CHAPTER XVI.
THE MURDER OF TOM GIBSON
On Saturday evening, early in the month of April, 1895, there came into the little town of Sevierville an old man whose face looked sad and care-worn. He was not clad in the best of clothes, yet he had an honest face, and a reputation which gave him credit in any store in the town. Before leaving town he bought a quarter sack of flour, and with a smile on his face he carried it away on his back, with the remark: I will have biscuit for breakfast Sunday morning. But before the sun rose on that Sabbath morning Tom Gibson lay cold in death upon the floor of his humble cabin home. He was the victim of a band of midnight assassins, known as White-caps, or Grave Yard Hosts, who were on one of their lawless raids. Within a brief space of time his once happy home was broken up and shrouded in darkness and death. On the night of this cruel murder the White-caps had first visited the home of Jerry Woodsby. Woodsby lived on James Catlett’s farm about two miles from Sevierville. He had been working for Catlett previous to this time, but for some cause, unknown to the writer, had left his employ. The White-caps surrounded his hose and he was told to open the door. Woodsby, surmising what this command meant, refused to do so. With a heavy fence-rail, in the hands of strong men, the door was soon battered down and Woodsby was overpowered and taken out of the house, and an unmerciful whipping was the result. He was led back to the house, writhing in pain from the cruel lashes that had been laid upon his bare back, and told to go back to work for James Catlett at once, or they would return and double the dose. There was no cause for the whipping of Woodsby except the one stated above. Soon the band disappeared from the home of Woodsby, and proceeded in the direction of Thomas Gibson’s cabin, which was only a short distance away. His door was also battered down in like manner. Instantly a half dozen well-masked men stepped inside and informed the old man that they had come to whip his daughter. The father, no doubt, realized the situation, and knew full well that to resist meant death. Callie, his oldest daughter, had been the tender care of the old man for many years. He had toiled in the heat of summer, had struggled along through the dreary months of winter, and had gone through many hardships that his little family might not go in want. He had looked into the face of his prattling babe, had seen her pass through the halcyon days of child-hood and girl-hood, and had now just reached young woman-hood. After enduring the hardships of many years, he must now either stand by and see his oldest daughter subjected to a cruel beating at the hands of an unmerciful band of outlaws, or make a feeble resistance. He chose the latter, and died like a hero, defending his humble home. Tom Gibson was a poor man and had neither gun nor pistol at his command. He rose with a chair in his hand, and was just in the act of dealing the captain of the band a blow, when the contents of a double-barreled shot-gun was discharged, striking him squarely in the breast. He reeled and fell backward and expired without uttering a word. The White-caps remained only for a moment and then disappeared from the scene of their awful crime, leaving their victim lying upon the floor, weltering in his blood. The wife and daughter, in the meantime, had gone out at the kitchen door and made good their escape. It was a dark, gloomy night, and after a long and weary tramp they found their way to a neighbor’s house. But no one dared go near the place until next morning. As soon as the news reached Sevierville, which was early the following day, Sheriff Maples, Dr. Massengill, Dr. Walker, Judge Houk and many others left for the scene of the murder. The people in Sevierville were slow to believe that such a horrible crime had been committed within two miles of the little town, and yet not hear of it until the following day. Sheriff Maples and his posse were not long on the way to the Gibson home, and returned, perhaps, in less time than it had taken them to go. Their blood boiled as they gazed at the scene. All night long he lay in a pool of blood, and not a friend had dared to give the heart-broken family any assistance, for fear that they too would meet a like fate. On the return of sheriff Maples the first report was verified, and the news spread like wildfire. The whole town and surrounding country was wrought up over this crime committed by the White-caps. A determined effort was made to spot the guilty parties. The only blood hounds in the county were owned or controlled by William Wynn. He was appealed to for assistance, but refused to go, or even let his dogs go. County court met in a few days, and sheriff Maples asked for an appropriation to buy a pair of bloodhounds. It was discussed quite freely among the justices. During the discussion, deputy sheriff Tom Davis arose and said: This court has just appropriated a large sum of money to build a new court house. Crime after crime is being committed by a band of White-caps, and to invest a small sum of money in a pair of blood hounds to run them down, and thus regain the good name of Sevier county, would be of vast more importance to the county than a new court house to try them in. The vote was taken and the money appropriated. But the White-caps saw danger approaching, and a hasty consultation was held, in which it was decided that some immediate steps must be taken to bar this appropriation. Accordingly a bill was filed in the Chancery Court, by Jesse Atchley, to enjoin the county court clerk from making this appropriation. The Chancery Court did not meet for six or eight months, and when it did meet the court decided in favor of the complainants. Thus the White-caps scored another victory. By this time the excitement had subsided to some extent, and it was hoped that the White-caps would see the error of their ways and refrain from the commission of other outrageous murders. But such was not the case, as you will see from reading the following chapters. The alleged cause for the attempted whipping of Gibson’s daughter was that she was not living up to the moral standard demanded by a few Sevier county toughs. And toughs they were, for by this time all good men who had once favored white-capping, had seen to their own sorrow that it was a great mistake. From the best information that can be had we do not doubt but that the young daughter of Gibson had strayed from the path of virtue. Yet she was Tom Gibson’s daughter and at home under the parental roof, and as near and dear to him, dear reader, as your daughter is to you. |