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Updated: May 10, 2025
Surely something had gone very wrong with the William Shrimplin of Custer's fancy, the young Bill Shrimplin of Texarcana and similar centers of crime and hardihood. "Custer " began Mr. Shrimplin, in a shaking voice. "I am wondering if it wouldn't be best to drive on into town and get a cop Oh, my God, why don't you quit hollering!" "Maybe they're killing him now!" cried Custer breathlessly.
At Nashville the city police are reported to have charged through the train clubbing the colored volunteers who were returning home, and taking anything in the shape of a weapon away from them by force. In Texarcana or thereabouts it was reported that a train of colored troopers was blown up by dynamite. The Southern mobs seemed to pride themselves in assaulting the colored soldiers.
Then he described swiftly the oil tender he had marked that afternoon passing the Blue Reef fishing grounds. "That's her," said the man. "She often slips in here. Don't know who owns her now. Used to belong to the Texarcana Oil Company before the war. She's only a lighter." "Is she laden?" asked Whistler. "Didn't look so to me," was the reply.
Custer colored almost guiltily. Could he ever hope to attain to the grim standard his father had set for him? "I wasn't much older than him when I shot Murphy at Fort Worth," continued Mr. Shrimplin, "You've heard me tell about him, son old one-eye Murphy of Texarcana?" "He died, I suppose!" said. Mrs. Shrimplin, wringing out her dish-rag. "Dear knows! I wonder you ain't been hung long ago!"
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