Cheese and Quackers

Clay Allison, the two-gun time bomb who called himself a “shootist,” died on Jun. 30, 1887 notfrom a bullet but under the wheels of his own wagon. There were two Clay Allisons. One was a respectable rancher, whose character and courage attracted friends and admirers wherever he went. But after a few stiff drinks, his dark side emerged, and Allison became the frontier menace described as “hell turned loose” that killed at the drop of a hat. The source of his violent streak may have been physical. A medical discharge from the Confederate army stated he was “incapable of performing the duties of a soldier because of a blow received many years ago. Emotional or physical excitement produces paroxysmals of a mixed character, partly epileptic and partly maniacal.” In layman’s terms, when Allison got his dander up, the prudent took cover.  The ashes of the Confederacy were still warm, when the 25 year old Tennessean migrated to  North Texas. Odd jobs as a trail-hand led him to New Mexico, where by 1870 he owned a sma ll spread in thenortheastern corner of the territory. A fast draw earned the newcomer a nasty reputation and a host of challengers. One especially cocky opponent invited him to dinner at the local hotel before their scheduled showdown. Choosing to settle the issue over coffee, the overanxious adversary went for his gun but the barrel failed to clear the table top.Jumping to his feet, Allison coolly shot the clumsy amateur above the right eye. Asked why he risked a meal with a man determined to do him in, he deadpanned, “Because I didn’t want to send him to hell on an empty stomach.” Just about anything could set Allison off. Arriving at Cheyenne, Wyoming with a herd of steers and a throbbing toothache, the gunfighter hurried to the nearest dentist. When he extracted the wrong molar by mistake, Allison flew into a rage, tied the poor soul to his own chair and pulled every tooth in his head. If circumstances called for fair play, Allison sometimes gave the other fellow a sporting chance. To resolve a dispute of long standing with a neighbor, the two leaped naked into a grave armed only with Bowie knives. Proving he was as handy with an Arkansas Toothpick as a Colt.45, the gunman climbed out of the pit moments later and  kept his promise by burying the loser.During his infrequent spells of sobriety, Allison took offense at being branded a gunslinger and tried in vain to refute published accounts of his bloody deeds. To cloak his lethal talent in respectability, he coined the term “shootist” and to set the record straight penned surprisingly literate protests. In a letter to a Missouri newspaper which credited him with 15 killings, Allison wrote, “I have at all times tried to use my influence toward protecting the property holders and substantial men of the country from thieves, outlaws and murderers, among whom I do not care to beclassed.” This genteel argument did not move the editor to print a retraction. The lack of response to such sincere appeals undoubtedly disappointed Allison. When his vision was not blurred by alcohol, he pictured himself as a law-abiding rancher who rightfully refused to be pushed around. Believing he was the innocent victim of a smear campaign by the Yankee press, he ignored the fact that Texas newspapers repeated the very same charges. Late in life -- late considering the life expectancy of a gunfighter -- Allison married and settled near Mobeetie inthe Texas Panhandle. At age 41, he toned down his drinking and struggled to get a grip on himself. When the chronic problem of rustling reached epidemic proportions, concerned cattlemen called an emergency meeting. Although the thieves had wisely left his  herd alone, Allison accepted an invitation to the gathering. The discussion was going nowhere until Allisonasked, “Do you really want to know who the damned thieves are?” “Yes!” was the eager answer. Rising from his chair at the same instant he drew his guns, Allison pointed to a couple of dumbfounded cowmen in the corner of the room. “Well, two of them are sitting among us. There they are!” The accused bolted for the door and vanished across the prairie. Allison screamed after them, “Come back here, you calf-stealing hypocrites!” But the rustlers wanted no part of the notorious “shootist” drunk or sober. In the summer of 1887, Allison bought severalmonths’ worth of supplies at Pecos. On the return trip to the Panhandle, he accidentally fell off the heavy wagon  and was crushed to death under the wheels. Gunfighters in the Old West traditionally went to their reward courtesy of the gallows or a quicker trigger. But then Clay Allison always said he wasn’t bad, merely misunderstood. Visit barteehaile.com for Bartee’s books “Murder Most Texan” and “Texas Depression-Era Desperadoes” and bound collections of his Texas history columns from the past 32 years.