FRED MOORE
Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

I have often heard my parents tell of coming west with the Clantons in a covered wagon, but that was before my time. I was born after they were settled here, in 1875. As to the Clantons, I was never acquainted with them myself, since they settled some distance from my parents’ first stop.

I have had no personal adventures with Indians worth the mention, although I have had several narrow escapes. The first of these took place near Fort Thomas when I was a small boy. Friends whose names I have now forgotten had taken me for a visit of several months to their place about forty miles from the fort. They brought me home and remained for several days visiting my parents. When the time for their return arrived, they hated to give me up, and requested that I be allowed to return with them for another visit. Mother could not give me up again so soon, and I was not allowed to go. I would probably have been killed had I gone, for they were attacked by the Apaches on the road home. The man was killed, but the woman somehow escaped in the dense brush, although she was wounded.

My other narrow escapes from Indians happened after we were located in Rucker canyon above the Sulphur Spring Valley. I must have been about sixteen years old when I was sent out to look for a mule which had strayed. I rode up to the ‘Chiricahua’ outfit, which was farther than I had been instructed to go. In fact, it was so far from home that I was obliged to spend the night, not without a great deal of compunction on my part, for I knew Mother would be walking the floor until my return. My conscience was so troublesome that I slept very little, and I was up and out as soon as I heard the Chinaman start breakfast, about four o’clock in the morning. Not waiting to eat, I hit the trail toward home. About daylight I was riding along a ridge trail when I happened to look down at the sign of recent travel in the trail. I soon saw that it was Indians, for there moccasin tracks as well as horse tracks there. I decided to ride down to Smith’s ranch in Turkey Creek and tell them the Indians were out. I mounted and headed that way a few steps, but something seemed to compel me to turn again and resume my original direction. I reached home without incident. About two weeks later some soldiers came by the ranch with Apache Kid and some of his braves and squaws, who had been marauding in the valley. One of the squaws began to jabber excitedly upon seeing me, and some questioning elicited the fact that this party of Indians had been on the ridge that morning two weeks before, and so close to me that the squaw still remembered me. Undoubtedly if I had ridden into their clutches they would have done away with me.

In 1896 Jim Powers owned the place we have now, and the Moore ranch was farther up the canyon. We had two Mexicans day-herding cattle out in the hills. We wanted some horses which were running loose and I went to get them. I didn’t find them, but once I thought I heard a shot. I listened and it was not repeated so I decided I was mistaken. I was about to return home, but as I was only over a ridge from where I knew the Mexicans were herding cattle, I thought it might be well to go on over and see if they had seen the horses. However, some strange anxiety suddenly sent me home at top speed instead. When I rode into Power’s place on my way up the old man said,

“Boy, get to the house. Your Mother is frantic about you. The Apaches shot and killed one of the herders, and the other barely escaped. We made sure they had got you!”

The Mexican was buried near where our fireplace now stands; and soldiers from Bowie tried to catch the Indians, but without success.

Indians were not overly troublesome during my time, although plenty of lone cowboys and ranchers were killed when opportunity offered, and horses and cattle were run off and stolen frequently. An Indian called Apache Kid was usually conceded to be the leader in these affairs. It was not considered theft if the Indians killed a beef or so to eat, in those days, but it was annoying to have ones best horses stolen.

Along in the nineties there was quite an epidemic of train robberies. I remember that I had been left alone at the place one day—I must have been about seventeen at the time. It was quite cold, and I banked the fire in the fireplace carefully before going to bed. I had no intention of getting up in a cold house the next morning. I was sleeping the sleep of the just—or of seventeen—when I was awakened by a loud banging on the door and shouts of, “Hello! Hello! Kid, are you there?”

I went to the door and admitted Grant Wheeler and Joe George. I was acquainted with both, and always liked Grant, but I never cared much for Joe George. I wondered a little, sleepily, what they were doing out that cold night, particularly since George was dressed lightly, but I was glad of their company. I raked up the fire and we made coffee and later cooked breakfast. George explained their presence by saying that Grant had told him that his birthplace was in one of the little canyons nearby, and that they had been lost half the night, trying to find it.

I suspected that all was not as it should be when they started to leave. They had lingered after breakfast with jokes about taking the fireplace along, and comments about the cold. When Grant Wheeler mounted, he handed me eight twenty dollar gold pieces.

“There, Kid,” he said, “Take these and buy yourself a fancy saddle and a pair of boots. You’re a good kid!”
I knew there was something wrong, but it was none of my business. In those days it was healthy to mind one’s own business and let the other fellow mind his.

Grant and Joe George rode off, but soon Grant turned back, and rode up to me.

“I guess you’d better give me back that money,” he said, holding out his hand. “I don’t want to get you into trouble. You’re only a kid, and it’s not fair to you. And let me give you some advice, Kid—don’t mingle with these hombres around here. They’re a tough bunch, all of them. You have a wonderful mother—do what she tells you.”

I gave him back the money, rather reluctantly, and he rode off, saying again that he wanted me to have it but was afraid of making trouble for me. Afterwards I learned that they had held up the train at Willcox and robbed the safe. It seemed that they had had some difficulty in blowing it open, and only succeeded when they held down a charge of powder with sacks of Mexican dollars found in the express car. The Mexican money was blown all over the surrounding country but the safe was also blown open. It was said that they got only about fifteen hundred dollars from the safe. However that may have been, the posse never caught up with them.

Afterward Wheeler staged another hold-up alone, and this time the posse was hot on his trail. He shot himself rather than be taken alive. I am not sure where this occurred. Some say it was close here, others in Colorado. At any rate, there is no doubt that he killed himself.

As to Joe George, I don’t know what became of him. I heard that he was sent to Yuma to the pen. The last I saw of him was years later. I had taken a shipment of cattle, of which I was in charge, to Cochise for shipment to Kansas. I had been in the saddle and without food for more than twelve hours and I went to the restaurant to get some coffee and a bite to eat. A man there started conversation with me, and he seemed vaguely familiar. He was dressed in fine clothes, diamond stick pin and ring, in fact, he looked like a highly successful gambler. I tumbled to his identity when I noticed that his trigger finger was missing. Joe George had had his trigger finger shot away. As to what became of him, I have no idea, nor have I heard more about him. An instinctive distrust made me hurry to the caboose and keep out of sight there until I knew he was not on board the train.

I was well acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. John Slaughter and passed many a day and night at the San Bernardino Ranch. There was always a crowd there. One might meet almost any type of man-soldiers, cowboys, politicians, Mexican officials, anyone except those outside the pale of the law. Such never tried to put up at the Slaughter ranch, as they did others of the ranches in the vicinity.

This was a fact that was highly resented by many of the outlaws. Some of them were very likeable, gentlemanly fellows around the ranchers, and they could often get food and horses if hard pressed. All of them, however, knew that on the San Bernardino they could not stop. I remember an incident which illustrates both their resentment and John Slaughter’s force and power. Some cowboys and two or three gentry of doubtful occupation were squatting around a small adobe house at Mud Spring with Slaughter as their subject of discussion.

“I’ll kill the old so-and-so,.” Remarked one of the outlaws. “The first chance I have, Slaughter’s a dead man!”
Some of the others joined in and it seemed as though Slaughter would have small chance of inhabiting this world for long, since these were men who were accustomed to meaning what they said. Someone looked out of the window then said, “Boys, here’s your chance. There comes Slaughter”.

Mr. and Mrs. Slaughter were in a buckboard headed past the house. Three of the men in the house grabbed their Winchesters and walked out the front door. It looked bad for Mr. Slaughter. He simply handed the lines to Mrs. Slaughter and laid his sawed-off shotgun across his knees. The three men stood and watched the Slaughters’ drive past. Afterward one of the men said, “Well, fellows, why didn’t you kill Slaughter? You had a fine chance, and he’s an old man.” But nobody replied to the question. Probably they didn’t know the answer.

There was almost always a poker game at the Slaughters; mostly penny ante, but the game was played as carefully as though the pennies were dollars.

Once in later years I was there at a roundup, representing the ‘Double Rod’ outfit. There were several from other outfits and some eastern people there, too. The dinner table probably seated twenty-three or four persons. It was a most memorable occasion, talking, laughing, and “kidding” were all indulged. There was a cowboy there whose name I have forgotten, but who was rather quiet at noon. He must have picked up the spirit of the occasion, however, for afterward he told on a man named Kerry that he had left a wife and five children destitute in Texas. Later when informed of this story, Kerry was very angry, particularly as the other cowboy was a stranger. When the group went to the wash house to clean up for supper, Kerry jumped the fellow about the story. There were some hot words.

“Oh, can’t you take a joke,” the cowboy said.

“Not from you, I don’t know you well enough!” replied Kerry hotly.

It looked as though there would be gun-play, but the situation was saved by Mrs. Slaughter, who had heard some of the quarrel.

“How are you boys getting along?” She inquired. “Don’t you need some more towels?”

She bustled around, very busy waiting on the boys, and diverted their minds with her talk. Afterward she said she had really enjoyed the affair. Things had been quiet for several years and she had missed the excitement and danger of earlier times.
Mr. Slaughter was a fine friend and a most dangerous enemy. He had no nerves and no fear, and an instinctive knowledge of the right thing to do.

I knew several outlaws personally, but Black Jack was my favorite. I met him when I was quite young, probably sixteen or seventeen. Once he and several of his gang came by the ranch about noon. My brother, Frank, invited them to come in and eat dinner. They were armed with Winchesters and six shooters, and all had belts of ammunition around their waists. They stacked their Winchesters by the gate and their belt likewise, before entering the house, but put their six-shooters in their shirts. My sister Mary had just come home from back east where she had been going to school. Mary saw that they were armed, and naturally supposed that they were officers. We had a good time over the meal, and lingered for some time afterward at the table. The men were perfect gentlemen and very good company and Mary enjoyed herself greatly. She jokingly told them to be careful if they sighted Black Jack. There were windows in the house, and she said that if they should be shot out or broken it would inconvenience her greatly, since glass was hard to get and harder still to put in. Black Jack and his men got a great deal of amusement out of the fact that she did not suspect who they were. It was several years later that we told her their true identity.

I knew Black Jack’s signals and thus could ride into his camp whenever I wished, something which would have been impossible otherwise. At a certain distance from camp, the horseman who knew “his onions” swung his horse three times around to the left, then three times around to the right. After that he could ride in without challenge.

The last time I saw Black Jack was toward the close of his career. A man rode up to see me one day—said he was from Indian Territory. He wanted to get in touch with Black Jack, and he said that he had been told that I could tell him the location of the camp. I didn’t always know where the camp was, and this was one of those times, but in any case I should not have told. He kept arguing with me. Finally he asked me to take him to Black Jack alone and unarmed, because he said that he wanted to persuade Black Jack to leave the country before bad luck came to him. He said he was a friend who had only Black Jack’s good at heart.

Finally I consented, although with some reluctance. We two rode into camp, and I noted that the man knew the signal without being instructed. After giving the signal, he rode up to Black Jack at a gallop. They shot their right feet together, both in the saddle.

“Hello, you old Indian,” said the man affectionately.

“Hello, you old coon!” Said Black Jack.

“Well, fellows, I guess it’s all right and you don’t need me,” I said, and rode away. I never saw Black Jack again.

I have had my share of experiences with bandits and outlaws. There was something in my nature which caused me to understand and sympathize with the wild nature which led many of these men into difficulty with the law, without being tempted to do likewise myself. Several times I was near serious difficulty with them.

When I was around eighteen years old I bought a young stallion with my first hundred dollars. He was a wonderful horse, undoubtedly stolen or I would never have got him at the price. At any rate, I had had him only a short time when he was stolen. Information I secured made me believe that an outlaw called “Mac” McGinnis had taken him, and reason to think he might be found over at the ‘WS’s in New Mexico. So I made up my mind to go over there and steal him back if I could locate him. I didn’t take my folks into my confidence—they had a way of disapproving of my plans.

I knew McGinnis by sight. In fact, we had fed him a time or two, but I was not well acquainted with him.

I rode out one day, well-armed and with a full belt. D.H. Washington had a store at Cochise, and he was a friend of the family. I stopped. It seemed that some freighters had brought smallpox to Cochise, and there was quite a scare there. Washington persuaded me to let him vaccinate me. I don’t think he used a needle at all—just scraped my arm raw and then pressed the vaccine into it. At any rate the arm didn’t bother me and I was soon on my way, the incident forgotten. I rode across the mountains to the ‘Triangle’ in the San Simon Valley, where I stopped for a day or so. I thought it well to keep my errand to myself, so naturally they expected that I would head back the other way when I left. They had a stray horse there which belonged up around Willcox, and they asked me to take it on my way back. I was in no hurry, and decided to take the horse to Willcox. I soon found, however, that he was a man-killer and I could not ride him as I had planned. I thought I was a pretty good rider in those days and this only made me more determined. I rode the horse, and broke him to ride, saying to those who warned me that he was “meat on my hook.’

When I was ready to leave I felt a little queer, sick and feverish. I laid this to my out-of-the-ordinary exertions in breaking the horse, and started out on his back. For some reason or other I started for Clifton, and wherever I spent the night, I remember that there was some gambling and I lost my roll—six or seven dollars. I was broke when I started out the next morning. My shirt bothered me somewhat, it seemed that it must be twisted. After putting it on a time or two, I decided that it must by my vest, and discarded the vest entirely. About that time my horse—I was riding the man-killer, took it into his head to do some fancy bucking, and he rammed me into a pine snag, the snag gouging my upper arm severely.

It must have been a day or so later that I rode into Clifton, but my arm was really giving me trouble. I put my horse in the stable there, having forgotten that I was broke. I think I must have been quite feverish and not quite responsible. Afterward I went into a saloon, where I inquired for a doctor. I felt that my arm must have attention. The bartender directed me to the doctor’s office. He took one look at my arm.

“You have any relatives?” He said.

I told him I had. He advised me to send for them at once, saying that the arm must come off at once, and even then there was small chance of my recovery. I told him those were my last two arms and that I needed both and consequently I couldn’t allow him to remove one of them. He said the arm was coming off at once if he had to tie me there. He at once set about preparing for the operation and while he was preparing, I sneaked out. I went into the Mexican part of town, scarcely knowing what I was doing, but determined to keep my arm. Suddenly a door swung open and a woman threw her arms around me with many “Carrambas” and “Valgame Dios” She hurt my arm severely and my first impulse was to haul off and knock her down, but I soon recognized her as the wife of a former employee of ours. She soon saw the situation, and I found myself on a pallet on the floor with a warm, fresh-killed chicken over that arm. I don’t know how many chickens she killed, but whenever the heat went out of one, she had another ready. In half an hour I was asleep. The next morning the swelling was gone out of my arm, but the flesh literally hung in folds. It had been so swollen and had gone down so suddenly.

After breakfast I went into the same saloon I had been in the night before. The bartender asked if I had located the doctor. I told him what I thought of the doctor, and he retorted that he was one of the best physicians in the state. About that time the doctor in question came into the saloon, with two or three other men. I gave him a neat one on the jaw and he fell. In the resulting confusion the barkeeper drew me into a bedroom in the back. He made me hide there until the excitement had died down, saying that I might find myself in considerable trouble over the affair. The next day he told me to get on my horse and ride out of town. Then I remembered that I had a livery bill and no money. The bartender paid the bill, but still I didn’t want to leave. I told him if he would make it worth my while I would show the town some exhibition riding before I left. I had no intention of leaving broke if there was any way to get hold of a little money. The bartender got some of the boys to advertise it, and I stayed over another day to give them time to advertise. They made up a purse of seventeen dollars and something. The horse obligingly did his best, and I showed them some excitement. That amount of money seemed fabulous to me. I had been riding for a dime or a sack of Durham ever since I could remember, and real money was something to be excited about. The bartender took quite a fancy to me, and wanted me to stay, but after two days I rode out of town, headed for the ‘WS’.

I rode into a little mining camp just across the New Mexico line, and met McGinnis. With him was a pal called Red Weever. I told Mac I was looking for my horse. He asked if I had any idea who had taken him and I replied that information I had received made it appear that he was the guilty party. He said he did not take my horse. Foolishly I argued with him, letting him see that I did not believe him. He kept saying that he hadn’t taken the horse. Finally he said he would ride over to the ‘WS’ with me the next day and if the horse was there he would help me get it. In the meantime there was a dance at the camp and he wanted me to go with them.

I went to the dance, but kept on my overcoat—my gun was in the pocket. Mac kept urging me to dance. Finally he introduced me to a very pretty girl, and we danced. I had a reputation as a good dancer, and certainly I was better than most of those there. We liked the dance so well that we kept on dancing, and went through several sets without a pause. Then supper was declared, and all stopped to eat. Several of the cowboys stirred their coffee with their six-shooters. It was a wild bunch, and yet gentlemanly in their way.

Right after supper Mac called me outside. There he threw his gun on me and said he was going to kill me. It seemed that he was very much in love with the girl, and that I had angered him by dancing continuously with her. Red Weever argued with him, saying that I was only a kid. He said that I had practically called him a liar about the horse, and that he intended to show me that I couldn’t get by with it. I can still see the barrel of that gun pointed at me, with the moonlight bright on it. There was almost a fight between the other two, but eventually others calmed them down.

I was scared out by the night’s events, however, and I rode back home without continuing my search for the horse, which I never recovered.

The events of this trip were far from a lesson to me, however. We had some fine horses we were graining—feeding grain in anticipation of the round-up. One day these were missing, stolen by outlaws. Inquiry disclosed the fact that some horses, at least one of which answered to our description, had been seen to cross the line near the San Bernardino. We felt sure those were our horses. I conceived the idea of going down there and trying to find them. I went down by Slaughters’ where I got some good advice, and a Mexican to go with me, from Mr. Slaughter, and a good lunch and some supplies from Mrs. Slaughter.

In those days Mexico was a good place for outlaws. They could usually control the little towns there with their guns, the Mexicans being mostly peace loving, and certainly not prepared to withstand the “bandidos”. There was a regular robbers’ roost for rustlers down there.

Our first night out we camped down at the bottom of an arroyo—quite deep, and with only one trail by which it was possible to exit for several miles. I killed a deer and we hung the carcass in a tree almost immediately above our camp. We had scarcely laid down for the night when our horses came very close, snorting and stamping. Suddenly we heard a scream, wild and fierce. The Mexican said it was an animal on the panther order, very dangerous. He was certainly sacred. He kept his head under his saddle all that night. It was the deer carcass the animal wanted, I knew, but it was so heavy I did not dare to attempt throwing it out. I could have thrown it only a few feet from the beds, and having come that close, the animal might have decided to come closer. I at once struck a match to my bed, which was of leaves, and this light showed me wood close enough to the fire so that I was able to keep a fire all night. The horses stayed as near the fire as possible, snorting and stamping. It was a long night, and when morning came the Mexican went. I went on alone.

I was riding along that afternoon when I met a Mexican, mounted. I could see a cluster of buildings in the distance and I asked the man some questions about the place. He answered me cautiously but carelessly, and I should have thought little of the meeting but for the fact that he rode around until he fancied himself out of sight and then streaked it for the buildings as fast as he could. I did not doubt but that outlaws were there and that they would be told of my approach.

 However, I was hunting for traces of the horses and I judged that this would be a likely place for my purpose, so I rode boldly up to one of the shacks. I had both Winchester and six-shooter. There was but one man there, a white man. He invited me in and I went, keeping my six-shooter, but leaning my Winchester in the corner. I did not dare mention my real object, but I told him a story of a recent hold-up in the states, leaving the impression that I had helped. Burt Alvord, Billy Stiles, and several others had held up a train at Cochise, and robbed the express car of about ten thousand dollars. I knew the details and managed to put up a convincing story. About that time I heard a step outside and immediately I grabbed for my Winchester. This act seemed to be convincing also, for neither this man or the one who then entered seemed to doubt my story. These men received me as one of them-selves and even told me how to get safely clear down into South America. It seemed there were many places along the way where an outlaw might safely stop. They started me on my way, which was not the way I wished to go. I intended riding around as soon as I felt safe in doing so, but once over the hills I ran straight into a vinetreria—a bunch who made wine. They were a savage looking lot, more like cannibals or wild men than humans. I was scared enough when they kept coming closer, and about the time I thought they were going to grasp the bridle reins I threw my gun on them. Just then I heard someone shout, “No molesta. No Molesta!” I looked around and there was a Mexican, rather fat and greasy, but speaking good English. He said they wouldn’t hurt me, made peace between them and me, and then told me the story of his life.

I eventually got away from him, only to get lost in a …. swamp. I got out of that and ran into a party of American surveyors. That was one place I didn’t have to pretend being an outlaw, and one place where I slept in a good bed. However, I had had enough of hunting stolen horses, and returned home without further searching.

I was not as much afraid of bandits as of ghosts. Once I took a herd of cattle to Deming, returning by way of Animas Valley. There was a big old house in the valley where rumor had it several cowboys had been killed. I was alone and wanted a place to stay, and besides I took small stock in ghosts. I put my saddle and bridle in at the door, hobbled my horse and turned him out to graze, ate my supper, and prepared to sleep. There was no furniture in the house but I had my blankets, which I spread out on the floor. I had been lying down only a few minutes when I noticed the floor moving. Bright moonlight was streaming in through the window and I could see as plainly as in daylight. A plank in the floor rose slowly and my hair rose with it. I could see under it that there was nothing pushing it up. Then when it had risen about a foot and a half it sprang back into place with a loud pop. I didn’t wait to see what it was all about—I was out and had caught my horse in record time. After I got the horse I remembered that the saddle and bridle were inside. Had it not been for the humiliation of returning without them I am sure I could never have persuaded myself to step inside the door. However, I did so very gingerly, secured my saddle and bridle and quit the place. I suppose there was some explanation of the whole thing, but I was not interested in explanations then.

I think Chinaman Sam is due a great deal of credit for the help and encouragement he gave the cowboys. For years he worked for the ‘Chiricahua’ outfit, but all the cowboys were his boys and he worried about, fed, advised, and looked after all of them. He was as thoughtful as a woman about little things which an ordinary man would have not thought. His little courtesies made life more bearable for all who knew him.

For a while in the early days the Indians killed someone between each first quarter and full moon, and for years I had an uneasy feeling during that time every month. Indeed, it is only recently that I notice the absence of a prickly feeling along my spine at that time.