Bill Coffey stood on a hillside overlooking Elm Creek Valley as he told of a misfortune that had occurred there. Across the creek on the east side lay a wide flat which stretched to the hills a mile away. On the west side the land started climbing at the water's edge and leveled off onto a flat bench.
"That's where the chuckwagon was camped," he said as he pointed to a grove a half mile up the creek. Then he made a sweep of his arm which covered the wide flat. "The remuda was grazing out there."
A waterhole a quarter of a mile long lay against a cut bank approximately twenty feet high on the west side. The clear water sparkled in the morning sunlight. As of 1904, the farmer's plow had not touched the area, and the creek bottom was free of mud and the water still unclouded by loose dirt washed away from cultivated land.
"That's where John rolled over the bank into the creek," he said as he designated a spot near the upper end. "And," he added, "I was in swimming at the lower end."
There was an air of peaceful serenity in the surroundings. The stillness was broken only by the chirp of birds as they fluttered among the trees along the creek. It was hard to believe that this place had been the scene of violence and bloodshed only thirty-four years before.
"Everything looks about the same as it did then," Bill stated. "The trees are a little higher and spread out more. The grass is a little thinner and shorter. That's about the only difference."
In 1850 young Rich Coffey and his bride settled on the east bank of Elm Creek in the south end of Coleman County, Texas. The place became known as The Flat Top Ranch because of the structure of the buildings he erected. That was to be their home for the next twenty years. During that time their small herd of cattle increased to a sizable number, and three sons and three daughters were born.
Grazing land was as free as the wind that blew across the prairie, but he knew it would not last forever. With that thought in mind, Rich bought a tract of land on the Colorado River across from the mouth of the Concho. That was to be his permanent home. He expected to pay for the land from the sale of a cattle herd that he started up the Kansas trail that fateful first day of May, 1870.
Nathaniel (Nat) Guest was the trail boss and Rich Coffey's two oldest sons were to be on the drive. John, who was sixteen, filled the place of a regular cowhand. And Bill, who had reached the mature age of twelve, was wrangling horses. Bill drove some forty head of saddle horses in behind the chuckwagon when it pulled out that morning, and the herd that followed numbered over a thousand.
"To be exact," Bill said, "We road-branded and tallied out 1,070 head."
The herd had been worked most of the day before and held under close guard that night with little chance to feed. Now the cattle were hungry. They were spread out in loose formation on the west side of the creek and allowed to graze. Eight cowboys held them in shape trying to make every step count toward that faraway destination of Abilene.
The herd moved slowly, slowly, grazing as they walked. As the sun climbed higher, the day became extremely warm. About noon the leaders started pulling away and the line strung out, which indicated their hunger was satisfied and they now wanted water.
There were other things going on that none of the cowboys knew about. On top of a hill a mile away, where he was screened by a thin cluster of mesquite trees, sat a Comanche Indian. He was patiently waiting and watching for a suitable time to signal hidden members of his band to start their raid.
Nat Guest had selected the long water-hole as a good place for the noon camp. The cook drew up in a grove of trees, and Bill stopped the remuda on the wide flat to let them graze. While waiting for the time to take the horses into camp so the men could change to fresh ones, the clear creek water tempted him. Bill did what most any other boy of twelve with time on his hands would have done. He went in swimming.
John Coffey was riding on the point next to the creek. Resting in the scabbard swung under his right leg was one of the first short-barrelled Winchester repeating rifles ever to reach that part of the country. Because of the kind of metal in the breech and side plates, it was called "the little brass-jawed Winchester." The magazine held eight rim-fire, .38 caliber cartridges.
John was in the act of checking the lead cattle when lightening struck. With their horses running at full speed and with loud and frightening yells, punctuated by gunfire and singing arrows, thirty or more Indians came at the cowboys from all directions.
The Indians had executed their plan with skill and cunning. The place of attack furnished adequate hiding while they waited for the signal that the herd was in their trap. The Indians were a raiding party who had stolen away from the reservation in Indian Territory. No one suspected there were any of them in that part of the country. Most of the cowboys saw the lookout's grass-fire smoke signal but, scattered as they were around the herd of cattle, the cowboys had no chance to get together and make a united stand. It was every man for himself from the beginning.
John thought his best chance lay in making a run down the creek bank and spurred his horse in that direction. He hooked his bridle reins over the saddle horn, pulled his Winchester, and started shooting as he ran. To his dismay he discovered that there were only three shells in the magazine. He and some of the other boys had been trying out the new gun the day before and he had carelessly neglected to reload.
John was holding his gun in an upright position while he took cartridges from his belt loops and crammed them into the magazine. All of a sudden he discovered an Indian charging toward him at an angle. Three startling and vital events took place at once. The Indian bumped into him and seized his horse by a bridle rein which swung the horse around. John brought his gun barrel down on level with the Indian's head and pulled the trigger. He never knew the result of that shot. At that instant a ball from a muzzle-loading rifle struck him in the side. The impact of the rifle slug and sudden swerve of his horse threw him off balance and he fell on the brink of the high bank. John rolled over the edge and carried his gun with him.
The water broke the force of his fall and, fortunately, a large tree had lodged against the bank at some previous flood time. Behind the tree stump the current had cut out a small cave which made an admirable hiding place. John scrambled into the small excavation and made ready to fight. He felt secure for the time being. The only place open to assault was from across the creek and he had the stump and the waterhole as his bullwarks. The Indians apparently had no stomach for jumping down on him from the bank above.
John's wound was painful and bleeding, but he was not alarmed. The rifle ball seemed to have been deflected and had not penetrated deeply. For more comfort, he removed his belt and then he counted his cartridges. He had twenty-two in his belt loops and three in the gun.
A few Indians on horseback appeared across the creek. John was ready. When they were within range, one shot knocked an Indian from his horse and the others scuffled back out of sight. Waving of the tall weeds later told him they were crawling toward him. He waited until he caught sight of one, and a shot stopped that approach.
He never saw any more Indians, but they were still there. When he attempted to crawl to the water's edge to get a drink, their arrows and bullets drove him back. For the remainder of the evening, they kept him pinned down in his impregnable hiding place. John knew they had taken the cattle and horses and that part of them were at that time driving the stock away. He decided the ones left behind wanted his gun more than they wanted his scalp.
John began to fear for awhile that the Indians would outlast him. He suffered frequent spells of nausea and lapses into unconsciousness which came and went. In an apparent attempt to break his nerve, the Indians pitched the scalped and naked bodies of three of the dead cowboys over the high bank into the water where they floated around in sight. Even the wild Comanches knew how to practice psychology.
John's intense thirst finally drove him to taking a desperate chance. He decided to get water in spite of anything his foes might do. Crawling cautiously from his hiding place he made it to the water and drank. When no shots of any kind came his way, John crawled back secure in his belief that sooner or later he would be rescued.
Bill had been swimming near the west side of the waterhole when the Indians started their attack and he heard the commotion on top of the creek bank. The boy climbed onto a large rock which jutted out over the water for a better view.
"What I saw made chills run up and down my backbone," he said. "A half dozen or so of them were sweeping the horses up the flat and out across the creek. Two of them were coming toward where my saddle horse was tied to a bush at the creek bed.
"I didn't know whether to cave in or go blind. I think I could've got away all right if I hadn't stopped to pick up my clothes. By that time it was too late. I jumped back and swam underwater across to the big rock. I laid there with only my nose sticking out."
Bill didn't get to pick up his clothes, but the Indians did it for him. They gathered up everything and hurried away with his horse. There was shooting and yelling, and the sound of horses running and cattle stampeding above them on the hill, so they didn't lose any time looking for Bill at the moment.
A few of them came back later when the noise died down. Bill could tell from their actions and gestures, as they gathered on the gravel bar where his horse had been tied, that they were puzzled as to what had become of him. They searched through the bushes and along the creek bank, but they did not come near him. It was apparent that they had not seen him dive back into the creek.
When the Indians left the creek bed, Bill could not see them anymore but he knew they were still around. The exchange of shots farther up the creek indicated they had someone cornered whom they couldn't get. Later in the evening when everything was quite, Bill still didn't dare expose himself. He knew that Indians, when victorious in a fight, often hung around the scene for more than a half day, looking for spent arrows or any article that might have been dropped.
After sundown, Bill ventured from his hiding place. It was a long way to the ranch and no way to get there except to walk. The rocks cut his bare feet and catclaw and mesquite thorns tore at his naked limbs, but he kept plodding along. It was past midnight before he caught sight of a light in the ranch house. Two of the men who had escaped had arrived an hour ahead of him. One was at that time out hunting horses so all hands could start out on the rescue mission. Like Bill, they had been forced to abandon their horses and hide in the brush until darkness. Unlike Bill, they had not lost their boots and clothes.
At the break of day a rescue party was at the scene of the fight. Bill had wanted to go with them but his mother forbade it. He had told them of the shooting he had heard up the creek and one of the men swam his horse across the waterhole and found John alive but unconscious.
They found Nat Guest lying on the road that ran between Coleman and Fort Concho. He had a bad wound in his hip but, with the aid of a tree fork as a crutch, had made it to the road hoping that some traveler would come along. The other missing man was found alive, but with a broken leg. The bodies of the three slain men were recovered and buried on a high point overlooking the Flat Top Ranch. It was never known how many Indians were killed that day. The Comanches always took care of their own dead when it was possible to do so.
The Negro cook got off better and salvaged more than anyone else. When the shooting started and he realized what was going on, he acted hurriedly. Unhobbling the four mules of his work team, he mounted one bareback and drove the others before him for more than a mile. Then he took off cross country for Coleman twenty miles away.
"I didn't spare that mule a bit," he grinned as he told about it afterward.
"My bottom and the inside of my legs was rubbed raw by sweat from the mule, but that was better than having my head raw because my scalp had been lifted." The Indians found the wagon and destroyed everything they couldn't take with them. Rich Coffey recovered the four mules.
A messenger was sent immediately to Fort Concho to notify the post commander of the raid. A detachment of cavalry responded and, in their slow and methodical way, took up the trail. They moved a little faster than the Indians could drive the cattle. In the rough brakes of the Buffalo Gap Mountains, the Indians displayed their skill as cattle thieves. It appeared that they had split the herd into several small bunches and mixed their tracks with those of buffaloes and local cattle in the region in such a manner that the many trails seemed to lead nowhere.
Over Rich Coffey's protest, the lieutenant gave up and abandoned the chase. Coffey argued that they were undoubtedly heading in the general direction of their reservation in Indian Territory; that sooner or later they would have to expose themselves in the open plains country; that in time the cattle would be rebunched and that by keeping pursuit they could make contact with them in the open country and recover a part of the cattle, at least.
The lieutenant replied that he would be exceeding his orders in the first place, and that he did not have sufficient provisions and ammunition for an extended expedition of that kind, and that was all. It was later learned that the Indians continued unmolested and, after arriving on their reservation, all trace of the cattle and horses disappeared.
The Comanches were wards of the United States Government, quartered on their reservation in Indian Territory. Rich Coffey filed a claim to recover for his loss. Eventually, the portion covering the saddle horses was allowed, but long after Rich Coffey had passed away, and the claim for loss of cattle was rejected. No one seemed to know why the distinction was made between the horses and cattle.
Both John and Bill Coffey lived out a normal life expectancy. They both married and reared families. Of the Bill Coffey family, none are living. Only a daughter survives from the John Coffey branch. When John married, he moved to Kimble County where he engaged in ranching; Bill remained on the old homestead on the Colorado. The loss of the large herd of cattle on Elm Creek was not the only one sustained by the Coffeys. One almost as devastating came later. While it was much less in numbers it hurt nearly as badly because of their reduced circumstances.
"On the following Christmas Day we stood helpless on the hill at our home overlooking the Concho Valley and watched a large band of Indians drive away our few remaining cattle—including milch cows," Bill said.
While the Coffey family never became wealthy, they attained a comfortable and respectable status. Due to a great deal of courage and perseverance, Rich Coffey managed to save most of the land he had bargained for and, most important of all, he saved his good name by meeting all financial obligations.
His son, Bill, was a large man, with a heart that matched his 260-pound and 6'2" stature. His cheerful philosophy and tolerant outlook on life is seldom equalled and never surpassed. Bill never voiced hatred for Indians in general as most any other person would have done under similar circumstances. He felt no bitterness against the Government because the family's claim was rejected. There was no hint of self pity in words or tone of voice when he told of the hardships the family endured after what to them was a disastrous loss.
He did say, however, "It made me mad as hell to think about some damned buck Indian kid strutting around in my new boots that Pa had bought for me to wear on that trip."
Walter Gann, Frontier Times, June, 1965
[Editor's note: Mr. Gann has given his permission for us to add a little story that ran back in the September, 1926, Frontier Times written by an Easterner who had once spent an exciting night at the Coffey ranch house and who hoped that some of the family might still be living and contact him.]
Rich Coffey, Early Day Ranchman
In 1873, the New York Clipper had a story of the Lew Ginger Pioneer Minstrels at Fort Concho in western Texas, one of the military posts forming a line from western Nebraska through Kansas, the Indian Territory (now Oklahoma), and through Texas to the Rio Grande. These forts guarded the frontier settlements from the hostile Indians of which, it was estimated, there were (in the country adjacent to those posts) over 150,000 warriors of the Cheyenne, Kiowa, Apache, Comanche, Arapaho and other less prominent tribes.
As I am the man who organized the Pioneer Minstrels which made a tour of the posts playing to the soldiers, over half a century ago, I will relate an incident of the remarkable trip. On our way to Fort Concho, which was 150 miles beyond any civilization, we stopped at the Coffey Ranch, at the mouth of the Concho where it entered the Rio Colorado. This was a cattle ranch started several years before our advent into the country by “Uncle Rich,” and four or five of his stalwart sons. They had many a brush with the savages but always beat them off, as the ranch buildings were heavily stockaded on all sides. The Colorado River was heavily wooded and abounded in game such as deer, wild turkey, and occasionally panther and black bear. We were invited to stay a few days at the ranch and hunt and fish, which we were glad to do, and we enjoyed it immensely.
Uncle Rich and I became great friends. One evening he said, “Son, aposen we take our fishing tackle and go up the river a little ways, where I know a fine place for channel cat. They bit fine when it’s moonlight.”
From our supply of “anti-snake bite remedy,” i.e. a demijohn of brandy, I took a half-pint bottle, and Uncle Rich cut several pieces of fresh beef to use as bait. About eight o’clock we started up the river, and had walked a half mile when Uncle Rich said, “Here, Son, is a fine deep hole where we can git all we want in no time.”
Before commencing operations Uncle Rich took a good pull from the bottle; then, fixing the poles and lines and baiting the hooks, it was not long before we were landing some fine channel catfish. I was anxious to hear Uncle Rich tell of some of his skirmishes with the red men, and so prevailed upon him to sample the brandy again, which he did. He told me of his starting the ranch with a few hundred cattle and, with the aid of his sons, the herd soon doubled in numbers. He was in the midst of telling me of his first encounter with a raiding band of Comanches, when he stopped suddenly and listened.
An owl hooted some little distance up the river on the same side we were on. It was answered by another on the opposite side.
Uncle Rich said, “Son, did you hear them?”
I said, “Do you mean the owls?”
“Son, them’s no owls. They’re Injuns. Let’s skedaddle.”
We had quite a string of fish staked to the bank and I said that I would get the fish.
He advised me, “To hell with the fish. Come on, we’ve got to get out o’ here!”
By this time there were more hoots on both sides of the river—none below us on our side, but below on the opposite side we heard one or two. It was a bright moonlight night and we were making good time for the ranch, with Uncle Rich in the lead.
About a quarter of a mile from the ranch we had to run through an open space where there were no trees and the moon made it almost as light as day. The river here was not very wide and an arrow came whizzing through between Uncle Rich and me.
We soon reached the ranch and everybody got ready to give the redskins a reception. It was not long before some thirty Indians appeared at the mouth of the Concho on the opposite side of the Colorado from the ranch. They made no hostile demonstrations, but danced and shouted for a little while, and then disappeared.
Uncle Rich said that it was only a little thieving party out for stealing horses. "All the same," said he, "if they had cotched us, Son, they would have made a nice bonfire to roast you and me in."
Uncle Rich Coffey was a typical western ranchman, honest and generous and was well known throughout that country. There may be one or more of his splendid sons yet living, though he would be an old man by now. If so and he should see this story, I wish he would write to me. My address is the Keswick Hotel, 312 South Flower Street, Los Angeles, California.
Col. Lewis Ginger
"That's where the chuckwagon was camped," he said as he pointed to a grove a half mile up the creek. Then he made a sweep of his arm which covered the wide flat. "The remuda was grazing out there."
A waterhole a quarter of a mile long lay against a cut bank approximately twenty feet high on the west side. The clear water sparkled in the morning sunlight. As of 1904, the farmer's plow had not touched the area, and the creek bottom was free of mud and the water still unclouded by loose dirt washed away from cultivated land.
"That's where John rolled over the bank into the creek," he said as he designated a spot near the upper end. "And," he added, "I was in swimming at the lower end."
There was an air of peaceful serenity in the surroundings. The stillness was broken only by the chirp of birds as they fluttered among the trees along the creek. It was hard to believe that this place had been the scene of violence and bloodshed only thirty-four years before.
"Everything looks about the same as it did then," Bill stated. "The trees are a little higher and spread out more. The grass is a little thinner and shorter. That's about the only difference."
In 1850 young Rich Coffey and his bride settled on the east bank of Elm Creek in the south end of Coleman County, Texas. The place became known as The Flat Top Ranch because of the structure of the buildings he erected. That was to be their home for the next twenty years. During that time their small herd of cattle increased to a sizable number, and three sons and three daughters were born.
Grazing land was as free as the wind that blew across the prairie, but he knew it would not last forever. With that thought in mind, Rich bought a tract of land on the Colorado River across from the mouth of the Concho. That was to be his permanent home. He expected to pay for the land from the sale of a cattle herd that he started up the Kansas trail that fateful first day of May, 1870.
Nathaniel (Nat) Guest was the trail boss and Rich Coffey's two oldest sons were to be on the drive. John, who was sixteen, filled the place of a regular cowhand. And Bill, who had reached the mature age of twelve, was wrangling horses. Bill drove some forty head of saddle horses in behind the chuckwagon when it pulled out that morning, and the herd that followed numbered over a thousand.
"To be exact," Bill said, "We road-branded and tallied out 1,070 head."
The herd had been worked most of the day before and held under close guard that night with little chance to feed. Now the cattle were hungry. They were spread out in loose formation on the west side of the creek and allowed to graze. Eight cowboys held them in shape trying to make every step count toward that faraway destination of Abilene.
The herd moved slowly, slowly, grazing as they walked. As the sun climbed higher, the day became extremely warm. About noon the leaders started pulling away and the line strung out, which indicated their hunger was satisfied and they now wanted water.
There were other things going on that none of the cowboys knew about. On top of a hill a mile away, where he was screened by a thin cluster of mesquite trees, sat a Comanche Indian. He was patiently waiting and watching for a suitable time to signal hidden members of his band to start their raid.
Nat Guest had selected the long water-hole as a good place for the noon camp. The cook drew up in a grove of trees, and Bill stopped the remuda on the wide flat to let them graze. While waiting for the time to take the horses into camp so the men could change to fresh ones, the clear creek water tempted him. Bill did what most any other boy of twelve with time on his hands would have done. He went in swimming.
John Coffey was riding on the point next to the creek. Resting in the scabbard swung under his right leg was one of the first short-barrelled Winchester repeating rifles ever to reach that part of the country. Because of the kind of metal in the breech and side plates, it was called "the little brass-jawed Winchester." The magazine held eight rim-fire, .38 caliber cartridges.
John was in the act of checking the lead cattle when lightening struck. With their horses running at full speed and with loud and frightening yells, punctuated by gunfire and singing arrows, thirty or more Indians came at the cowboys from all directions.
The Indians had executed their plan with skill and cunning. The place of attack furnished adequate hiding while they waited for the signal that the herd was in their trap. The Indians were a raiding party who had stolen away from the reservation in Indian Territory. No one suspected there were any of them in that part of the country. Most of the cowboys saw the lookout's grass-fire smoke signal but, scattered as they were around the herd of cattle, the cowboys had no chance to get together and make a united stand. It was every man for himself from the beginning.
John thought his best chance lay in making a run down the creek bank and spurred his horse in that direction. He hooked his bridle reins over the saddle horn, pulled his Winchester, and started shooting as he ran. To his dismay he discovered that there were only three shells in the magazine. He and some of the other boys had been trying out the new gun the day before and he had carelessly neglected to reload.
John was holding his gun in an upright position while he took cartridges from his belt loops and crammed them into the magazine. All of a sudden he discovered an Indian charging toward him at an angle. Three startling and vital events took place at once. The Indian bumped into him and seized his horse by a bridle rein which swung the horse around. John brought his gun barrel down on level with the Indian's head and pulled the trigger. He never knew the result of that shot. At that instant a ball from a muzzle-loading rifle struck him in the side. The impact of the rifle slug and sudden swerve of his horse threw him off balance and he fell on the brink of the high bank. John rolled over the edge and carried his gun with him.
The water broke the force of his fall and, fortunately, a large tree had lodged against the bank at some previous flood time. Behind the tree stump the current had cut out a small cave which made an admirable hiding place. John scrambled into the small excavation and made ready to fight. He felt secure for the time being. The only place open to assault was from across the creek and he had the stump and the waterhole as his bullwarks. The Indians apparently had no stomach for jumping down on him from the bank above.
John's wound was painful and bleeding, but he was not alarmed. The rifle ball seemed to have been deflected and had not penetrated deeply. For more comfort, he removed his belt and then he counted his cartridges. He had twenty-two in his belt loops and three in the gun.
A few Indians on horseback appeared across the creek. John was ready. When they were within range, one shot knocked an Indian from his horse and the others scuffled back out of sight. Waving of the tall weeds later told him they were crawling toward him. He waited until he caught sight of one, and a shot stopped that approach.
He never saw any more Indians, but they were still there. When he attempted to crawl to the water's edge to get a drink, their arrows and bullets drove him back. For the remainder of the evening, they kept him pinned down in his impregnable hiding place. John knew they had taken the cattle and horses and that part of them were at that time driving the stock away. He decided the ones left behind wanted his gun more than they wanted his scalp.
John began to fear for awhile that the Indians would outlast him. He suffered frequent spells of nausea and lapses into unconsciousness which came and went. In an apparent attempt to break his nerve, the Indians pitched the scalped and naked bodies of three of the dead cowboys over the high bank into the water where they floated around in sight. Even the wild Comanches knew how to practice psychology.
John's intense thirst finally drove him to taking a desperate chance. He decided to get water in spite of anything his foes might do. Crawling cautiously from his hiding place he made it to the water and drank. When no shots of any kind came his way, John crawled back secure in his belief that sooner or later he would be rescued.
Bill had been swimming near the west side of the waterhole when the Indians started their attack and he heard the commotion on top of the creek bank. The boy climbed onto a large rock which jutted out over the water for a better view.
"What I saw made chills run up and down my backbone," he said. "A half dozen or so of them were sweeping the horses up the flat and out across the creek. Two of them were coming toward where my saddle horse was tied to a bush at the creek bed.
"I didn't know whether to cave in or go blind. I think I could've got away all right if I hadn't stopped to pick up my clothes. By that time it was too late. I jumped back and swam underwater across to the big rock. I laid there with only my nose sticking out."
Bill didn't get to pick up his clothes, but the Indians did it for him. They gathered up everything and hurried away with his horse. There was shooting and yelling, and the sound of horses running and cattle stampeding above them on the hill, so they didn't lose any time looking for Bill at the moment.
A few of them came back later when the noise died down. Bill could tell from their actions and gestures, as they gathered on the gravel bar where his horse had been tied, that they were puzzled as to what had become of him. They searched through the bushes and along the creek bank, but they did not come near him. It was apparent that they had not seen him dive back into the creek.
When the Indians left the creek bed, Bill could not see them anymore but he knew they were still around. The exchange of shots farther up the creek indicated they had someone cornered whom they couldn't get. Later in the evening when everything was quite, Bill still didn't dare expose himself. He knew that Indians, when victorious in a fight, often hung around the scene for more than a half day, looking for spent arrows or any article that might have been dropped.
After sundown, Bill ventured from his hiding place. It was a long way to the ranch and no way to get there except to walk. The rocks cut his bare feet and catclaw and mesquite thorns tore at his naked limbs, but he kept plodding along. It was past midnight before he caught sight of a light in the ranch house. Two of the men who had escaped had arrived an hour ahead of him. One was at that time out hunting horses so all hands could start out on the rescue mission. Like Bill, they had been forced to abandon their horses and hide in the brush until darkness. Unlike Bill, they had not lost their boots and clothes.
At the break of day a rescue party was at the scene of the fight. Bill had wanted to go with them but his mother forbade it. He had told them of the shooting he had heard up the creek and one of the men swam his horse across the waterhole and found John alive but unconscious.
They found Nat Guest lying on the road that ran between Coleman and Fort Concho. He had a bad wound in his hip but, with the aid of a tree fork as a crutch, had made it to the road hoping that some traveler would come along. The other missing man was found alive, but with a broken leg. The bodies of the three slain men were recovered and buried on a high point overlooking the Flat Top Ranch. It was never known how many Indians were killed that day. The Comanches always took care of their own dead when it was possible to do so.
The Negro cook got off better and salvaged more than anyone else. When the shooting started and he realized what was going on, he acted hurriedly. Unhobbling the four mules of his work team, he mounted one bareback and drove the others before him for more than a mile. Then he took off cross country for Coleman twenty miles away.
"I didn't spare that mule a bit," he grinned as he told about it afterward.
"My bottom and the inside of my legs was rubbed raw by sweat from the mule, but that was better than having my head raw because my scalp had been lifted." The Indians found the wagon and destroyed everything they couldn't take with them. Rich Coffey recovered the four mules.
A messenger was sent immediately to Fort Concho to notify the post commander of the raid. A detachment of cavalry responded and, in their slow and methodical way, took up the trail. They moved a little faster than the Indians could drive the cattle. In the rough brakes of the Buffalo Gap Mountains, the Indians displayed their skill as cattle thieves. It appeared that they had split the herd into several small bunches and mixed their tracks with those of buffaloes and local cattle in the region in such a manner that the many trails seemed to lead nowhere.
Over Rich Coffey's protest, the lieutenant gave up and abandoned the chase. Coffey argued that they were undoubtedly heading in the general direction of their reservation in Indian Territory; that sooner or later they would have to expose themselves in the open plains country; that in time the cattle would be rebunched and that by keeping pursuit they could make contact with them in the open country and recover a part of the cattle, at least.
The lieutenant replied that he would be exceeding his orders in the first place, and that he did not have sufficient provisions and ammunition for an extended expedition of that kind, and that was all. It was later learned that the Indians continued unmolested and, after arriving on their reservation, all trace of the cattle and horses disappeared.
The Comanches were wards of the United States Government, quartered on their reservation in Indian Territory. Rich Coffey filed a claim to recover for his loss. Eventually, the portion covering the saddle horses was allowed, but long after Rich Coffey had passed away, and the claim for loss of cattle was rejected. No one seemed to know why the distinction was made between the horses and cattle.
Both John and Bill Coffey lived out a normal life expectancy. They both married and reared families. Of the Bill Coffey family, none are living. Only a daughter survives from the John Coffey branch. When John married, he moved to Kimble County where he engaged in ranching; Bill remained on the old homestead on the Colorado. The loss of the large herd of cattle on Elm Creek was not the only one sustained by the Coffeys. One almost as devastating came later. While it was much less in numbers it hurt nearly as badly because of their reduced circumstances.
"On the following Christmas Day we stood helpless on the hill at our home overlooking the Concho Valley and watched a large band of Indians drive away our few remaining cattle—including milch cows," Bill said.
While the Coffey family never became wealthy, they attained a comfortable and respectable status. Due to a great deal of courage and perseverance, Rich Coffey managed to save most of the land he had bargained for and, most important of all, he saved his good name by meeting all financial obligations.
His son, Bill, was a large man, with a heart that matched his 260-pound and 6'2" stature. His cheerful philosophy and tolerant outlook on life is seldom equalled and never surpassed. Bill never voiced hatred for Indians in general as most any other person would have done under similar circumstances. He felt no bitterness against the Government because the family's claim was rejected. There was no hint of self pity in words or tone of voice when he told of the hardships the family endured after what to them was a disastrous loss.
He did say, however, "It made me mad as hell to think about some damned buck Indian kid strutting around in my new boots that Pa had bought for me to wear on that trip."
Walter Gann, Frontier Times, June, 1965
[Editor's note: Mr. Gann has given his permission for us to add a little story that ran back in the September, 1926, Frontier Times written by an Easterner who had once spent an exciting night at the Coffey ranch house and who hoped that some of the family might still be living and contact him.]
Rich Coffey, Early Day Ranchman
In 1873, the New York Clipper had a story of the Lew Ginger Pioneer Minstrels at Fort Concho in western Texas, one of the military posts forming a line from western Nebraska through Kansas, the Indian Territory (now Oklahoma), and through Texas to the Rio Grande. These forts guarded the frontier settlements from the hostile Indians of which, it was estimated, there were (in the country adjacent to those posts) over 150,000 warriors of the Cheyenne, Kiowa, Apache, Comanche, Arapaho and other less prominent tribes.
As I am the man who organized the Pioneer Minstrels which made a tour of the posts playing to the soldiers, over half a century ago, I will relate an incident of the remarkable trip. On our way to Fort Concho, which was 150 miles beyond any civilization, we stopped at the Coffey Ranch, at the mouth of the Concho where it entered the Rio Colorado. This was a cattle ranch started several years before our advent into the country by “Uncle Rich,” and four or five of his stalwart sons. They had many a brush with the savages but always beat them off, as the ranch buildings were heavily stockaded on all sides. The Colorado River was heavily wooded and abounded in game such as deer, wild turkey, and occasionally panther and black bear. We were invited to stay a few days at the ranch and hunt and fish, which we were glad to do, and we enjoyed it immensely.
Uncle Rich and I became great friends. One evening he said, “Son, aposen we take our fishing tackle and go up the river a little ways, where I know a fine place for channel cat. They bit fine when it’s moonlight.”
From our supply of “anti-snake bite remedy,” i.e. a demijohn of brandy, I took a half-pint bottle, and Uncle Rich cut several pieces of fresh beef to use as bait. About eight o’clock we started up the river, and had walked a half mile when Uncle Rich said, “Here, Son, is a fine deep hole where we can git all we want in no time.”
Before commencing operations Uncle Rich took a good pull from the bottle; then, fixing the poles and lines and baiting the hooks, it was not long before we were landing some fine channel catfish. I was anxious to hear Uncle Rich tell of some of his skirmishes with the red men, and so prevailed upon him to sample the brandy again, which he did. He told me of his starting the ranch with a few hundred cattle and, with the aid of his sons, the herd soon doubled in numbers. He was in the midst of telling me of his first encounter with a raiding band of Comanches, when he stopped suddenly and listened.
An owl hooted some little distance up the river on the same side we were on. It was answered by another on the opposite side.
Uncle Rich said, “Son, did you hear them?”
I said, “Do you mean the owls?”
“Son, them’s no owls. They’re Injuns. Let’s skedaddle.”
We had quite a string of fish staked to the bank and I said that I would get the fish.
He advised me, “To hell with the fish. Come on, we’ve got to get out o’ here!”
By this time there were more hoots on both sides of the river—none below us on our side, but below on the opposite side we heard one or two. It was a bright moonlight night and we were making good time for the ranch, with Uncle Rich in the lead.
About a quarter of a mile from the ranch we had to run through an open space where there were no trees and the moon made it almost as light as day. The river here was not very wide and an arrow came whizzing through between Uncle Rich and me.
We soon reached the ranch and everybody got ready to give the redskins a reception. It was not long before some thirty Indians appeared at the mouth of the Concho on the opposite side of the Colorado from the ranch. They made no hostile demonstrations, but danced and shouted for a little while, and then disappeared.
Uncle Rich said that it was only a little thieving party out for stealing horses. "All the same," said he, "if they had cotched us, Son, they would have made a nice bonfire to roast you and me in."
Uncle Rich Coffey was a typical western ranchman, honest and generous and was well known throughout that country. There may be one or more of his splendid sons yet living, though he would be an old man by now. If so and he should see this story, I wish he would write to me. My address is the Keswick Hotel, 312 South Flower Street, Los Angeles, California.
Col. Lewis Ginger
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