WILLIAM KNOTT
Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

I was born in Iowa in 1865, and made my move west when I was only a year old. Mother crossed the plains by way of Nauvoo and Salt Lake City to Carson City, Nevada, and soon after my father died in an accident. After some years Mother married again, a man named Smith. The Smith boys of Turkey creek are my half-brothers.

We came to Turkey Creek in November of 1881 from California. My step-father and our group drove three stages through, loaded with Chinamen, for which he was paid one hundred dollars apiece. The old stage coach at Tombstone is one of those he drove through.

The Apaches were not too dangerous at the time we came here. They were cowardly in actual battle, rarely attacking an organized group. Their favorite warfare was to shoot a lone prospector or freighter or homesteader from ambush. Everyone rode armed and kept a sharp lookout for signs of Indians. Whenever there were killings by Indians, troops would follow their trail in an effort to wreak vengeance on the murderers, but this trailing was not too enthusiastic and rarely accomplished its purpose.

My step-father’s brother, William Smith, was killed by a group of Indians led by a brave called ‘Bigfoot’ because of the enormous and unusual size of his feet. William Smith was postmaster—we had a post office up the canyon then. He had not been well for several days, and when friends reported to us that the post-office was locked and had not been opened, my half -brother, Henry, went up at once, supposing him to be worse. He was found back of the house with an empty chip bucket in his hand and a hole through his head where he had evidently gone for chips to start his fire.

Troops came immediately, with Indian scouts as trailers. These easily led the troops to the encampment of the murderers, but when almost upon this camp one of the scouts accidently—on purpose—tripped over a rock, when his gun went off. Of course when we reached the place we found it unoccupied. Seven stolen horses, six saddles, enormous quantities of flour, sugar, dried beef, etc. were recovered from the camp. These last had been stolen from homesteaders; and the quantity of provisions was in excess of that of many stores and trading posts of the times.

Indian scouts were a necessity, since the troopers could not follow any sort of trail; but they were also a hindrance in pursuit because they contrived to give the pursued warning in some manner or other so that they were rarely caught. Once I had gone to Tombstone with a Mexican who worked for Father. On the return trip we happened to see three Indians sneaking across a ridge in single file. There was no way of knowing how many more there were, but we were sure that they were bent on mischief, from their actions. We hurried to the post and warned the troops that the Indians were out. Soldiers hurried to the place where we had seen the savages. One of the Indian scouts was so plainly bent on confusing the troops that I suddenly became very angry and for the first time felt the impulse to kill a man. I threw my rifle on the scout, but it was quickly grasped by one of the soldiers, who said:

“No, no, Kid, you don’t want to do anything like that.”

I probably came as near to being shot by Indians myself as I could, and still be alive. We had quite a bunch of horses grazing at some distance from our place, and when we heard the Indians were off on a horse-stealing spree, I decided that I had better get in the horses before they reached our location. I caught up my mount and rode off for the approximate location of our bunch. We came to a brush thicket, and my horse stopped short at some little distance from it, refusing to budge farther in that direction. When I couldn’t make him go I rode back for some distance and again approached the thicket. The same thing happened again—he would not approach beyond a certain distance from the place. I decided that there must be a bear or mountain lion in the thicket, and resolved to return the next day and look for tracks. After detouring the thicket I found the horses and drove them to the ranch. Next day I returned to the place and found tracks of three Indians in the brush. Undoubtedly the horse saved my life by his refusal to carry me near the thicket. Of course the Indians could have risked a rifle shot at me from their place of concealment, but they habitually did not shoot unless a short distance made it practically impossible to miss the first shot. Some of us cowboys and ranchers were excellent shots ourselves, and they did not care to risk return fire. Their usual object in killing a man was to get possession of horse and gun, but they would not risk their lives for them.

There were other varmints around beside Indians in those days. Grass grew so rank at that time that we cut it for hay. When a youth I was once cutting hay about three and one half miles from home. I used to take my lunch, and consequently had to take two sickles because one would not remain sufficiently sharp to cut all day. This day I leaned one of the sickles against a tree and went to work with the other. There were some cattle around the tree later in the morning, and they knocked the sickle down in the grass. At noon I went over in the shade to eat, and was then ready for the sharpened sickle. When I picked it up from the grass a huge diamondback rattler grabbed me by the middle finger. He hung on like grim death. I had quite a time shaking him off. After I got rid of him I made a rude tourniquet on the finger below the wound and another on my wrist. Instead of riding the team home I left it there and walked the three and a half miles. I felt no symptoms whatever. I hung around the house for several hours, feeling as well as I ever had in my life. At last I told Mother that since I was all right I had better go for the team, and returned to the house with them. I was within a few hundred yards of the house when the whole world suddenly began going round and round at a rapid rate. I became sicker by the minute, and it was finally decided to take me to Willcox where I might receive medical attention. My step-father was dead at that time, but there was a schoolteacher boarding at our place who agreed to make the trip with Mother. At about eight o’clock that evening we started for Willcox, forty miles away, in a light spring wagon. The teacher had to be back the next morning to teach, so he had a horse behind him on a long rope, which he intended to ride back as soon as we had reached our destination. When we reached the present location of Pearce, or thereabouts, the teacher discovered that, while he had the rope in his hand, the horse was no longer on the other end. We had to go back about five miles to get the horse. We reached Willcox about four o’clock in the morning. I had been violently sick to my stomach all the way, the poison seemingly affecting stomach and bowels instead of heart and brain as is supposedly its usual effects. The doctor had great difficulty in lancing the hand, which had swollen to a great size. He cut it in several places but could not induce bleeding, getting only a drop or two of blackened, coagulated blood for all his cuts. I remained in Willcox for several days, the symptoms gradually disappearing, until at last I was declared out of danger, and returned home.

I knew most of the cowboys, outlaws—or rustlers, as we called them then—and other inhabitants of the vicinity, good, bad, and indifferent. There was Harry Sheppard, whose real name was Albert Shropshire, a fine fellow, good cowpuncher, a good roper, good pal, best dancer in the locality. I learned by accident that he had been in a fight in Texas, after drinking a little too much. The man with whom he fought was pronounced dead, and Harry left too quickly to discover that it was a mistake. It must have been some years before he learned that his opponent was not even seriously injured.

There was Dan Dowd, a cowboy who worked for the Chiricahua Cattle Company, as fine a fellow as ever lived, although he was afterward hung for participating in a hold-up in Bisbee. When I was quite a boy I was riding toward home after being on an errand, astride a very fine horse. Something impelled me to look behind me, where I saw two horsemen riding toward me. Chance encounters with strangers were not always pleasant in those days, so I speeded up, hoping to leave them behind. They speeded up also, and realizing that their overtaking me was inevitable, I drew up and waited to see what they wanted. One of the men rode up on one side of me, one on the other. One was a man of whom I knew no good, the other was Dan Dowd.

“Get off that horse, Kid,” said the other, “I need him. You can have mine.”

I looked at his horse, which was very poor both as to flesh and quality, and shook my head.

“I won’t trade. Your horse is no good”, I said.

The man made a threatening gesture, but was stopped by Dowd, who said that he was acquainted with me and would permit no robbery or violence where I was concerned. I was then allowed to ride on, which I did thankfully enough.

I knew both Joe George and Grant Wheeler, who figured in the Willcox train robbery. Wheeler told me some time after the robbery that during that pursuit the deputy, Billy Breckenridge, was often within twenty feet of him, and that he could easily have killed his pursuer had he cared to do so.

There was three-fingered Jack Dunlap, with whom I was well acquainted. He wasn’t bad, only hot-headed and easily led into trouble. Two or three weeks before the Fairbanks hold-up, in which he was wounded to death, he told me that he had been accused of horse stealing, and brought back to this  “neck of the woods” for trial. He said he was innocent and had come clear, but he added that he was now “going to give the officers something to arrest me for!” the next I knew he had been shot in the hold-up and had later died from the wounds.

At Pearce there was a fellow lucky enough to win about four hundred dollars in a gambling game. The tale soon went the rounds, and on the way home this man, whose name I have forgotten, was held up by three-fingered Jack. He had his hands in his pockets, fingering the roll of bills, when Jack accosted him. At the command to raise his hands, he immediately did so, raising the roll at the same time. Jack got only a little small change, believing the man when he said, ”Surely you don’t think I am fool enough to carry that much money with me!”

I knew John Ringo well, also. My brother, Henry Smith, and his wife who is the daughter of Bill Sanders, can tell you the whole story of Ringo better than I; but I want to say one thing—I was not on the coroner’s jury at his death, although books and newspapers credit me with it. I rode for some of the men who were and brought them to the scene, and also helped bury him, but I did not act on the jury. I do not believe he committed suicide. There were no powder marks about him. It seemed to be that his own gun stuck through his watch chain was a clumsy, and not very convincing, attempt to make it appear that he had shot himself and then dropped the gun. Besides that, Billy the Kid—Billy Claiborne—said on his deathbed that he was shot by Frank Leslie and that he, Billy saw him do it.

There wasn’t as much fuss about a death in old days as there is now. And queer things happened in connection with killings which proved this point. There was a fellow named McGowan who had a vegetable ranch up here in the mountains. He used to haul his load to Fort Bowie, where he could easily dispose of it. This kept him on the road much of the time, so he finally took a partner named Dawson, a fellow from California. This partner was supposed to care for the ranch while McGowan marketed the produce. Soon after Dawson’s arrival a woman came who claimed to be Dawson’s wife. McGowan took a load of vegetables to Fort Bowie. Grass was scare and he used most of the money he had taken in for the vegetables to buy horse feed. Dawson claimed all the remainder as his share, and they quarreled. Dawson and his wife drove McGowan from the place.
McGowan decided to kill Dawson in retaliation. The only gun he could get his hands on was a shot gun loaded with number six shot. He sneaked up to the house at dusk and when Dawson came to the door in answer to his knock, he shot him in the chest with the bird shot. This knocked Dawson over, and McGowan then grabbed his own rifle which was standing just inside the door as he had known it would be, and finished Dawson with a rifle shot, “to put him out of his misery,” as he afterward said at the trial. He came clear, since Dawson was holding him from his own place.

I once took in a white man who had been raised by Indians. He did not know when he was taken by them, nor how he came to be there,  nor any of the circumstances. He must have been taken from some massacre when a baby. He was the dirtiest sucker that ever walked the road when I took him in. I only had one bed, and although not overly particular myself, I had no intention of sleeping with him as he was. I gave him a towel and some soap, some of my own underwear, etc., and sent him to the creek to bathe. He stayed with me for several weeks, proving to be quite handy about the house, a good cook, and a willing worker. Soon he got a job, and months afterward at a chance encounter he paid me well for all the clothing, etc., that I had given him. I have often wondered what story was back of his being in the possession of the Indians.

My two half-brothers and myself once contracted with John Slaughter to buy us cattle from Mexico. This was after Slaughter had served his term as sheriff. We made several trips to the San Bernardino Ranch, but they had not been able to get hold of the cattle. Finally Slaughter sent us across to get them ourselves, paying us wages as he would have one of his own hands. He also sent Jess Fisher, his foreman with us. Duty was soon to be quite high on Mexican cattle coming across the line, and every cattleman and his cousin was bringing herds across before the raise in duty. When we got our herd to the line we could not get an inspector, and we were forced to wait until one should be free. Slaughter told us to hold our herd in his pasture until we could get the inspector, which happened to be ten or twelve days later. We rode herd on the cattle to keep them bunched and ready to move. After a day or so, Mrs. Slaughter accidently discovered that I was a fair carpenter. She was having a new building put up, which work was going slowly.

“Get up on that roof and put on these shingles.’ she told me, handing me a hammer and pointing to piles of shingles.
I really didn’t want to work when I could loaf around riding herd on the cattle, so I told her I had to watch the cattle. She immediately sent some of their cowboys to take my place. I might have known I couldn’t get out of working around her.
Slaughter had a negro, old Bat, who was always around, and very important in his own eyes. Old Bat, whose real name was John Baptiste, had come to Arizona with John Slaughter from Texas. He was a comical cuss, but very dependable and very able. He had only one ear, this other shot off, so goes the take, by Slaughter after he had commanded Bat to move faster without visible result. I do not know that this story is true. Bat did considerable freighting for the San Bernardino ranch from Tombstone. He used to carry an old phonograph, which he played continually when driving after dark, in the belief that it kept Indians and “ghostees” away from him.

Much to Slaughter’s amusement, Bat used to tell a tale of share-cropping for “Don Juan”, as he called Slaughter.
“I piles all de beans in one pile and de pumpkins in anoder and all the corn in anoder,” he would say. “Den Don Juan, he divide de pile in two and he say ‘dis yore pile’ to me. Den he pull out he little book from he pocket an figer and he figer and den he take both piles!”

Old Bat would then throw back his head and laugh proudly at his beloved Don Juan’s shrewdness.

Once there was a bunch of us going to the Slaughter ranch for a picnic. I was driving the four-horse team. The two leaders were slow, while the two behind were continually trying to run over them; consequently there was considerable excitement in the party. I had no whip and could not make the leaders step up as I wished to do. Soon we met old Bat driving out with a pair of mules.

“Loan me your whip, Bat,” I said. “If you can’t keep the mules moving of their own accord, you can pepper them with rocks. I’ve got to have something to move these leaders."

Old Bat shook his head.

“Dawgone it, Bat, I’ve got to have that whip!” I told him.

“No suh, Mista Bill, no suh! Don Juan, he going to be mad if ol’ Bat lose dis yere whip,’ he replied, still shaking his head.
I promised faithfully to leave the whip at a certain spot on my return, and he loaned me the whip, although dubiously.
Sometime afterward I met old Bat and Gillman on their way to Bowie with a load of hogs, and Bat told me that he had found the whip all right. He was all smiles.

One day Ainsworth, constable at Pearce, came by the house and asked me to show him the way to the Halderman boys’ place, as they were wanted for stealing a beef. I took him to the place, but he would not allow me to go with him to make the arrest because the boys were acquainted with me and he was afraid I might get into trouble later. I went on and got Ted Moore to go and make the arrest with him. There was beef hanging on the line when we got there.

When they called the boys out and served the warrant on them the boys indicated their willingness to go on to Pearce with them. Ainsworth advised them to take some tobacco, etc. along, saying they might have to stay in Pearce several days. The boys went back in the house and returned with rifles. Ainsworth was killed at the first shot, but Moore escaped temporarily. The boys followed him for some distance, shooting as they followed. Moore reached home where he died later, after telling the circumstances.

Old man Taylor and I immediately started out on the trail of the boys. Taylor was part Cherokee and could follow a trail at a run, which was perfectly invisible to me. The Halderman boys showed a great deal of cunning, walking in the water, doubling on their tracks, etc. Taylor would say, “See that rock out of place,” or “see that bent grass,” and go on. Once we went through a narrow canyon with straight, high walls. I would look up and imagine the boys hidden behind each rock, waiting to get a shot at us, and my hair stood on end most of the time. Taylor appeared perfectly unconcerned.

“What will we do when we come up with them?” I ventured at last, this possibility just occurring to me.

Taylor laughed, “Just watch me, and do as I do,” he said.

I doubt if I would have had time to watch him had this occurred.

At a roundup in the San Simon, we were overtaken by a posse of nine men. We camped that night in a wire corral near where the town now is. It was very cold and most of us had little protection from the cold wind. One of the posse remarked that he was a “son-of-a-gun if wire would turn wind.”

The cold wind still hung on the next day, and when we stopped again we built a fire of sotos. Here we had a casualty. One of the posse got too close to the fire and burned the seat of his pants out before he knew it. At the New Mexico line we gave up and another posse took up the trail. They captured the Halderman boys in New Mexico, and they were tried there.

Old man Wilson, who was visiting at Halderman’s at the time of the shooting, proved to be the chief witness. Under questioning he told the story of the killing. He was very close-mouthed, telling only what he was asked, and the story came out only a little at a time as the questions came. It seems that the boys intended going peaceably with the officer. Bill Halderman had bragged to the Wilson girl, who was also there, of how tough he would be under certain circumstances. Now she taunted him with his boasts, reminding him of how hard he had claimed to be, now peaceably allowing himself to be carried to jail. Under her taunts the boys started the shooting.

“Why didn’t you tell us all this at the inquest?’ inquired one of the officials.

“No-one didn’t axe me,” replied the old man.

Bill Halderman tried to save his brother Tom, claiming that it was he who had killed the men. Old man Wilson testified that both had shot, and that he could not tell which had killed Moore. Both men hung.