Oscar's Treasure

By Jerry Whitt

Oscar's Treasure is a story of real-world conflicts that occurred in Texas and numerous other Western states in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The land had been cleared of bison, and Indians had been removed to reservations. It appeared that nothing could stand in the way of newly formed ranches and farms. However, there were problems. Rustlers. Incompetent and corrupt local law officers. Ranchers were forced to protect themselves. However, they did not really know how to do so. They formed alliances that often themselves became corrupt. Oscar's Treasure is the story of one such corrupt alliance: the Norwood Mob. Many people died in the conflict between the Mob and local ranchers, a criminal organization that local ranchers could not defeat. Maybe the Texas Rangers could.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Oct 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781977271242

Jerry Whitt

Jerry Whitt grew up in the ranch country of central Texas. He holds advanced degrees in both English and science from Midwestern State University in Wichita Falls, Texas. Also, he has a doctorate from the University of North Texas in Denton, Texas. He has worked as an instructor and administrator at Vernon College in Vernon, Texas. He served in the US Army, retiring in 1999 as a Lieutenant Colonel. 

Book preview

Prologue

A south wind whistled through live oak trees, rattling the window panes of the building housing the Norwood Gazette. The weather wasn’t severely cold on this fall day, but the fire that crackled in the wood-burning stove cast a welcome warmth throughout the room. Two men sat at a rough table, each nursing a cup of strong black coffee, both obviously products of the time and the place. Ranchers. Businessmen. Family men. Neither was especially impressive physically, each standing under six feet tall and weighing considerably less than two hundred pounds. Both were middle-aged men who bore evidence of exposure to the sometimes harsh climate of central Texas. They were working men. Pioneers. Peaceful men who were willing to fight if necessary.

Levi Wolfe was a few years younger and spent most of his time outdoors, tending to the ranch he owned with his wife Rachel. Jake McIlroy’s interests were more diversified. When he and his wife—a Sioux Indian woman named Evangeline—first arrived in central Texas, he immediately observed that the fledgling town named Norwood needed a newspaper. He had no idea how to form one, but he quickly set about to learn how. A few months later, the Norwood Gazette was in business. Next Jake and his wife noticed that the town was growing as a commercial center in the still-primitive but developing community. Commerce brought people, and people needed a place to lodge while in town, so they built a rustic, but comfortable, hotel. Jake had inherited a sizeable tract of land when his grandfather was killed by Confederate soldiers, and he and Evangeline had added additional acreage as they prospered.

The area surrounding Norwood was fertile land that attracted settlers, some merchants but mostly farmers and ranchers. The land was remote and still wild, making it very appealing to outlaws that sought it out, knowing that they could operate with little interference from incompetent lawmen. These were vicious men. Cattle rustlers. Horse thieves. Bank robbers. Men willing to take anything they wanted, by force when necessary.

Over a period of time an organized crime syndicate—a mixed group of desperados known by several names, most commonly the Norwood Mob or the Buzzard’s Water Hole Gang—had organized into an efficient and deadly band that rivaled any in its ruthlessness. The band had existed openly for many years, terrorizing the area, killing at least forty people, taking thousands of cattle and horses, and extorting numerous residents of their property. The honest residents of the area lived in fear, knowing that at any time they could be the target of this mob. While many had grown desperate and hopeless, Jake and Levi, along with a very few other men, saw a way forward, but it would be dangerous. The outlaws wouldn’t go quietly. It would take force to defeat them. It would take the Texas Rangers.

And the Rangers almost certainly would come to the assistance of the local people, but would that be a real solution? While the locals had never before dealt with the Rangers, they had heard stories, and many of those stories revealed the Rangers’ reputation for violence. Maybe they would be as violent and destructive as the criminals. And another thing, how would they, the local residents, interact with the Rangers? In asking for the Rangers, were they asking for even more death, more violence, more control? Jake McIlroy, through his newspaper, could relieve some of their concerns, but first he had to convince himself—and his friend Levi Wolfe—that the Rangers would come peacefully, do their job efficiently and effectively, and then leave quietly. Peacefully and quietly was a lot to ask of the Texas Rangers!

Jake McIlroy rose from the table and walked to the cast-iron stove. Lifting a smudged pot, he filled his coffee cup. Then he carried the pot to the table and filled Levi’s cup. Hope this little meeting is important, Levi said between sips. I have lots of work to do. Some more fencing has been cut. Probably have some cattle missing.

Jake smiled at his friend, the man who claimed that he had to struggle to be even an average cattle rancher, but who couldn’t tear himself away from his ranch and his cattle. Aw, relax for a few minutes, Levi. We have some things to discuss. Not many. Just a few.

Okay. I’m all ears.

Jake took a long sip of coffee and studied a distant wall. He had to be careful. While they were friends, both were sensitive, independent, prideful men. Neither wanted to be dominated by the other. Well, Jake said. If anybody’s gonna take charge of this outlaw problem, it’ll be you and me. We’re gonna be the ones that work with the Ranger, if they come. He paused and reflected. "No. When they come. They’ll come. Now, I talk to people every day, and I can tell you, our citizens are restless. Afraid the Rangers will take over and run their lives, not too different from what the Mob is doing now. They may be partly right. If Bill McDonald’s in charge, there’ll have to be some local control."

Local control?

That’s my opinion, Levi. I think we both know it.

Levi nodded, slowly gaining interest in Jake’s argument. Yeah, I’ve thought about this idea of inviting the Rangers in. We’re independent, Jake. The Rangers are independent, too. If there is any other way …

There isn’t, Levi. Again, that’s my opinion, and we—you and me—have to do it. We’ll have to be the cushion between the people here and the Rangers.

We’re pretty different, Levi said. You’re comfortable in front of groups of people. Dealing with authorities, important people. I work better one-on-one. Face-to-face. Mostly with common working folks. Can we make this work? I mean, two real different people sharing this go-between job.

Jake recognized this as one of those times for caution. Course we can, Levi. We just have to organize for it. Captain McDonald’s a smart man. He’ll recognize our differences, and he’ll react accordingly. He just has to understand that we’re different, but we’re both effective. He has to understand that we have to be a big part of our own salvation. Yes, it may be dangerous. Some people may die, but we still have no choice. We’ve gotta act.

Levi stared at the cast-iron stove across the room, not really seeing it. Slowly, he breathed deeply and exhaled with a sigh, remembering how his friend Shiloh Cole had used the simple act of rolling and lighting a cigarette to stop and think and consider his options all those years ago. He longed for such a diversion, but he didn’t have one.

I sure don’t disagree with you, Levi replied. Me and Rachel and Oscar and the boys have discussed this at length. We can’t surrender all control to the Rangers.

I’ve talked with people across the nation, Jake replied. "And I’ve gotten some good advice. Sounds good, at least. We meet with McDonald, soon as he gets here. Let him know that we will be involved. No compromise on that issue. Now, here’s my suggestion. He paused, again aware that he must tread lightly. And it’s only a suggestion."

Let’s hear it.

Okay. We divide the county. North part and south part. North part includes Norwood and all the area up to the county line. You take the more rural southern part with bigger ranches and not so much population. You work with those ranchers. Your center of operation might locate somewhere in the community of Cherokee. My headquarters would be in Norwood.

How would we operate?

Most of my property is in Norwood and the area north of town. Yours is located to the south, fairly close to Cherokee. Yes, we’re different, so you operate your way. I’ll operate my way. We both communicate with McDonald. We meet with each other real often, maybe once a week. Maybe more often. The two of us together have to meet with McDonald pretty often. Let’s guess every ten days or so. This way everybody knows what everybody else is doing.

So you operate in your area, and I operate in mine? Levi asked. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Jake spell it out.

Well, yes, generally speaking, but these regions don’t have real borders. They’re just informal areas where each of us has major interests. Sure, we venture into each other’s region when needed. No need to ask permission or anything silly like that.

Do you think McDonald will like this idea? Levi asked, again testing.

Doesn’t matter. This is our property and our friends and our problem. He’s a helper, nothing more. Yes, he may try to take over, but we gotta stand firm. Now, I think I’ve said that about a dozen times. That’s just how I see it. Jake sat motionless for a moment. That’s how important this is. Working together, the three of us can win this battle, but it’ll take that kind of cooperation.

The two men continued to sit at the table, silently considering their conversation. Jake returned to the stove for the coffee pot and refilled both cups. At length, Levi said, What you propose makes a lotta sense. I think it’s obvious to both of us that we need organization, a structure to work in. This one is surely as good as any. If I was Captain McDonald, I’d want something like this. Sure, he can move among the local people, but he needs a way to communicate with ’em. Your newspaper provides that. He needs our help and we need his. This can work.

Glad you agree, Levi.

Okay. I want to take this plan to my family and let them discuss it, Levi said. They might have something to add. How about we meet again next week and nail this thing down?

Sounds good to me. We’ll be ready to welcome McDonald and his Rangers.

Ready to welcome a bunch of Rangers? I’m not sure I’d go that far, Jake.

Jake smiled. Yeah, you’re probably right. This could be a rough ride.

Levi leaned back in his chair, staring into his almost-empty coffee cup. Sometimes, he said, it seems that something’s really wrong with the challenges we’re facing.

Jake stopped what he was doing and stared at Levi. Care to explain that?

Not sure I can, Levi replied. Maybe it’s like this: Here we are at the very tail-end of the nineteenth century. In less than six years we’ll be in the twentieth. Think how much has passed in such a short time. Think of the sacrifices. I mean, the Civil War ended less than fifty years ago. Custer and the Seventh Cavalry met their defeat only…let’s see, about twenty years ago. The nation’s a little over a hundred years old. We’re developing, becoming what passes for a civilized bunch of people, yet we’re here fighting a bunch of bandits like it’s the eighteenth century. Seems like we oughta be past that.

Scratching his head, Jake said. Damn, Levi, I didn’t realize you’re such a deep thinker!

Nothing ’specially deep about what I just said. Just some observations. Some concerns. Maybe even some fears.

"Well, Levi, maybe I can’t make you feel better about our dilemma, but I can assure you that we’re not alone. You see, I have an advantage over most people. I own a newspaper, so I receive information from all over. We—my staff and I—check everything out but publish only part of it. So I know that other parts of Texas have problems with mobs. Bands of extortionists and murderers.

Then there’s other places. New York City has problems with Italian mobs. Irish mobs. Negro mobs and probably others that I haven’t thought of. They fight over territory, gambling, loan-sharking, prostitution, alcoholic beverages, and anything else that’s profitable. Same is true of Boston and other major cities. Probably even Austin. I suspect the cavemen of thousands of years ago had similar problems. I know it’s little comfort, but it does show that we’re not alone. Maybe it’s human nature, but a considerable part of society seems bent on taking anything they can steal. He paused and smiled. Feel better now, Levi?

No. I don’t.

Thought not. Well, we can clean up our own mess, and we will. It’ll just take time. Jack checked the clock that hung above the table. It’s getting close to noontime. Why don’t we go over to my hotel? The cook there has a big pot roast in the oven. Maybe a good meal will make things look better.

Couldn’t hurt, Jake. Let’s give it a try.

Chapter 1

Levi Wolfe spurred his winded horse to the crest of a ridge and stopped to look down on a column of cattle slowly moving through a cedar-and-live oak savannah—a flat in the language of the central Texas cowboy—that stretched between the ridge and the San Saba River. Three riders on horseback were leisurely trailing along behind and at the sides of the small herd, making sure the cattle kept moving, but taking care not to hurry or spook the animals.

Clouds of dust rose as the cattle moved through the flat. The three riders pulled their bandannas up over their noses and mouths as protection against the dust. Heavy, long-sleeved, sweat-stained shirts, tightly buttoned at the cuffs and collars, provided additional protection against the dust and the incessant swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

Late August is usually dry and hot in central Texas, but it was exceptionally so this year. Measurable rain hadn’t fallen all month, and the condition of grazing lands throughout the region was getting critical. The cattle were headed to bottom lands along the river, where grass was somewhat more abundant, and fresh water was easily accessible.

The riders who were trailing the herd to the new pasture were an interesting combination of experience and youth. The man in charge was Oscar Carson, a fixture on the ranch years before any of the others had arrived. Sometimes his seniority on the ranch made him forget that he was the foreman, not the owner. This was not always a disadvantage, because frequently his knowledge of livestock and ranching exceeded that of his boss.

A legend among those who knew him, Oscar was everything that a Texas ranching pioneer should be. Now nearly fifty years old, Oscar still could outwork and outride most men half his age. How he could ride! Roping or cutting livestock, he appeared to be part of the horse, making every movement in perfect harmony with his mount. And he was choosy. He wouldn’t accept just any horse. Before even saddling a new horse, he carefully walked around the animal, examining every aspect, while talking soothingly to it. Then he’d climb aboard and put the surprised animal through its paces. By that time he knew. If the mount didn’t meet his standards, he’d refuse to ride it, or he’d complain and ridicule it until someone found him one more to his liking.

He even looked the part of the cowman. He was small and wiry, skinny as a killdeer. In spite of his slight physique, he was strong and durable almost beyond belief. He walked with a quick, stiff-legged gait, arms held outward and his upper body bent forward at the waist. Moving about on foot, he looked for all the world like a fighting gamecock. This unusual, almost comic appearance probably was caused by chronically sore muscles and arthritic joints, as well as by his awkward, high-heeled riding boots. He was proud of his full head of salt and pepper hair that he usually cropped himself, refusing to give his own precious money to some barber that he considered incompetent.

Hazel eyes, that had been browner in his youth, stared out from under bushy gray eyebrows and past a straight nose that may have been just a little too long to suit his thin face. His ruddy skin was creased and wrinkled from far too much exposure to the elements. His tight-fitting denim trousers were well faded, polished white at points where they received excess wear, and his long-sleeved blue work shirts usually were stained and dusty, although he washed them frequently.

From the ridge, Levi watched with pride and admiration as Oscar directed the two young men—kids really—in their work. Matthew, don’t let thet ol’ brindle steer git away! Oscar shouted. Then to the other, Cole! Cole! Bring ’em up a little on yore side. Anyone could tell that the endless string of instructions was unnecessary. Certainly, the two boys knew, for they had been riding and working cattle for as long as they could hold themselves in the saddle. Although they frequently fussed and corrected each other, they never once appeared annoyed at the foreman’s harangues.

The cattle strolled on toward the river, then came to a stop at a point where two intersecting fences formed a corner. The cattle, tired and hot from the drive, willingly stood still, apparently thankful for a rest. As the cattle waited, stamping their feet and swishing their tails to ward off flies, Oscar called to the two boys, Hold ’em right there while I go down toward th’ river an’ open them other gates. The two boys again looked at each and smiled at Oscar’s newest instructions.

Levi continued to watch, while Oscar headed his horse at a trot toward the river and the two boys quietly talked and watched the cattle. Levi stroked the neck and withers of his own horse, softly talking to it as he watched. This was something of an unusual event for the horse and rider. The horse was growing older now, still agile and safe to ride, but not as strong and durable as he once had been. These days, he usually had the run of the ranch, grazing and roaming wherever he pleased. Of course, all the hands and family knew the horse’s history and treated him like one of the family. In effect, he had been retired.

Oscar had been gone for almost a quarter hour, when Levi noticed a small cloud of dust rising from a point near where Oscar had disappeared. Almost immediately, Oscar came into view, riding hard toward the cattle. However, he rode right past the herd, circling around it and heading toward the ridge. Levi watched with growing concern as Oscar approached, finally pulling his horse to a stop perhaps fifty yards away.

Waving to add emphasis, Oscar called to Levi, Come down here, Mr. Wolfe! You gotta see this here!

Mr. Wolfe, Levi snorted. How many hundred times have I told him that my name’s Levi. Not Mr. Wolfe. Hell, we’ve been working together for over ten years, and he calls me Mr. Wolfe. Well, at least he does when he wants to needle me. Wonder what it is this time.

Riding closer, Oscar called again, his voice crackling with excitement, Come on down by th’ river with me. I wanta show you somethin’. I thank you might ought to leave them two kids here. Fer a while at least.

What is it, Oscar?

Well, it’s a man. Leastwise, what’s left of one.

A man?

Yep. Come an’ see fer yore self. The foreman, who had endured innumerable hardships and witnessed many disasters in his life, was visibly shaken by what he’d seen. Apprehensive about what awaited him, Levi rode silently with Oscar past the cattle toward the river, motioning again for the two boys to wait where they were.

The two men traveled several hundred yards farther in the direction of the river. Levi was about to ask Oscar how much farther they had to go, when he was almost overcome by a terrible stench. My God, Oscar! What do I smell? he gasped, fighting back nausea.

That! Oscar replied, pointing ahead.

Levi felt his body grow weak as he stared at the grizzly sight before him. There, suspended by a rope from a lower limb of a huge live oak tree pulled tightly about his neck, swaying and turning gently in the slight breeze, hung the remains of a man. His hands were still tied behind his back. Apparently, he’d been there for several days. Scavengers had done considerable damage to the body. Vultures had pecked his eyes out and had destroyed much of his face. Scraps of clothing and decaying tissue littered the ground beneath the swinging corpse. Huge swarms of flies and other insects buzzed in the air and crawled over the bloated body.

The men turned away, holding bandannas over their nostrils, as they gasped for breath. The horses were as unsettled as the men, prancing about nervously and occasionally snorting their displeasure. The men rode their horses about fifty yards upwind and stood for several seconds, viewing the scene. Finally, Oscar broke the silence. What do you suppose happened, Levi?

After a further pause, Levi replied, Well, it sure wasn’t suicide, Oscar.

Acknowledging Levi’s attempt to lighten the seriousness of the occasion, Oscar agreed, I thank we kin say that fer shore.

Don’t guess you know who he is, do you? Levi asked.

Been here too long, Levi. Too messed up fer me to recognize. He ain’t one of ours, though, Oscar replied. The ranch sometimes employed cowboys and other workers, but usually they came, stayed a while, and then moved on, seeking more adventures elsewhere. Oscar, of course, knew them all and could recognize any one of them.

Looking around the area, Levi’s eyes came to rest upon a large piece of paper lying in some brush near the body. The paper obviously didn’t belong there and seemed somehow to be part of the crime scene. Oscar, what’s that? Levi asked, pointing in the direction of the paper.

Kaint rightly say, Levi. Hadn’t noticed it before. It has somethin’ to do with this hangin’, though. We shore need to check it out. The foreman dismounted and walked a few feet to a scrubby mesquite tree. Withdrawing a long-bladed knife, he cut a limb from the tree, expertly trimming the leaves and small branches from it. He folded his bandanna and held it tightly over his face, as he walked awkwardly toward the paper. As he passed within a few feet of the corpse, he cast one more glance up at it. Then he continued toward the paper. Using the long stick, he fished the paper from among the lower limbs of an algerita bush. Holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger, he carried it back to Levi.

Gosh, Oscar, I wanted to do that, Levi remarked, a faint smile crossing his face.

I’ll jist betcha did. Oscar retorted, breathing deeply into the clean, fresh breeze.

As the two men had anticipated, the paper was more than just a stray scrap. It was a note, intended to be found. The note was still pinned to a flap of cloth, actually a small section of the front of the dead man’s shirt.

What do you thank it is? Oscar asked anxiously.

Let’s see, Levi replied. Using the tip end of the stick and occasionally gingerly touching the paper with his hands, he slowly unfolded the paper and laid it out flat. Then he read the scribbled message, Levi, Yer next.

Looking across at the hanging victim and then back down to the note, Oscar searched for the right words. Levi, what …?

Trying not to show his own shock at the scene before him, Levi stated the obvious, Looks like somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to warn me.

Yeah. Or to put the fear of God in you!

Uh-huh. That, too.

What do we do now, Levi?

Not sure. First, I guess we’d better go back up and tell the boys what’s happened. They’re old enough to know. Even see it, if they want to. Then, we’d better notify somebody. The sheriff, I guess.

Oscar snorted and shook his head. Lotta good that’ll do, he said. Wouldn’t surprise me if he helped do it.

Yeah, Levi replied absently. But we don’t have much choice. Besides, we don’t know the sheriff’s involved in such mischief. Just rumors.

Rumors, my ass. He’s been seen at meetings at the Buzzard’s Water Hole.

Oscar, how do you know that?

Word’s got out. You kaint keep somethin’ like thet secret.

Well, did it ever occur to you that maybe word’s been leaked out on purpose, just to discredit the sheriff?

You give a man too many chances, Levi. It’ll git you killed some day, if you ain’t careful.

Well, something sure got that poor sucker killed, Levi observed, as he motioned toward the dead man.

Okay, who do you thank might of done it? Oscar challenged.

Well, I trust your instincts. You’ve lived here longer than I have, and you have an ear to the ground. You pretty much know what’s going on. And I’m well aware that this part of the state is valuable grazing land. And I’m also aware that there’s not much in the way of law enforcement here. So, yes, there are outlaws about that want to take this land. Maybe more than one organized band. The most likely is the Buzzard’s Water Hole Gang, but there probably are others that would just love for the Buzzards to get blamed for any crime that happens. For now, let’s keep an open mind, be real careful, and find out for sure who’s behind all the crime.

You sound like some preacher or shifty-eyed lawyer, Oscar retorted. I’m still thankin’ the Buzzards are behind this killin’. Now, whoever it wuz, how do you thank they got ’im here without bein’ seen? It’s yore land an’ people don’t jist ride right in any time they want to.

Oh, they might’ve come up the river to this spot. It’s just right down there. Probably would’ve done it at night. Might’ve come through Wiggington’s ranch, although that probably would mean he had to cooperate in the whole thing.

Hell yes. The bastard would shore do it, too. Him and that big, ugly dog of his.

My God, Oscar. You don’t trust anybody, do you?

Kaint afford to, Levi. I’ve watched this here part of Texas go to hell the last few years. It shore ain’t been purty. There’s too many people willin’ to kill somebody to git what they want. You know it, an’ I know it.

You’re correct, Oscar. You sure are. These outlaws have gotten way out of hand.

The men squatted on the ground, looking off into the distance and occasionally stealing a glance at the hideous remains of the man suspended from the oak tree. Both were quite aware of the incongruity of what lay before them. On the one hand, hung the corpse, the very image of hate and death. On the other they saw the peaceful, tree-covered hills of central Texas. In the hazy distance lay line after line of gentle ridges, extending on until the final one rose and blended into the sky. The crystal-clear San Saba River flowed gently between tree-lined banks of fertile soil and limestone, with the limbs of huge pecan and cottonwood trees extending from each bank, sometimes touching over the middle of the river.

Somewhere out there a mourning dove cooed a familiar sound. Mingled with that were the calls and songs of numerous other birds. Squirrels, foxes, and rabbits engaged in competition for survival, while contributing to the tranquility. Whitetail deer and wild turkey roamed the river bottoms and the flats in search of food, and—in season—in search of mates.

On one of those lonely