Putting on a Reenactment - Part Four

Part Four: Who's Firing the Guns in This Reenactment?

On Christmas Eve in my hometown in 1883 three men were taken out of a saloon at gunpoint and hanged by a group of vigilantes sick to death of living in fear of a gang of criminals known as the Notch-cutters. The next morning, on Christmas Day, their relatives came to town and got into a shootout with two men they believed to be responsible. Now it was the town’s 150^th anniversary, and we wanted to do a reenactment of these wild and wooly days.

By much delving, I was able to reject a somewhat recent revisionist version and embrace the legend in good conscience.  I found myself pitying the six relatives who rode into town and got into a gunfight. Not because I believed them innocent, but because after drinking whiskey-laced eggnog in a saloon, shooting off their mouths, and being taunted by other customers, they acted so stupidly impulsive.  

But a reenactment would have to be a stripped down, simplistic version of it, aimed at the maximum entertainment value. Because there was so much history to tell, and it was for an historic occasion, my script ended up being a little longer than most. It would also concentrate on four events leading up to the shootout—Rancher Print Olive coming into the Rock Front Saloon and threatening four Notch-Cutters with death if he caught them with a branded Olive cow or horse, the murder downtown of Deputy Sheriff Isaac “Bose” Heffington, the robbery and attempted murder of businessman Allen Wynn, and the taking of three men out of the saloon by the Vigilantes to be hanged out of town. With songs performed between each of those scenes.

The other committee members were fine with the script and supportive of my efforts, although they laughingly teased me about “putting on a musical.”  I knew from working with other nonprofits how mad people could get if too many demands were made on their time and resources. The tight group running the local historical society and museum had not only refused to become involved, they were putting up as many roadblocks as possible. I didn’t want any animosity to tear our fragile little band of brave souls apart. So, during the process of organizing the reenactment, I tried to keep them up-to-date with what I was doing, but not overload them with requests for help. I was only doing the reenactment—they were trying to pull other events together for the celebration. Nevertheless, they offered good advice, and when I needed something, they were there to help me get it.

Because the town wasn’t incorporated, we didn’t have to ask permission for anything. All we had to do was block the street off. My 90-year-old cousin had months before rented the historical society’s annex building for what she hoped would be a prefuneral party that she would get to enjoy. When Covid hit, that dashed her hopes, so she turned her rental of the building over to us. We got enough donations for three port-a-potties for Saturday, but we weren’t sure when they were coming in. The man who owned the old train depot graciously let us use it for free—but there was no restroom and the only running water was outside. We needed the historical society’s annex building with its restroom for Friday’s rehearsal, as a place for changing clothes on Saturday, and for a community-wide church service and pancake breakfast on Sunday.

With the script okayed by the committee, I began to search for reenactors. One committee member wanted only local people. Another wanted professional reenactors with costumes. We couldn’t afford to put everyone in costumes; they would have to bring their own.

I stepped in do-do almost immediately. Since they wanted local people, I began to ask around and advertise on Facebook without much luck. This would be an unpaid gig. We weren’t going to make any money from it, and there was no seed money other than what was in my bank account. I knew a few reenactors who specialized in the 1836 era, but they were tied up, already committed to other events. One of them laid down the law to me. I couldn’t send just anybody out there with a gun loaded with blanks. Even blanks shot at close range can maim and kill. Anyone who was going to be shooting would have to be an experienced reenactor.  

I put out a feeler to a fellow Western Writers of America author who was also a professional reenactor with the Arizona Gunfighters that performed in Tombstone. Could he come? Maybe.

In the meantime, I begin to search for students willing to direct and film the reenactment. I was assured by a friend who went to UCLA film school that he would have jumped at the chance when he was in college. I tried posting on the UT film students Facebook page and not only didn’t get any responses, I received a message telling me I was breaking the rules and to desist immediately. I switched to Craig’s list. Nada. A movie location scout happened to come by my house, and since he was young, I asked him if I was out of line in looking. “No,” he said, “but UT students don’t want to get out and do anything. You should be asking Texas State students.”

Before I posted something on San Marcos’s Craig’s list, I emailed a friend of mine, a retired film editor. He had put together a fantastic video about Baron de Bastrop. He responded, writing that since the advent of You Tube, students no longer wanted to do projects for other people—they wanted to do their own thing. He named the price he paid for his video, and I almost choked. I was already spending enough of my own money—I couldn’t afford that amount.

In the previous reenactment, they had men on horseback riding down to Main Street. Since 50 men on horseback had surrounded the Rock Front Saloon in 1883 to take the three outlaws out, I hoped to get riders to do the same thing. The nearest riding club wasn’t interested. I put out multiple feelers, trying to find people on horseback to ride into town. A group of Hispanic men were willing—but they couldn’t speak English, and I couldn’t speak Spanish. Plus, they had asked if they could carry guns. I was willing as long as they were unloaded, but we would have to have someone check their weapons before they rode in.

I had no director, no cameraman, no professional reenactors, no one local outside our committee to be in the reenactment, except a group of Mexican horsemen I couldn’t communicate with.

But I had a good story about men with grit, and some of it must have rubbed off on me.

Print Olive actually lived in Williamson County at Lawrence Chapel, but he ran cattle all over the countryside, much of it in the Knobbs Hills area north of McDade. He was by all accounts a pretty rough customer who often skirted the law himself.

Isaac “Bose” Heffington was a Lee County deputy sheriff who technically had no jurisdiction in McDade, which sits in an arrowhead point of Bastrop County. However, Heffington was known as a relentless tracker. He had also served as a Texas Ranger, and “Once a Ranger, always a Ranger” was not a motto, but a description.

Ken Moody, shown with his wife Beth, played farmer and businessman Allen Wynn who was attacked and left for dead by three Notch-cutters.

Randy Billingsley (in red vest) eventually agreed to play his g-great uncle Buck Billingsley, a store owner and witness to the events. He told me later he was glad I talked him into it.

Coming up in Part Five: Finding Reenactors