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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

It was a warm September evening in 1886 when the citizens of Muskogee gathered in the center of town to enjoy a concert given by the Muskogee Amateur Italienne Musical Society. Horses and wagons lined the streets. The performers tuned their instruments and greeted crowd members anxious to express their support. Excited children chased one another around, and families jockeyed for the best positions in front of a crude bandstand. Women huddled together discussing their day and comforting fussy infants who were unsettled by the flurry of activity.

Before the event officially began, the sound of rapid gunfire echoed off the buildings that framed the main thoroughfare. The gunshots grew louder, and suddenly a pair of horsemen appeared riding pell-mell toward the congregation. People scattered. Running for cover, families disappeared into businesses and homes. The cries of astonishment and fear from the unassuming townspeople had no effect on the two riders. Black Hoyt, a half-blood Cherokee with whom Captain Sixkiller had previous dealings, and a white man named Jess Nicholson gouged their boot spurs into the sides of their mounts and charged down the street, shooting their weapons at anything that moved.

The out-of-control men were drunk and enjoying the chaos their wild behavior caused among the startled townspeople. Captain Sixkiller and the police officers that worked with him, including Charles LeFlore, rushed onto the scene brandishing their own guns. The captain shouted at Black and Nicholson to stop, but the men were not inclined to do so. After a few moments of waiting for the two rowdies to do as they were told, the Muskogee police force managed to corner the riders. LeFlore ordered them to throw their pistols down, and Captain Sixkiller informed them they were under arrest. Neither of the men complied.

A tense hush filled the air as Hoyt and Nicholson considered their options. The captain studied the belligerent looks on their darkly flushed features. “Give us your guns now,” he demanded, “before someone gets hurt.” Hoyt shifted in his saddle and rubbed off the sweat standing on his chin with his right shoulder. His arm was missing from the elbow down, and his shirtsleeve was pinned over the remaining portion of the limb. Hoyt had lost his arm in June 1886 after he was shot by an unknown assailant while at Fort Gibson, Oklahoma Territory. The bullet fractured the lower third of the appendage, and amputation was his only chance of recovery. Black and his father, Milo, objected at first, but after conferring with a second doctor, realized there was no other option. The younger Hoyt recovered quickly from the chloroform and, as soon as he could, left the post doctor’s office to avoid any further attempts on his life. With Milo’s help he learned how to ride and shoot holding the reins of his horse and pistol in the same hand.

Black smiled a nervous smile and shifted his glance back and forth from Charles LeFlore to Captain Sixkiller. The captain wore a serious, determined expression. Hoyt screwed up all his drunken courage and nodded. “Go to hell!” he barked at the lawmen.It wasn’t the first time Stubbs had been accused of stealing the pistol from Rushing. Although Stubbs denied taking the gun, the men continued to come around and harass him for the item. They refused to accept the storeowner’s claim that he knew nothing of it. Rushing finally told him he intended to get seventeen dollars for the weapon before he left or there would be “hell to pay.”

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Captain Sam Sixkiller crossed the timber-lined banks of the Arkansas River atop a big, brown roan. The well-traveled trail that lay out in front of him looked like an ecru ribbon thrown down across the prairie grass. Riding a few paces behind the lawman was Deputy Bill Drew. Neither man spoke as they traveled. A herd of cattle in the near distance plodded along slowly toward a small stream. A couple of calves held back, bawling for their mothers, who had left them a safe distance behind. Upon reaching the stream the cows buried their noses in the water. They paid no attention to the approaching riders as they enjoyed a refreshing drink.

Captain Sixkiller pulled back on the reins of his horse, slowing the animal’s pace. He stared thoughtfully, considering the proximity of the cattle to the crude camp behind the field of prairie grass reaching to the horizon. Deputy Drew watched the captain, waiting for the officer to proceed. Both men knew the danger inherent in the job they’d set out to do that day in early January 1886. They were tracking a murderer named Alfred “Alf” Rushing, also known as Ed Brown.

Nine years prior to Captain Sixkiller leaving Muskogee on a cold winter’s day to apprehend Rushing, the elusive rowdy had shot and killed the marshal of Wortham, Texas. The Houston and Texas Central Railway ran through this busy cotton farm community, attracting nefarious characters like Rushing, a cattle rustler and bootlegger who hoped to make a fortune selling liquor and robbing business owners in the farming town. On December 8, 1879, Rushing and two accomplices had ridden into Wortham and made their way to J. J. Stubb’s general store. All three were armed with shotguns and hell-bent on retrieving a pistol they claimed Stubbs had stolen from them.

It wasn’t the first time Stubbs had been accused of stealing the pistol from Rushing. Although Stubbs denied taking the gun, the men continued to come around and harass him for the item. They refused to accept the storeowner’s claim that he knew nothing of it. Rushing finally told him he intended to get seventeen dollars for the weapon before he left or there would be “hell to pay.”

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Sheriff John Culp and Constable Rush Meadows of Chick County, Texas, raced their foam-flecked horses into a dense stand of trees leading to the Arbuckle Mountains, several miles north of Muskogee. The seasoned riders guided their mounts around centuries-old pines and oaks, twisted with age, and massive boulders keeping company with the crowded forest.

The lawmen were in pursuit of the outlaw Dick Glass. Glass rode hard, maneuvering his horse in and out of downed timbers. An insane rage possessed him—he could not allow himself to be caught. He dug his heels into his ride and steered the animal toward an embankment. A wind that seemed to blow from the outer spaces of eternity swept his hat off. He didn’t even glance after it.

The one thousand dollar reward for Glass’s capture, offered by the US Western District Federal Court, spurred the officers on. Glass was a Creek Freedman—half Indian, half black—and a one-time farmer in the Creek Nation. When the Civil War ended in 1865, all the slaves belonging to Indians became free and equal. Generations of Creek Freedmen had been raised on the land they worked, and they wanted part of it for their own once the battle between the states had concluded. Not only was their request denied, but also they were dispossessed because they weren’t Indian. Men like Dick Glass were bitter over the unjust treatment and many turned to a life of crime and retaliation.

In late March 1885 Glass and the gang of miscreants that usually rode with him were run out of the Creek Nation for rustling cattle, stealing horses, and murdering. He reluctantly obliged, taking with him other Creek Freedmen who had partnered with him in his lawless activities.

Glass roamed through the Seminole, Pottawatomie, and Chickasaw Nations to the Texas line before settling a spot seven miles from Muskogee known as the Point. Glass and his gang made their way back to the Point after every criminal act. It was their rendezvous location, and lawmen who came looking and found him there never lived long enough to report it. There were no cabins, lean-tos, or barns on the property. Glass and the other desperados slept outdoors, exposed to the elements.

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A springboard wagon topped a ridge surrounded by a grove of ancient juniper trees seven miles outside Muskogee. The wagon was weighted down with several heavy crates and made little sound. The contents inside the crates sloshed as the vehicle slogged through the rain-soaked turf. The soft ground muffled the hardworking wheels and the horses’ hooves. Solomon Coppell, an unshaven man dressed in a dirty, fawn-colored suit with a long-tailed coat, drove the wagon over a crude trail cut deep in mud and dirt. His roving button eyes scanned the scene in front of him, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Just beyond Solomon’s line of sight, tucked behind a thicket of brush, Captain Sam Sixkiller sat on his horse watching the driver. Sweat rolled down the lawman’s face that late spring day in 1883 as the sun rode up into a leaden sky, empty and cloudless, and blanketed the captain with a sticky heat. Solomon was uncomfortable too. He pulled his flat-brimmed hat off his head, backhanded a bead of perspiration off his hairline, reset his hat, and fixed his gaze back on the muddy track. The captain waited for just the right moment, and in one fast, flawless movement spurred his horse onto the trail directly in front of Solomon’s team.

A stunned Solomon quickly jerked back on the reins of the animals, bringing the skittish horses to a stop. “Hold it, Coppell!” Captain Sixkiller announced in a sober, stern voice. “You’re under arrest.” Solomon glanced at the cargo he was hauling and back to the captain. The lawman was alone and the bootlegger was confident he could survive a confrontation with his wagonload intact. Solomon stared at the captain for a moment, then shook his head. “I got a tip you were bringing booze into the Nation,” the captain informed him. Solomon didn’t reply and showed no signs of cooperating. “Surrender, Coppell,” Captain Sixkiller warned him again. “Throw your guns out in the road.”

The captain was empty-handed, his leg gun still resting in a holster on his thigh. Coppell made a grab for the shotgun on the wagon seat. Sixkiller’s hand whipped forward in a short, small arc. There was no strain. He saw Coppell’s face, distorted and desperate. His gun kicked back against his wrist. One shot. Captain Sixkiller’s gun exploded before it cleared his coat. The flame of the lawman’s shot licked through the fabric and curled to form a smoldering ring. He watched Coppell’s body jerk. Coppell swayed and fell into the trace chains and wagon tongue. The team reared and snorted and pawed at the air. The captain calmed the horses and kept them from running away.

Most Muskogee residents agreed that Captain Sixkiller was an effective policeman, quick to enforce the laws regarding the buying and selling of liquor. Nevertheless, some thought the rules should be relaxed. Cherokee Indian business owners believed they should have the right to purchase liquor to sell to white railroad workers and settlers passing through. Indian leaders maintained that such measures would lead to an increase in violence on the Cherokee Nation and insisted that troublemakers who peddled whiskey needed to be stopped.

Although Captain Sixkiller was never accused of being too harsh on those who violated the law, some Indians, including former chief of the Cherokee Nation, Lewis Downing, and Indian agent John B. Jones, thought that the US marshal and his deputies went too far in upholding the law. “Some deputy marshals make forcible arrests,” Chief Downing told Indian agent Jones in a letter, “without regard to circumstances or the facts of the case, and without any of the forms of law.” Smugglers occasionally planted whiskey on innocent people traveling through the Cherokee Nation. If they were stopped by Captain Sixkiller or his deputies and alcohol was found in their possession, they were arrested and taken immediately to Fort Smith, Arkansas, to be prosecuted. Chief Downing strenuously objected to the captain’s rush to judgment, arguing that in those instances, such individuals should be given the benefit of the doubt.

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A hot sun beat down on the busy residents of Muskogee, Oklahoma Territory, in June 1880. A heavy veil of humidity, like a stifling blanket, hung over the town as well. Situated nearly thirty miles southwest of Tahlequah, the primitive railroad stop was slowly coming into its own. More than five hundred people called the area home, and many among them were employees of the Missouri Pacific Railroad. At the end of the day, workers gathered by the score and milled about the hamlet of lean-tos, tents, and cabins. Gamblers had pitched their canvas dwellings in prime spots, and crowds flocked around their tables.

Quarrels frequently flared up between slick poker dealers and inexperienced card players. Soiled doves (prostitutes) prowled around the gaming tents and curious male bystanders like panthers. They enticed men to their crude rooms, then stripped them of any funds they had not already lost in a crooked card game. Unsuspecting shoppers and their families roamed in and out of the heated arguments that spilled into the street, gawking warily at the chaos while on their way to and from various stores.

City officials watched the scene play out in disgust. Bootleg alcohol was usually sold to the railroad crews and the houses of ill repute, and the clientele had a hard time controlling the amount they consumed. More often than not, customers who frequented bawdy houses and who drank to excess were prone to violence. They terrorized the neighborhood surrounding the brothels, recklessly firing their guns at women and children and brawling with townsmen who challenged them to put away their weapons.

In spite of repeat warnings from law enforcement officers like Colonel J. Q. Tuffts, a US agent for the Union Indian Agency in Muskogee, the madams who ran the brothels refused to voluntarily shut down their businesses. Brothels were considered a necessary evil; after all, a portion of the income spent at these houses supported public services such as the police department. Nevertheless, Agent Tuffts considered the bordellos a plague on the town, nothing more than a refuge for criminals and delinquents from miles around. When Agent Tuffts made Sheriff Sixkiller captain of the Indian Police in early February 1880, he made ridding Muskogee of such houses a priority for Sam’s administration.

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Willis Pettit, a tall, well-built black man, sunk his spurs into his horse’s back end and the animal, already moving at a fast pace, quickened its stride. The anxious rider chanced a glance over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. In the rapidly disappearing landscape there was no sign of any other rider. A flash of relief passed over his face.

Sheriff Sam Sixkiller, who was in pursuit of Pettit and had anticipated the route the fleeing criminal would take, waited for him at a ford in the Illinois River several miles outside of Tahlequah. The sheriff’s horse carried him over the rocks through a shallow section of water, then dropped its head to the surface and eagerly drank. Sam swung himself crossways in the saddle, lifted the canteen hanging off the horn, opened the container, and took a long swig. He carefully scanned the scenery around him as he hopped off his horse and plunged his canteen into the water to refill it. The sound of a fast-approaching horse made him pause for a moment. The sheriff returned the canteen to his saddle, then lifted his rifle out of its holster. Turning slowly toward the sound, he leveled his gun in the direction of the oncoming steed.

Pettit and his ride emerged from the thicket that flanked the river on both sides and followed the incline to the water’s edge. The horse spooked and reared back when it came upon Sheriff Sixkiller, and Pettit was thrown to the ground. Before he could even get to his feet, he was staring down the barrel of the sheriff’s gun. He raised his hands in surrender, cursing his luck in the process.

On May 15, 1876, Sheriff Sixkiller arrested Willis Pettit for “assault with intent to kill Emanuel Spencer with a pistol.” It was the first of many arrests for Pettit in the Cherokee Nation during Sam’s time in office. Pettit, a former slave, aligned himself with other ex-slaves who believed they were entitled to a section of the territory that had been given to the Five Civilized Tribes. They argued that, as restitution, slaves owned by the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole tribes who were freed after the Civil War should be granted a part of the region for their own exclusive use. With the exception of the Seminole Indians, every tribe disagreed with the idea, and the conflict sparked controversy and, at times, violence.

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The sweeping prairie lay quietly under the heat of a brassy sun as a lone wagon topped a grassy knoll that afforded an arresting view from every direction. Redbird Sixkiller drove the team of two horses pulling the wagon toward the town of Tahlequah, Oklahoma Territory, in the near distance. His four-year-old son, Sam, sat beside him captivated by the sights and listening intently to the stories Redbird told about his ancestors and the origin of the Sixkiller family name. Redbird shared with Sam a tale about one of their fearless relatives. The ancestor was engaged in battle against the Creek Indians and had killed six braves and then himself before another band of hostile Creek Indians that surrounded him could attack. The Cherokee Indian warriors who witnessed the daring act referred to the warrior as Sixkiller.

Given the courageous example Sixkiller had set, Redbird felt he owed it to the legendary Cherokee to face with the same fortitude the trials that lay ahead for the Indian Nation. It was a pathetic group of thousands of Indians who were herded west during the winter of 1838–39. Redbird Sixkiller’s recollection of the grueling journey that came to be known as the Trail of Tears was passed along to his son, his son’s sons, and every generation that followed. The January 18, 1972, edition of the Statesville, North Carolina, newspaper, the Statesville Daily Record, published Redbird’s reminiscences as told by those generations and noted that the inhumanity of the forced move of the Indians preyed on his sense of justice. He saw helpless Cherokee arrested, dragged from their homes, and driven at bayonet point into the stockades. He watched as his people were loaded like cattle into wagons and hauled west. Redbird told Sam how few of the Indians were given time to make arrangements to leave and that one family was driven from its home as members were preparing to bury a child who had died. He recounted how another mother forced from her home fell and died of a heart attack before they could take her to the stockade. Still another mother died of pneumonia contracted after giving her only blanket for the protection of a sick child.

Sam listened intently to his father describe a Cherokee elder’s reaction to the tragic event. The elder’s name was Chief Junaluska. During the Battle of the Horse Shoe, the chief saved the life of a man who would eventually become the president of the United States, and who would support the relocation of Indian tribes. The chief later admitted that if he had known the life he was saving was that of Andrew Jackson, American history would have been written differently.

Like many other Indians who survived the Trail of Tears, Redbird passed on to his son the stories of how government soldiers treated the Cherokee during this time. Only a few men were remembered for being humane. The majority of officers and the members of their units treated the Indians harshly. A soldier with the Georgia volunteers who showed sympathy to the Cherokee described in his memoirs the severity of the treatment the Indians received. “I fought through the War Between the States,” the veteran recounted, “and I have seen men shot to pieces by the thousands, but the Cherokee removal was the cruelest work I ever knew.”

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Lawman Sam Sixkiller led his horse through a belt of sparse timber along the Illinois River in southeast Oklahoma Territory. He was a stocky, dark-skinned, heavy-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed, droopy mustache and small dark eyes that were flatly calculating. His eyes shifted purposefully from the streams of sunlight off a growth of blackberry bushes to the rocky path dancing before him. Apart from the sound of his roan’s hooves slowly moving through the sweet-gum shrubs and short grass, the only noise was a mingling of a trio of agitated voices wafting through the warm air.

Sam urged his horse into a clearing where three half-blood Cherokee-Seminole Indians sat playing dice. In between rolls of the dice, the men drank from an amber-colored bottle that they eagerly shared with each other. Scattered beside the men were four empty liquor bottles. The drunken Indians barely noticed Sam slowly inching his horse into their crude camp.

The men were undisturbed by Sam’s presence and continued with their game. They argued over whose turn it was, nearly coming to blows over which player went next. Sam watched them toss the dice on a thick blanket. At first glance the dusty blanket appeared to be draped over a log. The closer he got to the action the more it became clear that the makeshift table was actually the body of a fourth Indian. A dark red stream of dried blood had trickled out from under the covering and pooled around a stand of bright orange butterfly weed.

Sam scrutinized the scene more carefully and spotted a massive knife within reach of the Indian closest to him. Sam casually pushed his jacket over the six-shooter strapped on his side, revealing not only the weapon but also the slightly tarnished badge that showed he was a member of the Cherokee Nation police force. One by one the men turned and looked at the lawman. For a breathless instant Sam watched the knife, expecting one of the Indians to snap it up. Without saying a word the three got to their feet, wavering a bit as they did so.

Sam pulled his gun out of his holster and leveled it at the men as he eased his five-foot eight-inch frame off his horse. He motioned for the men to back away from the body, and they reluctantly complied.

Disgusted, Sam walked over to one of the bottles and kicked it hard. It spun into a nearby rock and broke. What little booze was left inside spilled out and quickly soaked into the dry land.

Sam made his way to the motionless man on the ground and, using the toe of his boot, rolled him over on top of the blanket. The man was dead. There was a deep cut across his throat, and his limbs were stiff.

Possession of liquor on Indian land was a criminal offense. Since being appointed captain of the Indian Police at Union Agency in Muskogee, Creek Nation, in February 1880, Sam had arrested numerous buyers and sellers of liquor. The effect liquor had on many of the men and women in his jurisdiction threatened to destroy the Cherokee way of life.

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Although his exploits on the job were as courageous as those of Bill Hickok or Wyatt Earp, the name of Sam Sixkiller is scarcely recognized today. The criminal class that invaded the Indian Nation in the region now known as Oklahoma from 1870 to 1886 had to contend with an Indian police force known as the Lighthorsemen, of which Sam Sixkiller was a member. His ability to fearlessly handle horse thieves, bootleggers, murderers, and rapists that perpetrated such illegal acts on Indian land earned him the respect of his people and fellow officers.

As High Sheriff in Tahlequah, the capital of the Cherokee Nation, Sixkiller apprehended white lawbreakers selling rotgut whiskey to Indians and squared off against hostile half-breeds like “Badman” Dick Glass. Glass had a reputation that rivaled Jesse James; some said he was even more ruthless. Sheriff Sixkiller wasn’t intimidated by the outlaw and did what was needed to bring him in. Sam Sixkiller not only arrested outlaws and put them in jail but also served as the warden of the very facility that housed the lawbreakers.

From Tahlequah, Sixkiller moved on to Muskogee, in present-day Oklahoma, where he was promoted to captain of the Lighthorsemen and helped to bring peace to the volatile area. When the railroads sliced through the landscape, Captain Sixkiller was named a special agent to the rail lines, thwarting attempted robberies and staving off whiskey peddlers hoping to transport their goods across the territory. Isaac Parker, the famous 12th Judicial Circuit judge who held court at Fort Smith, Arkansas, from 1868 to 1898, was so impressed with Captain Sixkiller’s tenacity and dedication to law and order that he recommended the officer be given a commission as a US deputy marshal. These additional responsibilities further exposed the lawman to some of society’s most dangerous characters.

A legal altercation between Sixkiller and a pair of violent repeat offenders named Richard Vann and Alf Cunningham sparked a vendetta that eventually led to the lawman’s death. Off duty and unarmed, Sixkiller was ambushed and killed by the criminals on Christmas Eve in 1886.

The death of Captain Sixkiller exposed a serious void in federal law as it pertained to those who murdered Native American US deputy marshals: There was nothing on the books that made it a federal offense to kill an Indian officer. Although legislation to correct this deplorable oversight eventually passed, it came too late to affect the cowards that robbed Sixkiller of his life.

Sam Sixkiller died a martyr to the cause of law and order. His story is not only about his life and untimely demise, but also about the everyday life of frontier lawmen and the duties they performed, from the mundane to the perilous.

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The Principles of Posse Management:

Lessons from the Old West for Today’s Leaders.

Newspaper readers from Hartford, Connecticut, to Portland, Oregon, were shocked to read about the bold and daring robbery of the Ohio and Mississippi Railroad on October 6, 1866. It was the first robbery of its kind. Banks and stage lines had been robbed before, but no one had perpetrated such a crime on a railroad. According to the October 20, 1866, edition of the Altoona Tribune, three masked bandits entered the car stopped at a station near Seymour, Indiana, with the idea of taking money from the Adams Express safe. They entered the car from the front platform, leveled their revolvers at the head of the guard on duty, and demanded he hand over the keys to the safe. He did so with no argument. While one of the bandits stood guard, the others opened and removed the contents of one of the three safes which included more than $20,000 in cash. When the job was done, the desperadoes moved one of the safes to the door of the car, opened it, and tossed the box out.

The heavy safe hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to a stop. One of the masked men pulled on the bell cord, and, as the engineer replied with the signal to apply the brakes, the robbers jumped out of the train and made their escape. The engineer saw the bandits leap off the train and speculated they were headed in the direction of Seymour. The train slowed to a stop and one of the agents for the Adams Express Company who was on the train hopped off and ran back to the station with the news of the robbery. He commandeered a handcar and recruited a few men to help him collect any evidence left behind by the thieves. On the agent’s way back to the train, he found the safe tossed from the car. The $15,000 inside had not been touched.

The Adams Express Company offered a $5,000 reward for the arrest and conviction of the robbers. A witness aboard the train the evening it was robbed told authorities he recognized the desperadoes who stole the money as the Reno brothers, John and Simeon, and one of their friends, Frank Sparks.

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The Principles of Posse Management:

Lessons from Old West for Today’s Leaders.