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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
In the hours leading up to Christmas Day 1886, Muskogee was crowded with trail hands, farmers, drifters, and families. Mothers with their children in hand filtered in and out of the various stores that lined Main Street. Upon exiting the businesses, they would stop to admire the few displays in the windows. Most of the people visiting the mercantile, restaurants, and hotels on December 23 and 24 were primarily interested in horse racing. They hurried back and forth from the two-mile-long stretch of track outside town carrying food, alcohol, and cash. Men laid money out recklessly on long-legged, sleepy-eyed geldings, some with United States Army brandings on their rumps. Spectators stood on either side of the unmarked track anxiously waiting for the races to begin. Horses and riders lined up for the ‘dropped flag’ start. The shouts and cheers from the onlookers nearly drowned out the sound of the animals’ pounding hooves hurrying toward the finishing mark.1
Dick Vann was among the enthusiastic group enjoying the festivities. Whenever the horse he bet on won, he would celebrate with a round of thunderous applause and a long swig from a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Alf Cunningham had had his share of drinks during the event, and he and Dick took turns slapping one another on the backs each time their wager paid off and laughing uproariously at their good fortune.
By early afternoon on Christmas Eve both men were well on their way to getting drunk. They were belligerent with anyone jockeying for a better position to see the races than they had and were not immune from spitting in the face of people who celebrated a win when they had lost. Vann had finished off his bottle of whiskey and persuaded Cunningham to return to a place in town that would sell them more bootleg alcohol. Heavy grey clouds hung over the busy hamlet. A great V-shaped mass of ducks and Canadian geese flying south passed overhead of the two as they walked away from the race track. The whole sky was filled with the soft whir of wings. Cunningham removed a gun tucked inside his coat pocket, pointed it at the birds, and pretended to shoot. Amused with himself, Cunningham laughed at his playful antics. Vann was too distracted by the sight of Tom Kennard, a Creek Lighthorseman to do more than grin.2
Kennard stood in the doorway of the Commercial Hotel surveying the plethora of activity around him. Vann watched the officer carefully, then crossed to the other side of the street to avoid coming in contact with him. Unaware that anything was out of the ordinary at first, Cunningham followed after his brother-in-law. When he spotted Kennard he slowed down. Deciding against continuing on with Vann, he crossed the street to the lawman. Cunningham wore a contemptuous look as he approached Kennard. The bitterness he had for the law grew with magnificent intensity as he drew closer to the Lighthorseman. Kennard, a descendant of black slaves once owned by the Creek Indians, saw Cunningham walking toward him but did not anticipate any trouble.3
Without hesitating, Cunningham jerked his gun out and pointed it at the lawman’s face. He swore angrily at Kennard and threatened to kill him. Neither calm reasoning nor the promise of jail could persuade Cunningham to lower his weapon. A passerby, Mrs. Renfoe (wife of the town butcher), witnessed the exchange and grabbed the pistol. Before Cunningham was able to wrench it free, Kennard drew his own gun. He brought the butt of the weapon down hard on the cursing assailant’s head, and Cunningham collapsed at his feet. Kennard took the gun away from him and left him where he fell.
To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read
Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
