Hunting Outlaws

For the first three years of my connection with a Western detective agency, I was known to the employees of the agency, when known at all, as “the outlaw man,” because I was assigned to the duty of hunting down outlaws and no one else.

For two years previous to my start, a man known as Bill Gibbs had been outlawed in Arkansas. He was a robber and murderer, had a price set upon his head, and had taken refuge in the Boston mountains, and from his lair defied all authority of law. He was a terror to a large district and the plan to get rid of him was discussed and arranged like an ordinary business transaction.

“What sum in cash will your agency take to hunt down and kill Bill Gibbs?” was the query.

“We will do it for — dollars.”

“All right; go ahead.”

When the preliminaries had been arranged with the committee I was called in for orders.

“You will proceed to Huntsville, Ark., and from thence locate Gibbs. Do not attempt to take the prisoner. The whole State wants him killed. Take your time and build your own plans, but do not return until you have disposed of him.”

Inside of five days I was in Huntsville, but I tramped over the country between that town and the base of the range for a week before I secured any definite information regarding Gibbs. Every farmer knew him, and almost every one paid him a tribute, but such was the fear of his vengeance that only an occasional person dared admit having seen him. He was described to me as a man of forty, very powerful and vindictive, and of a natural blood thirsty disposition. I found several negroes who had an ear slashed off by him, and half a dozen white men who had been shot at or otherwise intimidated. It was two weeks before I got any information of direct value, I then stumbled upon a negro squatter on a trail in the woods, and had him covered with my rifle before he knew of my presence. By threatening… Read More