CHAPTER VI.

MEETS CULLEN BAKER

It was a cold December afternoon and perhaps a month after my arrival here, when a stranger rode up to my yard gate and politely asked to be allowed to spend the night, saying he was sick with a chill, that he lived about five miles off and did not feel able to ride home at night. The sun was nearly set and I could not very well see how to size him up, to use a local term, even after a nearer approach. Anyhow, he was a white man and sick, and I told him to alight and make himself at home. He followed me to the horse lot and after feeding his horse we went into the house, or rather took seats on the porch, all this time in almost complete silence. Being an utter stranger to me, I naturally felt a little curious to know at least his name, as he was to be my guest for the night. Upon an inquiry he told me his name was Baker, and that he owned and operated a ferry on Sulphur about five or six miles from here, at what was known as Line Ferry. I had before heard of this ferry but never of its owner and proprietor, this man Baker. When my wife came to announce supper, he declined, saying he felt too unwell to eat anything, but was finally induced to go to the table and drink a cup of coffee. Now was my opportunity, and by lamp light I had my first look at this man who, a little later, by his many misdeeds and bold and startling murders and other crimes, was to arouse and shock the people to the extent of rewards totaling seven thousand, five hundred dollars for his capture, dead or alive. This was more than a half century ago, and as I took no particular notice of him at the time, I can hardly give a very true picture of him. Briefly, he appeared to be about thirty-five years of age, of medium size and height, sallow complexion, long sandy hair and beardless. He asked no questions and answered none except in monosyllables. This extreme taciturnity I attributed to his present ill condition, but learned afterwards, from those who knew him, that he was always a man of but few words, except when under the influence of liquor. He was evidently feeling much better next morning, and after a hearty breakfast for which he offered pay, but which was declined, he threw aside his reserve long enough to ask if I knew where he could find some “black root”; that he was having a “spell” of chills and that black root tea was the only sure and permanent cure. Luckily, Col. John King had only a few days before, while we were deer hunting, pointed out to me some patches of this particular “yarb” not far from my house and I gave him directions how to find it. He thanked me in his short, curt though friendly manner, and on leaving said he would remember my kindness, and certainly would return it if ever in his power to do so. This was my first meeting with Cullen Baker. Once and only once afterwards, I met face to face this man of destiny.

CHAPTER XV.

CULLEN BAKER ROUTES THE UNITED STATES ARMY

In the spring of 1867, Captain Davidson of the U.S. Army came to Boston with 18 or 20 soldiers and established the "Freeman's Bureau", in accordance with a law of Congress then recently enacted. Cullen Baker, my quondam acquaintance, and mention of whom has been made in a preceding chapter, was reported to this tribunal as having committed some criminal act--killed a negro, I think--and four men in command of a Sergeant, were sent to arrest and bring him before the Bureau Agent for trial. Baker was not at home when they arrived there, but his two maiden sisters were keeping house for him, (he was then a widower), received the soldiers, who the sisters afterwards told Baker, conducted themselves in ways unbecoming to gentlemen, even opening trunks and drawers, and carrying off Baker's watch, and jewelry belonging to his dead wife, besides, indignities and insults to these sisters. Baker came home soon after their departure, and on being told of the visit of the soldiers and their acts and conduct, human nature, or Cullen Baker nature, asserted itself, the latent, sleeping demon was aroused, and swearing vengeance, he mounted his mule and started in pursuit. The five soldiers had just crossed Sulphur at Bobo's Ferry on his arrival there, and his old mule being much jaded, he offered the ferryman twenty-five dollars for the use of a fresh horse to continue his pursuit. After a little unsuccessful parleying, he was ferried across the river, and again putting spurs to his mule, chased them to Boston, arriving there only a short time after the soldiers had gone into barracks. These were located on the West side of the Public Square. Baker hitched his mule to a nearby post and entered a saloon on the East Side of the square. He then deliberately wrote a note to the commanding officer, demanding the immediate, unconditional surrender of the entire garrison, gave it to a little boy with a dime for its prompt delivery, and calling for some cheese and crackers, ate his lunch while waiting the officer's reply. This was, if memory is not at fault, in July, 1867. As often afterwards related by this Saloon Keeper, he went to his front door at the time, and on looking out, saw the soldiers, some sixteen in number, with the officer leading them, marching rapidly towards the Saloon. He turned at once an apprised Baker of it, who was then seated upon the counter eating his lunch, but immediately arose and started, with his gun in hand for the front door. He begged him not to shoot from that point, and Baker then went back and out the side door into an adjoining building used as a Ten Pin Alley, and soon he heard two reports from Baker's shot gun, discharged almost simultaneously, from the front door of

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the latter building, killing one soldier and wounding several others. The sixteen to one battle was now on, and the shooting became general, when with a revolver in each hand Baker rushed out of the building and ran all the soldiers back to their barracks. Baker had received an ugly flesh wound in the arm which was bleeding profusely, but he very leisurely mounted his mule and rode a mile East to Dr. Ing's, who lived then at the Lindsay place, where his wound was dressed by the doctor. The wound continuing to bleed, and now becoming painful, he stopped again in Mooresville where his arm was properly attended to by Dr. Thacker, as related in a former chapter.

CHAPTER XVI. $2500.00 REWARD FOR BAKER, DEAD OR ALIVE

Very naturally, this daring, though foolhardy exploit of an unknown man, who, single handed and alone, had met and routed the United States Army, as represented by the Freedman's Bureau at Boston, created no little commotion, and excitement and wonder among our citizens was deep and intense. The Bureau was by no means popular with the better class of citizens, who, knowing its purpose and object, justly regarded its establishment here, as elsewhere all over the conquered South, simply as one more expression of the Northern abolition hatred and oppression, voiced by such men as old Thadeus Stevens and others of his ilk in Congress, where the South was not represented, and powerless then, to help itself. No wonder then, that this man Cullen Baker was hailed as a hero, and by many, even as a Moses who had appeared to lead them out of the wilderness of Northern Political tyranny and oppression. But the storm was brewing. The full report of the battle at Boston with its casualties, all doubtless much exaggerated, was at once sent to General Buell, the commanding officer of this military district with headquarters at Jefferson where he had at the time an army of some 2000 men, and he promptly offered a reward of $2500.00 for the capture of Cullen Baker, dead or alive. In a short time there was sent from Jefferson garrison, a full squadron (two companies) of calvary to hunt down this one lone "bandit", so designated in Buell's offer of reward. They "scoured" the public roads about Boston pretty thoroughly, evidently in no particular hurry to met this redoubtable "bandit", and in a few days marched back to Jefferson. These same tactics were repeated several times, always with the usual result. Like the old army in Flanders, they simply "marched up the hill and down again." Nothing much was again heard of Baker for several months.

CHAPTER XIX. BAKER KILLS KIRKMAN AT BOSTON

For some time after his fight with the Federal garrison at Boston, very little was heard of Cullen Baker, but during this time and while recovering from his wound, there were gathering at his rendezvous on Mush Island, a number of adventurous fellows, ---ex-Confederate Soldiers, bush whackers and renegades, all, or many, already with a price on their heads, and it was not long till he had a force of some twenty or more, as rough, daring, lawless cutthroats as ever swore fealty to a murderous, out-lawed chief. It is not the purpose here to follow the operations of Baker in his many deeds of crime in Bowie and Cass County, Texas, and the Indian Territory, now Oklahoma, and the border Counties of Arkansaw, and will only relate briefly an account of the closing acts of this bloody drama. General Buell's reward had been augmented by similar amounts offered by the Governors of Texas and Arkansaw, the total aggregating $7,500.00 but so far, if there had ever been any real effort to capture him, it is not now remembered. At different times he had, with his clan, killed more than one officer of the Freedman's Bureau, and several soldiers of the garrisons in towns in the adjoining Counties of Arkansaw, besides negroes by the score, the latter, in many instances, for the more sport of killing, and had so terrorized the people, both white and black, especially the latter, that to them at least, the bare mention of "Baker and his clan," brought forebodings of direful potent. The latest, and quite recent report relative to his present scene of operations, was from points in the Indian Nation, and the people here, in a sense, sand for a time at least, now felt secure from his sudden raids. It was early in the morning of a certain day about two years from my first and last meeting with Cullen Baker, that I went to see a near neighbor living at Mooresville. There were three or four acquaintances of mine sitting on the porch, and another man, a stranger to us. After greeting my friends with a "good morning, sir," to the stranger, he arose and offered his hand familiarly addressing me by name, and asked if I did not know him. I did not and told him so. Not a word was spoken by anyone else, and

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without the remotest thought as to who this stranger, apparently knowing me so well, could be, I was, very naturally, a little curious to know him. But without further notice of me, he turned to a bottle and glasses near him on a table, and asked "all hands" to drink with him. His invitation was accepted, and as I poured a little of the contents of the bottle into a glass, I again asked his name, saying laughingly, that I was not in the habit of drinking with a man without, at least, knowing his name. "All right," he said, with his glass in his hand, "when I'm among my friends, my name is Cullen Baker." To say I was surprised and dismayed would be putting it far too mildly. I was, in fact, almost completely dumbfounded, but apparently not noticing my confusion he soon reverted to our first meeting, saying the "black root" had entirely cured him of his "spell of chills", and after some little further desultory talk, he told us that he had killed Lieutenant Kirkman at Boston about 1:00 o'clock the previous night, that his men were in camp not far off, and that he would presently return with them to Boston and "clean up" the entire garrison. He now called for another bottle of liquor and bidding us good bye, mounted his horse and rode off. I could hardly realize that this was the Baker of our first meeting of two years before. From the sallow, thin, hatchet-face, taciturn man of yore, to this bold, outspoken, red face Cullen Baker, his every feature deeply stamped with marks of dissipation, it is not to be wondered at, that I could not recognize him. In about an hour, perhaps, Baker at the head of a dozen or more of his clan, all heavily armed, and many of them, evidently, drunk or nearly so, rode hurriedly past on their way to Boston. This was the last time I ever saw Cullen Baker. Kirkman was found dead near his bedroom where Baker had waylaid and killed him, and was buried with proper funeral ceremonies in the Old Peters graveyard, escorted by his few remaining soldiers and a large number of the citizens of Boston. Baker's visit there on this occasion, was uneventful. After this event the soldiers were withdrawn and the Freedman's Bureau at Boston was discontinued.

-48- CHAPTER XX. BAKER HANGS TOM ORR

There was living a few miles south of Line Ferry, an old gentleman named Foster, the father-in-law of Cullen Baker, and near by was the home of another son-in-law, Thomas Orr, then a school teacher. Ill feeling of long standing existed between these two men, enhanced later, on the part of Baker, by indiscreet remarks of Orr which in some mysterious way often reached members of the clan, and Baker's oft repeated threat to kill Orr had failed of execution only by the bold and defiant opposition of three brothers, members of the clan,--Lee, Seth, and Bill Rames, who were friends of Orr. But fearing that Baker would eventually kill Orr on sight, and determined to prevent the deed, if possible, the Rames boys finally agreed to assist in arresting and putting him to death by hanging. The clan was then hiding on Mush Island which was not far from old man Foster's, where their almost nightly raids had about exhausted the contents of his corn crib and smoke house, and Baker's demands for whiskey which this helpless old man was compelled to furnish, besides other grosser indignities, all combined, caused the old worm to turn. But of that anon. Baker was impatiently abiding his time to wreak vengeance on Tom Orr, and by a well-laid plan he was captured, his hands tied behind him and carried to a lone spot in the timber not far from his home. There a rope was placed around his neck, its other end fastened to an overhanging limb, and the horse driven from under him, leaving the body hanging by the neck to die. So thought Baker. Baker's vengeance was appeased, he at once ordered a move, and mounting their horses, these men of many crimes rode away into the darkness of the night. Following for a short distance, and purposely in the rear, Lee Rames hurriedly rode back, finding Orr yet alive but fast choking to death. He cut the rope and lowered him to the ground, removed the noose from his neck and loosened his tied hands. Orr soon revived, and Rames abruptly left him to rejoin his fleeing companions. By early dawn, perhaps, they were beyond Red River, as the next, early account

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of them was from somewhere among their old haunts in the Indian Nation, intent and purpose unknown to Orr, was unique in its conception, but nevertheless effectuation as the result fully proved. He was again very soon his normal self and no doubt ever remembered with deep gratitude, this merciful act of his bandit friend, Lee Rames. Tom Orr was a quiet, peaceful, law-abiding citizen and held in high estimation by his neighbors and friends, and though the very thought may have been, and doubtless was, abhorrent to him, it is no wonder that his resolve was firmly taken to play the leading role in the next and last act of this bloody drama. Old man Foster, too, had now borne all he could, and with his willing aid and that of another friend and close neighbor, a plan was laid to be executed when Baker should next return to Foster's. On these nocturnal visits his first demand, invariably, was for liquor, which, as been stated, the old man was compelled to supply, and well knowing this, and expecting his return at any time, a jug of mean whiskey was obtained and with an excessive narcotic drug added, was placed safely away to await the return of Baker. About this time a rumor was current, the truth of which was later fully established, that the clan, still somewhere in the old haunts in the Indian Nation, had disbanded, for it was expected when Baker learned that Orr was still alive, "rescued from a living death by one of his own trusted followers," there would surely be a terrible reckoning in the Camp of these notorious outlaws. None were more fully aware of this than the Rames brothers, and they were prepared for it. When finally Baker heard of it, it was said that his rage and fury was terrible, and with awful oaths, swore that he would find the traitor and kill him on the spot. Now was Lee Rames' long looked-for opportunity to settle many old scores, and backed by his two daring brothers and others of the band, all armed, he hastily drew his pistols, and with oaths equally forceful and convincing, told Baker he need hunt no further; that he was the traitor, and defied him to do his worst, and that if he was not "bluffing", to draw his guns and get busy with the "killing." Much more, in similar strain was thundered at the old chief by the enraged, and now fully aroused Rames, (so ran the story of this incident), but unfortunately, for humanity's sake, not a shot was fired. From the sullen looks and mutinous expressions of the men, all, or nearly all of

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whom had surrounded Rames, Baker was not slow in realizing that he had reached the "parting of the ways", and that his leadership was ended. Only one man remained with him, the vilest and most notorious of the clan, so regarded, ere long, the well merited fate of Baker. Nothing, to the writer's knowledge, was ever heard of Lee Rames or his followers.

-51- CHAPTER XXI. DEATH OF BAKER AND KIRBY

Nothing definite was heard of Baker after the incident related in the preceding chapter, but his early return to Foster's was expected, and obviously, for the sole purpose of the way-laying and killing his hated enemy, Orr. But his intended victim and friends were on the alert and waiting. After some little time of this "watchful waiting", true to his instincts, Baker, with his one loyal ally, named Kirby, returned on a certain night to old man Foster's, ordered supper for the two and feed for their horses, and as usual, plenty of whiskey. The latter at least, it may be inferred, was furnished with alacrity, and the jug placed before them. After drinking heavy droughts from this drug, and eating a cold supper and feeding their horses which were tied in the yard near by, with their saddles still on them, and again and often gulping this drugged whiskey, they staggered into the yard and fell down near their horses in a drunken stupor. The deadly drug had well done its work, and the old man, who had been intently noting their every move and act, being now well assured of this fact, sent a trusty messenger hurriedly to Orr, who, with his friend, Davis, soon arrived and with simultaneous shots from their heavily loaded shot guns, sent the souls of these vile wretches into eternity. Thus ended the short but bloody career of Cullen Baker and the last one of his co-partners in crime. Their bodies were carried by wagon that night to Jefferson and delivered to the garrison commander by Orr and Davis, with a full report of their deaths, to that officer. This is, substantially, the true story of the death of Baker as often related at the time, and generally believed, and which now, after the lapse of more than fifty years, is well remembered by the author. In due time Tom Orr received the rewards offered for the outlaw Baker, as well as the heartfelt thanks and commendations of all the people, for ridding the world of this desperate criminal. Some years later he moved to Texarkana, Arkansaw, and as and as an evidence of the high esteem in which he was held, he was elected County Judge of Miller County, and later represented that County in the lower branch of the Arkansaw Legislature. His death, which occurred at his home several years ago, was universally lamented.

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