WILLIAM (BILLY) FOUR

Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Recorder

I was born in California, but my parents moved to Arizona when I was but one month old. My father had a freight station between Tucson and Yuma, one hundred and ten miles from Yuma. I have two brothers buried there, whose death occurred from measles. There was no doctor nearer than Yuma, and the disease was particularly virulent. But this was one of the hardships faced by all pioneers—the distance from medical help.

We came into what is now Cochise County in 1894, settling on the old 4F west of Dragoon Mountains and north of Tombstone. There were no such towns in those days. Our nearest was Tucson, about eighty miles away. We drove into Tucson for supplies and mail, when there was any. I was a very small boy when we came to the 4F, but I rode a horse in, and I could shoot, too. We drove in a herd of cattle which father had brought from California and with these we started our ranch.

Our place was on the old Butterfield Stage route, which had just been discontinued. However, occasional settlers still followed the old road in. We were also in close proximity to the Apaches, and we lived in continual fear of ambush hanging over our heads. We saw Indians all the time, every day. In ‘84 we saw Indian signal fires at night for over six months without missing a night. These signals were answered from Mexico.

We suffered from continual loss of cattle, horses, and other property through thievery. Indians, Mexicans, rustlers, all took their toll. We were used to that sort of thing and thought little of it. Mother was a true pioneer and could defend her children and her property quite as well as a man. We children early learned to look out for ourselves and our property.

Our first house was made of poles, and a rude enough shelter it was. We had a good stockade, though, which protected the house as well as the corrals. Afterward we built an adobe house, roomy and comfortable, almost luxurious for that time. One of my early memories of the old stockade is an (supposedly) Indian attack. It was just after sundown when a shot was fired from the canyon below at some member of our household who was walking around the stockade. Father grabbed his old rifle and shot down into the canyon. There was a great stirring about and much grunting, in the canyon. I crouched beside Father, holding the powder horn in readiness for his need. He shot several times but there was only one return shot, and as we did not ever hear the whine of the bullet, we concluded that it had not been fired our way, but that some buck had fallen while in flight, shooting off his gun by accident. The Apaches were a cowardly bunch, and never stayed to fight it out with a foe armed and ready.

Soon after we arrived, the whole country began to be settled up. Silver was struck in Tombstone, and soon there was a roaring camp there. Bob Wolfe and Jim Percy settled at Sulphur Spring in that valley, and started the Chiricahua Cattle company. Wolfe sold out his share to another man, and after a few years Percy did likewise; but the three C’s as this cattle company was called, was one of the notable cattle outfits in the valley for years. A fellow named Ross started a sawmill in the Chiricahuas. Lyle and Sanderson settled Soldier Holes, Duval and Taylor brought in cattle. The Erie Cattle Company started up farther toward the border in Sulphur Spring Valley. In a few years the whole of our old “stomping ground” changed from a wilderness untrodden by any but the Apache, to a busy mining and cattle district.

I had to attend school in Tombstone. Father boarded me in a private family. I soon became acquainted with many of the notables there, the Earps, Clanton, McLowery, and other families. I could have a gallop whenever I felt inclined, and have ridden horses belonging to the above, to Curly Bill, John Ringo, Billy Grey, Russian Bill and many another. I earned good money as an errand boy, carrying messages about from person to person, incidentally keeping my mouth shut. I knew who came to town before grown men could always find out, and I knew who would be interested in what arrivals. I used to receive from a dollar to two or three dollars for small errands like taking a note from one person to another.

Doc Holliday had a lady friend “Miss Maude”, the only name I remember. For a time some of my messages consisted of, “Doc said to tell you he’ll be out of town until tomorrow night” or “Doc said he was sorry, but he won’t get to see you for several days”. I had the impression Doc didn’t want to see her too often. Miss Maude was certainly nice to me. One day a man came into the yard of the place where I was staying. He said that he was sent to measure me for a suit of clothes. At Christmas time three suits of custom made clothes came to me from Los Angeles. There were the first suits I ever possessed, given to me from Miss Maude. I was a proud small boy, I can tell you!

There was a Dutch girl going to school there. I have forgotten her first name, but her last was Everhardy. There was a bunch around one night after school, and they got to teasing me about her, saying she was my girl. They kept it up until I was good and mad. About that time Billy Clanton joined the group.

“Cut it out!” he said to a young man who was particularly vociferous. “If you, or anyone else,” he looked around at the group as he spoke, “tease this boy again like that, there’ll be a new face in Hell, pronto!”

No one spoke, and the group soon broke up, but no one ever teased me again.

I have punched cows all through the San Pedro and Sulphur Spring Valley. For some time I was roundup captain in this district. As roundup captain I was often called upon to settle disputes over cattle, brands, and the like. Once one of my best friends got into a dispute over a cow at a roundup. This cow had two brands, and each man claimed her. There were words, and at last it was about to come to shooting. I took a hand.

“Now look here, you fellows,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I can tell you which of the two brands is the older, and if you’ll agree the cow goes to the older brand. If not—well, go on and kill off your fool selves!”

“But can you really tell about the brands?” they queried.

I assured them that I could, and as they agreed to my plan, I had the cow thrown, and looked over the brands carefully. It is easy to distinguish the old brand in a case of that sort, providing there is a year between branding, and I soon saw that the decision would have to go against my friend. It was altogether unpleasant for me, so I called three men whom I knew were experts at that sort of thing, and asked them to examine the brands. Then I gave each a sheet of paper and asked them to draw the brand which was the older, saying nothing. I then took a fourth sheet of paper and drew the brand which I believed to be the older. When the papers were examined, all four brands were the same. My friend said afterward that he and his brother had branded the cow, and at the time had not been able to discover a brand on her. Since she was in their herd, they had assumed she was theirs. No doubt her hair had been long enough to obscure the other and earlier brand. There are plenty of cowmen who are anything but expert at location and reading brands.

I could tell you some hair-raising stories of Indians and outlaws; but I have stopped telling or even thinking of such things. I am an old—a very old man, and I find that after discussing those old happenings I live over them again for several days, dream about them at night, and find myself tense, worn out, and unstrung, and this interferes too much with my work. I still earn a living for my family as cattle inspector and I can’t afford to get myself worked up to a state in which I cannot attend to my job properly. For this reason I have refused everyone who has asked for my most hair-raising experiences, of late years.

Copied from microfilm by Wilola Follett, transcribed by Vynette Sage, made available and maintained on the internet via Jean Walker.

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