March 30th, 2009

It seems like I’ve been working on the story of Sam Sixkiller for a while. But I’m just as fascinated with the lawman’s life now as I was when I first began the research.
The history of the frontier Indian police of Oklahoma would not be complete without the story of Sam Sixkiller. Sam was one of the most popular and accomplished lawmen in the territory. He built a police force that took on bootleggers that threatened to destroy the lives and culture of the Native Americans in the central plains. He was the Eliot Ness of the Old West.
In 1886 Sheriff Sixkiller was shot and killed in an ambush. After the killers escaped indictment by the tribes, Congress passed a law giving the district Federal courts jurisdiction over any Indian who committed a crime against a federally appointed Indian police officer or United States deputy marshal.
I thought I’d post a bit of the Sixkiller story today. Enjoy.
Lawman Sam Sixkiller led his horse through a belt of sparse timber along the Illinois River in Southeast Oklahoma. He was a stocky, heavy-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed, droopy mustache and small dark eyes that were flatly calculating. They shifted purposely from the streams of sunlight off a growth of yellow sagebrush to the rocky path before him. In addition to the sound of the roan’s hooves slowly moving through the mesquite and buffalo grass, there was the mingling of a trio of agitated voices wafting through the warm air.
Sam urged his ride into a clearing where three Cherokee Indians sat playing dice. In between rolls of the pebble dice the men drank from a bottle of whisky they eagerly shared with each other. Scattered beside the men were four empty bottles of liquor. The drunken Indians barely noticed Sam watching them in the near distance. He scowled and inched his horse into their crude camp. The men were undisturbed by the rider and continued with their game. They argued over whose turn it was, nearly coming to blows before settling on which player went next.
Sam watched them toss the dice on a thick blanket. At first glance the blanket appeared to be draped over a log. The closer Sam got to the action the more it became clear that the make-shift table was actually the body of a fourth man. A stream of dried blood had trickled out from under the blanket and pooled around a stand of butterfly weeds. Sam scrutinized the scene more carefully, spotting a massive knife within reach of the Indian closest to him. Every nerve in Sam’s body tensed. He refrained from any sudden moves that might betray his next move. He casually pushed his jacket over the six-shooter strapped to his side, revealing not only the weapon, but the slightly tarnished badge that showed he was the sheriff of the Cherokee Nation.
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 gamblers got to their feet, wavering a bit in the process. Sam pulled his gun out of his holster and leveled it at the men as he lifted his 5’8 inch frame off his horse. He motioned for the Indians 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 in it spilled out and was quickly soaked into the ground. With his gun still trained on the Indians, Sam made his way to the motionless man on the ground. Using the toe of his boot, he rolled the man out from under the blanket. There was no mistaking he was dead. There was a deep cut across the man’s throat and his limbs were stiff.