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SAMUEL HAYHURST
Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter


One of my first memories is of outlaws. I was born in Texas, and must have been very small when my mother took me with her to visit friends at some distance from our home. I cannot remember who these people were, nor much of the circumstances. I do recall that Mother sat on a front porch with another woman, while I played in the shade some little distance away. I happened to look up and saw a line of mounted men, heavily armed, riding toward the house. I hot-footed it to my mother, and called her attention to these men. I recall her saying to the other woman, “I know that man riding in front. I haven’t seen him for fifteen years, but I would still know John Wesley Hardin!”

The name meant nothing to me, and I watched the men ride closer. As they came near, all of them raised their hats, but the leader merely set his lower over his face, and so they rode on past the place. Afterward, the man of the house came in, and I overheard him tell Mother that it was Hardin who had ridden past. He had met Hardin farther away, and Hardin had inquired about the woman sitting on the front porch, saying he was almost certain it was a girl he had known years before.

I left Indian Territory in’94. I worked in the Panhandle, for a while, then went to Roswell, New Mexico and worked for the ‘Turkey Track’ outfit. I worked in the Mogollon Mountains for about three months, for the ‘Y’ outfit. Finally I hit the’ Seneca’, and stayed all night with some of the ‘San Simon Cattle Company’ outfit. I met a man there who was afterward a great friend of mine—Albert S. Shropshire--then called Harry Sheppard. He doesn’t remember that meeting, but I do. Afterward I drifted over toward Safford, looking for something I wanted to do. I met a fellow on the road, of whom I inquired concerning work. He told me I might get something to do from a man named Emmet, close to Bisbee. Afterward I learned that this man I had met was Black Jack, a noted outlaw. He was a Cherokee Indian whose real name was Bob Christian. He must not be confused with another man who later called himself ‘Black Jack’, a fellow named Tom Kechum. He merely took the name of this noted outlaw after he was dead, to terrify others he might meet.

Our real ‘Black Jack’ had quite a gang. There was Musgraves, Bob Hayes, another called “Little Bob’, his captain, Code Young, and others. These men were all killed off at different times by officers of the law. Once the gang held up a bank at Nogales and escaped through Skeleton Canyon. The gang killed ‘line rider’ Robinson, one of a posse which followed them. The rest of the posse ran. Later the gang held up a train, and Code Young was killed by a U.S. Marshall named Loomis as a result.
Bob Hayes was killed in an ambushment. Officers learned that Hayes and Black Jack were riding to Deer Creek ranch one night. A posse hid in a dry tank and waited for them. When they were in close rage the posse opened fire. Hayes’ horse was hit, and then Hayes was killed. Black Jack’s horse started to pitch, and the pitching threw Jack’s gun from his pocket. Then the horse fell dead, and Black Jack, who was an excellent rider, stepped from his horse as it fell. He started to draw his gun from his pocket, discovered its loss, and calmly returned to the horse, where he removed the rifle from the carcass. He lay out in the brush that night. He must have known where the ‘Diamond A’ wagon was camped, for he drifted in there early in the morning, held up the horse wrangler, and took a horse and saddle. From there he went ‘hot foot’ to a ranch in Mexico, which now belongs to the Greene-Cananea Cattle Company. The man there then was a friend of mine, and I had left a horse which belonged to me with him. Black Jack took my horse, and some time later showed up at the ‘Double Rod’, Jake Sheerer’s ranch in the Sulphur Spring Valley. There he gave the horse to a cowboy, and I had quite a time getting it back. As for Black Jack, he was killed near Clifton, waylaid by officers. He and his gang were riding along in the moonlight one night when he espied a large, flat rock. He was always fond of dancing, so he went up on this rock and began to waltz—an excellent mark in the moonlight. The officers got him easily, but the rest of his gang escaped that time.

Anyway, I got the job he suggested, and worked around Bisbee for some time. I got acquainted with Shropshire in roundups there. It was there, too, that I met Jim Harron, a gambler, outlaw, and generous, likable fellow. Jim Harron built the first house in Naco, Sonora, Mexico. Jim and another fellow had sold a trainload of stolen cattle to the government, back in the Indian Territory. Jim went with the cattle to deliver them, somewhere in Nebraska. When he got back, the government had checked up on him, and Jim said the list of brands on those cattle looked like a Chinese puzzle. He and his partner were tried and convicted. They appealed for a new trial, and were in the meantime, in the charge of a United States Marshall. Jim and his partner were to be brought back to the courtroom at one o’clock to be sentenced. Jim persuaded the marshall to go in a saloon and allow them to quench their thirst. Somehow he got a negro friend of his to go to a livery stable opposite the saloon, and saddle their horses. They he and his partner pulled guns—which they managed somehow to have—on the marshall, and started backing across the street, the marshall with his gun out after them. He kept saying, “I’ll shoot you! I’ll shoot you boys!” but he didn’t shoot. Perhaps he did not know that they had horses.

Anyway, they reached the livery stable and gained their horses. Jim had a lariat which he swung around his head, and hit the Marshall in the face with it, knocking him down. Jim urged his horse over the fallen men, and his partner followed. The Marshall raised up on one elbow and commenced shooting. It hit Jim’s partner in the back, but they rode on. Soon men started pursuing. They rode rapidly away, but soon Jim’s partner dismounted. Jim rode back to see what was the trouble, and his partner told him he was dying. Jim had lost his hat when his horse leaped over the Marshall, and his partner told him to take his hat, and go. Jim went. He eventually came to Arizona, where he lived in Globe, Flagstaff, Pearce, and other places, always running a saloon and gambling joint, always fleeing as officers tracked him down for his crime in Kansas. Finally he went across to Mexico, leaving the second Mrs. Herron and children with me near Bisbee for awhile. Later he took them to Mexico with him. In Mexico he got into trouble with the Mexican authorities for horse stealing. ‘Rurales’ came and took Jim and his family, saying they would be taken to Hermosillo for trial. Some friends of Jim’s in Naco, a man named Ramsey, and another named George Askin, believing that the rurales did not intend that Jim should reach Hermosillo alive, started out after them. One of these men stayed back, but the other rode up to the rurales, killed four and wounded another, and so took Jim and his family back to the United States by way of Slaughters’ ranch. Jim dodged about for years, always in trouble sooner or later, always with the Kansas crime hanging over his head. His wife died and he afterward married a Mexican woman, by whom he had a daughter. When Tom Campbell was Governor Jim told him the whole circumstance and asked him to try and clear him of the Kansas charge, since he was an old man, and peaceably raising his family. Mr. Campbell took it up with the Governor of Kansas who promised that if Jim would return and be sentenced, he would immediately pardon him. Jim waited for years before he would do so, but eventually he did go back, and died while there.

I spent July 4, 1897, in Bisbee. There was a steer tying contest, I remember. I won second money. Later in the day Andy Darnell got offended at a decision of Charlie Overlock, who was the judge. He started shooting at Overlock, not to kill, but dropping bullets all around him. Overlock ran. Andy got rambunctious and went around shooting everywhere, and having a lot of fun. A man named ‘Shotgun Johnson’ finally slipped up behind Andy in a saloon, and slipped his gun from his pocket. He then took Andy and locked him up in jail.

I married in 1903 and joined the rangers about that time. I went to Mexico with Dave Allison, Bob Hilburn, and a Wells Fargo expressman, hunting Stiles and Alvord, a couple of outlaws who had escaped into Mexico. We were to meet the Mexican officials at a certain place, and they were to help us locate our men. The trail of these men led through mountainous country, and there we really suffered with the cold. Hilburn and I decided to turn back there. We gave the others most of our clothes, all of our ammunition except five cartridges each for our rifles, and our loaded pistols. Taking the two poorest ponies, we back tracked. The trail of our men was about three days old, and we supposed that the others would have to go about one hundred and fifty miles farther before they came up with the outlaws. Hilburn and I rode over a big mountain and into a deep canyon and there we found fresh tracks of the men we were hunting. We proceeded as cautiously as we could, but they perceived us and escaped. We did not dare tangle up with them, having almost no ammunition. Alvord was captured at Naco long after.

Soon after I married, we moved to Douglas, where I continued in the ranger service. The Mexicans hated all rangers, and once killed one of them, Jeff Kidder. Jeff was dancing at a dance in Naco, when three Mexicans came through the door and deliberately shot him. He whirled, and shot at them, wounding all of them, one of whom later died from gangrene. Jeff died the next day. He said he could have got them all, but there was a black haze in front of his eyes, and he could see them dimly as shadows.

Another murder which aroused much public indignation was that of Tom Vaughn, deputy sheriff at Douglas. A business man reported to him and Date Graham, constable, that there was a sinister looking man sitting in front of his store, and that he was afraid the man intended robbery. The officers went immediately to investigate the man, who was still there. The man jerked his gun out and commenced to shoot immediately. He shot Vaughn in the throat, cutting his jugular vein; and wounded Date. The outlaw himself escaped.

Eventually I became deputy sheriff here, where I had some rough and tumble experiences. One of the most violent of these was in a Mexican saloon up on Fifteenth Street. A Mexican reported that another Mexican, then to be found at this saloon, was after him with a gun. I went up there and told this Mexican he was under arrest. I thought there was no one in the room except the man I wanted and the bartender. There was another Mex. back in the shadows, and when I told my man he was under arrest, this other slipped up behind me and grabbed my arms. The bartender did nothing at all, but the first Mex. also made a grab for me. I ducked under my captor’s arm, freeing one of my arms. I immediately drew my gun, and reached around my captor, shooting at his back. He threw me violently against the bar and ran out the front door. The other Mex. attacked me, and I shot at him, hitting him in the leg, which afterward had to be amputated. However, things like this are only incidents in the life of a peace officer. I like this sort of work, and hope to continue with it until I die.

I was away from Douglas on business, connected with my work, when Aimee McPherson walked into Agua Prieta. However, I soon returned and was put on the case. She walked into the custom house at Agua Prieta, from where they called officials in Douglas to come and get her. Aimee claimed she had been kidnapped and held prisoner in a ‘dobe shack across the line. She claimed to have cut her bonds on an old can or something of the sort, and escaping, walked fifteen miles or so over mountains and rocks, until she saw the lights of Agua Prieta. There was a great to-do about it all, lasting over after I returned to Douglas. Aimee had gone, but she returned, and offered fifteen hundred dollars to anyone who would find the shack in that vicinity. I wanted the money, but I knew every shack in that vicinity,  and knew beyond a doubt that there was no such shack, with a plank floor, as Aimee described. However, I looked for it as I was detailed to do, and also for Aimee’s tracks. There were absolutely no tracks anywhere, of any description, excepting from a road about three miles from Agua Prieta. There her tracks led into the town, and there too, were tracks showing that a car had driven up there and turned around, and from there Aimee’s tracks began.

I never did believe her story. She was asked if she had crossed any fences or come to any roads during her walk. She said no, but I couldn’t figure any possible way she could have walked fifteen miles to Agua Prieta without bumping into a fence or two. Then, too, her shoes and hose didn’t show the effects of a long walk over rocks and through brush. The nurses at the hospital said she did not even need a bath, although that day was extraordinarily hot. I was always convinced it was just a publicity stunt.


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