A Story About a Man Called Ants Once a Cowboy: As Told to Gary E. J. Kain by Ansel Anderson Earley

By Gary E. J. Kain

Being a student of American history, with a leaning toward the United States’ western movement, the author has made A Man Called Ants as historically accurate as possible. He has interwoven his characters with men and events that actually took place during this period.
The town of River Fork did not exist, but many similar towns did, only to die and become ghost towns, or disappear entirely. The horror of the Wilderness battles are known to a great extent and the greed of the cotton merchants did happen. The tears as well as the pride of the Choctaw and other Indian nations can never be forgotten. And Judge Isaac Parker did indeed bring law and order to over seventy-four-thousand miles with only a handful of deputies.
This historical novel puts one right in the room when Lincoln was talking to Grant. It gives insight into the life of an 1800s outlaw who was forever changing his name.
Was Ansel Anderson Earley, known to most as Ants, an actual person? You decide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669821229

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Copyright © 2022 by Gary E. J. Kain.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

A Man Called Ants is a work of historical fiction.

Apart from the well-known actual people and events that are

in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are

the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to living persons is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard

Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977,

1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Rev. date: 05/18/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

840483

CONTENTS

Research Sources

I. RED RIVER CAMPAIGN

Introduction

Chapter 1     Fort Smith—1886

Chapter 2     Once a Cowboy—1886

Chapter 3     On The Trail

Chapter 4     The Rocking H—1886

Chapter 5     Rendezvous Lincoln and Grant—Fall, 1863

Chapter 6     Wilderness—May 1864

Chapter 7     Back to Texas

Chapter 8     The Journey—Shreveport, 1864

Chapter 9     Red River

Chapter 10   Mississippi Brigade

Chapter 11   Prisoner Exchange—Civil War

Chapter 12   Ambush

Chapter 13   Never Surrender Our Colors

II. THROWBACK

Chapter 14   The Mesa

Chapter 15   Return to River Fork

Chapter 16   Erza Roberts

Chapter 17   An Old Friend

Chapter 18   Goodnight on The Brazos

Chapter 19   Dalton Brothers—1887

Chapter 20   Harris and Rutland

Chapter 21   Left with The Tab

Chapter 22   Could Be a Double Cross?

Chapter 23   The Crime

Chapter 24   Saint Elmo’s Fire

Chapter 25   Account to Settle

III. GLORY DAYS

Chapter 26   Days Later

Chapter 27   Cattle Business

Chapter 28   Atoka

Chapter 29   The Good Book

Chapter 30   Paris, Texas

Chapter 31   Little Iron

Chapter 32   City Business

Chapter 33   Sheriff Roy

Chapter 34   Banking Business

Chapter 35   Everything Seems The Same, But . . .

Chapter 36   Train to Nowhere

Chapter 37   The Plan

Chapter 38   A Pinch of Salt

Chapter 39   A Shaman

Chapter 40   Juneteenth

Chapter 41   Cattle Drive and The Lilies Grow High

Chapter 42   Return to The Watering Hole

Chapter 43   Back to Paris

Chapter 44   Appaloosa

Chapter 45   The Wedding

Chapter 46   Donadagohvi

Chapter 47   Twilight

Epilogue

Postscript

Glossary

Author Bio

1.jpg

BARN PICTURE

Shinn Barn, Farmersville, Texas, 1945

2.jpg

Book cover is an original oil titled Fence with Cacti

used with permission of

Carlene Shinn Bobitt, artist

Farmersville, Texas

Painted 1976

To my wife, Brenda

My strength, my inspiration

Ecclesiastes 3:1–8

There is an appointed time for everything.

And there is a time for every event under heaven.

A time to give birth, and a time to die.

A time to plant, and a time to sow what is planted.

A time to kill, and a time to heal.

A time to tear down, and a time to build up.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh.

A time to mourn, and a time to dance.

A time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones.

A time to embrace, and a time to shun embracing.

A time to search, and a time to give up as lost.

A time to keep, and a time to throw away.

A time to tear apart, and a time to sew together.

A time to be silent, and a time to speak.

A time to love, and a time to hate.

A time for war, and a time for peace.

A time to keep, and a time to throw away.

A time to tear apart, and a time to sew together.

A time to be silent, and a time to speak.

A time to love, and a time to hate.

A time for war, and a time for peace.

New American Standard Bible

RESEARCH SOURCES

Americanization Department, Veterans of Foreign Wars. America, the Mexican War, and Slavery

Baier, Bret. To Rescue the Republic: Ulysses S. Grant

Catton, Bruce. Army of the Potomac: Mr. Lincoln’s Army

Cleaveland, Agnes Morley. No Life for a Lady

Ernst, Robert. Deadly Affrays

Foote, Shelby. The Civil War: Red River to Appomattox

Joiner, Gary D. Through the Howling Wilderness

Jordan, Robert Paul. Civil War

Kilmeade, Brian. The President and the Freedom Fighter

Korda, Michael. Ulysses S. Grant

Roberts, Nancy. Civil War Ghosts and Legends

Sandburg, Carl. Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years and the War Years

Stoll, Ira. Samuel Adams: A Life

Webb, Walter Prescott. The Texas Rangers

I

RED RIVER CAMPAIGN

INTRODUCTION

I was about ten or eleven years old when I met Mr. Earley. We had just moved from a farm because my daddy had obtained a job making tractor parts in a nearby town. What I remember about the home, although small by today’s standard, is that it had a front porch and what was called a sunroom.

The porch looked over a small two-lane road toward railroad tracks.

But my interest was more in the backyard that was separated from an enormous field by a small dirt road. What seemed to be a treasure for any small boy, it contained a creek that ran into a quarry filled with water. And from that was another creek and another quarry filled with water, which flowed into the local river. Of course, I was forbidden to venture either in the direction of the railroad tracks or especially anywhere near the creek or the quarry. There were a couple of exceptions, the first being when I walked to school. The school was only a couple of miles away, and crossing the street by going under the train tracks via a viaduct saved me precious time.

The other exception was when my mother and I would walk along the tracks and pick up coal for our furnace. We both carried gunny sacks to load the coal, and when a train would pass, Mother would ask them to toss out some coal to us. They always did and then we would wave and thank them.

I guess we were poor, but no one ever told me.

It was a typical small-town school run by Catholic nuns, first grade through eighth grade, with two grades in the same classroom: first and second, third and fourth, etc. No one ever heard of any preschool.

We had to wear uniforms, boys in jeans with a brown shirt, girls in blue skirts with a white blouse.

Mr. Earley lived in a small shack near the first quarry. My mother was told never to let her children near Mr. Earley because he told stories we shouldn’t hear that would fill our heads with nonsense.

It was not long before my mother thought I was old enough to venture, along with my dog Blackie, in the field behind our house to explore for rabbits and grasshoppers. One afternoon after a rainstorm, I noticed a small rabbit clinging to a rock in the middle of the creek, with rushing water going all around him. Very carefully, I stepped on the rocks to get to him and picked up the wet and shaking bunny. That is when I met Mr. Earley. He helped me up the bank, took the bunny and dried him off, then placed him in the brush. He told me that I could call him Ants. From then on, I referred to him as Mr. Ants though, because my mom always told me to respect my elders by calling them Mr. or Mrs.

Mr. Ants told me he liked to fish for brown bullheads to sell to a local market. He soon taught me how to bait a hook with a grasshopper or even sometimes with a night crawler, depending on the water and what the fish were eating that day.

I enjoyed his stories, and in my mind, I sometimes rode right along with him as he told his tales. One afternoon, he was packing up his belongings, and I asked where he was going.

Back to Texas, he said, and he showed me a letter from his daughter, which had a train ticket. The letter was short. All it said was

Dear Dad,

It is time to come home.

Your loving daughter, Noelle

Make sure you will tell my story one day, he said to me. I remember telling him that I would do my best.

He then reached into his elkskin jacket and handed me a badge, which was the six-pointed star of the US deputy marshal, Oklahoma Territory. He said, This is yours. It will remind you.

He picked up his valise, his 1886 Winchester, shook my hand, and bade me goodbye.

I still have that badge and sometimes look at the initials FD scratched on the back. That must have been Frank Dalton, United States deputy marshal.

CHAPTER 1

Fort Smith—1886

The shovel took large bites from the earth. Recent rains made the digging easy but, he thought, digging a grave was never easy; in fact, it is one of the hardest jobs a man must do. After several more minutes, he stopped, unbuckled his gun belt, hung it on a nearby gravestone, then tossed his elkskin coat on the ground. As an afterthought, he looked around, reached over, and took the thong off the 44-40 Remington Army. Must be getting spooked, he thought.

What the hell am I doing burying an Indian? I never even met him, he said. Then somewhat embarrassed, he looked around to see if anyone could have heard him.

Less than five weeks ago, he was on his way to Fort Smith, Arkansas, when his horse stepped in a prairie dog hole and broke his leg. He had had that roan for close to eight years, and it was his only real friend, hearing all his thoughts.

That was one fine horse all right, and he saved my scalp on more than one occasion, he again said aloud, and this time without any embarrassment and with a little sparkle of a tear in his eye.

The grave was about two feet deep by now, and he stopped to look at the Indian wrapped in his own Fish Brand yellow rain slicker. He had had that A. J. Tower slicker for many years. Wear it well, he thought.

When Ants first saw the Indian, he was lying next to a buckboard with half an empty bottle of muscatel. Several people looked his way as they walked by. Just another drunk Indian, they must have thought.

About three feet down now and another three to go.

It had been almost a thirty-mile walk to Fort Smith. The saddle, trappings, and carpetbag were a heavy load, even for Ants, who stood an inch short of six foot and weighed 170 pounds. He was a hardworking man with calloused hands, but the fifteen-inch Arkansas toothpick in a boot sheath, the 44-40 Remington single action on his right hip, and the 44-40 Model 73 Winchester rifle with an octagonal barrel identified him as a fighting man.

Ants looked up as he heard the cemetery gate open. Two men, followed by about fifteen others, started up the hill toward him. Townsmen, he thought. A few youngsters skipped behind. One man, who appeared to be the leader, looked as big as a house, at least six foot seven, and must have outweighed Ants by two hundred pounds or more. The other man was weasel-like with a long untrimmed mustache, sort of like the kind Jim Courtright wore when they worked together for the American Mining Company in New Mexico. That was near six years ago, come to think about it, and the last time he heard from Jim, he was in Canada after that little bit of trouble he had while he was a ranch foreman for General A. Logan.

When they were about twenty feet apart, Ants could see that the larger man had two big protruding buckteeth. Like a big fat gopher, he thought.

Sure nice of you to come by and pay your respects, Ants said in a loud voice that stopped the crowd. But I don’t see the preacher to read the words?

The big man’s neck and face started to turn red. Mister, you have dug your last shovel of dirt. We don’t bury no dirty Injuns in a white man’s cemetery.

Ants looked up with a big grin on his face. Boys, you are right. I didn’t even know this Indian, and I have never even been in this town of yours. I’m just passing through on my way to the Harris spread, and in fact, I found this murdered Indian next to the Harris wagon. I figured he was sent to pick me up, so the least I could do was to give him a proper Christian burial.

Ants had chosen his words very carefully, but at the mention of murder, the crowd started to shuffle and whisper to each other. Ants was still standing in the middle of the grave, right hand on the shovel, left hand tucked on his belt, the Remington lying about two feet to his right.

The bucktooth man shouted, Enough! Get out of that hole and no more talk about murdered Indians.

As if by magic, a .41 Remington derringer appeared in Ants’s left hand, and was pointed at the big man.

One move, said Ants, and your friend will dig this grave for two.

Then in one motion, with the derringer pointed at the big man’s belly, he was out of the grave. The 44-40 was in his other hand.

Think of it this way, said Ants. You only have to dig another three feet, and there are two of you to do the digging. Now just toss your irons real easy on top of my jacket, and both of you step into the grave.

As they did what they were told, the little man with the weasel face spoke. You will never get away with this. Wait till the Major hears of it.

The crowd, who had now grown to over twenty, including a few women, was speechless. Several had a slight smile while others showed fear. Just what had he stumbled on to? Open range was what he wanted now. But the man called Ants never seemed to turn his back on a little trouble.

Ants pointed to a small boy. Son, here’s four bits. Go fetch the preacher. Tell him to bring his book because he will be saying some words over the dead.

The small boy ran as fast as he could, and the big man dug while the little one used a pick. When they were about six feet down, Ants said, That’s enough, boys. Come on out. Lay the Indian in real easy, ’cause he’s wearing my slicker. Take a horse blanket from the wagon and place it gently over his head ’cause I don’t want any dirt in his face. A man goes through life getting too much dirt thrown in his face without having it done when he dies. Cover him gently.

The young boy brought the preacher as they were finishing with the last shovel of dirt. He was a tall thin man with powerful-looking hands, coal-black hair, which fell to his shoulders; his eyes were close and very dark, and stood out against his sallow skin. From his looks, Ants thought that this preacher must do his calling after the sun set. The preacher wore a long black oxford coat and carried the Bible in his left hand. He walked directly to Ants, pointing his finger at him.

You, sir, are an evil man, he said. You have no right in God’s green pasture to force these good men to bury a drunken heathen.

Ants was very calm. Reverend, do you deny any man the right to return to the earth he was once a part of? Doesn’t the holy book say dust to dust and ashes to ashes? And was not Adam made from the clay of the earth?

The preacher glared at Ants. I, sir, will not be a part of this heathen ritual. He turned his back on Ants and started to walk away.

Just then, the big Remington army .44 was placed against the preacher’s head, the hammer drawn back in four loud deliberate clicks. Reverend, say your words, or these two boys will have to dig another grave.

The preacher read from the Good Book and concluded that Ants be condemned to the everlasting fires of hell and prayed that the body of the Indian would not cause the spirits of the good people buried in this holy land to roam and be restless, as their hallowed ground had been violated by this evil man.

After the preacher finished and walked away, Ants thought that perhaps having the preacher might not have been a very good idea. He then reached down in his jacket and produced a small tobacco pouch and from it drew some ground blue corn and sprinkled it on the grave. With outstretched hands, he said a few words in Comanche. He had his magic too, and if this town had something to fear, then let them fear the unknown.

Ants turned to the big bucktoothed man. Lead these good folks in ‘The Old Rugged Cross.’ He was expecting that none of them could carry a tune, not even if it was in a bucket, but after the second verse, he was beginning to feel better about this burial and even had the big man, who did have a fine voice, lead the crowd in a verse of Rock of Ages. He then thought he was pressing his luck and proceeded to thank all those who came to the burial. He noticed that the two half mustangs hitched to the freight wagon were already restless, and horses can indeed smell trouble.

Time I must go, folks. Again, thank you for being a part of the service for this poor murdered man, said Ants.

What about our guns? asked the weasel.

Well, boys, consider it a fee that I’m charging for digging half the grave before you came along, Ants replied.

With that, he picked up his coat and tossed it in the wagon, along with the two gun belts. Keeping the Remington pointed in the direction of the weasel, he stepped up on the wagon, slapped the reins, and whispered to the mustangs to go.

CHAPTER 2

Once a Cowboy—1886

The mustangs wanted to move as if the devil himself was pursuing them and once out of town, he let them have their head. He figured he had traveled about eight or nine miles before they started to slow. The little horses were still holding a steady pace, and from the directions he received from the stationmaster, he was to go about twenty miles due west along the main road where he would see a lightning-struck oak and a rarely used road running northwest. From there, it was another sixty miles to the Rocking H.

Well, Ants, you sure got yourself into a heap of trouble, and I hope that Lou Harris fellow has got a good sense of humor about him, said Ants.

And the horses seemed to look back at him as if to agree, boss.

At the oak tree, he let the horses rest, and for the first time had a real good chance to look over the terrain. He did not need a bullet in his back, and it was sure difficult to watch your back trail from a freight wagon.

Damn, I miss my horse, he again said aloud. And the two mustangs again looked at him as if to say, And we miss the Indian. Then they proceeded to graze. Ants took his rifle and walked over to a small rise. The river ran northwest along the road. It wasn’t much of a river. It was wide, but it appeared shallow. The crowd at the cemetery could have cut a diagonal path from the town and crossed the river a few miles up, so he would have to be prepared for an ambush.

If I had my horse, he thought, I would not be in this fix, and most likely, the Indian would still be alive.

Several months ago when Ants walked into Fort Smith, he stopped off at the livery stable. The old man there would take care of his trap for two bits a day and saddle-soap his saddle and other leather for an additional four bits.

I’ll make them better than new, he said.

Ants handed the man a greenback and said, Two days and better than new. Now, let’s look at your stock.

Look them over, mister. They may not be the best, but anything is better than what you got, said the man with a big toothless grin. Forty dollars, you take your pick.

I’ll think on it, old-timer, but first I would like a bite to eat and a good drink, said Ants.

The old man suggested the Hotel Le Flore if he wanted something to eat, and as for a drink, there were over twenty saloons in town, all doing a roaring business. This is some town, he thought, with twenty saloons, some with fancy names like the Silver Dollar or the Last Chance, all trying to take a man’s money at faro or another fast game.

Fort Smith had a population of near 4,000 and was filled with cowboys, railroad men, and a sprinkling of steamboat men. Down on First Street, the area was called The Row and there were three houses where the girls danced and the men paid for their favors. Proper town women were not allowed inside any of the saloons in this area.

As Ants walked along Know Street after leaving Dwenger’s Wagon Shop and Stable, he couldn’t help but notice the sign in the Fred Meyer Furniture House: Coffins Made to Order on Short Notice.

Ants walked into the House of Lords, which claimed to have steak and eggs and an honest game. He ordered a large steak and a bottle and noticed that he was now down to less than thirty dollars. He was not sure why he ordered a bottle of cheap whiskey since he rarely took more than one and no more than two drinks.

A card game was going on in the corner, and there was one empty chair. Oh well, he thought, what the hell. I just might get lucky. But in less than one hour, he was down to sixteen dollars. The long walk and bottle of whiskey had affected his judgment.

Let’s see those cards, he demanded as he started to stand. And then he felt the cold steel of a Colt placed against the back of his neck.

OK, cowboy, we have a nice room for you tonight, and tomorrow morning, we will see Judge Parker, Deputy Marshal Frank Dalton said as he slipped the