By Frank [Edited and Arranged by Mary Whatley Clarke] Collinson
Englishman Frank Collinson went to Texas in 1872, while he was once seventeen, to paintings on Will Noonan’s ranch close to Castroville. He lived the remainder of his existence within the southwestern usa, and on the age of seventy-nine started writing in regards to the outdated West he knew and enjoyed. He had an aptitude for writing, a gorgeous reminiscence, and a fondness for fact that's glaring in what he wrote and said.His writings for Ranch Romances, his letters, and transcriptions of his conversations were prepared right here in approximately chronological order, in order that their value for frontier heritage is quickly obvious. Collinson ranged the West in his writings as he did in individual, telling of the final tragic days of buffalo looking at the Plains; clashes among hunters or cowboys and the Plains Indians; the nature of path drivers; and the definitive nature of violence, really at gun-point.J. Frank Dobie stated of Collinson: "In the area of frontier chronicles, the writing of proficient Englishmen. . . males with the point of view of civilization, with mind's eye, and a lust for primitive nature, stand out. To this classification of fellows belongs Frank Collinson."
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Since the killer was unpopular, he was immediately arrested and put in jail. That evening when night fell, the citizens went to the jail, got the Frenchman, took him to a live oak tree, and hanged him. I did not see the hanging, but heard later that the Frenchman pleaded, begged, and cried when he saw they were going to hang him, but it did no good. Page 23 On my way to the ranch I had often passed the tree where the Frenchman was hanged. It was a big, healthy tree, but it withered and died a month after the Frenchman was hanged.
When he did not return his family became alarmed and notified the neighbors. A search was made for him. The moon was shining bright on the snow, and it was easy to follow his tracks. His body was found full of arrows. Early the next morning we followed the trail of the Indians to the Honeycomb Mountains, a distance of about thirty miles. The Indians had scattered there and we had to give up the chase. Old man Habby and his sons operated a horse ranch up the Medina River about eight miles from the Circle Dot.
There he found Bill and the Mexican. Ben had not returned, but they felt sure that he would ride in soon. When he failed to do so they became worried and set out to hunt for him. They inquired at a neighboring ranch, but he had not been there. Night was now falling, and it would be impossible to find Ben before morning in the thick mesquite brush. By daylight they left in the direction where the neighbor had heard the shooting the afternoon before. They hunted all morning and found Ben's body about noon.