Can you imagine the chilling sensation of a cold, vigilante mob's gaze on you as they draw their revolvers, ready to end your life in an instant? This episode of our history podcast brings to life the intensity of such a moment, as we recount the infamous William Taylor Incident. Guided by the firsthand account of early settler Herman Fringer, we journey through the lawless streets of early Dodge City, shedding light on its complex history and unforgettable characters.
Ever wondered what pushed men to the brink in the Wild West? Brace yourself as we recount the gripping tale of William Taylor, an unfortunate victim of vigilante justice led by the volatile John Scott. From the formation of Dodge City to the dramatic climax of a violent mob scene, each turn of the story is bound to keep you on the edge of your seat. Experience raw emotions, feel the palpable tension, and step into the shoes of William Taylor as we examine his pleas for mercy and the path that led him to his tragic demise. This is a journey into the heart of the Wild West you won't want to miss.
Return of the Great Hunters
Cattle Drives Website
Legends of Dodge City Website
Order Books
Can you imagine the chilling sensation of a cold, vigilante mob's gaze on you as they draw their revolvers, ready to end your life in an instant? This episode of our history podcast brings to life the intensity of such a moment, as we recount the infamous William Taylor Incident. Guided by the firsthand account of early settler Herman Fringer, we journey through the lawless streets of early Dodge City, shedding light on its complex history and unforgettable characters.
Ever wondered what pushed men to the brink in the Wild West? Brace yourself as we recount the gripping tale of William Taylor, an unfortunate victim of vigilante justice led by the volatile John Scott. From the formation of Dodge City to the dramatic climax of a violent mob scene, each turn of the story is bound to keep you on the edge of your seat. Experience raw emotions, feel the palpable tension, and step into the shoes of William Taylor as we examine his pleas for mercy and the path that led him to his tragic demise. This is a journey into the heart of the Wild West you won't want to miss.
Return of the Great Hunters
Cattle Drives Website
Legends of Dodge City Website
Order Books
The William Taylor incident is the story of the killing of an innocent man by self-appointed Dodge City vigilantes. The story is told from the first-person perspective of Herman Fringer, one of the early settlers of Dodge City. No one knows the exact truth about how William Taylor got himself into the trouble that led to his killing. Some say his story could have been told in many different ways. The fact is that William Taylor was executed by a drunken mob who called themselves vigilantes and someone would need to be held accountable. Some say Taylor's murder led Governor Osborne to appoint the first commissioners of Fort County so a sheriff could be appointed. Others say the first county commissioners came into being so the Kansas law would not be violated when selling liquor without an organized county. No matter the reason for the formation of the Fort County Commission whether to sell alcohol legally or to obtain a sheriff William Taylor's murder needed to be resolved through the acts of civil order in a lawless town. The story you are about to hear is sponsored by Boothill Distillery of Dodge City.
Speaker 1:It was on June 3, 1873 when I decided to wander upon the street among the people of Dodge City. There was nothing I loved more than those hot summer evenings when I would sit on the bench outside my drugstore and let the afternoon sun beat on my face. I could feel the dry air with each breath, the air so thick with dust you could cut through it. I liked the way the small gusts of wind rushed past me. My skin would softly quiver before returning to its calm, warm state. It made me tired, like a silent lullaby of the sun was discreetly departing my mind out of consciousness. I looked out on Front Street full of freighter wagons that seemed to flow into and out of Dodge City, as if by the impulse of a capricious but rhythmical tide. I thought back to the time when Dodge City was a fledgling town and how it all got started. It was back in 1872 when the whiskey sales at Fort Dodge became a problem. I was a clerk at the Suttler's Store at the time when Colonel Dodge became a post to the sale of whiskey on the post and closed the Suttler Bar in June of 1872. This was right after Colonel Dodge reprimanded Mr Wright for selling liquor at the Suttler's Store. It was also the time when Mr Robert Wright and I became aware of the need for constructing facilities outside the post.
Speaker 1:Mr Wright, a J Peacock and I met one evening shortly after Colonel Dodge rebuked Mr Wright, the owner of the Suttler's Store, and came up with a plan to sell whiskey off the reservation. We knew the railroad was soon to arrive in September of that year, and decided to establish a town site where we could enter into the whiskey business. I, on the other hand, would set up a drug store. It was during this meeting that we decided to open up a town company. The town company would seek acquisition of land under the Townside Purchase Act of 1872. Our first hurdle in finding was to plan the development of 320 acres. Still, the regulations required us to have at least 100 to 200 occupants. We knew we had to have more merchants and someone to lay out the town plots. This was when we decided to reduce the size of the town to a modest 87 acres.
Speaker 1:The proposed merchants for the town company went to Santa Fe Railroad Company and requested the support of AA Robinson, the chief engineer, to lay out the town. The town site was marked off in a grid pattern north and south of the railroad, right of way, with enough room on each side to turn around an eight mule team. Ajp Garkinai decided to build a drug store north of the surveyed tracks. In early July Robert Wright, along with Charles Wrath, an Indian trader and hide-stealer, combined their resources and started construction on a frame building north of the railroad bed. The two-story frame building was just east of my drug store. It would become the headquarters for the sale of general merchandise, outfitting goods and the shipment of hides. It did not take long for the surveying stakes to be replaced by the iron rails of the Santa Fe Railroad, which arrived in September of 1872. Once my drugstore was open for business, I took charge of the post office by appointment and became the postmaster. Our new town was informally christened Buffalo City because we anticipated a significant trade of buffalo hides. But we soon had to change the name in early October of 1872 when I applied for a postal certificate and it was denied. So we decided to call our new town Dodge City after Fort Dodge.
Speaker 1:I looked back out into the street and witnessed two men moving silently in the streets amid the clatter of sound that was extraneous to them but defined rather than disperse their silence From a distance. These men looked familiar. Both wore guns thrusts carelessly into their waistbands. It was if they were looking for someone on arrival that had been scheduled. My thoughts of these two men were interrupted by a familiar voice calling out from across the street Mr Fring. The voice was faint but got louder as the man approached from the south side of the tracks. Hey, herman Fringer. He yelled. It was Charles Wrath.
Speaker 1:I watched Wrath move across Front Street. His gate was at odds with the black suit. He had a way of walking that made him seem perpetually in a hurry. His steps weren't long, but they were rapid. All that was missing was a gun and a derby hat. When he spoke it was with a German accent. The hand he offered me was spackled in buffalo blood. Wrath's face was one of utmost confidence. He smiled at me like I was a long-lost brother and shook me hand warmly with perfect squeeze and eye contact. Hey, charles.
Speaker 1:I said what's on your mind? I know it's late and you're probably closed up for the evening, but I need to check on some mail, responded Wrath. Nope, no mail for you today. I said what are you looking for? Well, I was wondering about the governor's reply for our request to hold a special county election, replied Wrath. You know, if we do not officially organize the county with elected officials, we may have to stop selling liquor. Why is that? I asked. It's the law, explain Charles. The Kansas Code forbids the sale of liquor in an unorganized region. I'm not sure why Governor Osborne has not responded to our request. I think the delay in granting the request might be political.
Speaker 1:I said you know, the Santa Fe Railroad is opposed to the idea due to the amount of local taxes they would have to pay on their properties. Yeah, I'm sure the railroad is interfering, but what we need most around here is a sheriff, replied Charles. Without a proper election for county commissioners, we are going to be real short on law and order. Do we have anyone in mind for sheriff? I asked yeah, word has it that Charles Bassett would make a good one. Charles replied I was also thinking maybe Jack Bridges. I think Bassett might be the best choice. I replied he is a proven man to be reckoned with. He is a Civil War veteran well known for his tough disposition and respected by the Buffalo Hunters Say. I noticed Frederick Zimmerman is bringing in business, said Charles. I heard his gunsmith operations are selling about 75 guns a week. Yep, I replied. Zimmerman was in last week and ordered 75,000 rounds of cartridges. He said that many of the railroad workers are taking up buffalo hunting. Zimmerman told me he was going to start selling tin wire and stoves to his inventory.
Speaker 1:After Wrath left the store, I looked up, went out on the porch and sat down on a bench underneath the shelter of the overhang. While sitting on the bench I witnessed the buckboard wagon entering the town. The wagon moved languidly, the wheels cranked along the unleveled road and went forward more rapidly as it neared from street. The man driving swayed blandly from side to side so that he was able to loosen his grasp on the hickory pole and slump forward more easily on the hard bench. The clop of the mule's feet became constant and didn't. A cloud of dust like yellow smoke rose about the wagon and billowed behind it. Above the clatter of harness, the mule's heavy breathing, the clop of their hooves and the uneven creaking of the wagon could be heard. I watched as a black man by the name of William Taylor got off the wagon. He stood on the rough-boarded sidewalk in front of Wrath and Company's general store. The store was located along Front Street, just on the other side of Bridge Street.
Speaker 1:William Taylor, a servant of Colonel Richard Dodge, who was commanding officer at Fort Dodge. Taylor, a good-natured man and frequent visitor to Dodge City would pick up cooking supplies to haul back to Fort. He at times went in Dodge City, would transport some of the locals to an out-of-town prostitute villa where he would keep watch over their visits. Stepping aside from the wagon, taylor struggled with the reins that had tangled with the hardest trace For the final jerk. Taylor managed to unsnarl the reins. He led the mules in a long diagonal in front of the general store. It was a low, open building with a split log roof supported by unpeeled upright logs.
Speaker 1:After Taylor tied his team of mules to the hedging post, stillness came upon the street. Two of the men who had been sitting on the bench in front of the store got up. They brushed past Taylor and went slowly into the street. The two men methodically approached Taylor. One man stepped forward in the direction of Taylor. They recognized him as John Scotty Scott. The other was his companion, william Hicks. Both were undesirables about town. They spent time pestering locals, especially when drunk, which was their normal state of mind. All three men stood there in the street.
Speaker 1:I noticed Scotty becoming irritated and angered at Taylor for what I do not know. Taylor walked around both Hicks and Scotty as if wanting to avoid a confrontation. Taylor disappeared from my view as he entered the general store, leaving both Hicks and Scotty alone in front of his wagon. In an instant both Hicks and Scotty clamored into the wagon as Scotty grabbed the reins, cleared his throat and said Ready. Hicks sighed profoundly and answered his voice muffled and quiet Ready. Upon the silence came the sudden pop of braided leather. As Scotty let the bull whip out above the mules in his voice, shrill and explosive, cracked Hurrup.
Speaker 1:The wagon lunged forward with the jolt. As Scotty sat high and erect on the wagon box seat, clipped near the front. His right hand held a long bull whip which he cracked above the ears of the mule team. His left hand pulled heavily against an upright handbrake so that the mules which moved forward under his whip were restrained by the heavy weight of the wagon above its half-locked wheels. The mules strained against the weight of the wagon, their hooves were pawing and thudding dully in the earth. The wheels groaned against the hickory axles. For a moment there was a jumble of sound. The wood strained against its grain, raw hide and leather slapped together and pulled in high thin screeches and metal jangled against metal. Then the sound gave way to an easier rumble as the wheels turned and the wagon slowly began to move behind the mule.
Speaker 1:The wagon pulled forward across Bridge Street and headed in my direction. Not far behind was Taylor, running full speed, yelling out Mr Scott, please do not take my wagon, I need my wagon, mr Scott. Taylor covered the uneven ground with a tremendous, lolloping gait that suggested his ankles were made of tightly coiled springs rather than ligament and bone. Each one of his mighty strides was worth at least two of any one man. With the slightest of effort, he outran the galloping mules and wagon. Barely breaking a sweat and not panting in the least. He ran in front of the wagon Ho, mules, ho now, taylor shouted. He waved his mules down. Both the mules and his wagon came to a stop right where I was standing.
Speaker 1:John Scott turned his head, grunted something inaudible to himself and chuckled. Both men still aboard the wagon looked surprised and angered. They turned and looked at each other, widening their eyes against the dust-filled street. As they looked at Taylor now standing beside the wagon, the irritated Scotty, in one motion, lifted both legs over the boards and stepped onto the hanging iron plate that led him to send to the ground. When his boot struck the earth, a round puff of dust blew up surrounding his foot. It settled on the black leather and on the bottom of his trouser leg, making their colors nearly the same.
Speaker 1:I watched as Scotty pulled his pistol and lined his gun upon one of the mules. Both of Scotty's eyes were open along the sights of his gun barrel. The pistol was held tight in his right hand and muscles of his right hand tensed. There was a heavy crack of the pistol, the barrels of the six-shooter kicked up slightly and a small cloud of smoke drifted away from the mouth of the gun barrel. At the sound of the gun, the mule jumped, as if startled by a sharp blow on his rump. The mule collapsed to the ground. The sound of the pistol firing deafened me.
Speaker 1:Taylor objected to John Scotty's. Scott's actions. Damn you, mr Scotty, shouted Taylor. You shot my mule. Why have you shot my mule? He did not deserve it. There was something in Taylor's shout, a pain behind it. I watched. I watched Taylor's eyes. Then I knew the anger was nothing but a shield for pain, like a cornered soldier randomly firing while under an attack, scared for his life, lonely and desperate, taylor inhaled real slow.
Speaker 1:Scotty, with his revolver pulled in his gun barrel, still smoking from killing the mule decided to point it in Taylor's direction. Seeing the pistol pointed to Taylor made my adrenaline surge so fast I almost vomited. I could taste saliva thickening in my throat and the beads of sweat trickling down my brow. It was the second shot that troubled me most. My ears throbbed early and my heart sunk deep as I waited, tense in the pounding silence, dreading a third shot which would shatter my deafness with a quick burst of sound in near like pain, I looked back out into the street. The blood pounded in my head and throbbed against my ears until even the sound of my own breathing was submerged.
Speaker 1:I looked out into the street and saw Taylor face down. I was startled by what I saw Taylor laying face down, struggling to get to his hands and knees. He was wounded how bad, I did not know. He muttered a few words saying you shot me, mr Scott. Why you shoot me? I give you no harm.
Speaker 1:I was angered by the moment I sawed and witnessed right in front of me an injustice and cruelty beyond my comprehension. I took a chance, for I did not know what Scott he would do in my response for my condemnation of his action, for he still held his pistol in his hand. Damn you, scottie. Scott, what the hell are you thinking? I yelled. Do not dare shoot that man again. The soldiers at Fort Dodge are going to hold you responsible if you kill this man. Now bring him inside my store so I can attend to his wound.
Speaker 1:My hands trembled and my eyes watered. As I reached my hands down to the doorknob, I could feel the hot sweat starting to trickle down my neck. I inserted the key into the door lock and gripped the doorknob tightly and twisted the handle, opening the door. With every move I made, I became more terrified. I had my back turned to Scottie and I was unsure of his next move. My thoughts poured through my mind. My breath quickened. What Scottie shoot me in the back? I thought what Scottie shoot Taylor? What's more, I turned quickly from inside the threshold of the door, seeing John Scott holster his gun and grab Taylor underneath his shoulders, exposing the open wound. Taylor had taken a bullet to his right shoulder. Damn it, hicks, do something", yelled Scotty. This man is heavy. Give me a hand here. I can't pull him all the way.
Speaker 1:Hicks grabbed Taylor's legs and, with the help of Scotty, they lifted him up and set it up the boardwalk when John released his grip from Taylor's Taylor's head, thumped hard to the boardwalk. Damn it. Scotty yelled. Look here, I got blood all over my new white shirt. Now, this makes me mad. You do the rest, hicks. I'm leaving. Well, ain't that a darnest thing? Replied Hicks. You shoot him and I get to clean up the mess. You do what you want, said Scotty. I'm gonna get a drink. I've had enough in one day. Scotty skipped off the boardwalk and headed in the direction of Sherman's saloon.
Speaker 1:By the time Scotty stepped off the boardwalk, I had opened the door of the drugstore and turned to look at Hicks, who still had Taylor's legs. Don't you do it, hicks? I commanded. Don't you leave this man here on the boardwalk in front of my store. You get this man inside Now. Hicks swung Taylor's feet around and dragged him inside my store. Now help me get him over to that chair by the counter and you can be done with it.
Speaker 1:I said what happened out there between you and Scotty? I asked Taylor why did he get so angry with you, mr Fringer? I think he got mad at me because I would not take him to that place, replied Taylor. He wanted me to go out to the woman's place where he could get satisfaction. I could not take him, mr Fringer, like I took him before. He wanted me to.
Speaker 1:Well, colonel Dodge told me to get back to the fort. I hope he not disappointed in me. Mr Fringer, I hope Scotty's okay. I hurt bad, mr Fringer, I saw her for the trouble. It's okay, william, it's okay. I replied. I'm gonna get your bleeding to stop and we'll call Dr McCarty to fix you up. Taylor relaxed in the chair. Thank you, mr Fringer. Taylor replied. You're a good man for caring for me. Thank you, mr Fringer, for all you done for me. I tore off some of the medical gauze from a nearby roll and placed it on Taylor's wounded shoulder. Hold on to this tight around your wound, I said. Press hard and it will stop your bleeding.
Speaker 1:I looked out my window and saw trouble brewing in the street. From my open window I heard a large crowd gathering. I stepped out onto the boardwalk and looked down the street. I saw Scotty going up and down Front Street, in and out of stores. Pause and went swiftly again, adjusting his emotions to those people he moved among. Scotty came out of Zimmerman's, stood in front of the hardware store and pointed in my direction. A large crowd started to move in my direction. I ran inside my store, locked the door and enclosed my window, latching it down from the top.
Speaker 1:While I attended Taylor's wounds, a drunken vigilance mob entered my drugstore. The mob pushed me out of the way and dragged Taylor into the street. It was when the vigilante mob reached the middle of the street that Taylor must have realized his fate was near at hand. He begged for his life, to no avail. I could see it in his eyes and he was broken. He was scared. He was proud. Yet as I stood at the door and watched the mob reach the middle of the street, taylor shook. Then I heard him say Please, mr Scott, don't shoot me. Please, mr Scott, don't shoot me like you shot Mom Ull. The drunken mob pulled the revolvers in unison. I looked out and saw Taylor close his eyes and the blaze of a dozen shots.
Speaker 1:The multiple shots quilted the air from Taylor's lungs, sending him into an everlasting darkness, darkness that the world would not allow to be blown away in the anomaly of the up-and-coming storm of one man's revenge. And as night came upon the town, hedging amidst the luster, it descended like a coal in the western haze. The makeshift settlement that held. His corpse seemed to contract as the dark expanded. What Taylor must have experienced in his last moments, when his eyes lost a point of reference, was a sensation like falling into his deepest fears. But the light would flicker no more on the street below him, or a match would not flare, while the door would open before him to let the lantern light gleam on those passing at his final rest. Then he would give his remains to drop upon his grave and sleep in the darkness that was unfamiliar. In his burial mound, william Taylor had cooked his last meal.