Brann’s Revenge

by S. Smith

  Anyway, this green-horn had a wad of tobacco in his mouth and right in front of Deputy Spit, he thought he’d had enough juice in his mouth, so he spit out a huge wad of a nasty brown and black moistness right dab onto the sidewalk. As you can imagine, Deputy Spit was not a happy deputy. He handed the man an old rag, told him to get some water, and clean it off. The man promised that he would get right on it. Well, the end of the day came, and the spot was still there, all dried up and crusty like, and the spitting man was nowhere to be found. Deputy Spit was furious.

  He asked some folks if he was still in town. They told the Deputy that they had seen him get into his buggy and head east back towards Mexia. Well, you’d of thought that the man had just assassinated the President. The Deputy was all excited and out of breath and finally rounded up a posse of three men. The next day they set out towards Mexia. The posse found the young man, brought him back to Waco, and darn if he wasn’t out there for three days, swabbing and cleaning every sidewalk in town. The town sidewalks had never looked so good.

  Afterward every time that the green-horn would come into town, he avoided Deputy Spit like the plague. He’d say, “That Deputy don’t take no spit from no one,” and indeed he didn’t. The joke around town was to say something around the Deputy that usually involved the word “shit” and substitute the word “spit.” The one I’d always pull around him was to say, “Deputy, I hear the spits about to hit the fan since the Sheriff has ordered the no-spitting policy, but frankly I think it’s bull-spit.” He’d pause for a long ten seconds, give me a stern look down the brim of his hat with one eye, and without a flinch say in his deep voice, “Red, you’re full of horse spit. I’d suggest you get yourself out of my sight before I beat the living spit out of you.” He’d never ever crack a smile or even give me a wink, but I think he was joking...I think.

  Mr. Brann’s office was located on the third floor of the Provident building at 4th and Franklin with his office facing Franklin. Fourth and Franklin was the hub of commercial activity back at the turn of the 20th century, with the Post office on the southeast corner, the Provident building occupying the southwest corner, the Pacific Hotel on the northeast corner, and a slew of small businesses occupying the last corner. As I would ride my bike past the buildings, I’d keep a keen eye out for a hand wave or an ear out for the loud holler of “Red” at the top of someone’s lungs. That’s how I knew that someone such as Mr. Brann or one of my other clients needed a package delivered.

  Waco had its Baptists. Not that it didn’t also have other religious denominations, but Baptists were the dominant players back then. Not only did the Baptists support and run the flagship college in town, Baylor University, but the leaders in the Waco area were vying for control of the denomination within the state as the Waco delegation dominated the state conventions. As a result, they influenced many of the Baptist events around the state including where the Baptist University was to be located, Waco. Where the primary Baptist newspaper was going to be located, Waco. Where the Theological Seminary was going to be located, Waco, at least initially. Their influence was felt far and wide within the State and occasionally the nation. It is still felt today as many of the institutions they built back then are still going strong and providing an immeasurable amount of benefit to society, in terms of health care, education, and religion. Yes sir, back in the day, the Baptist religion and Waco were akin to Catholicism and the Vatican City. If you told someone from out of town or out of state that you were from Waco they assumed that you were Baptist. And if you told someone that you were Baptist, they assumed that you were from Waco. Baptist and Waco were sort of synonyms for each other.

  Waco had its share of newspapers as did most towns. Back then, anyone who had a talent for writing could start a newspaper. Even those without talent could start one, but the marketplace quickly and ruthlessly weeded out the untalented. This is where the story of William Cowper Brann starts.

  Mr. Brann was a country boy from Illinois. He had no formal education beyond grade school. His mother died when he was just a young boy three years of age, and his father pawned him and his sister off to a local Presbyterian minister and family. He didn’t much care for the farm work required of him, so at the tender age of thirteen, with all his personal belongings under his arm in a small box, he struck out on his own. He worked at numerous odd jobs and eventually got married and started a family.

  Somewhere along the way, he discovered that he had a knack for writing and debating. He was always headstrong, which was likely one of the reasons he had to leave the nest so early, probably after a heated debate with his Presbyterian minister foster parent. But before he left, he single-handedly commandeered a locomotive, while the crew was off on break. The way he told it, about noon as the entire crew was off the train getting some lunch, he secretly boarded the train, engaged the gear, and started heading down the track. Unbeknownst to him, the engineer was napping on the train. He awoke from the jerking motions of the train and pulled Mr. Brann from the controls by his ear and took over the train. There is no telling how his ride would have ended up if the engineer hadn’t been on the train. Maybe it would have been another train wreck, like the MKT tragedy in Waco he was so critical of.

  Mr. Brann, like me, was a voracious reader and closely studied the classics. He ended up writing for Texas newspapers in Corpus Christi and San Antonio, but always seemed to get on the wrong side of his employers, likely due to his strong opinions. He started “Brann’s Iconoclast” in Austin, but couldn’t find enough subscribers to sustain it. By the way, Iconoclast means, “a person who attacks cherished beliefs or traditional institutions as being based on error or superstition.” He became a self-appointed hypocrite buster, a Myth Buster, which is a good thing. However, if you were the object of his vitriol prose, you would have a different opinion on it being good or not. After he went bust in Austin, he sold his printing press to O. Henry who started publishing “The Rolling Stone,” a parody magazine in the late 1890s.

  Mr. Brann ended up getting a job as the editor of a Waco newspaper, but quickly started up his “Iconoclast” newspaper again. This time it was with a vengeance. He had plenty of material, as hypocrites abounded in the city of Waco, Texas.

  I always wondered how Mr. Brann ended up in this self-appointed position. Was it his religious upbringing that taught him this self-righteousness? Was it the strict discipline of his father and his step-father? Was it just that he thought that he could out argue anyone, anywhere, anytime, which he generally could? He definitely had a knack for pointing out other people’s flaws, but the strange part was he had plenty of flaws of his own. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but I don’t think he ever claimed to be. Perhaps he was looking out for the institutions that he thought were the treasures of our community and country. Perhaps he tired of the hypocritical nature of people in power, as he criticized them all. Or perhaps he was just a man who was looking to make a living, selling newspapers that pointed out other people’s flaws. This could very well have been the case, as sensationalism generally smells, but it also sells.

  Yes, although Mr. Brann’s office was literally only eight blocks from the largest Baptist University in the world, Mr. Brann and the Baptists were like oil and water and did not mix at all. This is where all the trouble started. They were like two fighting roosters going at each other to see who could puff themselves up more.

  Chapter 3

  THE GANG

  Waco, Texas at the end of the nineteenth century, was a city of contrasts. It was a Baptist town, but had a thriving legal red-light district. It was a center of business, yet its nickname was Six-Shooter Junction, as folks would oftentimes shoot it out with each other in the streets to settle erred business arrangements. It had millionaire mansions mere blocks from rows of shanty housing. It was a dusty, dirty town, particularly in the hot summer months, yet it had a Deputy Spit who controlled people’s ability to spit on the sidewalk. It was a city of higher education, yet most of its population didn’t h
ave an education beyond third grade. It had a group of free thinkers and anti-prohibitionists such as J.D. Shaw, Senator Coke, and Mr. Brann, but it also had the Texas Prohibitionist leadership of such men as J.B. Cranfill and B.H. Carroll. Waco was indeed a city of contrasts.

  The nickname, Six-Shooter Junction, was apropos as street shootings were a common way to settle feuds. Provoked citizens were just as likely to pull out their six-shooters and duel as they were to sit down and talk out their grievances. This made for big business for the town undertakers. If someone had a duel and ended up surviving, and they could prove that they were wronged or drawn into the fight, an acquittal was the most likely outcome, particularly if the townsfolk were on their side.

  One man the entire town respected and feared was Old Judge Gerald. George B. Gerald was a Captain in the Confederate army. He was as honest as the day was long, and always said what he thought. He didn’t pull any punches, with his talk or with his fists. I should say fist, as he only had one good arm due to a war injury. He was well read, with a keen intellect, but he didn’t take trouble from anyone. If you crossed him, he would fight you. If he said he was going to fight you, you knew he would, even if it was years later. He never forgot an insult or a grudge, so everyone tried to stay on his good side. He was well into his sixties by the time Mr. Brann came to town. The two quickly became friends and allies.

  Once, a well-known bawdy house in the Reservation was secretly operating a gambling table upstairs. While prostitution was completely legal, the town could not tolerate gambling, so it was outlawed. Judge Gerald ordered the house to stop the gambling, but they didn’t. He took this refusal to stop as a personal insult and went to the house. With his one good arm, he threw the owner out the upstairs window. I remember that fellow yelling the entire way down. He seemed to hang almost magically in the air for a second or two before he quickly hit the ground with a thump, landing on his bum. He wasn’t hurt badly except for his pride. After that, the gambling stopped and the Judge never had a lick of trouble from that bawdy house or that gentleman again.

  Judge Gerald had lost the use of one arm during the Civil War, but he could still scare the pants off just about any man in Waco. I’d tease him about his bum arm and he would teasingly respond that he could still put a stripe or two down my back with it if he could catch me, but I knew that he was only teasing me back. He was a fearless man. As I grew older and wiser, I realized that Judge Gerald had something of a death wish. He was a brave trooper in the war, and I believe he thought he should have died a hero there. He was wounded multiple times. But because he was as tough as nails he didn’t die. Over time, he became even more fearless. I think he wanted to die in a violent manner instead of just wasting away. But as you will soon see, no single man, not even two young men, could outdo this old confederate soldier.

  About the same time that Mr. Brann came into town, a new girl from Brazil also came into town. She was the prettiest thing that I’ve ever seen, except for Inez. She called me Triplo Ruivo, which means triple redhead in Portuguese. I admit I had the biggest crush on her when she first got to town. She was beautiful. She had olive- colored skin and wore her jet black hair in a pony-tail that would swing from side to side as she walked. She was a tiny thing, not an inch over 5’2”, but her personality made her six feet tall. She was outspoken, opinionated, and would give you what for if you crossed her. She was only fourteen when I first met her.

  As I was riding my bike down Franklin, I heard the yell, “RED!” come out of the Post Office. I pulled to the curb, ran up the steps and there was the Postmaster. He told me a package needed to be delivered to Baylor to Dr. Burleson’s house. I had delivered multiple packages to Doc Burleson’s house before so this was not unusual. I picked the package up, put it into my basket, and took off down 5th street towards the campus.

  Dr. Rufus Burleson, or Doc Burleson as I called him, was a giant of a man both in stature and in leadership. He was the President of Baylor University at Independence, Texas, before quitting and leaving Baylor to lead Waco University. Under his leadership, Waco University grew even larger than Baylor. Eventually, the two colleges merged together at Waco and became Baylor University.

  Doc Burleson led the university for almost fifty years and was quite elderly at the time that I knew him. You could tell that he used to be taller than he currently was, as he was a bit hunched over. He wore a long white beard and his hair had long since gone white, but he still spoke with a strong voice. Rumor had it that he had baptized the Texas Revolution hero, General Sam Houston. In Texas, this was like St. John the Baptist baptizing Jesus. Sam Houston was revered by Texans at the time for having won the war against Santa Ana and his Mexican army.

  As I approached the Burleson’s residence, the new girl was sitting on the front porch in the swing. I ran up the steps with my package in hand and tripped on the last step, throwing the package directly at her. I almost hit her in the face as I landed on my own. Fortunately she caught the package, but then got up and proceeded to give me a five minute lashing in Portuguese that I didn’t understand, but I knew wasn’t pretty. By this time, Mrs. Burleson was on the porch wondering about all the commotion.

  I took the package from the new girl and handed it to Mrs. Burleson. I said, “Sorry Mrs. Burleson but I tripped on the step and accidentally tossed the package to this person. By the way, who is it?”

  Mrs. Burleson, always a proper lady of calmness, took the package and then patted the girl on the back. “Red, this it here is Miss Antonia Teixeria. She’s from Brazil and she’s staying with us while she goes to school at Baylor. She doesn’t speak very much English right now, but she is learning. She could use a friend to show her around town. Would you mind doing that for us?”

  If you knew anything about Baylor and Waco, you knew that you never refused a request from Mrs. Burleson. She was like the First Lady of Baylor and of Waco. It would be like refusing a request from the Queen of England. I took payment from Mrs. Burleson and she gave me a bit extra so that I could take Antonia downtown to get a soda water.

  As we walked the eight block distance to the Old Corner Drug Store, we didn’t say a word to each other. I think she was still mad at me for throwing the package at her, and I didn’t know a word of Portuguese except for si and no. Fortunately she knew a few words of English so as we got our drinks we started communicating with those few words and with a lot of sign language, such as drink by pretending to put a drink up to your mouth. It was quite awkward, but after a while I think she started to enjoy my company.

  After we drank our ice cold Dr. Peppers, I walked around town with her and just started talking to her like she understood every word. Occasionally she would stop and point at something and I would tell her about it, knowing that she probably understood about one tenth of what I was saying. Afterwards we met a few folks in town who rubbed their hands through my hair (an everyday event) and called me Red. She said “ruivo” as she pointed to my hair and touched it. Then she said, “muito ruivo” as she smiled at me, which I later on realized she was saying, “much redhead.” Then she said “Triplo, triplo, triplo ruivo,” and started laughing, at which point I started laughing as well. And so it went that she would always call me “Triplo Ruivo.” I was quite proud to be walking around with her as folks would walk by and say, “Red, who’s the looker?”

  For the next few months, I tried to carry as many packages to the Burleson’s as I could. I knew it would mean an extra tip, a soda water, and an afternoon spent with Antonia. I didn’t mind at all. After a while she started learning more and more English and I learned a few words of Portuguese and our communications improved. Eventually, I think she was getting about half of what I was saying.

  With Antonia living at the Burleson’s house, I also started spending more and more time there. They didn’t mind the company and I didn’t mind eating their food which was plentiful. Antonia was never my girlfriend – we were just friends – but I think some folks thought differently.

 
The Burleson’s place was always busy. People would come talk to Doc Burleson about the university or just the Baptist religion in general. It was always Brother this and Brother that. As you are probably aware, all Baptists men call each other brother, even today. I always found that amusing, especially with the Carroll brothers. There was B.H. Carroll or Big Brother Carroll, as I would call him, and there was J.M. Carroll or Little Brother Carroll, and they were actually brothers. I often smiled as I wondered if Big and Little brothers Carroll called each other Brother when they were off the clock. Did they call each other, Brother, brother Carroll, or perhaps Double brother Carroll? They both stood quite tall, with Big Brother Carroll standing about 6’4” while Little Brother Carroll was slightly shorter. They both wore these very long beards that looked like you could hide food in them. I always thought that perhaps their lunch was in there somewhere. If not for the three-piece suits they always wore, people could have easily mistaken them for hillbillies straight from the hills of Kentucky, which they pretty much were.

  I didn’t realize this at the time, but Big Brother Carroll was the Baptist Kingpin of the entire state. He practically ran the entire religion in Texas. As I heard it, before age 22, he was an avowed atheist and religious antagonist, something of a Saul, when he found God. He had deep-set eyes that were oddly gray. He also had an eerie stare that always scared me a bit, like he was looking past my eyes and reading my mind. His gray hair, his gray beard, and his gray eyes, seemed to fit with his confederate demeanor. He had something of a Virginia drawl that made me think of Robert E. Lee, even though he was from Kentucky.