The ballad of 'Arkansas' Anderson

Ozona—In the wild expanse of West Texas, where the horizon stretched as far as a man's dreams or his nightmares, Benjamin Hamilton Anderson, known to many simply as 'Arkansas,' made his mark. Born in the distant green of Leicestershire, England, in 1841, young Benjamin couldn't have known that his life would be interwoven into the rugged canvas of the American West.

By the 1870s, Anderson had already lived several lives. From the bustling streets of Ohio to the open prairies of Iowa, he ventured further west until the vastness of Kansas beckoned him into the life of a buffalo hunter. Dodge City was a name that rang with the sound of gunfire and the thunder of hooves, where Anderson found camaraderie among men as wild as the beasts they hunted.

But it was Texas that claimed him. In 1867, crossing the Red River was like stepping into another world. Here, Anderson learned quickly to shed his northern identity for survival. "Arkansas," he'd say with a wry smile when asked about his origins, a lie that placed him among the locals, not as an outsider but as one of their own.

The Texas Rangers were a different breed, and Anderson joined their ranks, scouting the untamed lands. He soon discovered that the real threat often wore the guise of civilization. Renegade whites, masquerading as Comanches, stirred more trouble than the natives themselves. With their painted faces and stolen feathers, these false warriors left a trail of chaos, which Anderson and his fellow Rangers had to clean up.

The Comanches, with whom Anderson occasionally crossed paths, were proud. Their hatred for Texans was palpable, brewed from years of mistrust and mistreatment. Yet, Anderson respected them, understanding their plight more than he expected. He witnessed their skill with the bow, an art passed down through generations, where an arrow could fly true for 150 yards or more, piercing the heart of a buffalo or deer with deadly precision.

Life on the frontier was not just about survival; it was about understanding. Anderson learned the Osage language, living among them and sharing their bread made from precious wheat flour, which they valued above gold. The Osages, with their semi-civilized ways, stood apart from other tribes. They had pots, pans, and even raised corn, a stark contrast to the nomadic Comanches.

By 1876, Anderson had seen Fort Concho rise from nothing to a semblance of a settlement. San Angelo was barely a shadow of what it would become. Here, Anderson could have staked his claim on lands that stretched as far as the eye could see, but his heart was in the thrill of horse racing, not in the soil.

Marriage to Millie C. Reed in 1881 settled him somewhat, but the call of the open range was never far. Their ranch in Coke County became a home, not just to them but to stories of the old West, of battles fought more often with cunning than with guns.

As Anderson grew older, his tales became legends. He recounted how, when faced with seemingly hostile Indians, his calm demeanor once saved his life near a water hole in the Big Wichita. Another time, near Fort Sill, his refusal to flee or fight when outnumbered by a group of suspicious warriors earned him safe passage.

His life was a bridge between worlds, between the untamed West and the encroaching civilization, between the bow and the bullet, between the white man and the red. 

Even in his twilight years, sitting on his porch, watching the sunset over lands he once roamed freely, 'Arkansas' Anderson would often muse over the irony of his life. Here was a man who had seen the West at its wildest, who had raced horses across states and fought in skirmishes, and yet, the closest he came to real malice was over a batch of biscuits taken by Indians who saw no theft in the act, only survival.

As the stars began to pepper the vast Texas sky, Anderson's stories would weave through the night, tales of when the bow was mightier than the gun, when identity was fluid, and when the West was wild. His legacy was not in the land he could have owned but in the stories he left behind, tales of an era where every man had to be as adaptable as the bowstring, ready to bend but never to break.