Presall had learned that he was hunting on the San Bernard River. Late that evening we learned from two Swede boys where Carother’s camp was located. We immediately struck out for the place, but when we reached the camp we found no one in it, although we saw signs which indicated that some parties had left only a little while before.
We lit on their trail and loped our horses nine miles through a country full of nothing but post oaks and rocks. About half a mile from the little town of New Ulm, John Presall said that he and Sheriff Lewis and Charley Langhammer would go ahead, and for us six men to stay about a quarter of a mile in the rear.
A little while after the three men left us we saw, about a quarter of a mile down the road, a wagon with some men in it. Willis McMaron and I had ridden about two hundred yards ahead of the other four, much to their chagrin, and when Presall, Lewis and Langhammer passed the wagon they discovered that Henry Carothers and his father and two others were in it. When they passed them, the officers heard old man Carothers say, in a low tone to his son, “Henry, you know what you have always said.” The officers then looked back and, seeing Henry Carothers and his father reaching for their guns, quickly dropped off their horses.
Henry Carothers leaped out with his Winchester and stationed himself behind the rear part of the wagon. His father took a shotgun and jumped over into a field to get behind a fence. When McMaron and I saw these movements, we knew that that was Henry Carothers and his father, so we laid steel to our horses and rode quickly to the rescue of the three officers in front of us.
Two of the men whom we had left behind, John Collar and John Rankin, tore down the fence and rode into the field where old man Carothers had stationed himself. When the old man saw us surrounding them he called out to his son to fire on the front men.
Tom Gentry, a friend of the two Carothers, and a yellow negro, whose name was Guish, were in the wagon. Guish had always promised “Marse Henry” that if the officers ever attacked them he would certainly stay and fight until he was killed. When Henry and his father showed fight Guish at once left the wagon as if he had wings. He jumped over the fence into the field, and for a mile and a half he could not be seen for cotton flying thick around him as he was leaving “Marse Henry.” This affair happened about six o’clock in the evening, and the negro ran all the way to Burton, a distance of thirty-five miles, reaching his home at four o’clock the next morning.
Tom Gentry crawled through the fence and went to Mr. Carothers and plead with him not to advise his son to fight, saying that neither one of them had any chance for their lives. The old man paid no attention to him, however, but called out again to his son to fire on the front men.
“You and I are good for two men apiece,” he told Henry, “and it will never do for you to surrender.”
Henry then laid his Winchester down and picked up Gentry’s shotgun, and told Gentry that he was going to “initiate” his gun by using it first. Gentry then told Henry, “for God’s sake do not fight when you have no chance on earth to win.”
Henry then recognized Charley Langhammer, the officer in front who used to be sheriff of Austin County, and who tried hard to capture him when he first committed the terrible murder. Henry had always “had it in” for Charley, so he invited him to come out from behind his horse and they would take a few shots at each other. Charley started out, but Sheriff Lewis called him back and told Henry that if he challenged anyone else to fight him he would order his men to fire on him immediately.
Henry then asked Lewis how many men he had with him.
Lewis replied that he had nine and they were all officers.
He then asked Lewis if any of the Bells were along.
Lewis answered that they were not.
The Bells were kin to Kirk, the murdered man, and Henry dreaded them.
Lewis then told him that if he surrendered the officers would protect him and that he would not be hurt.
Finally, Henry turned to his father and said, “I have a wife and two children, and you have a wife and six children to live for and if we both get killed in this fight they will be left without protection, so if you will keep out of this fight and let me make it myself I will not give up, but if you don’t let me fight it out myself I will surrender.”
The old man would not consent to surrender, and said that he wanted to fight it out, whereupon Henry laid his Winchester down, climbed into the wagon, and standing on the seat, said:
“Gentlemen, I have surrendered.”
We had a bench warrant for him from the governor, so we handcuffed him and shackled him on his horse, which we had procured at New Elm.
Bob Flack and John Rankin took turns about leading the horse on which the prisoner was mounted, but Henry cursed and abused them so, that they tried to shove the job off on me, but I didn’t take it, as I didn’t relish being abused any more than they did. I told Henry it wouldn’t help his case a bit for him to abuse the officers, but it seemed to afford him pleasure and consolation, and he kept on cursing everybody around him.
He told Bob Flack he would give him a thousand dollars if he would arrange it so he could make his escape.
Bob refused the offer, of course, and Henry asked him how many men it would require to take him away from the officers.
Bob told him that he could no be taken, that they would all die before they would give him up.
Henry then informed us that if his brother-in-law, John Williams, happened to find out that he was captured, that he would gather a band of men and take him from the officers and set him free.
At midnight, as we were entering a long lane, we heard a signal at our left on the prairie, and Henry said that that must be Williams and his men.
As soon as we heard the signal, the advance guard saw a light further up the lane. I was then leading Henry’s horse, and Presall, the detective, who was at my side, gave me instructions to shoot Henry and cut his horse’s rope from my saddle if Williams’ men should try to take him away from us. Presall then said that we would all try to win the fight if we were to have an encounter with Williams and his men; so all of us prepared ourselves for any emergency that might occur.
Turning to Henry, I said, “If this is Williams and his bunch, it will go awful hard with you.”
I think Henry heard Presall’s instructions, for he seemed rather frightened, and, believing strongly that it was Williams and his men up the lane, he called out to Williams, but received no answer.
We held up, and sent the advance guard forward to see who those men were whom we had heard. They came back in a little while and reported that they were a band of cattlemen, and that the signal which we heard to our left came from the cowboys at the herd.
We then resumed our journey, and when we passed these supposed “cattlemen” they lined up on the right side of the lane and held their six-shooters and Winchesters ready for action. I am satisfied that they were a bunch of thieves expecting to be taken by the officers, or they would not have been so well prepared to fight as they were.
We reached Round Top at daybreak, and placed Henry in the calaboose and put two men to guarding him. Then we slept until breakfast at John Rankin’s house.
When we put Henry in the calaboose we shackled him securely, as we knew he would make his escape if he had half a chance, for he was in a desperate mood and was a shrewd and daring man. The shackles, which we put on him, were fastened underneath the floor to a sleeper and were not movable. He filled the keyholes of his shackles with small shot, in order to give us all the trouble he possibly could, and when we transferred him, we were detained a long time getting the shot out of the keyholes.
We took him to La Grange. He was tried later on at Bastrop and given a sentence of life imprisonment in the penitentiary, but was pardoned