Ghosts along the Texas Coast (11 page)

After a few years, John Jr. and his family moved to the banks of Coleto Creek, in the area now known as Reeves Thicket. John Sr. was pretty old by then (he was born in 1779) and needed looking after, so John and Cady cared for him until he passed away in 1863. His grave is one of those in the rather sizeable Reeves family cemetery that sits on what is known as Reeves Hill today.

John Reeves, Jr., died in 1868, and at that time, one of his sons, Jonathan, whom they called Tobe, moved the family home from the banks of the Coleto Creek to its present location. It was a big house and had to be moved uphill about half a mile. Evidently it was slowly (how else?) moved uphill by being placed on huge logs, which were rolled along by teams of sturdy mules. The place that we visited recently is smaller than its original size. According to the present owner, it suffered considerable storm damage a number of years ago.

Today's owner of the Reeves ranch house, the old cemetery, and quite a few acres of the original holdings, is a direct descendant of the founding Reeves family, and he is “obsessed,” as he puts it, with taking
care of, and preserving, the old family homestead. A young man in his mid-30s, Charlie Faupel is a storehouse of knowledge of regional history, both factual and legendary. During a recent visit to the ranch, he was kind enough to tell us a lot of interesting things about the house and the land surrounding it, and about the spirits he feels still guard the place. According to Charlie, Tobe was probably the most colorful of the Reeves family members. He took over the ranch shortly after the Civil War ended, endured drought, hard times, outlaws, and a yellow fever epidemic. Tobe was called the “law west of the Coleto” and he was said to have administered justice in his own way. For instance, one hot summer day in the 1870s he'd been out with his men rounding up some cattle. When they got home, they found someone had stolen some of their horses. Along with some of his ranch hands, Tobe rode out to catch the culprit. They crossed over Reeves Creek and rode over to Fleming Prairie, where they found the horse thief. A shootout was the result. Tobe remained on his horse; the thief took cover and managed to shoot Tobe's left ear off. This really made Tobe angry, according to Charlie (well, who wouldn't be mad about losing an ear?). Now, Tobe had planned to be “fair” with the culprit and give him a hearing before hanging him, but he was so enraged that he just up and shot him right there and buried him somewhere out there on the land. Charlie says there's some evidence of that gravesite today, and there are probably numerous other graves scattered over the vast estate.

There was quite a big outlaw gang around in the 1860s and '70s known as the “Brookins gang.” They lived on the Coleto and made raids on ranches in the area, but it is said they gave Tobe Reeves' place a wide berth!

When the Reeves family first settled the area, they decided to call their ranch Reeves Thicket because of the thick brush that dots the countryside. It was in an area once crossed by the Old Spanish Trail, and signs of the trail are evident even today. There was also an old wagon road that followed Coleto Creek. Charlie Faupel said his great-great-grandfather Tobe was a “really, truly” cattle baron of his time, and he showed us the old live oak hanging tree that was used to put more than one desperado out of business. It has a huge limb that sort of stands out, and this was probably the hanging limb. Charlie says it's hard to get a horse to ride by the tree. In fact, he says, there are lots of places on the ranch that just naturally spook a horse, sensitive as those creatures are to otherworldly beings!

Charlie loves to talk about his rambling old wooden ranchhouse and the surrounding land, which he inherited and in which he takes great pride. He says it is strange, but his feeling for the old house is like the house owns him, and he is sort of possessed by it and the ties it has with his ancestors. Well, it is very old. And very charming. And not many people can boast of living in a house that so many generations of their family have lived in, and died in, as well. Charlie said if his old bed could talk, it could tell lots of stories, as it came by wagon over 135 years ago from Georgia, and was where the colorful Tobe died of pneumonia in 1890, and where his grandmother, Isabel, was born in 1901. There are pictures and mementos everywhere depicting important events in the Reeves' family history: old photographs, portraits, and memorabilia of all kinds.

The house wasn't always a homestead, however. Charlie says for a time it was sort of abandoned and used to store feed and hay. Six generations just sort of wore it out, but Charlie, of the seventh generation, is doing all he can to keep up the place. That's why the spirits which Charlie thinks are peaceful and just kind and gentle presences are there,
because they are happy he is looking after the place. He also revealed that the house was placed atop the hill overlooking the creek where once the family slaves had been buried in unmarked graves. He thinks his office and bedroom are probably located right over the old slave cemetery!

Reeves Thicket “hanging tree”

Charlie told me that Union soldiers once rode right through the house on their horses, and once the roof caught fire during an Indian attack. There's still a lead bullet embedded in the front porch banister, and there are also three bullet holes in the dining room wall. A large section of the house was destroyed by a storm in 1942.

Today, Charlie believes that UFOs make regular visits to Reeves Thicket. His cousin Susan Purcell, with whom I later spoke, believes this as well. Not in the realm of ghosts, but very fascinating nonetheless, Charlie says the big attraction at the ranch, besides his pet llamas, is frequent sightings of what must be described as unidentified flying objects. The bachelor owner of Reeves Thicket Ranch and his frequent visitors enjoy sitting on the long front porch of the ranchhouse to watch the hovering lighted objects. They will hover for quite a long time, sometimes, and then dart off with great speed, into space. Various law enforcement agencies have been told of the sightings, and they are interested, but what could they do, other than show interest? It would be difficult indeed to arrest anything that elusive or that fast moving, and what would the charges be, anyhow, other than “trespassing on Reeves Thicket Outer Space?”

Yes, Reeves Thicket is a very fascinating place. The old ranch house is interesting, and the owner, Charlie Faupel, is a unique and interesting young man. So why wouldn't any watchful spirits out there be pretty fascinating, too?

Over at Reeves Thicket, Charlie Faupel's cousin Susan Purcell and her husband, Kim, have reported some might strange things, too. The thickly wooded ranch land holds many mysteries. The thicket used to be the hangout of a lot of unsavory characters, including Sam Bass and his band of outlaws. When somebody got crossways with Bass or one of his gang, that somebody usually got shot! Susan says she's sure that there are lots of unmarked graves scattered all over the place, and that is one reason why the horses so often get spooked when they are out riding over the place.

The Purcells, like cousin Charlie, often have seen what they refer to as UFOs flying over their property, often hovering for some time over a certain spot. And then, there's the strange little “man-creature” wearing a heavy long brown coat! When Susan's son was just a toddler, she used to take him for walks in his stroller. One time the infant gurgled and smiled and put his little arms out in front of him as if he was amused or delighted at something he saw. A look in the direction in which the baby was looking revealed a glimpse of a “small creature, about four feet tall, wearing a very long brown cloak, which appeared to be quite heavy.” “It,” whatever it was, was about sixty feet away from Susan and she didn't get a good look. Just one glimpse, then it was gone. A couple of weeks later she saw the same figure again.

Then, a few days later, Kim Purcell was out working on the place on his tractor. About noon one day he saw the same “little person” peeping around from behind a tree. A small figure, clad in the same clothing Susan had described, has also been seen around the banks of a pond on the property which is called Shell and Trigger Lake. Although there were stories around for a while that an old hermit was living around there, the Purcells don't think this person, or “thing” they have seen, quite fits that description. They wonder. Is he a midget, and if so where would he have come from and where does he live? Or is he
a ghost? Or is he a creature from another planet, in view of there being so many sightings of UFOs in the vicinity?

Susan has seen the strange figure three times in all, while her husband has seen him twice. The second time Kim saw him was early one morning, about 2 a.m., as he prepared to depart on his morning paper route. He says he saw something and believed it was the same small figure that he had seen before. It was running away from Kim's parked pickup truck.

What? A “mott?” When I first heard of Sutton's Mott, I must confess I wondered, what in the world is a mott? The word just wasn't in my vocabulary! It didn't appear in either my Webster's Collegiate or New World dictionaries. I finally found the word “mott” in my new Reader's Digest Illustrated Encyclopedic Dictionary. A “mott” is a Western U.S. term referring to a “small stand of shrubs or trees on a prairie.” It apparently comes from the Mexican-Spanish word, “mote,” meaning “shrub.” So much for clarification!

Susan Purcell, about whom I wrote in the previous story, who lives over at Reeves Thicket near Victoria, told me for years people living in those parts have considered the thick stand of oak trees off Highway 77 that they call Sutton's Mott to be a “very haunted place.”

Susan told me that lots of people have said hunting dogs, who usually love to get out in the open country and range around, won't go near the place to retrieve a dove or flush a quail. They'll just back off and whine and whimper, and the hair stands up on the backs of their necks when they get close to the place. And horses become terribly agitated, spooked, whenever they are anywhere near the grove. In fact, many cowboys who live in the area are not ashamed to admit they'll ride for miles out of their way rather than pass by the grove they call Sutton's Mott.

It seems a long time ago, sometime around 1850, there was a goat herder named William Sutton (they called him Old Bill) who lived up there where the thick stand of trees grew on an otherwise pretty barren area. He wasn't a particularly pleasant character to start with, and goat herds were not considered socially acceptable in a country where cattle ranching reigned supreme.

Apparently Sutton lived alone. Although he made a pretty good living off his goats, he also had a sideline source of income which netted him considerable cash. He loaned money to ranchers and then demanded a quick payback with a high rate of interest. It seems he got
into a lot of arguments over his business terms when he went to collect some of his debts. One time, when tempers flared really high, old Bill Sutton shot a local rancher. When the son of the shooting victim learned what had happened to his father, he swore revenge on Sutton. The next Sunday, when Sutton attended Mass, as was his custom, over at the chapel at the Presidio of La Bahia near Goliad, the young man was waiting for him. When Sutton exited the chapel, the old goat herder was shot down right in the doorway. The young man had his revenge, and no one was particularly sorry to learn of Sutton's death.

Since the goat herder left no apparent heirs, there was no one who knew where Sutton might have sequestered his rumored wealth. Most people were pretty sure he had buried it within the thick grove of oak trees that they called the “mott.”

Over the years, many people have come to try their luck at digging up treasure. All of them have left in a hurry! It is said that after they calmed down and quit babbling, many people have reported seeing terrible, frightful sights . . . headless forms hanging from the trees, suspended from great chains. All sorts of weird noises have been reported, too, until finally very few people will venture close to the thick grove of trees.

According to my friend Susan, the mott is still haunted. Old Bill, who was known to be pretty mean in life, is apparently just as mean as a ghost. Maybe he even called upon some pretty devilish fellow spirits to help him protect his gold! We believe he's still there, guarding his money.

If you would care to search for it, call me. I have a pretty good set of directions.

“Remember the Alamo!” “Remember Goliad!” These were the rallying cries shouted by General Sam Houston's forces on April 21, 1836, as they attacked the slumbering forces of General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna at the Battle of San Jacinto. This battle won independence for Texas from Mexico's domination. Now, today, the whole world recognizes the shout, “Remember the Alamo!,” but not nearly so well known, especially among non-Texans, is the poignant story of the massacre of Colonel James Fannin and his Texan forces that were stationed at the old Presidio of La Bahia at Goliad.