The Name That Caused a Killing

Colonel William H. Day lost his life in 1881 from injuries received when his horse fell on him at a roundup. He was shaping up a herd to drive over the Kansas trail. His ranch consisted of more than a hundred sections of land in the south end of Coleman County, Texas, and was stocked with something like 8,000 cattle branded D A Y on the left side.

At that time my father owned a small ranch which was entirely surrounded by the Day property. Contrary to what some writers would have us believe, there was no indication that every big outfit wanted to gobble up the little ones by running the owner off the land. Mutual trust and friendly relations prevailed between them more often than not.

After the Colonel's death Mrs. Day operated the ranch for several years. She eventually decided to cut it into smaller units and lease them out for grazing. The first undertaking was to liquidate the livestock and she hired my father to take charge of the outfit and close out the cattle.

Among the dozen or more cowboys coming under his supervision was William Utley. He was a hard working, loyal and personable young man of twenty-one years who had many friends. Along with his good qualities, he had some bad ones. He drank too much at times and was inclined to become boisterous while under the influence. And, as one of his friends put it, "He was stubborn as a snubbin' post."

During the interval between the death of Colonel Day and my father's close connection with the outfit, the Santa Fe Railroad had extended its line through Coleman. This put an end to the long and tedious trail drives to the north for cattlemen in that area. In the process of disposing of the D A Y cattle, my father shaped up a herd and drove it to Coleman in September, 1888, for shipment to market. Will Utley was one of the cowboys making the trip.

The herd arrived at the shipping pens near noon. After a hurried dinner at the chuckwagon which was camped on the creek less than a mile away, they began loading cattle into the cars. It was near sundown when the work was completed. Father then escorted all the men—including the cook—into town. He treated them to a drink in the saloon and then, in order to give them a change from chuckwagon grub, he paid for their supper at the hotel. From then on, they were on their own.

Our family lived in the south part of town. My father went home, bathed, shaved, ate a bite and went to bed. The cowboys sought relaxation in a different way. It had been a long time since they had been in town and they made the most of it. Besides giving the saloons a fair share of their patronage, they took in every place that offered fun and entertainment. A passenger train was due in town at eleven o'clock that night and that was an event not to be overlooked. They rode out to the depot as the saying went, "too see the cyars come in."

The train was late that night. While waiting for its arrival, some loud and rough horseplay took place on the platform between a few of the cowboys and local rowdies. The night station agent, Charles C. Harris, came outside to stop the disturbance. He got into a hot argument with Bill Utley. Threats were made by both and, during the exchange, Harris called Utley a bad name. That name may have been passable and accepted by railroad men—but not by cowboys—not in those days anyhow. It was a fighting word—and nothing less. A man who would take it was judged a coward and deserved the insult.

"Take that back!" Utley stormed. He lunged toward the depot agent, but was caught and held by two of his companions. "Take that back—or I'll kill you!"

"I won't take anything back!" Harris replied in kind. "When you're ready, the road's open. You're nothing but a windy blowhard!"

"He's got a gun, Bill," Utley's friend, Bud Bishop, whispered in his ear. "You won't have a chance with him."

"All right!" Utley replied. "You've got a gun. I"ll get one too—and I'll be back!" he finished as he shook himself loose from the restraining arms and made for his horse.

Again, contrary to what some writers of Western fiction make out, cowboys did not go around weighted down with six-guns hanging from their hips. Utley had no gun and if any of his companions had one, nobody offered to give it to him. Instead, they tried to talk him out of his intention to settle things with Harris at gun-point. They knew at the same time that their talk was wasted; if Bill got his hands on any kind of weapon that night, he would surely try to kill Harris.

While Utley failed to get a gun from any of his friends, he knew where to find one. He had been in our house at various times, and he had seen my father's Winchester leaning in a corner of his bedroom. One door of the room opened onto the front porch. Father was in there alone and asleep when Utley knocked and identified himself. As a matter of course, he was invite inside.

As he entered, he struck a match and lit a lamp. Then he told my father that he wanted to borrow his Winchester to go out with the local butcher and help him slaughter a beef.

"Not at this time of night," my father countered. "you want that gun for something else—and I want to know what it is. You can't have it unless you tell me. And besides," he added, "there aren't any cartridges for it."

Utley walked to the corner and picked up the gun. He worked the loading lever back and forth and one—and only one—loaded shell fell out. "That is enough for me," he remarked as he retrieved the cartridge and hurried out the door, ignoring my father's command to return the gun. Apparently, he was not as confident that one cartridge would serve his purpose as he had said, for he went to the home of the local hardware dealer who lived near our house and tried to get him to go down and open up the store and sell him a box of cartridges. The dealer refused.

"I didn't think he would take the gun over my objection," my father stated. "Then when I saw that he was going to take it anyhow, I couldn't get to him in time."

The reason Father could not get to Utley in time to try to stop him by force was plainly visible. His right leg was off between the knee and ankle and he walked on a wooden leg. "The gun was in a far corner of the room from my bed and before I could get my wooden leg and put it on, he had darted outside. I heard the sound of two horses leaving."

My father felt sure that Utley was already into—or was about to get into—some kind of trouble. He dressed, caught and saddled a horse, and rode into town. He could not find any of the Day cowboys or anyone else who could tell him anything about Bill Utley. He then rode to the camp and found plenty of excitement there. Bud Bishop had come in only a few minutes ahead of him and had told the story.

The cowboys had become irritated with Utley for his refusal to listen to reason and had left him to his own devices. They ended their spree for the night by going back to camp. Only Bud Bishop, Utley's closest friend, stayed with him. He waited outside our house while Utley procured the gun. He was with him at the hardware dealer's house and he stayed with him until the last.

When they returned to the railroad station, the train had come and gone. There was no one outside the depot and the night agent, Harris, and the Negro handy man, Henry Clements, were about to close the station for the night. Failing in his last attempt to stop Utley in his wild rashness, Bishop sat on his horse and watched.

"Come out! Come out, you ———!" and Utley called Harris the same name that Harris had called him earlier. "Come out and bring your gun! I've got mine!" he shouted.

In spite of Utley's threat and the pleading of Henry Clements, Harris accepted the dare. He walked out the door onto the depot platform with his pistol in hand. He didn't have the ghost of a chance. Passing from light into darkness, he was temporarily blinded. Even if there had been a light outside, he would have been at a disadvantage.

Utley was waiting for him with the hammer of his gun cocked back over that single cartridge. One shot and that was all. The cowboy had made good his declaration that he needed only one cartridge. Harris sank to his knees but he rallied long enough to take two random shots at Utley as he ran for his horse. The agent collapsed after that and died before morning.

Utley mounted his horse and rode away into the night. It was the last time Bud Bishop or anyone else in Coleman County was to see him for a long time to come. My father never saw—nor did he ever want to see—his gun again.

The crime of horse theft could not be added to the crime of murder for Utley had planned to take some time off for a visit to friends and he had brought along his own horse for that purpose. He was riding him that night.

The sheriff's first act was to round up the Day cowboys for questioning. He later released all but Bud Bishop whom he held in jail for several days as a possible accomplice. Eventually Bishop was able to convince the authorities that his only part in the affair was that of a peace-maker trying to prevent a tragedy.

The sheriff made a diligent search for the fleeing Utley but failed to pick up his trail. Even so, as the saying goes, "he still had an ace in the hole." It was well known that Utley was in love with a daughter of a former Coleman County resident who had moved to the Plains country. Whether or not the sheriff knew that a French policeman had ever uttered the phrase, he employed the "French doctrine of cherchez la femme—"find the woman."

He wrote to the sheriff of Lubbock County giving him Utley's description with the suggestion that he would undoubtedly show there sometime. His hunch was correct. After wandering over parts of West Texas and New Mexico, Utley did appear at the home of his sweetheart. He was place under arrest and the Coleman County sheriff made the 200-mile trip there and back and returned him for trial.

The trial was short and decisive. It was not difficult to secure a conviction of first degree murder. Taking into account the various movements of the accused and the elapsed time between the first quarrel and actual commission of the crime, it was no trouble for the prosecution to prove premeditation. The plea of self defense entered by Utley's attorney was ruled out by the court. His previous good reputation, and the fact that Harris had a gun in his hand when he came out of the depot saved him from the gallows. As it was, he was sentenced to serve a life term in the penitentiary.

It was an odd and unbelievable combination of circumstances—all related in a way—that provoked and ruled this unfortunate affair from the beginning to its disastrous end. It looked as though fate took a hand and guided the two principal characters to their destiny. The case hinged upon and developed under a series of events. Some things were due to happen, but did not. On the other hand, there were things which would not happen under ordinary circumstances, but they did. A switch or change in any of them would have averted the killing.

In the first place, if the train had been on time that night, the disturbance on the depot platform would not have come about. If there had been no cartridges for my father's gun—like he thought—it is doubtful that Utley could have got his hands on another that night. If the train had been only thirty minutes late instead of forty, the station would have been closed and dark and Harris would have been gone when Utley and Bishop returned. If Harris had stayed in the depot like Henry Clements begged him to do, it is not likely that Utley would have come in after him. Even if he had, the odds would have been reversed and he would have had the same advantage inside that Utley had, outside. And, the prime factor of it all, was the mistake Charles Harris made when he called Bill Utley a s.o.b.

Walter Gann, Frontier Times, May, 1964