The Last Gunfight at the Rice Hotel

I once chanced to hear a tale about a great, great uncle who was killed in a gunfight. I don't remember how or why it came up, but it did. And the story came to me through my aunt, which she heard from her cousin Bernie. So, she herself had no details other than the duel took place in front of the Rice Hotel sometime in the early 1900's. There were no specific dates or any other forms of substantiation –– but that didn't matter.

The minute the words left her lips, the images and sounds began forming in my mind.The first thing I heard was the "ching" of spurs striking the cobblestone on Texas Avenue to announce each man's footsteps. Coming into imaginary focus was mental movie of two men squaring-off, the theme from "The Good, The Bad, And the Ugly" steadily playing in my mind. The hands on a nearby clock approach high noon while the men's palms quiver above their holstered pistols. When the music climaxes on the hour-strike of a clock chime, one of the two men flinch. At that moment a deadly race is on to see who draws faster. Only a 100th of a second separates victor and victim.

In the wink of an eye, both barrels clear leather and let loose clouds of smoke and booms of thunder. When the smoke lifts and the echoes fade, one man falls to the street as scarlet billows over the stones and into the spaces between.

My imagination stampeded with this one, which was exactly what my aunt feared. Not that I wished a violent demise on anyone , but if the story were true, wow! What was it that lured this uncle to his fate? All the usual cliches came to mind––gambling, a woman, or simply stupid bravado.

The next morning I was on fire. I needed to know the who, what, when, where, and how. For years, my older brother and I (mostly my brother) had researched family history. But that was primarily on my father's side and, certainly, nothing as exciting as a gunfight had ever surfaced. So my pursuit of this truth began with scant information and the name of a relative with whom I've never spoken.

I found cousin Bernie listed in the phone book—yes phone book. I dialed the number and waited with anticipation. After a few rings cousin Bernie answered. I introduced myself and explained that I was kin and how we were related.

The Rice Hotel in 1910—not the carriages.

A minute or two into the call I mentioned the story and asked if he knew much more about it. He perked up and explained that his Aunt Maude had only briefly mentioned it to him. What's more, it seemed to Cousin Bernie that it was something she was reluctant to talk about in detail. But, according to Maude, her brother died in the last gunfight at the Rice Hotel around 1905 or 1906. He went on to say that his uncle's name was Jack and that he was buried at the Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in Dickinson. That seemed to fit because my grandfather was Catholic.

Cousin Bernie and I chatted a bit longer, then he asked me to let him know if I found more. I said I would. My next call was to the cemetery where a nice woman named Lucille answered the phone. Since I had a name and about when he died, Lucille said she should be able to confirm if Uncle Jack was there. She took my phone number and said she would call when she had something.

An hour or so later, Lucille called. She located Uncle Jack within a family plot near the entrance of the cemetery. Along with a map pinpointing the gravesite, she faxed a copy of a ledger showing the precise date of death for Uncle Jack was 2/19/1906.

Here were the first critical pieces of evidence. I had a name, a grave, and an exact date of death. But all they told me was when Uncle Jack died, not how. The Holy Cross file had no death certificate. But Lucille did say Earthman's had prepared other family members for interment. Perhaps they might have done so for Uncle Jack and, if so, they might have a death certificate citing a cause of death.

On the other end of the phone at Earthman Funeral Directors was Peggy. She said it was possible such an old file still existed and that it might contain a copy of the death certificate. However, I’d have to submit a written request for such information. So, I did. I sent a similar request to the state bureau of Vital Statistics as back-up. In either case it could be weeks before I get results.

With the phone-work done, the next logical step was the library. Surely a gunfight would make the local papers. At the turn of the 20th century, Houston was an exploding metropolis where two newspapers battled for circulation. Somewhere in their pages had to be the story of Uncle Jack and the gunfight at the Rice Hotel.

The first microfiche reel contained the editions I needed for the then Houston Chronicle and Herald. I immediately scanned to February 19th to find an obituary. There it was on page 5—Uncle Jack, or JD as the paper referred to him, was aged 22. He died in the early morning hours at his family residence on Main Street. Services were held that afternoon at 3:00 at Sacred Heart church. It also mentioned interment to be made at the Holy Cross Cemetery. Parents as well as several brothers and sisters survived him—one was Aunt Maude.

Now I was really curious. What could have cut short the life of such a young man? With no answer as to cause, I figured if Uncle Jack had been shot, it must have taken place pretty close to February 19th. So, I reviewed all the previous week’s issues.

An editorial on February 17th caught my attention. It called for increasing the punishment for unlawfully carrying weapons, especially pistols. What prompted the argument? Was it a rash of events or a single, isolated incident of gunplay in front of a fine Houston hotel? A detailed search revealed the reporting of only one shooting during the week before February 19. Uncle Jack was not involved. The Chronicle was now a dead end.

The Houston Daily Post was the morning edition, so the Uncle Jack's obituary appeared on February 20th. It was nearly identical to the Chronicle's text. It, too, lacked any clue as to cause of death. Still, I decided to scan the previous week's editions.

The Post had a story about the same shooting as The Chronicle—no other shootings were reported. But The Post did have something new—a Mortuary Report. Each Sunday the paper listed how many died during the previous week. The list was by name and, and it featured causes of death. I'd found the report in the Sunday edition the week before Uncle Jack's death. So, I quickly rolled forward to February 25th.

Twice I looked through the issue before I found it. The small report was buried deep in the inside column just right of the gutter and near the bottom of the page. But the report was there and so was Uncle Jack. His name, his age, where he lay and, now, how he died were no longer questions to which I sought answers.

By diving into family lore I’d tasted a bit of history while learning a bit about my heritage. More importantly, I was fortunate to have visited with a family member I'd never met before. I am now convinced of one other thing, the next conversation with my aunt should be very, very interesting.

Note: The original article was run in a 2001 edition of The Houston Tribune.

Old Cars and Fond Memories

The last time my car was in for service, the mechanic and I talked about cars while he drove me home. Duh! What else would we discuss? One of his favorite memories involves an uncle who used to pick him up for Astros games. “It didn’t matter what year or model, he always bought a gold Cadillac,” Roger said.

My parents once had a “Caddy”. It was a mid-seventies forest green, two-door Eldorado with Landau top (hard top with vinyl covering or the rear section). Beautiful, fast, and it felt like driving on air. But the Caddy was an anomaly for our family in the 70’s. My folks settled on Oldmobiles in those days. Our first was Mom’s 1970 midnight blue Olds 98 four-door. The thing was a land-yacht, and it was so long that Mom regularly crushed the garage cabinet doors when she pulled in. Either that or she left the tail hanging out and the garage door would hit the rear bumper.

Her 98 was paired up with Dad’s beige two-door ’88 Coupe (a misnomer for something large enough on which to land an F-15). My brother, Jack, had a dark blue ’72 Olds Cutlass while my brother, Tom, had a ’76 in pristine white with a full vinyl top.

Discussing family cars leads to my brother, Rick. When it came to cars he was a serial killer. He, too, had a Cutlass, a ’78 two-door model. It faced its demise having been run over by a semi—while it was parked. I remember the giant tire tracks on the roof. A booger-green Chevy Malibu preceded that. The actual cause of death escapes me, though I remember Dad saying, “Totaled, again!” Rick heard that often.

Prior to the Malibu, Rick had temporary ownership of a maroon Pontiac Le Mans, and before that was a Chevy Vega, which mysteriously came to rest in a muddy field. His guilt was further evidenced by the fact that, while I was away at college, he drove my dung brown ’78 Chevy with vinyl bench seats and rolled it down hill. When I say rolled, I mean rolled over. How do you roll a car downhill—in Houston, Texas? We might have a knoll, but no real hills!

In fairness, however, he wasn’t the only one to suffer vehicular tragedies. I’m fairly certain Tom wrecked the ’67 Dodge Dart and, well, there was my Grandmother’s Lincoln Continental. It was a mid-sixties model and powder blue. I remember we came back to her house from dinner at Cleburne Cafeteria. She pulled into the driveway and I hopped out so she could park in the garage. But I left the back right door open. Did I mention the suicide doors? These are doors that are hinged at the rear and open out. So when she eased into the garage, there was a horrifying sound of crunching metal on wood. Yep, the door folded backwards against the right rear fender.

Of course all this took place after 1968 or 1969. The 60’s were a time of turmoil in automobile brand loyalty for our family. In my column, I referenced our green Ford Galaxy 500 several times. And there was the darling of the line, Dad’s “’64-1/2” powder blue Mustang, in which Jack and Tom reveled during our family trip to Wyoming one year (they were licensed drivers then). Chrysler products made two appearances in the Falloure driveway on Saxon Street. Our first was the light blue Plymouth Belvedere, circa ‘63 or ‘64, succeeded by the green Dart.

For now, the most catastrophic moments for my wife and me are somebody either throwing up in the back seat or spilling a milkshake. My oldest is but a year from driver's ed, although I am more horrified by an image of my youngest. I can see him plowing through the back of the garage in a landspeeder because he reached down for a bag of Goldfish rather than concentrating on driving.

Driving Like a Dream.

A recent photo safari with a client took us back and forth across Texas, Oklahoma, and New Mexico—covering something on the order of about 2,200 miles on a mission to completely replenish his company’s equipment photography. On the second leg of our journey, the photographer and his assistant, along with eight cases of gear, had a mid-size SUV. Therefore, the client and I needed a second vehicle that turned out to be a silver Mercury Grand Marquis—otherwise known as a land yacht.

At first sight of the vehicle, the client and I rolled our eyes at each other. After all, we’re both the same age and were hoping for a rental that was way cooler than an old guy’s car. Then again, with 50 nipping at our heels, some might consider us old guys. Nevertheless, we were left with the Mercury. 

By the way, in Texas, we pronounce it “Merkery.” Just sayin’.

Back in the day, my dad drove one of these road hogs. His preference was the Oldsmobile Delta 88—two-door, although once he had a Cadillac Eldorado Coupe. Both had split-bench seats just like the Mercury I was driving and they drove like riding on air. 

In all honesty, it didn’t take long to realize what Dad and his generation appreciated about these beasts of the road. The trunk was massive—cavernous, in fact. Aside from the full-size spare tire, it held our safety gear and luggage with room to spare. And when we needed it, the engine had get-up-and-go–– maybe not 0 to 60 in eight or less, but it had spirit.

Cruising at open road speeds, which we will acknowledge here as the posted 70 mph (pleading the fifth on anything over that), our stately Grand Marquis moved confidently and luxuriously down the highway. Even over the rough and dusty access roads to rig sites, our gal floated us to our destinations with grace. In fact, while driving the Grand Marquis, I recalled what I thought was a couple of old 70s Mercury commercials. The central message on one was that the ride was so smooth and plush that even on a washboard road, a gemologist could perfectly cut a high-value diamond with flawless results. Another was a blindfold test comparing rides of the Grand Marquis and other more opulent cars. There is something alluring about that kind of cushy, sumptuous ride.

No, I’m not ready to turn in the family SUV––as spacious as the Marquis might be, it doesn’t compare to a Suburban when you have three sons and frequently haul sports gear or scouts on campouts. Nor will I trade in the performance of my sport sedan. Still, over the high plains of Texas, into the desert of New Mexico, or through the hills of eastern Oklahoma, it was nice to kick back with one hand on the wheel while leaning on the center console armrest as the Marquis took us on a road cruise with a welcome and familiar ghost. Yeah, I could almost see my Dad easing back as he flicked cigarette ash out the vent window, whistling to a Bing Crosby tune on the radio during one of our family cross-country trips.

Side note: Back in the Day, luxury cars had amenities like opera (oval) windows, Brougham tops (partial hardtop with vinyl at the rear), whitewall tires, and plushy interiors of leather, vinyl, or velour. Ratings for MPG were not an issue before the Energy Crisis that started in 1973. Pop the hood on one of these ladies of the asphalt and the engine compartment seemed roomy, too. Nowadays, everything but the kitchen sink is crammed under the hood.

Editor's note: This post has been updated for context, grammar, and punctuation.