When Robert Findley McLaury Jr left his
father’s Iowa farm at the age of twenty-six
he’d been running it for five years with his
younger brother, Tom, while their father
conducted other business in town. Once the
farm was sold,, the brothers lit out on
their own for neighboring South Dakota, a
break Robert Jr underscored by forevermore
calling himself “Frank.”
Described
by nearly all who knew them as
“industrious,” Frank and Tom worked at
whatever earned them money. Frank trained as
a mechanic, but he and Tom found their true
calling in handling livestock.
They followed the cattle herds into Texas
where their older brother, Will, was a
successful lawyer. They signed on with
rancher John Chisum, who owned spreads all
over the Southwest, and after driving a herd
to Arizona, the brothers decided to stay.
In 1878, shortly after silver
strikes brought a population surge, the
McLaurys started a small farming operation
in the Babocomari Valley a few miles west of
Tombstone.
They grew hay and other crops and
grazed sheep and cattle all while hiring
themselves out as day laborers; their
livestock handling skills and Frank’s
mechanic background kept them regularly
employed. They had their sights set,
however, on building a bigger spread in the
Sulfur Spring Valley to the east of
Tombstone and devoted their greatest
energies to that.
Over the
course of a year, Frank and Tom erected a
ranch house and barn and dug a well and
irrigation ditches. Since
Arizona was “open range” territory with
thousands of acres available for grazing,
they formed a legal partnership and
registered their brand — an inverted
triangle.
They’d been in Arizona for close to
three years, arriving with little more than
energy and ambition, and by virtue of their
hard work had established themselves as
productive ranchers and landowners. One
resident later wrote of them, “These boys
were plain, good-hearted, industrious
fellows. They may have
harbored passing rustlers, but what rancher
did not? and it would have been little of a
man who would have turned away any traveler
in that land of long trails and hard going.”
The McLaurys came to be viewed as
reliable in an environment that required
reciprocity and accommodation to survive and
prosper.
On one occasion, Frank readily complied when
asked to help track down three recently
discharged soldiers who had stolen Army
harnesses. Deputy US Marshal
Melvin Jones recalled many years later that
when he was handed a warrant, he was
instructed
“to take one good man with me and
Frank McLowery [sic] was the man that I
took.” He recalled Frank
calmly backing him up as he attempted to
arrest the ex-soldiers and not flinching
when they threatened a shootout. When the
rx-soldiers switched tactics and offered a
bribe, Frank railed against them,
browbeating and humiliating them into
submission.
Frank becoming indignant
at the bribe offer is in character with his
reputation for being quick to take umbrage.
“Argumentative,” he was sometimes labeled,
but he
didn’t swagger or pick fights merely to
argue for the sake of argument.
He and Tom had labored hard for what they
had, and he wasn’t going to part with any of
it, especially his good name, without a
fight. This became apparent in July of 1880,
when an Army detail arrived at the
Babocomari looking for stolen mules they
thought might have been taken there for
re-branding. Since the Army couldn’t arrest
civilians, the lieutenant brought with him a
Deputy US Marshal — Virgil Earp. And Virgil
brought his brothers Wyatt and Morgan, along
with the local Wells Fargo agent.
After a brief and by all accounts cordial
conversation, the Lieutenant left believing
the mules would be turned in the following
day. When they weren’t, he put an angry ad
in screaming bold face type in the Epitaph
accusing the McLaury brothers of the theft.
No doubt recalling his time recovering
stolen Army harnesses, Frank wrote an irate
response for the competing
Nugget:
“My name is well known in Arizona and thank
God this is the first time in my life that
the name of dishonesty was ever attached to
me,” he railed, and
concluded suggesting the lieutenant may have
stolen the mules himself. The brothers sold
a lot of beef to Army camps and reservation
Indians, so to mollify government buyers
they made a public show of what was already
their practice and put business operations
in the name of the more cautious and
reserved Tom. When help was needed with
something like retrieving stolen harnesses,
Frank was the brother summoned.
History
hasn’t treated the McLaury brothers any
better than did the Earps and Holliday that
cold day in the vacant lot. For decades
they’ve been casually branded “outlaws” or
“Cowboys” and neither appellation is true.
Without question, they welcomed cattle
rustled out of Mexico on their ranch to
fatten before slaughter. In the eyes of
their contemporaries, this did not make them
“rustlers” since
stealing from Mexico wasn’t considered
stealing at all. Nor did
holding cattle to fattened make them, or any
rancher, “fences” — as they are often also
labeled.
Only in recent years have we seen
anything approaching an even-handed
assessment of the McLaurys emerge, but they
are still relegated to the rank of “outlaws”
or despised “Cowboys” in too many current
accounts. For us, the
“Gunfight” is now seen as a grand, grotesque
irony in which the most decimated of the
victim families —
the McLaurys — were the least
lawless and most productive of all the
parties present. They had
become, at last and by dint of their own
efforts, prosperous young men, their pockets
filled with hard earned money on their way
out of town to celebrate their sister’s
wedding in Iowa.
By Michael Biehn and Jim Anderson