Watson’s DEADEYE & Fading Hoof Beats

About this time it became evident to the besieged “Whites” that the tactics of Hiram and his followers meant a long drawn out fight. It was then that the straight line of John Watson’s lips tightened, his steel gray eyes narrowed to slits, and the hard gunman took his stand by the broken upstairs window which commanded a view of the infested grove. Soon a coat sleeve showed for an instant at the side of a tree. The long barreled .45 roared and a chip flew from the trunk of the pine behind which the Redbone lurked. The smoke of the shot half concealed a darting form that was seeking safer shelter behind a larger tree in line, but a rod farther from the window whose defender needed no further classification. The history of the next few minutes of the Westport Fight becomes repetitionary: there was another crashing report; another flying chip and another retreating Redbone. And so on. After the advance firing line of the attacking guerrillas had been in this way dislodged, man by man, some of the punctured hat rims and some with creased skins, Hiram the leader, recognized the importance of silencing that deadly window, risked a lightening quick shot whose aim had been carefully gauged before a narrow slab of the Redbones body had revealed his intentions. But Morrows had not even then been quick enough. When he snatched himself back into shelter, it was with a stinging sensation which told him he had been hit(1), and only with the greatest of difficulty was the Redbone leader able to keep on his feet as he backed slowly away, carefully keeping his tree in line of Watson’s unerring fire. Steadily the retreat continued. The shooting abated and shortly ceased altogether.

The hoofbeats of the Redbone’s horses were heard on the Cherry Winche road; apparently the attack had been at least temporarily abandoned. The sun was now low in the timber; the lonely pine forest grew darker. The settlers at the store began to take stock. Dykes was dead, but wonder of a Frenchman, Musgrove still lived. Sure that the Redbones would renew the attack at dawn the next morning, and possibly continue desultory firing throughout the night, the tired men in the desolate store held a conference. Then as soon as they could be reasonably sure that no skulking Redbone lurked for a final shot, the defenders of the Hatch store came cautiously from their improvised fortress. Gordon Musgrove was removed to his home, and in spite of the desperate condition in which his assailants had left him, he eventually recovered, tribute to the doctor’s care and the fine example of the wonderful hardihood of the men who shaped the destiny of that rough frontier. Musgrove became a Baptist minister of the gospel and lived to the venerable age of eighty-nine. At dark, Dr. Hamilton went to the home of the old Negro fiddler and instructed Uncle Rube to saddle his mule, take a circuitous route to the Steven’s home where he could secure a fast horse; then as soon as he felt it was safe, to push on to Sugartown and summon reinforcements in anticipation of a renewal of hostilities next day. The brave old darkey safely made his way out of the Redbone settlement and accomplished his mission. The call for help was answered by a squad officer and six men who rode through the danger zone during the night. These men relieved the exhausted garrison and remained on guard on Christmas Day. It was Sunday as well and the day passed monotonously, without incident. It was virtually certain however, that the Redbones would make another attack. Therefore, toward the middle of the afternoon a plan was adopted to forestall a renewal of hostilities.

1 there is dispute as to the seriousness of the wound, but it was non-fatal