The
special excursion train sat on its siding dark and
empty, fires drawn, and pressure down. The cool
November night in the South Texas "brasada"
or brush country was a night devoted to quiet good
cheer and high hopes in the little trackside Renner
Hotel. Talk was of dreaming, planning , encouragement
and rest. The morning would bring an opportunity for
home-seekers from the North to view, and perhaps
choose, sites for farms along the right-of-way of the
San Antonio & Aransas Pass Railroad spur line
that stretched southward to the tiny town of Alice
which, from 1888 to 1893, was the largest cattle
shipping point in the world.
Few
migrations of people in history equal that generated
by railroad construction in the United States
following the Civil War. In Texas, the 310 miles of
track that existed in 1865 expanded to 9,839 miles by
1900 and the state had granted to railroad companies
over 32 million acres of land as an incentive to
build track and develop towns. To this you must add
more millions of acres donated by individuals who
wanted the rails to come their way so that they, too,
could develop towns. More people meant more business
and towns sprang up like toadstools along the tracks.
Special excursion trains brought floods of
home-seekers from the North East and Mid-West who
were eager to escape cold winters. Many of the new
towns flourished and prosper today. Many more died
because of poor location, poor soil, poor water and
poor planning. In some parts of the state the small
farm-oriented home-seekers were called
"home-suckers" by residents who already
knew the limits of their land.
That
night, in the Renner Hotel, a party was in progress.
Local bankers and merchants were entertaining a train
load of new home-seekers with the best that they
could offer - thick steaks, creamy mountains of
potatoes and rivers of gravy. The dining room was
full. Extra tables were set in the halls and in the
lobby and two extra girls had been hired to help
serve. A block away, in the railroad freight office,
young Walter Overton sat at his desk in the spill of
light from his kerosene lantern as he struggled to
balance the day's books with the piles of currency
and coins neatly arranged before him. Across the
street, in one of the town's saloons, good cheer was
also flowing freely.
As
dinner was served in the hotel and Walt sorted and
stacked his money there were two shots in the saloon.
The odds are that they weren't heard in the hotel but
Walt Overton heard them, blew out his lamp and
scooped his carefully made stacks into a strong
box.Across the street, a tall, cadaverous body
staggered out of the saloon to draw a rifle from his
saddle scabbard. Too late! The saloon's double doors
slammed shut and even Walt could hear the iron bar
fall in place. No more fun there. The potatoes and
gravy were on the tables, punch was in the pitchers
and the steaks were on their way when horse and rider
came across the porch and through the screen doors.
Unsteady on his feet, the rider was firm in the
saddle. Tables, chairs, potatoes, gravy, punch,
steaks and home seekers scattered. "Dance!"
the apparition commanded, but they didn't understand.
I mean, these were mostly middle-aged and stolid
Midwestern farmers and their wives.
"Dance!"
Shots punctuated the command and they got the idea.
the whole trail load of home-seekers, and the
bankers, and the merchants, and the serving girls,
and the cooks danced. they jigged in the potatoes and
gravy. They lost their shoes. Petticoats slid down
plump and jigging legs to join with the potatoes and
gravy while the rider set the pace with alternate
shots from his pistol and rifle. The little hotel
shook and rattled. one-by-one, exhausted dancers sank
into the mess on the floor - only to find renewed
strength as the horse moved in their direction.
For
some people it lasted a lifetime but it probably only
took fifteen or twenty minutes for Sheriff Hinnant
and his son Archi to arrive on the scene. they had
him boxed neatly, front door and back, and he went
peacefully to sleep it off in the jail. Besides, all
of his ammunition was gone and the fun was over.
Crying, but too scared to curse, the home-seekers
barricaded themselves in the train while potato and
gravy splattered volunteers stoked the fire. By
morning the train was gone to whence it came.
The
rider? Well, his name was Jake, and he was a good old
boy who had been up the trail and guarded local
ranchers for a long time. He probably mourned the
passing of his way of life. Friends flocked to his
assistance and collected more than enough money to
pay for the damages and lost revenue. Except for the
bankers, most town folks not only understood Jake's
actions but, secretly perhaps, supported them. Jake
went back to his little cabin where he lived on a
small annuity granted by the family of his old
employer, Richard King. In a way, he was a hero to
the local ranchers who didn't want to see the land
cut into small farms. Their only real regret was that
they had not been there the night one old cowboy made
a whole train dance.
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