pretty good, and I feel 
about as good as I ever did." (July 1937.)

(From WPA Life Histories)
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