Ross Sterling, Texan: A Memoir by the Founder of Humble Oil and Refining Company 9780292795525

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ross sterling, texan

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Ross Sterling, Texan A Memoir by the Founder of Humble Oil and Refining Company

n ross s. sterling and ed kilman edited and revised by don carleton foreword by dolph briscoe, jr.

u n i v e r s i t y o f t e x a s p r e s s , au s t i n The Center for American History, The University of Texas at Austin

copyright © 2007 by the center for american history, the university of texas at austin All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First edition, 2007 Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to: Permissions University of Texas Press P.O. Box 7819 Austin, TX 78713-7819 www.utexas.edu/utpress/about/bpermission.html The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-1992 (r1997) (Permanence of Paper). library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Sterling, Ross S., 1875–1949. Ross Sterling, Texan : a memoir by the founder of Humble Oil and Refining Company / Ross S. Sterling and Ed Kilman ; edited and revised by Don Carleton ; foreword by Dolph Briscoe, Jr. — 1st ed. p. cm. ‘‘The Center for American History, The University of Texas at Austin.’’ Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn-13: 978-0-292-71442-7 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn-10: 0-292-71442-4 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Sterling, Ross S., 1875–1949. 2. Governors—Texas—Biography. 3. Businessmen— Texas—Biography. 4. Humble Oil and Refining Company (Incorporated in Tex.)— Biography. 5. Bankers—Texas—Biography. 6. Texas—Politics and government—1865– 1950. 7. Petroleum industry and trade—Texas—History—20th century. 8. Texas— Economic conditions—20th century. 9. Houston post-dispatch—History. 10. Houston (Tex.)—Biography. I. Kilman, Edward W., b. 1896. II. Carleton, Don E., 1947– III. University of Texas at Austin. Center for American History. IV. Title. f391.s829a3 2006 976.4'061092—dc22 [b] 2006028216

Contents

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Foreword by dolph briscoe, jr. vii Introduction by don carleton 1 one Double Bayou

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two The Flip of a Coin

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three The First Two Oil Wells four Taking Over Standard

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five A Personality Company

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six Pulling Stakes at Fifty

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seven Deerslayers Deluxe

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eight Highways of Destiny nine The Unbonding Plan

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ten An Unpolitical Politician 99 eleven Pour It On

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twelve The World Loves a Winner

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thirteen The Supreme Honor of My Life fourteen Crisis in East Texas

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fifteen Drowning in Ten-Cent Oil 157

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sixteen Holding the Bull

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seventeen Whistling in the Dark

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eighteen Flying Words and Eggs

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nineteen The Battle of the People twenty It Was a Great Show

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twenty-one Martial Law’s Finale twenty-two Back in the Chips

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twenty-three The View from the Western Slope Epilogue by ed kilman Notes 239 Index 257

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Foreword dolph briscoe, jr.

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In 1919, my father, Dolph Briscoe, Sr., became the Uvalde County oil distributor for the Humble Oil Company, which had its headquarters in Houston. A group of independent oilmen, including Ross Shaw Sterling, Walter Fondren, Robert Blaffer, and William Stamps Farish, created Humble in 1911 by consolidating their individual holdings in the newly discovered oil fields in southeast Texas. By the time my father went with Humble, the company was well on its way to becoming one of the most powerful business enterprises in Texas. My father kept his Humble Oil distributorship for the rest of his life. Four years after my father affiliated with the Humble Company, he met Ross Shaw Sterling, at that time Humble’s president, during a hunting trip in Uvalde County in which my father served as Mr. Sterling’s guide. This deer hunting expedition, which Mr. Sterling describes in detail in this memoir, proved to be a life-changing event for my family. As a result, my father and Mr. Sterling began a friendship that would endure until Mr. Sterling’s death, a quarter of a century later. Born in 1875, Mr. Sterling had grown up near Anahuac, the town where my ancestor Andrew Briscoe had settled in the early 1830s. While in his twenties, he had worked as a farmer and a merchant. He became an independent oil operator in 1903, eventually merging his interests with other operators to form Humble Oil, one of the predecessor companies of today’s ExxonMobil Corporation. Mr. Sterling also had branched out into the railroad business by the time he and my father formed their partnership. Later, after serving as chairman of the Texas Highway Commission, he was elected governor in November 1930. It is obvious that Mr. Sterling was a gifted entrepreneur and a successful politician, but my family also knew him to be an extremely kind and generous man. He was a true gentleman. He liked Mother and Father very much and he vii

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appreciated the way my father ran their joint cattle operation. The year I was born, 1923, was when my father and Mr. Sterling began their partnership, so Mr. Sterling was a strong presence throughout my childhood. I had the wonderful opportunity to get to know him and his wife, Mrs. Sterling, very well. Her name was Maud, but she was always Mrs. Sterling to me. They treated me like a grandson. It was my good fortune as a child to accompany my father when he and Mr. Sterling drove around on the ranch or when they visited some of the towns in the region around the ranch. I believe Mr. Sterling enjoyed hunting more than owning cattle. He put my father in charge of not only his Chupadera Ranch but also his hunting parties, which became notable events that Mr. Sterling describes so well in this memoir. One of my father’s responsibilities was to meet Mr. Sterling when he arrived from Houston in his private railroad car at Carrizo Springs, which is about forty miles from the Chupadera Ranch headquarters. Mr. Sterling often brought a few of his good friends with him to go hunting on the Chupadera. They would leave Mr. Sterling’s railroad car on the siding at Carrizo Springs, and my father would drive them to the ranch in a large touring car. By this time, Mr. Sterling had sold his holdings in the Humble Oil Company to become a land developer and to buy the Houston Post. He also was deeply involved in Texas politics. Because of his widespread political and business connections, I got to see some pretty important people who came to the Chupadera for these special hunting parties. They included powerful Houston financier and newspaper publisher Jesse H. Jones, former Texas governors William P. Hobby and Dan Moody, cotton baron M. D. Anderson, Houston land developer and oilman Will C. Hogg, and various railroad executives, bank presidents, federal judges, and other notables. It was exciting stuff for a little kid. One of the most vivid memories I have of my childhood was when my family went to Austin to visit Governor Sterling in the fall of 1932, after Governor Sterling lost the Democratic primary race to Ma Ferguson. Governor and Mrs. Sterling insisted that we travel to Austin and spend the weekend in the Governor’s Mansion before he left office. Father was struggling with his financial problems at that time, so he felt that he couldn’t spare the time. The Sterlings insisted that we make the trip, however, because they wanted me to have the opportunity to spend the night in the mansion. Father agreed, so we went to Austin. Governor and Mrs. Sterling let me sleep in the bed of my hero Sam Houston. It was quite a thrill for a young man to know that he was sleeping in the same bed that the great Sam Houston had slept in. From that day forward, I had a burning ambition to get back to the mansion. It was a formative experience. This was when the country was in the depths of the Depression. I well remember that when my father and I walked with Governor Sterling from the viii

Foreword

Governor’s Mansion to the Capitol we were stopped several times by individuals asking him for a job. I can still see the desperation in their faces. These were men who desperately wanted to work, but there were no jobs. After dinner, my father and I and Governor Sterling walked a few blocks to the Paramount Theater on Congress Avenue in downtown Austin to see a movie. We walked everywhere, and we never had a police escort. I can say honestly that the memory of that weekend was one of the motivating forces that drove me many years later to run for governor. Although the partnership between my father and Ross Sterling fell victim to the Depression and was never revived, they remained close friends until Governor Sterling’s death in 1949. In the last years of his life, Governor Sterling often visited our house in Catarina. A couple of years before he passed away, Dad told a newspaper reporter that Ross Sterling had ‘‘always been and still is my very closest friend. I admire him more than any man I have ever known.’’ That sums up their relationship and Mr. Sterling’s importance to my family far better than I can. Along with my father, Mr. Sterling was one of my most significant role models. He was an outstanding public servant of absolute integrity who played a critical role in developing my interest in politics and state government. I am delighted that my good friend Dr. Don Carleton, historian and director of the University of Texas Center for American History, has partnered with the University of Texas Press to publish Mr. Sterling’s memoir. Dr. Carleton has done a magnificent job of rescuing this manuscript and restoring Mr. Sterling’s voice to his own story. I am grateful to him for the work that he has done. There is a surprising lack of published information about the history of the men and women who have served as governor of our great state. The publication of Ross Sterling, Texan will help fill one of the gaps in this history, and it will insure that Ross Sterling’s accomplishments and his contributions to the economic and political development of Texas will not be forgotten.

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Introduction don carleton

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During the summer and fall of 1947 and the first half of 1948, Ross S. Sterling, a former governor of Texas and a significant pioneer of the American oil industry, told his life story to Ed Kilman, who was at that time the editorial page editor of the Houston Post. Sterling and Kilman were old friends. Born in 1896 in Ennis, Texas, Kilman had worked as a reporter, editor, and columnist at the Post since 1925. For a few years in the 1920s, Sterling owned the Post and Kilman had been his employee. Kilman also worked as Sterling’s unofficial press agent, speechwriter, and private secretary during Sterling’s two political campaigns and during his one term as governor.1 Eager to ‘‘preserve a narrative record of his life and deeds,’’ Sterling hired Kilman to write his biography. In work sessions at his office in downtown Houston and at his home in that city’s River Oaks subdivision, Sterling answered Kilman’s questions about his past and told anecdotes about his business and political career. The former governor also provided Kilman with important personal papers, news clippings, and other documents. Kilman recorded at least one of these interview sessions with an early magnetic tape recorder.2 According to Kilman, Sterling ‘‘cooperated freely in the work, supplying much documentary material and filling in the gaps with verbal interviews. He read the first draft and made numerous interlineations, correcting errors and suggesting changes.’’ 3 Sterling was eager to see the final revised manuscript, which Kilman completed in October 1948. The former Texas governor, however, suffered a debilitating stroke one month before Kilman finished the last draft. Incapacitated for several months, Sterling died on March 25, 1949. He never read the final manuscript.4

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Kilman and Sterling planned to publish the final 388-page typescript as a standard biography. The vast majority of the text is a simple conversion of Sterling’s own words into a third-person narrative voice. In addition, Kilman interviewed a few of Sterling’s friends and associates, who are quoted in the original manuscript. Because of his long professional association with Sterling, Kilman added a few of his own observations to the narrative. With a working title of ‘‘Sterling—Texan: The Life Story of Ross Sterling,’’ Kilman’s manuscript is a wholly uncritical presentation of Sterling as a Horatio Alger figure. In a letter to a potential publisher, Kilman wrote that he had presented Sterling’s life story ‘‘in a way that should give pleasure and pride to his family and friends.’’ The writing is more typical of a nineteenth-century style already long out of date by the mid-twentieth century. ‘‘Galveston!,’’ Kilman has the nine-year-old Sterling declaring when he arrives in that city during his first trip there. ‘‘Gee, Dad, I betcha Jean Lafitte sailed his pirate ships right up to this very landing!’’ Despite these stylistic issues, Kilman did a fine job of getting Sterling to tell his story and to share some of his views with refreshing candor.5 In the aftermath of Sterling’s death, Kilman tried without success to sell his manuscript to at least two publishers. According to Kilman’s wife, Alice, Mrs. Sterling gave him permission to find a publisher because she knew how much her husband wanted to see the book in print. At least one of those publishers offered to print the book if Kilman would pay for it. Ross Sterling’s children, however, declined Kilman’s request for money. Kilman eventually gave up the effort.6 During a visit that I had in Houston with Sterling’s son, Walter, in 1978, he admitted that the manuscript was a realistic rendering of how his father viewed his life and that it was as accurate as one could expect. ‘‘My father dictated the entire thing,’’ Walter told me, ‘‘so it was definitely his version of the past.’’ Walter Sterling also said that he thought Kilman’s writing was ‘‘childish’’ and ‘‘silly.’’ As for Kilman’s request for additional money from the family, Walter Sterling told me that he and his siblings felt that Kilman had been given adequate pay and that if the book was worthy of publication it would make its way on its own merits. The family had no interest in paying for a vanity book.7 Although his Sterling manuscript remained unpublished in his lifetime, Kilman successfully published one book that he authored and three other books that he co-authored. All were on Texas history. One of those publications, coauthored with Theron Wright, was Hugh Roy Cullen: A Story of American Opportunity (1954). The Kilman and Wright biography of Cullen, another Houston oilman, was written in a style very similar to the manuscript on Ross Sterling, with Cullen obviously dictating his story to the co-authors. Kilman continued as an editor and writer for the Houston Post until 1961, when he became editor emeritus. He died in 1969 in Houston. His papers, which contain one of 2

Introduction

the typescripts of his biography of Sterling, are in the archives of the Houston Public Library’s Houston Metropolitan Research Center (HMRC).8 I first discovered the existence of Kilman’s manuscript when I acquired his papers in my role as director of HMRC in the late 1970s. At the time, I was researching my book Red Scare, so I was interested only in Kilman’s activities as the editorial-page editor of the Houston Post during the late 1940s and early 1950s. After I found the unpublished manuscript in Kilman’s papers, however, I realized that it was an important primary source on the life and career of a significant figure in the history of Houston and of Texas, as well as the history of the American oil industry. I toyed with the idea of having it published as written, which led to my discussions with Walter Sterling. He did not object to having the manuscript published. Unfortunately, the publishers who reviewed the work did not want to publish it without extensive rewriting. Kilman, of course, was deceased, so I dropped the project. In the mid 1980s, when I was researching my biography of independent Texas oilman J. R. Parten, I discovered Sterling’s copy of the manuscript in his papers at what is now the University of Texas Center for American History. The knowledge of its existence remained in one of the back files of my mind from then on. A few years later, I became friends with former Texas governor Dolph Briscoe, Jr., whose father had been a close personal friend as well as a partner of Sterling’s in a ranch and cattle business. During Briscoe’s childhood, the Sterlings often visited his family at their house in Catarina. Governor Briscoe has fond recollections of Governor and Mrs. Sterling. One of Briscoe’s most cherished memories is of the night that he spent in the Governor’s Mansion when Ross Sterling was the state’s chief executive. When I told Governor Briscoe about the existence of the manuscript, he urged me to have it published. Aware of the paucity of information on Ross Sterling in the literature of the story of Texas, Governor Briscoe was keen to do something to help restore Sterling to history. He generously agreed to subsidize the publication. After a thorough evaluation of the manuscript, Governor Briscoe and I agreed that Kilman’s stylistic excess was a problem. We decided that Sterling’s voice should be restored to the narrative and that the manuscript should be rewritten completely and transformed into an autobiography. Sterling dictated most of the text directly to Kilman and it is relatively easy to see where Kilman converted entire paragraphs from the first person to the third person voice. Accordingly, I have revised Kilman’s text entirely and I have converted Sterling’s testimony back to the first person. I have deleted most of Kilman’s commentary as well as most of the direct quotes from individuals Kilman interviewed. The material I have deleted includes a few ‘‘jokes’’ that play on insulting 3

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racial stereotypes. I appreciate the argument that because these racially prejudiced stories are typical of the jokes that were told by many white Americans at the time, they are historical and should remain in the text; but there is no way of knowing whether Ross Sterling actually told these jokes or if Ed Kilman added them, they seem to be gratuitous, and they do not shed light on any particular event. We can safely assume that Sterling and Kilman shared the same racial views held by the vast majority of their contemporaries, and there is additional evidence remaining in the narrative to support that assumption. For those reasons, I chose to remove them from the text. Wherever I thought it might be useful to the reader, I have added information, largely biographical, in a series of explanatory endnotes. As can be seen in the endnotes, my efforts were greatly aided by the Texas State Historical Association’s six-volume New Handbook of Texas and the Center for American History’s biographical vertical file collection. The Handbook is the essential starting point for research on any subject related to the history of Texas. The complete and unrevised copy of the Kilman manuscript (including all material deleted from this book) on which this book is based is housed in the Ross Sterling Papers at the Center for American History of the University of Texas at Austin, where it is available for research. Walter Sterling, who at the time was a member of the University of Texas Board of Regents, donated his father’s papers to the university without restrictions on their use or publication. This book would not have existed without the work of Ed Kilman. That is the reason he shares and deserves credit with Sterling as co-author. I want to thank Governor Dolph Briscoe, Jr., of Uvalde, Texas, for his generous support and his energetic enthusiasm for this project. I appreciate his help and I treasure our friendship. I also want to acknowledge the help of Governor Briscoe’s able assistant, Barbara Woodman. Dr. William Bishel, the talented acquisitions editor of the University of Texas Press, worked closely with me throughout the process of getting this book in print.

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one

Double Bayou

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It was the lure of gold nuggets that brought my father, Benjamin Franklin Sterling, to Texas in 1849. My father had caught the gold fever from the FortyNiners, and it set his pioneer blood on fire with the urge to leave his Mississippi home and join the rush to far-off California. My grandparents poured cold water on the flame. They felt that an eighteen-year-old youth, even one as rugged and self-reliant as my father, had no business gallivanting across two thousand miles of wilderness on his own. But my father was so insistent that they finally offered a compromise proposition. ‘‘If you’re dead set on going west,’’ his father said, ‘‘go to Texas. That’s not so far from home, and it’s a great new state with wonderful opportunities for a young man. Go look it over, and if you like Texas, maybe we’ll move there too.’’ So my father saddled his pony and rode out to the four-year-old Lone Star State. He traveled to Houston and then up the Trinity River to Dallas, which in those days was a settlement of a few log houses. He also visited a military outpost called Fort Worth, and ranged as far northwest as Wichita Falls. Father fell in love with the Texas country. He returned to his home in Lawrence County, Mississippi, and brought his entire family back to Texas, settling first in the village of Chester in Tyler County. My father’s family consisted of six boys—Frank, James, John, William, Bob, and Quincy—and their sister, Margaret. My grandfather, William Sterling, ran the first water-powered grist mill in Tyler County, on Village Creek. He was affectionately known as Uncle Billie. My father worked as a carpenter and cabinetmaker. In Houston, he helped build the Barnes House, a famous hotel of later years, on the site of the first permanent Capitol of Texas, where the Rice Hotel now stands. Eventually he settled at the town of Liberty, on the lower Trinity River, where he took on a 5

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Mr. Ridley as a business partner. Their business, Sterling and Ridley’s Saddlery and Cabinet Shop, became an established enterprise in Liberty. It was in Liberty that my father met Mary Jane Bryan, who was the daughter of Luke Bryan, a hero of the battle of San Jacinto. Mother was from Morgan City, Louisiana, a member of a family that, like the Sterlings, had roots in Virginia. Mother and Father were married in 1858. They built a home at Liberty and began rearing a family. When the Civil War began, Father became a lieutenant in a Confederate Army company formed in Liberty County. He trained the first Texas outfit to cross the Sabine. Its commander was Mother’s uncle, Captain King Bryan. A few days before the company was scheduled to leave for the front, Captain Bryan persuaded my father to resign from the Confederate Army and stay at home with his family. He told my father that his wife needed him worse than Confederate president Jeff Davis did. But Father could not withstand the patriotic urge. He organized another company and joined in the fight. He served throughout the war and was in the siege of Vicksburg. When General Robert E. Lee surrendered at Appomattox, my father returned to Southeast Texas. While cutting wood along Buffalo Bayou for the Galveston, Houston and Henderson Railroad, he contracted malaria, or bayou fever, as South Texans called it. He continued ‘‘puny’’ for a year, and then someone suggested that the salt air of the bayshore would be good for his health. So my father leased a 160-acre farm on Double Bayou, a few miles from the mouth of the Trinity River, and moved the family and worldly goods there from Liberty on a flatboat. He poled it down the river to the bay and then up Double Bayou from the mouth to the farm. That was in about 1867. After a year on the farm in the sea breeze restored his health, Father wanted to move back to Liberty, but Mother vetoed that notion. ‘‘You’re healthy here,’’ she told him, ‘‘and here we’re going to stay.’’ So they bought the place and settled down on the Double Bayou. A broad tree-shaded stream named for its two forks, Double Bayou meanders through fertile coastal plain to tidewater. Our farmhouse stood near a place on the bank where ancient tribes of Indians had once camped and left their flint relics. Our farm spread beyond the bayou, toward the historic town of Anahuac. I was born on that farm on February 11, 1875. My father named me Ross in honor of the dashing Sul Ross of Civil War and Indian fighting fame. I was the eighth child born to my parents in seventeen years. There were four more yet to come. The work of feeding and clothing all those offspring, and the need to wrest a living from the soil for the whole tribe, meant that Father and Mother could give none of the children more than a sort of assembly-line attention. By the 6

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time I learned to get around, I found out that if I did not look out for myself I would be left behind or miss my share. I was well equipped for that responsibility because I was the largest and most robust of all the children. As soon as I was old enough to feed the cows, horses, hogs, and chickens, I had to assume my share of the farm chores. When I could handle a hoe and pick cotton I took my turn in the field. My father established a little general merchandise store near the bayou, and I found work to do there as well. With my brothers and sisters, I attended a little one-room county school, about a mile from home and about halfway between Double Bayou and Galveston Bay. During rainy spells, a large marsh on the way to school filled with water, blocking our path. We children had great sport piling into an ox-drawn wagon and voyaging through the vast expanse of water that must have been all of one hundred yards across. At the backwoods school, one teacher administered the three R’s to an enrollment that ranged from fifteen to twenty-five pupils. My brothers, sisters, and I made up a major portion of the student body. Sessions seldom lasted longer than four months of the year. I was a fair pupil, but I had my share of schoolboy fights. Once I had to stand in the corner, but no teacher ever gave me a whipping. I grappled with the fundamentals of reading, writing, spelling, and ciphering; but I was more apt to learn from people and their deeds than from books. From my uncle Luke, I learned with pride of the Texas revolution of 1836 against Mexico and its triumphant climax on the field of San Jacinto, a long day’s horseback ride up the bay from Double Bayou. From my parents and old-timers of Chambers County, I heard how the nearby historic old town of Anahuac, a Texas port of entry under Mexican dominion, in 1832 had been the scene of the first clash between Stephen F. Austin’s Texas colonists and the minions of the tyrant Santa Anna. My mother died in 1888, five days after my thirteenth birthday. I never went to school after that. I became a full-time hand on my father’s farm and in the store, along with three of my brothers, Bryan, Frank, and John. Sam, the eldest brother, was married and did not live on the family farm. I took to the water like a duck. As early as I could remember, there was a sailboat in my family, and as a very young boy I became an expert at the sport of handling a tiller and a mainsheet. With our family, sailing wasn’t so much a sport as an industry. We freighted the products of our farm and neighboring farms down Double Bayou to its mouth, and then across some thirty miles of bay to Galveston. Everything the Double Bayou community raised to sell went to market in that boat on its weekly voyages: vegetables, corn, cotton, melons, chickens, eggs, and sometimes a calf. Most of the merchandise for the store and 7

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clothing and supplies for our family and their neighbors came from Galveston on our boat. Galveston was our nearest important shopping center, and it was a day nearer to Double Bayou by water than by land. In 1895 my father and my brothers and I built a broad-beamed forty-sixfoot sloop and named her the Sterling. We made the vessel some little distance from the bayou and wheeled it to the water on six rollers, segments sawn from a big sweet gum tree, drawn by six yoke of oxen. It was launched sidewise on greased log skids. With some difficulty, we put a forty-eight-foot mast, which was a trimmeddown tree trunk, into place on the boat. This accomplished, we rigged her, hoisted the heavy mains’l with its rings around the mast, and were ready to go. The gaff-rigged Sterling was designed to carry nine tons. There were times when the hold and the deck were loaded to capacity. Once she shipped six horses across the bay, but that required special railings. She was a beautiful, fastmoving craft; with her extraordinary spread of canvas, she outran everything that would race with her. All the boys were sailors, but John and I were the only members of the family who could manipulate the heavy sail single-handed. The Sterling came to be known far and wide. It was an object of admiration and envy all over Galveston Bay. John and I, who usually manned the helm, became known to all the skippers of the motley mosquito fleet that moored in the community basin at Galveston. The approach of our sloop heeling in the wind was a standing challenge to any sailing vessel for a race, and most of the skippers learned that the homemade boat could show them a clean wake. The hardest task in sailing the Sterling was navigating the five or six miles of Double Bayou between the mouth and the Sterling landing. If the wind was with her she could sail up or down the stream, but she could not beat against a headwind; the bayou was not wide enough for the long boat to tack in. In that case, we had to tow her with a line from the bank. If the wind or tide was strong, we resorted to a Cordell line—a rope tied to the top of the mast so as to clear the treetops along the bank and pulled by one or two horses. The sailing, freighting, and trading didn’t get me out of my share of the drudgery of farming. Barefoot, wearing patched faded overalls and a torn straw hat, I plowed many a furrow with our mules Kitty and Bill on our farm. It was there that I first caught a vision of success that was to be the dominant influence in my career. Chopping cotton and digging potatoes and picking beans along with my father’s hired field hands, I discovered that by exerting a little extra effort and enterprise I could get ahead of my competitors. I reduced the matter to a mental formula, like a principle of physics: ‘‘If I hit four licks while the other fellows are hitting two or three, they just can’t keep up with me.’’ That became my life’s working philosophy. 8

Double Bayou

I was only about seventeen when my father virtually turned the management of the farm over to me, even the hiring and firing of hands. I started work before they did in the morning and quit after they did at night. I worked along with the men, and if one lagged too much, I would tell him to go get his pay. One day, I had a gang chopping cotton and wanted to finish the field before a threatened rain came. The men kept dawdling and stopping to talk while I pushed ahead. Finally, I warned them that they had better get to work or they wouldn’t earn their money. The seasoned farmworkers thought that was funny, coming from a gangling teen-aged kid. They ignored my admonition. My patience at an end, I told them to go to the house to get their pay. They laughed insolently, but they weren’t so gay when my father fired them. One rainy day when I was twenty-one, my brothers and I were putting a centerboard in the sailboat. It was a massive, heavy board twelve feet long and some six feet wide, weighted with big iron bolts. I was lifting this cumbersome thing into place in the ‘‘trunk’’ of the boat when my foot slipped and I fell. I wrenched my back, but I finished out the job. The next morning, however, I couldn’t get out of bed. For more than a year, I could do no lifting or heavy labor. My freighting and farming days had ended suddenly. That back injury shaped my destiny. But for the injury, I might have gone on raising crops at Double Bayou indefinitely and sailing them across the bay on the good ship Sterling. My father put me to work as a clerk in the family store. Storekeeping was tedious and confining for a robust outdoor youth, but it was business, and I had an inborn instinct for trade. Soon after I went to work full time at the store, I circulated a petition to have the federal government open a post office in our little settlement. At that time, we had to go to Anahuac for our mail, and the round trip killed most of a day’s time. My petition was successful. The new post office was established in our store. The postal authorities named the postal station Graydon. My father was the first postmaster. The mail was brought on horseback on a Star Route from Liberty to Wallisville on the mouth of the Trinity, then on to Double Bayou and Graydon, then by boat to Smith’s Point and on to Galveston.1 I eventually grew restive cooped up in that isolated little country store. I itched to get out into the world and make my fortune or at least to earn more than the $10 a month my father was paying me. From worldly-wise customers who came to the Sterling store, I heard that the legal profession was a good one for a young man, so I decided to become a lawyer. I saddled my horse and rode all the way to Beaumont, some seventy miles away, to see about studying law in the office of Judge Jackson. Judge Jackson asked me how much schooling I had completed. I admitted 9

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that I had quit school at the age of thirteen without finishing the grammar grades. ‘‘Then,’’ he told me, ‘‘maybe you’d better learn stenography and typing first, and then try to get a job in a law office, so you can study law while you’re working.’’ I went back to Double Bayou, bought an Oliver typewriter, and began practicing in the store, but I couldn’t learn shorthand there without a teacher. Before I solved that problem, other interests intervened, and the ambition to learn stenography and be a lawyer went glimmering. Uppermost among those new interests was Miss Maud Abbie Gage, the daughter of Frederich H. Gage of Hamilton, Illinois. She had come to Texas from Kansas in 1898, with her mother and stepfather J. H. Short. Her mother was in ill health and her doctor had advised a change of climate. She had acquired forty acres of land in Chambers County in payment of a debt, so she moved there for her health, as my father had done. The Short family landed at Galveston and then came to Double Bayou on our boat, the Sterling. My brother John was the skipper. A norther accompanied them to Texas, blowing the water out of the bay. The tide was so low that the sloop couldn’t sail up the bayou. Mrs. Short was carried ashore, and Maud waded through the shallow water. Maud and her family took up temporary quarters in the little schoolhouse where I had gone to school. A few days after her arrival, Maud came to our store and met my father, my brothers, and me. She became a regular customer, and her shopping visits were bright spots during our workdays. ‘‘I don’t care which one of you does it,’’ my father told my brothers and me, ‘‘but I’d like to see one of you get that girl for a wife.’’ ‘‘Maybe you don’t care which one of us it is, Dad,’’ I replied, ‘‘but I do.’’ Being there in the store gave me an advantage over my brothers, and I seized it. Soon Maud and I were keeping steady company. I took her to the square dances at Double Bayou, Wallisville, Anahuac, and Smith’s Point. We rode horseback to the shindigs. Maud and I sometimes danced all night to the hoe down music of fiddle, guitar, organ or piano, while a leather-lunged caller sang out the do-si-do and ‘‘swing your partners.’’ John and Bryan Sterling sometimes did the fiddling, while Maud played the piano or organ. At midnight, we would take an intermission for cake and coffee. On my twenty-first birthday, my father gave me a silver dollar as a present. That was not the only money I had. Out of my $10 monthly income, and by an occasional bit of trading here and there, I had accumulated $130 and a horse and saddle during my first year in the store. My board and room were free, and I did my own laundering except collars and shirts, so there wasn’t much to spend money for. 10

Double Bayou

Maud and I were married on October 10, 1898, at her parents’ home a mile or so across the prairie from Double Bayou. I was now a stalwart 165 pounder— about 100 pounds lighter than I was to be in full maturity. By this time, I was enjoying the opulence of an income of $30 a month—$1 a day, rain or shine. Maud brought a dowry of $65 in cash to our marriage. She went to town and bought furniture with most of that but turned over the balance of $8 for me to put into the business. I took over the merchandising business and built another store down the bayou from my father’s place, right at the landing where the sloop Sterling loaded and unloaded her cargoes. This ship-side location obviated the necessity of draying goods between the boat and the store. I also became postmaster, and my bride assumed the job of assistant postmaster. We built a little house half a mile from the store. It was a long, narrow building, with two rooms downstairs and two upstairs. That is the house where Walter, our first child, was born. Marriage and the prospect of supporting a family rekindled my ambition to move to greener money-making fields. Ever since my first trip to the big city of Galveston in 1884, I had wanted to go there to seek my fortune, just as my brother John had done. My sister Mrs. Cora Barrow also had moved to Galveston. In September 1900, I found a prospective purchaser for my store, Johnnie Jackson, who lived in Chambers County. Jackson said he would ride over on Sunday, September 9, to take a look at the layout. This appointment prevented me from accompanying my wife on a trip to Galveston on our sloop to spend a weekend with our relatives on Friday, September 7, 1900. Maud spent Friday night with my sister Cora, while my brother Jim, who had piloted the boat, stayed on the sloop, tied up with the mosquito fleet at the foot of Eighteenth Street. On Saturday, a gusty wind blew up from the northeast, bringing squalls and a high tide. On that day, the historic 1900 hurricane struck the island, wrecking most of the city and taking several thousand lives.2 As soon as the worst of the storm was over, my brother John saddled his horse and rode down to the waterfront to see if Jim had survived. The island was inundated by a tidal wave, and the horse nearly had to swim while picking his way through the debris of demolished houses. He found the sloop Sterling sitting up on the wharf, where the tide had washed her. His worst fears for our brother’s safety apparently were realized because Jim wasn’t there. The boat had sustained only minor damage. The water was still so high that she was floating on top of the wharf, the keel resting slightly on the floor. John was able laboriously to push the heavy hulk back into the slip. While he was sweating at this task, a stocky form came sloshing down the waterfront. John gave a cry of joy. It was Jim. 11

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Galveston after the hurricane of 1900. Center for American History, UT–Austin (hereafter referred to as CAH), DI02380.

John had given our brother up for lost, among the countless bodies strewn everywhere among the wreckage of Galveston. But Jim had taken refuge in a nearby Spanish freighter, where he had ridden out the hurricane. Except for the loss of a night’s sleep, he was none the worse for the ordeal, but Jim’s young first mate had disappeared during the storm. He was never seen again. My brothers went to Cora’s home. All were safe there, and Maud was watching anxiously for them. She told Jim that she wanted to return home right away to see if I was all right. Some of our Chambers County neighbors visiting in Galveston also were anxious to find out how the folks at home had weathered the storm. So they all waded down to the dock on that desolate Sunday afternoon and boarded the Sterling. She was the first sailboat to leave Galveston after the hurricane. The wind was still blowing pretty hard from the south, and the savage seas were rolling high. Jim reefed the mainsail, and even then the vessel bucked and heeled so badly that Maud had to help him sail. So high was the tide that they didn’t have to worry about the chain of reefs across the bay, through which the sailor normally had to pick his way carefully. The boat had taken a severe lash12

Double Bayou

ing in the hurricane; it was leaking so badly that the passengers had to keep pumping water almost constantly all the way across the bay. Double Bayou had caught the full force of the blow. My family and I were safe, but every place in the settlement was damaged. Just before the storm, Jackson had agreed tentatively to buy the store, but he sustained such heavy losses that he was unable to go through with the deal at the time. A year later, however, Jackson returned and paid me $4,500 for the place. I was a twenty-six-year-old country boy, so that was a small fortune in my eyes. Money in hand, I prepared to move to Galveston. My father thought I was making a mistake in leaving Double Bayou, and some of my friends and neighbors shared that view. ‘‘You don’t understand what’s in my mind,’’ I told my father. ‘‘If I owned everything between here and the bay, and everything between the Bay and Liberty, I wouldn’t be satisfied to stay. I feel like I’m wasting my time.’’ Eventually, Father admitted that he had felt the same way fifty-two years before, when his parents in Mississippi tried to talk him out of leaving home to explore the wild and woolly west.

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The Flip of a Coin

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In the late fall of 1902 I bade farewell to Chambers County and sailed across the bay to Galveston to work for my brother John, who ran a produce house on the Strand. It was time to begin drumming up Christmas business, and John sent me out on the road to sell fruit, nuts, and confections, and to buy produce. Carrying a sample case and a valise, I took off on the Southern Pacific News train, so-called because it left the island at about 3 a.m. with bundles of the Galveston News fresh off the press for distribution over the state. My first stop was Richmond, where I had to wait until daylight to visit the merchants. I next went to Rosenberg and then to Orchard, a village in the midst of a vast marshland. My brother John had a good customer in Orchard, to whom I sold a large bill of Christmas goods. Because the next train wasn’t due for hours and a horse-drawn vehicle couldn’t negotiate the marsh, I walked nine miles on the railroad to Wallis, lugging my baggage and overcoat. My first call at Wallis was at the store of Brandt and Harris. I introduced myself to Brandt, who was weighing some white turkeys. I told him that my brother wanted to buy his turkeys. I knew that John sent his weekly price quotation cards to Brandt. ‘‘Yes, I just got one,’’ Brandt replied. ‘‘It’s a hell of a way you Galveston fellows do. You make us a price, and when we send you the stuff you offer us a different price.’’ I returned his good-natured jibe in kind. ‘‘Well, just remember,’’ I said, ‘‘there are as many robbers in grocery stores as anywhere else. You put the biggest potatoes on top and pull all sorts of tricks.’’ ‘‘You may have something there, son,’’ Brandt laughed. I think he was amused by my brashness. Getting down to business, I told him that I would

14

The Flip of a Coin

back up every quotation on my brother’s card. ‘‘I’ll buy your turkeys and pay the quoted price right here and now.’’ Brandt took me back in the store to meet his partner, Harris. It developed that Harris was from Lawrence County, Mississippi, which was my father’s old home county. On that common ground, we established friendly relations and business followed. Brandt and Harris began shipping produce to Galveston the next day. I also traveled to Brenham, Cameron, Temple, and other points in Central Texas. I did a land-office business. After a few days on the road, firing in orders at every stop, I called my brother at Galveston. ‘‘I was about to come after you,’’ John said. ‘‘What the dickens are you doing out there?’’ I told him I was doing what he told me to do, sell Christmas stuff, and buy produce. John told me to come home. ‘‘You’ve already got us more business than I can handle.’’ I caught the next train to Galveston. Back in the island town, I soon went to work for I. H. Kempner, a leading businessman. Kempner had asked my brother John if he knew anyone who could supervise a tomato packing crew on his plantation at Thompsons, in Fort Bend County. I took the job at $100 a month, which was a handsome salary for hired help in those days. I went to the farm and took command of about 100 Negro workers.1 While working for Kempner for a couple of weeks, I began hearing about the lush business in the oil boomtowns. In those days before the automobile and truck, the oil industry required many horses and mules; the horses and mules required a lot of feed, and I knew merchandising. It seemed that there was money to be made in the oil towns, so I decided to go to the oil field and open a feed store. The oil fever was running high in Southeast Texas. The historic Spindletop discovery well had blown in at the turn of the century.2 Beaumont was crazy with the most fabulous boom west of the Mississippi since the Forty-Niner gold rush. Other discoveries in the area followed, including the huge Sour Lake field, in Hardin County, not far from Beaumont. It became known as the Shoestring field, because of the narrow, ten-feet-wide drilling strips. I decided to get in on the ground floor in the new Sour Lake field. Leaving Maud with her mother at La Porte, I rode horseback to Sour Lake.3 Sour Lake was a little village in the piney woods and the only living accommodations available were cots in a tent. The first thing I did after arriving was buy some cheap lots. Then I went to a lumberyard to negotiate for material to build my feed store. Harvey Gilbert and his brother-in-law J. L. Wilbarger ran

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View of Sour Lake field, 1903. CAH, DI02367.

the lumberyard. Wilbarger figured the lumber bill and made me a price. The deal was closed without any mention of terms of payment. ‘‘I’ll send the stuff over when you’re ready for it,’’ Wilbarger told me. After paying my debts and obligations on farm and cattle interests, I had only about $500 left of the $4500 I had received for my store at Double Bayou. 16

The Flip of a Coin

I paid $120 for the lots. After leaving my brother Bryan with the job of building the store, I hustled over to Houston to buy a stock of feed. I ordered seven or eight cars of feed and a carload of potatoes from a wholesaler named Shearn. This left me with no money to pay for all the building material and feed I had purchased, so I went to Galveston to seek a loan. I needed $3,000. I knew a banker in Galveston, Thomas J. Groce, who was president of the Galveston National Bank. Groce had once told me to come to him if I ever needed some financial help. Groce, however, explained that for a loan of $3,000 I would need to put up collateral or get a solvent endorser on my note. So I went to Louis Levy, a wholesale grocer, from whom my family had bought merchandise for our store for years. I told Levy my story and asked if he’d endorse my loan note for $3,000. Levy told me that he wouldn’t do that for his own brother, but he might lend me the money. He gave me a note, told me to sign it on the front, and go get my father and brother to endorse it on the back. I sailed across the bay, got the endorsements, and returned next morning. Levy took the note and gave me the $3,000 at 10 percent interest. I was in the feed business. My feed store flourished in that rough bustling community. The reputation my family enjoyed throughout that region helped some, but I knew the keys to success were hustling enterprise and hard work. Hardin County was still pretty wild and woolly. It was piney woods country, so its chief industry was saw milling. Most of the people were rugged backwoodsmen: loggers and deer hunters, with a sprinkling of one-mule sandy-land farmers. Sour Lake in its boom days was a rootin’, tootin’ town of perhaps ten thousand people. The place had all sorts of people, but mostly the tougher types: boomers, adventurers, gamblers, confidence men, and bad hombres generally. They lived in shacks and tents, scattered all over the prairie and woods. I was just an unsophisticated overgrown country boy among the Philistines, but I could take care of myself. I had competitors in the feed business, but they couldn’t seem to compete much. I made it so convenient for customers to buy feed from me that they got the habit and would not buy from anyone else. I delivered feed in my spring wagon, and in some cases I would even put it in their troughs, so that they could just turn their teams into the lot and they’d be fed. By this time, I was a 225-pounder, and I could take a 100-pound sack of oats under each arm and easily walk with them from my wagon to the purchaser’s house or barn. Among my best customers were men who were to become important figures in the oil business: Joe Hughes, Jim Abercrombie, T. Hardison, and others. My business did so well that I was soon able to buy out my competitors, one 17

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by one. The last to capitulate was the Sour Lake Grain Company. Then I looked around for new worlds to conquer. Saratoga, farther east in Hardin County, was becoming quite an oil boomtown. I opened a feed store there, leaving my associate Frank Carpenter in charge of the Sour Lake store when I was away. I had found a suitable place for my wife and our son, Walter, to live at Sour Lake, and now Frank could keep an eye on things there during my absence. Most mornings I rose at five o’clock and rode my bay pony through the woods to Saratoga before breakfast. Often after working a while in my store there, I would ride on to Batson to look after my accounts. I had no store at Batson, which was a smaller oil field than Sour Lake, but I did considerable business there out of Saratoga. From Batson, I would return to Sour Lake, often getting in after dark. My trail from Sour Lake to Saratoga went past a certain house shaded by magnolia trees. There, every morning I saw an old man sitting on the front porch smoking his pipe. Every morning, I would wave at him and he would wave back. One morning, the old gentleman walked out to the gate as I was galloping by and waved me down. ‘‘Young man,’’ he said, ‘‘I don’t know who you are or where you’re going, but you’re always so regular and so positive about it, I’d be willing to bet you’ll get there.’’ I introduced myself to the man, whose name was Jordan. After we shook hands and chatted a bit, I rode on after adding another customer to my rapidly growing circle. In the fall of 1904, the newspapers from Houston and Beaumont brought tidings that the Barrett well at Humble had blown in a gusher.4 This news excited me. I was seized by a sudden overwhelming desire to go to Humble. I pondered all morning, debating the question. Half an hour before time for the afternoon train to leave Sour Lake, I told Frank Carpenter that there was a good opportunity for me to open a store in Humble. I told Frank that I would flip a silver dollar and if it comes up heads, I go to Humble. If not, I would stay put. I flipped, and it was heads. I rushed home and told Maud to pack a few clothes in a suitcase for me while I got ready. ‘‘I’m going to Humble.’’ My chance decision to go to Humble proved to be one of the turning points in my career. In 1904, Humble was a drowsy little village on the Rabbit railroad, some eighteen miles north of Houston, which had sprung to life with the discovery of oil there. The little village was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes when I arrived. I quickly looked the place over, visited the discovery oil well, and came to a solid conclusion that this was a place where I could get in on the ground floor and make some money. 18

The Flip of a Coin

Humble No. 1, 1904. CAH, DI02349.

Acting on the knowledge gained in the boomtowns of Hardin County, I quickly bought several choice corner lots in the embryonic business district before the boom price spiral set in. In these transactions I had the advantage of the counsel of Harry Wright, Humble’s leading real estate agent, who had been my personal friend at Sour Lake. On a corner adjoining the railroad, where feed could be unloaded right at my store, I had a building under construction in short order. I ordered a stock of feed before the store was even completed. Feed stores opened all over town, but that didn’t faze me. I stretched a sign across the street proclaiming the existence of ‘‘R. S. Sterling & Co., Grain and Hay.’’ The customers flocked in. The DeGeorge family came to Humble with the rush. I sold them the inside half of my corner railroad lot for as much as the whole lot had cost me. I sold another one of my corner lots for a bank. The profits from these and other real estate deals paid for my feed building. Early in 1905, I moved my family from Sour Lake to Houston. I had been staying at the Brazos Hotel in Houston, commuting daily between the city and Humble and taking an occasional trip to Hardin County to look after my feed stores. In those days there were few automobiles and fewer good roads. The only car I remember seeing in Houston was owned by Howard Hughes, Sr., the 19

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oil well toolmaker. My family and I were to become neighbors and friends of the Hughes family. The railway afforded the only quick transportation between Humble and Houston. The trains between Houston and Humble swarmed with Houstonians doing business in the oil town. Many of the passengers had been customers of my feed stores in Sour Lake, Saratoga, and Batson. I spent my time on the train successfully drumming up business for my Humble store. A poultry man I knew sent me an express shipment of chickens and eggs. He had read in the Post that I was opening a store at Humble, and he sent the produce before the store was opened. I wrote him that I wasn’t in the produce business. ‘‘I will turn the stuff over to Kaiser and Jameson, who are in that business here,’’ I wrote the man. ‘‘Hereafter, please ship your produce to them.’’ The poultry man soon replied: ‘‘We don’t know Kaiser and Jameson, but we do know you.’’ He continued sending chickens and eggs to me, and I promptly transferred them to the Humble produce merchants. One day an East Texan who had opened a competing feed store at Humble eased into the seat next to mine on the train and introduced himself. ‘‘I’ve stocked up with a lot of feed,’’ he complained, ‘‘but the oil people won’t buy it. They all say they buy from Sterling. How in thunder do you do it?’’ I chuckled and replied, ‘‘Well, my friend, I’ll tell you one reason. You ask them for money. I don’t. I just deliver the feed, and don’t collect for it until the end of the month.’’ Perhaps the competitor tried out that plan, but there were a few other secrets of my success that I didn’t mention to the man. One was my born instinct for trading. Another factor was my aggressive enterprise and unceasing work— that philosophy of hitting three or four licks to the other fellow’s two or three. Still another factor was a little trick of financing I had learned in my brother John’s produce business at Galveston. The produce men would make a delivery bond for the freight, and the railroad would immediately deliver stuff they had ordered, without waiting for payment of the freight draft. I got an insurance man named Jim Sheldon to write me a freight bond for delivery of feed on the spot. With this bond the railroads would deliver the stuff to me as soon as the cars came in, and often I sold the feed before I paid the draft for the freight. In the fast oil field trade this arrangement gave me an advantage over my nonbonded competitors, who often had to wait and stew for several days before they could get their feed delivered. About a year after the Humble oil discovery, a drill bit struck pay sand west of Dayton, a few miles from the old Sterling hometown of Liberty. I promptly opened a feed store and a saw mill at Dayton. With four partners, I also established a rice farm on two leagues of land I purchased near Dayton. We formed a $100,000 company, in which I agreed to take a one-fifth interest. When the 20

The Flip of a Coin

time came to put up the capital, two of the partners confessed that they didn’t have the cash for their shares. I lent them the money, and in the end, I had to buy out all my associates. Niels Esperson, a budding Houston capitalist, later became a joint owner in the rice farming enterprise.5 We planted a thousand acres the first year, and harvested more than 10 sacks to the acre. One day, I took my son, Walter, then a chubby toddler, on a trip to Dayton to tend to my rice and sawmill businesses. ‘‘What does your daddy feed you to make you so fat?’’ a Dayton lumberman asked my son. ‘‘Rice,’’ replied little Walter. ‘‘You’d better watch out, or he’ll be stuffing you with sawdust from his mill.’’ Eventually Esperson bought my interest in the rice land and its irrigation canal. Some of that big rice farm would later become valuable oil land. Later, when the oil and banking business demanded all my time, I turned the Dayton feed store over to my brother Jim, and it grew into one of Dayton’s principal businesses with $40,000 or $50,000 worth of stock. The panic of 1907 brought severe reverses to the banking business, but it sent me a windfall. A Fort Worth oil lawyer named Armstrong owned a string of four private banks at Humble, Batson, Saratoga, and Sour Lake—the towns where I owned feed stores.6 The banks were gasping for life, and Armstrong wanted to sell them. I bought them for $1000 each. Armstrong had no capital stock in the banks. He sold them on condition that he take all the deposits in inactive accounts—that is, accounts that had not been checked on in a long time and might be forgotten. He agreed to pay a draft covering any depositor’s withdrawal from an inactive account. In the course of time depositors did withdraw such accounts amounting to more than I had paid for all four banks, but Armstrong kept his pledge and paid the drafts. Not wishing to bear sole responsibility for all the money on deposit, I had them rechartered as state banks; all of them, that is, except the one at Batson, which I closed and transferred its accounts to the Saratoga bank. Charles H. Hooks became my business associate in the Saratoga bank, forming an association that was to be continued in later years. My feed and banking enterprises were so prosperous that I did not deem it necessary during the 1907 panic to limit bank withdrawals to $25 a day, as the Houston banks did. My depositors were free to take out as much as they wanted. As a result, I had no runs on my banks. On the contrary, my policy caused people to feel that my banks were sound and strong, and their business increased. Many depositors drew the limit out of Houston banks and redeposited the money at my bank in Humble. Frequently, when the Humble bank accumulated more cash than it needed, 21

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I would take a bundle of it to Houston on the train in the evening and deposit it in a city bank. I would wrap the cash up in a newspaper and usually put it up on the rack above the seat of the chair car. Anyone who noticed the parcel might have guessed it to be a pair of shoes to be repaired, or perhaps a dressed chicken for the supper table. One time I got off the train and walked into Houston’s old Grand Central Station and suddenly remembered that I had left a bundle of currency on the rack. I ran all the way back as fast as I could go. Luckily, it was still there. I wear a diamond ring that holds a story of the Humble bank. A storekeeper on Moonshine Hill complained that his bank statement showed $1000 less balance than he should have. Suspicion pointed to our young cashier. It looked as if he were embezzling and doctoring the books. To test him, I slipped a twentydollar bill into his cash drawer. The cashier’s cash statement for the day balanced, there was no $20 excess. The next day I slipped a ten-dollar bill in his drawer, and again his accounts balanced exactly. I called the bank examiner, and his check of the bank’s books revealed a total shortage of $2800. Called to account, the frightened young cashier confessed. Under questioning he wept and said he didn’t know where the money was. He had married a high-flying girl who went in for expensive clothes and luxuries. That obviously was the answer. The youth’s father promised to make good the shortage. He sold some property for $1200 and gave me a diamond as a $250 payment. In time he and his son repaid nearly all of the $2800. Thenceforth the young man trod the straight and narrow path and we got along well. I even recommended him for a job in Houston. I told the bonding company I felt partly to blame for putting so young a man in the path of temptation. I had the diamond set in a ring that I have worn for nearly forty years. That stone has always been a reminder of what you can get into by appropriating money that doesn’t belong to you.

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The First Two Oil Wells

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Humble quickly mushroomed into a roaring boomtown filled with shacks and tents. The muddy streets swarmed with oilmen and all the motley camp followers and backwash of oil fields, all burning with the get-rich fever. Peace authorities, lacking jail accommodations for lawbreakers, chained them to trees. All around me, men were becoming millionaires overnight, but I withstood the lure of oil. I also saw men lose everything they had in dry holes. I felt safer investing my money in land than sinking it in an oil well. Then in 1910 along came a bargain in a couple of producing wells that were making 50 barrels a day. No danger of a dry hole there—until they played out. They were on famous Moonshine Hill in the Humble field. At the then current price of around $1 per barrel, that meant something like $100 per day. The wells belonged to Hugus and Black, and they wanted to sell out. Clint Wood, an oilman I had known at Sour Lake, told me about these wells one evening on the train to Houston. Wood had followed the oil parade to Humble. He was enthusiastic about these two wells. ‘‘You can buy them both for twelve thousand five hundred dollars,’’ he argued; ‘‘that’s the best bargain I know of.’’ He claimed that he would buy them, but he didn’t have the money. I told Clint that I knew nothing about the oil business, but I would buy them and give him half interest if he would operate them. Clint agreed. I borrowed the $12,500 from B. E. Brooks, putting up as collateral some vendor’s lien notes on land I had sold to J. W. Link in the Montrose addition in Houston. Brooks charged me $100 for the service. Thus modestly and unostentatiously did I enter the oil business. Having got my feet wet in the golden grease, I soon waded out deeper. Jim Patrick had several wells on a five-acre lease on Moonshine Hill. He offered these holdings to Clint Wood for $25,000. They wrote a preliminary 23

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agreement on the back of a blank check, and Clint gave him a small payment as a binder. Wood brought the deal to me, and I had the papers drawn up. But when Patrick learned that I was the actual purchaser, he blew up. Jim was a rather temperamental man, and for some unknown reason, he didn’t want me to have the property. He backed out of the deal. I told Clint Wood that I would like to have those wells, but the contract had been written on the back of a blank check, and it didn’t even contain a legal description of the land. So, we let the deal slide. Not long afterward, however, a lease seller by the name of M. C. Hale told me that Jim Patrick still wanted to sell that property. I told Hale to get Patrick into a car at the first opportunity and take him to the office of my attorneys, Champ Ross and C. B. Wood, and they would handle it without mentioning my name. A few days later Hale called me and said that Jim Patrick had fallen over a steam pipe and bruised his leg and his temper. ‘‘He’s running around here cussing and saying he wants to sell that property if the purchaser would put up five thousand dollars,’’ Hale said. I went to my bank and withdrew five 1000-dollar bills. I took them to Champ Ross and told him, ‘‘Give Patrick only what you have to.’’ Later in the day Champ called me. ‘‘Your friend signed the contract,’’ he announced. ‘‘It’s one he can’t kick out of. I gave Patrick the five thousand dollars, but he said he didn’t want all the rest in money. He wanted notes, and he wanted them endorsed. I told him Mr. Sterling would endorse them, but he said, ‘No, that won’t do.’ Patrick said he wanted them endorsed by some solvent person.’’ Next day the capricious Patrick changed his mind again. He wanted to give the $5000 back and call off the deal. I told him that he couldn’t do that. ‘‘You’ve signed a binding contract.’’ My good friends George Hamman and Walter Fondren of Houston agreed to endorse the notes. So Patrick got his $20,000 of promissory notes endorsed by ‘‘solvent’’ men, and I became the owner of the five acres and the producing oil wells thereon. With this valuable acquisition, I felt that I could call myself an oilman. My friend Hale owned a well or so, and another friend, Charles B. Goddard, had some. In 1911, I suggested to them that we organize a company and really get into the oil business. They agreed. We decided to name the company after the town of Humble. Our pooled assets added up to the respectable total of approximately $150,000, of which I contributed about one-third. We put no cash into the company, only those physical assets and the considerable production from our several producing wells. My lawyer Champ Ross filed the application for the charter in Austin. When 24

The First Two Oil Wells

Governor Oscar Colquitt’s secretary of state failed to issue the charter within a reasonable time, we grew impatient for our stock certificates, which could not be issued until the charter was granted. I told Champ Ross to call the secretary of state. I sat by his desk during the call and listened to Champ’s side of an extended conversation. There seemed to be some hitch in the application. ‘‘You needn’t worry about anything like that, nothing whatsoever,’’ I heard Champ assure the secretary of state. When Champ hung up the receiver, I asked anxiously, ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ ‘‘Nothing,’’ Champ answered, ‘‘he wanted to be absolutely sure the Standard Oil Company had no interest in your company. He reminded me that they had just put the Waters-Pierce Oil Company out of Texas, and they didn’t want anything like that again.’’ I thought that was very funny. I told Champ that we should feel flattered that they should suspect us of being such big-leaguers that the Standard Oil Company would have anything to do with our one-horse company. I couldn’t imagine what could have given them the idea. This incident was to prove strangely prophetic years later; but at the time, my associates and I had no more connection with, interest in, or knowledge of Standard Oil Company than we had with, in, or of the man in the moon. At any rate, we soon received the charter and we got our stock certificates.1 The Humble Oil Company was a going concern. At the beginning, the offices of the Humble Oil Company were at the Humble bank, which also is where we held our directors’ meetings. As owner of the controlling interest, I became president. Joe Fincher was secretary. The other organizers were Clint Wood, M. C. Hale, S. K. Warrener, and Charles Goddard.2 From the start, our Humble production paid us 3 percent dividends monthly on the $150,000 of stock. After a few months, I told the other stockholders at a meeting in my bank in Humble that I didn’t like this policy. I believed that we needed to be building up a surplus for expanded operations. I proposed to cut the dividends to 1 percent monthly and accumulate some surplus. Two or three of the others said they’d rather take the money now. I replied that there was one way they could get their money now and that was to sell their stock. I offered to buy it, but I also counseled them to sit steady in the boat and in five years we would have a million-dollar company. Our timid stockholders, however, didn’t sit steady. They thought my comment about Humble becoming a million-dollar company was laying it on a bit thick, so they sold their stock. That stock, which was worth a few thousand dollars at the time, would have made each of them rich within less than a decade. We reduced the dividend to 1 percent, and the Humble Oil Company began piling up a surplus. 25

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Our oil business developed with breathtaking speed. I had considered myself a busy man before the organization of the Humble Company; now I scarcely had time to eat or sleep, or to get acquainted with my growing family. Our fifth child, Norma, was born about the time that Humble Oil began to take off. I usually left for work before the children awoke in the morning and returned home after they were in bed at night. Humble Oil’s success, however, gave me the opportunity to provide a nice house for my family in Montrose, then the best residential section of Houston. Because of the demands of the oil business, I had less time for my feed stores and banks. I sold the Sour Lake Feed Store to Frank Carpenter. Jim Sterling took over the Dayton store and developed it into the largest business in that town. I also sold the Humble hay and grain business and the banks. Walter W. Fondren came into the company in 1911, shortly after it was organized. To pay off a debt, Clint Wood gave Fondren forty shares of his company stock, valued at $4000. That stock was to pay Fondren’s money back many times over, but the company was to get full value received in benefits from his extensive experience in the oil business. Born in Tennessee but raised in Arkansas, Fondren had received his baptism in oil in the first Texas field at Corsicana in the late 1890s. Then the Spindletop discovery lured him to Beaumont at the turn of the century. There he became a driller, and before long he had a producing well of his own.3 Fondren and I spent many an hour at night out on the Pickens lease at Humble and at wells elsewhere, searching for soft places in the sand that might be pay dirt. The modern system of coring sands had not yet been developed. The only known method of checking on formation strata was that of catching and examining cuttings from the drill bit as the boring progressed deeper and deeper. The operator could tell when the bit was biting into soft sand, which might be oil-bearing. In the early 1900s, when witches’ wands were considered more reliable than petroleum geologists, the oil business was catch as catch can, go to it, luck, and the devil take the hindmost. There was a saying that if you wanted to find oil, you tied a tin can to a dog’s tail and let him run until it fell off; then you drilled your well where the can lay. No more reliable means of locating a well was known. Three others who became interested in the new Humble Oil Company were William S. Farish, Robert E. Lee Blaffer, and Harry C. Wiess. Each would eventually become Humble’s president. Will Farish, a young lawyer from Mississippi, just out of school, went to booming Beaumont to hang up his shingle. Lee Blaffer went there from New Orleans as fuel oil purchaser for the Southern Pacific Railroad. He soon branched out into the oil production business. Blaffer 26

The First Two Oil Wells

and Farish struck up a friendship that developed into a business association. They got some production at Spindletop and Sour Lake, and then joined in the rush to Humble.4 Farish and Blaffer were drilling contractors as well as producers. In about 1912 they contracted to drill some wells for Harry C. Wiess and Cooke Wilson, in the DeSoto field, in Louisiana. Later, Wiess sold them an interest in a fortyacre lease on the edge of the Humble field, and they developed it jointly to a good payoff. The Farish-Blaffer-Wiess lease at Humble produced very light, freakish oil. They set up a little still or skimming plant there, with an old drum or boiler used in the Humble field, and distilled gasoline that was a naphtha distillate. Lee Blaffer bought a tank truck and hauled the gasoline to Houston and sold it on the streets at prices below those of the Gulf, Texas, and other retailers. Those companies didn’t like the competition. This enterprise grew into the Globe Refining Company. The Globe Refining Company became a source of amusement. Its gasoline gave off an unusually strong odor, and in those days, the industry had no deodorizing process. But it was good fuel—so good that car owners soon were asking for ‘‘the gasoline with the smell.’’ It brought a nice profit, returning about $3 a barrel for the boiled oil, five times as much as crude brought. Most of the output of the Globe ‘‘teapot’’ refinery was sold to George Hawkins, who operated a little filling station in Houston where the Majestic Theater now stands. Farish and Blaffer bought Humble stock from time to time, eventually acquiring a substantial interest in our business. Harry Wiess controlled the Paraffine Oil Company, which discovered the Batson field in 1903 and operated in the Sour Lake field. His father, one of the organizers of the company, developed it in association with Judge W. L. Douglas and Steve Pipkin of Beaumont. The elder Wiess also had a controlling interest in the Reliance Oil Company, which passed to the son. My first association with Harry Wiess was in Oklahoma. I had an interest in some leases owned by the Reliance Oil Company in the Healdton field, just west of Ardmore. I joined with the elder Wiess and Steve Pipkin to organize the Ardmore Oil Company to drill on those leases. We found good production at Healdton, but we lost the properties in a lawsuit. Either Oklahoma governor Cruce or his brother owned the land, and they sued for forfeiture of the lease on the grounds that we had not drilled the exact number of wells they had agreed to by a certain time. We won in the trial court and the appeals court, but the Oklahoma Supreme Court reversed the decision. To me it was a shocking thing, because the governor of the state or his brother profited by taking the property from us. The litigation cost us close to $200,000.5 27

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Harry C. Wiess. CAH, DI02368.

The Ardmore Oil Company merged with the Humble Company in 1912. The Wiess family and their partners exchanged their Ardmore stock for Humble shares. The merger doubled the value of Humble’s capital stock. The value of our stock was pyramiding amazingly. Within the five years I had predicted the company would be worth $1 million dollars, it reached the value of $5 million. In 1916 I was actually offered that amount by George Kobusch, president of the St. Louis Car Company in Missouri, but I turned him down. During Humble’s formative period, I had induced a friend to buy twenty shares at $100 a share. My friend, who never had owned any big money, marveled as it doubled, tripled, and quadrupled in value. The higher it went, the more nervous he grew. Getting rich so miraculously was too good to be true;

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The First Two Oil Wells

he feared the bottom would drop out of the market, or that he would wake up and find it all a dream. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He came to me and said, ‘‘Mr. Sterling, I’ve been offered six hundred dollars a share for my stock.’’ ‘‘Well,’’ I replied, ‘‘is that hurting you? You’ve got the stock, and we’ve got the properties to make it worth even more in time. What’s the matter with that?’’ ‘‘Nothing, but six hundred dollars a share means twelve thousand dollars to me, which is enough to make me independent. If you want the stock at that price you can have it.’’ ‘‘All right,’’ I said, I’ll take it.’’ Lee Blaffer and Will Farish offered to buy the stock, and I let them have half of it. Another stockholder was a teamster named Davis, who served as secretary of the company for a while in the early days. He bought 200 shares at the original price of $100, and held it until the price multiplied eight times. Then he could stand it no longer and sold the stock to Walter Fondren and Houston developer Jesse Holman Jones for $160,000. This was nearly all clear to Davis too, for in those days the government didn’t take the lion’s share of such profits in income taxes. We hit it big again in Sour Lake in 1916. F. B. West, who used to live on Main Street in Houston, told me that he had bought an eighty-acre lease in the Kirby tract in the Sour Lake field, from Harper Kirby of Austin. Under the terms of the lease, he had to drill a well within a certain time, and he needed help. He wanted me to take a half interest with him. I agreed. We drilled the well down to 1600 feet. West had been going out to the rig every day, watching its progress. Then he came in one evening all down in the mouth, to report the well a failure. ‘‘The bit has been on solid rock for days,’’ he said. ‘‘There’s no use drilling any further.’’ In those days, we didn’t have the rotary bit to drill through rock. We used the standard rig with cable tools and a bit thirty feet long that weighed a ton. We dug the hole by lifting the bit by a cable and letting it fall, like a pile driver. I told West that I didn’t think we should quit yet, but West was unwilling to risk any more money on the hole. The upshot of it was that I agreed to buy his interest in the lease. I had a hunch about that well. I was having the papers drawn up for the assignment when my field man called me and said they had punched through the rock into fifty feet of the prettiest oil sand you ever saw. They needed casing. I called West and said I didn’t want to go through with our trade and I didn’t think he did either. He asked why not, and I said, ‘‘Because we’re through the rock and in fifty feet of

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beautiful sand.’’ I asked if he wanted to go along, and he nearly had a fit. ‘‘All right,’’ I said. ‘‘You get some casing out to the well quickly.’’ I told him how many feet of casing we needed, and he ordered seven-inch pipe from Peden Iron and Steel Company for immediate delivery to Sour Lake. The next day they called me from the field and said the order of pipe was short by a few lengths. I asked West why he hadn’t bought enough, and he said, ‘‘I figured I could borrow a joint or two.’’ That’s how close he was. He did borrow the needed pipe, and we set the casing and brought in a crackerjack well. The Humble Company drilled a dozen more wells on that lease at Sour Lake, but West wasn’t putting up any money at all. Finally I told him, ‘‘We can’t go on this way. You owe us thousands of dollars, and I want the money.’’ West suggested that he might sell his half-interest in the development. I agreed to buy it, made an earnest payment, and caught a train to Beaumont to ask Underwood Nazro of the Gulf Company for an advance with which to make the purchase. Nazro had evinced some interest in the property. His ears pricked up at this deal. ‘‘How about letting us buy the stuff ?’’ he asked. ‘‘That’s all right with me,’’ I replied. ‘‘You can have it for the same amount we’ve agreed to pay, which is two hundred thousand dollars.’’ The Gulf Company inspected the property, but turned it down. A few days later, we brought in well No. 14 on the lease, making 10,000 barrels. Within a few hours, Nazro called me at Houston on long-distance telephone. ‘‘I’d like for you to meet me at Sour Lake as soon as you can come,’’ he said, ‘‘and bring Walter Fondren.’’ I said that it would cost him $50,000 more now for me to come to Sour Lake. That was all right. So Nazro paid us $250,000 for a half-interest in the holdings. It proved to be a good buy. The Gulf Company got its money back many times over. Thirty years later that No. 14 well was still producing 40 barrels a day. The Sour Lake field was experiencing a rebirth, a second boom, and we were getting a large share of the fruits. We also were expanding production in the Humble field, and we were developing our holdings in Oklahoma. The business was growing so large that we had to find more room for the office work. I rented part of the top floor of the Lumberman’s National Bank Building in Houston. Very soon after that, Samuel F. Carter, the owner of Lumberman’s, erected a new building four blocks south, changing the name to the Carter Building. This later became the Second National Bank Building. The Humble Oil Company took the top floor of that sixteen-story structure. It was at this juncture that my sister Florence succeeded Joe Fincher as secretary of the company.6 Humble eventually outgrew its quarters in the Second National building and moved to

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The First Two Oil Wells

the old Gulf building at Rusk and Main. After a short stay there, Humble made a deal with Jesse Jones for a part of the old Goggan building. It was in the latter part of 1916 that the Humble Company got into the real big-time. George Kobusch, the St. Louis car builder who had offered $5 million for the company, didn’t give up when I declined his proposition. He interested himself in the firm’s activities and made himself an unofficial associate. He said he now represented New York capital. In 1916 he called me on the telephone at about midnight to tell me that he had a deal for Humble with a man named Garrett to buy 200 acres of his Goose Creek property. Garrett had leased the land on the Tabb’s Bay peninsula from John Gailliard, and I considered it to be promising property. I knew the Gulf Oil Company was angling for it. I asked Kobusch what he had paid for the property. ‘‘Well, I had only fifty dollars in my pocket,’’ he replied, ‘‘but I promised to pay him fifty thousand dollars by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Garrett’s attorney, Judge Gill, is preparing a contract for the rest, which is three hundred thousand dollars more to be paid within ten days.’’ I promised to be at my office early in the morning. Judge Gill was there on the dot at 10 a.m. with his contract. I had become quite familiar with oil leases and contracts by this time, so I glanced over the document. It was obvious that the contract was one-sided, all on the seller’s side, and I reported that to Gill. ‘‘I know it is Ross,’’ he replied, ‘‘but that’s the way they want it.’’ It was a question of take it or leave it. I decided to take it. I had a hunch that this property would be worth millions. ‘‘All right,’’ I said. ‘‘I seldom do business this way, but here’s your fifty thousand dollars.’’ I took the contract to my own lawyer, C. B. Wood—the man who had drawn up the Humble Company charter—and tossed it down on the desk before him. Wood scanned the instrument and scowled. ‘‘The fifty thousand dollars you’ve paid them is just for an option,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t you know you won’t get it back if the title fails?’’ ‘‘Yes, I know that,’’ I replied, ‘‘but I think we’ll have the best title out, and as long as we have the longest stick I’m willing to fight for it if necessary.’’ Wood didn’t like it at all. ‘‘I don’t think you should do it, Ross. It isn’t good business.’’ ‘‘Well, it’s my money, not yours,’’ I said, ‘‘so let me do the worrying. If I lose it I can make some more. What I want you to do is to get the title in the best shape you possibly can in ten days, because in that time I’ve got to pay them three hundred thousand dollars more.’’ Wood got to work and did a good job. Then he and Judge Gill collaborated on the preparation of the final papers. They were about to finish, along toward

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noon of the tenth day, when Wood noticed a strange clause in the contract, and he hit the ceiling. ‘‘Gill, who the devil put this part in?’’ he demanded. ‘‘It wasn’t in the abstract.’’ ‘‘No, it wasn’t in the abstract,’’ replied Judge Gill. ‘‘I wanted it in there, so I wrote it in myself in pencil.’’ Wood was so perturbed and provoked by Judge Gill’s arbitrary action that he left the room in a huff. I finally had to conclude the transaction myself, signing the papers and giving Gill his check for $300,000. With this drain on our treasury, and facing an additional $400,000 obligation, we had to get busy drilling on the Goose Creek property. We brought in the first big well at Goose Creek before the end of 1916. Our well, Mitchell No. 1, opened the Goose Creek field. Our driller was a robust, ruddy-cheeked young fellow named Jim Abercrombie. Jim later struck it rich in the Old Ocean field a generation later, and he become one of Texas’ richest oil men. One well had been drilled on the Goose Creek peninsula when we bought Garrett out. It was a dry hole. We had much better luck. In the course of time, we drilled so many wells and took out so much oil that the land, which stood four feet above the water, sank to two feet under water. I built a road the length of the peninsula, paving it with lime rock. It is now submerged. We built earthen pits around the first well to hold the oil. The pits are now under four feet of water, but as this is written, in 1946, some of the wells there are still producing. In one of the peninsula wells, the casing wasn’t set just right in the sand. That was before the time of modern cartridge perforation. The instrument then used for opening the pipe to admit the oil was an oil well knife. The knife was lowered to the desired depth, and when the cable started pulling it up, the knife would open and rip the casing. Big Boy Bales, the driller of that particular well, lowered the knife and inadvertently ripped the casing at the wrong place. Before he had time to correct the error, there was a roar and a volcanic eruption of oil and gas. The workmen were almost drowned in petroleum before they could get away from the gusher’s downpour. When they succeeded in gauging the flow, she was making 20,000 barrels a day. Walter Fondren telephoned the news to me from Goose Creek. When he told me about the driller’s error, I told Fondren to get the driller to rip some more wells in the wrong places. Few of those early Goose Creek wells came in for less than 5000 barrels a day. At the prevailing prices of crude oil, most of those wells paid for themselves within a week or ten days before they eventually ceased flowing. 32

The First Two Oil Wells

James S. Abercrombie. CAH, DI02365.

We were now getting plenty of production, but we felt that we were not getting a fair price for that production. The practice of the major companies in those days was to contract with independent producers in December to buy their oil throughout the ensuing year at a fixed price. If the prevailing price happened to be 30 cents a barrel at the time the contract was executed, that would be the price for the entire year, regardless of market fluctuations. The general trend was upward, and if the price doubled during the year, as sometimes was the case, the major purchasers got all the gravy. Little fellows such as we were at the time had no choice; the majors, principally Gulf, Magnolia, Texas, and Sun Oil companies, provided us with our only dependable market. My fellow directors and I thought that we might arrange to sell Humble’s production direct to the eastern refiners and thus get the market price at all times. When Harry Wiess and I went to New York to meet with the refiners, they wanted to know how much crude we could assure them. Wiess felt sure 33

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Humble could furnish a tanker cargo every week or so, but the eastern refiners shook their heads. ‘‘We can hardly afford,’’ they said, ‘‘to give up our present connections with the majors and buy from you, because they might scratch us off their lists, and then maybe you wouldn’t have enough oil to supply our needs.’’ So Wiess and I returned home empty-handed. On the old reliable principle that ‘‘in union there is strength,’’ Humble and some other independents agreed to pool our production and operate as a cooperative to deal with the refineries for the full market price. We formed the Gulf Coast Independent Producers Association. I was elected president, and Henry Staiti became secretary. We improved our condition with this association. The big purchasers found their oil, in volume, worth more than it had been in separate driblets. But my associates and I felt that we could do better if we had our own refinery. In fact, we became convinced that a refinery was essential to a full realization on our crude oil. Will Farish and I came up with the idea of pooling the holdings of Humble and its associate producers and integrating into a corporation that would be able to build a refinery. The idea seemed a good one. We broached it to Lee Blaffer and Harry Wiess. In the latter part of 1916, we took a poll to see who was willing to join the new enterprise. We dulled many pencil points figuring how much our respective properties were worth and what valuation should be placed on them. At length all such questions were settled.7 Humble was reorganized; its capital stock was increased more than 1000 percent, from $300,000 to $4.1 million; and the firm blossomed forth with the new name of Humble Oil and Refining Company. Judge Edgar E. Townes, the company’s attorney, and I went to Austin to get the new charter. We wanted the company chartered under a new Texas law, known as the Pipe Line Act. We had had a hand in the framing of that act. Before it was passed, a bill had been introduced in the legislature that we feared would jeopardize our plans. The bill would preclude operations of any pipelines in the state except those of one certain company. We organized our forces to oppose the measure in favor of a law to make pipelines common carriers. ‘‘If you will change just one line in your bill to make pipelines common carriers,’’ we told its sponsors, ‘‘we will be for it.’’ The sponsors refused. The bill was killed. Then, one Sunday in early 1917, we met with other interested operators and lawyers in Houston and drew up a common-carrier pipeline bill. Among those in the group, besides me, were W. S. Farish, Judge Germany, Judge Proctor,

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The First Two Oil Wells

Humble Oil and Refining Company logo. CAH, DI02193.

Cooke Wilson, Ed Peggy, Judge Townes, Judge Gill, and Judge Wheelis. The bill we drafted was introduced and passed by the Texas Legislature. When we filed our application for the charter, we found that the newly enacted law, not having been passed by a two-thirds vote, would not take effect until ninety days after adjournment of the Legislature. So Secretary of State George Howard agreed to hold the charter until the act went into effect and then file it. During the intervening period of about three weeks, we operated under a trust agreement. The charter was issued on May 17, 1917. I became president of the new company. The other officers and directors were Farish, Blaffer, Fondren, Lobe Carlton, Wiess, Goddard, Frank Sterling, and Judge Townes. Jesse Jones bought about 75 shares of original Humble stock, at $135 a share. He kept it until it went to about $160, and then sold it.8 Among the innumerable problems incident to the establishment of the company was that of deciding on its trademark and colors. A large oil company’s colors are as important as a college’s colors; its advertisements, literature, service stations, equipment, and other possessions become known to the public by its color scheme. When the issue came up at a board meeting, I was asked my preference. ‘‘Oh, any old color suits me,’’ I replied, ‘‘just so it’s red, white, and blue.’’ Red, white, and blue it was, and still is.

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Taking Over Standard

n

After we formed the Humble Oil and Refining Company in 1917, we acquired a short pipeline at Goose Creek by buying out the Southern Pipe Line Company from Mills Bennett and J. E. Josey. We also erected two large tanks on land that I had leased from the Gulf Oil Company. Gulf ’s management protested our putting storage tanks on their land. I told Gulf executive Underwood Nazro that I didn’t know why I couldn’t build storage tanks on land that I had leased. ‘‘There’s no need of fussing about it,’’ I said. ‘‘I’ll leave it to your lawyer, Judge Proctor, and we’ll abide by whatever he says is right.’’ When Nazro told Judge Proctor about his objection, the Judge replied, ‘‘What in thunder are you thinking of ? Sterling can condemn your land. You can’t do anything about it.’’ The tanks remained on Gulf land. Those tanks were filled to the brim with Humble oil, and we also had huge quantities of our oil in Gulf pipelines. About this same time, a man named Benny Brown, representing the Southern Pacific Rail Road, wanted to purchase half a million barrels of oil at the market price. We placed an order with Gulf Oil for half a million barrels of oil, which we had in Gulf ’s pipelines. The market price was $2 a barrel, so we drew a draft on Brown for $1 million. Nazro came to me and said that he would bet that Brown would not pay us $2 a barrel. The prevailing price at the time was around $1.50 a barrel. ‘‘All right,’’ I replied, ‘‘I’ll bet you a fifty-dollar suit of clothes they do.’’ I knew that Southern Pacific needed fuel oil badly. Southern Pacific took up the draft, and I got a new suit. Nazro was dumbfounded. In buying out the Southern Pipe Line Company, we took over its numerous contracts for the oil produced by small companies in Goose Creek. This oil, combined with our own production, gave us a volume large enough to com-

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Taking Over Standard

mand a respectable place in the market. The crude was loaded out on barges at Hog Island, with much of it going to Magnolia’s refinery at Beaumont. The Great War raging in Europe, which the United States entered in April 1917, greatly increased the demand for oil products. By the end of 1917, the new Humble Oil and Refining Company was experiencing a runaway momentum, spreading like a prairie fire, leasing land and drilling wells by the dozens in East Texas, West Texas, North Texas, and Oklahoma. Production on our West Columbia site reached 15,000 to 20,000 barrels a day. We acquired the Dixie Refining Company in San Antonio from Walter Jones and enlarged the small plant. We hauled oil to the refinery from our Burkburnett field by rail at freight cost of $1 a barrel. Humble built the first casing-head plant at Burkburnett. We also acquired production in the Ranger and Desdemona fields in Comanche County and shipped oil from those fields to our refinery in San Antonio. We established bulk stations in thirty or forty larger Texas towns, shipping the oil from San Antonio. At Burkburnett, Humble bought the Serriene lease from an old Dutch couple who subsequently gained a small fortune in royalties. Someone asked the Dutch woman, ‘‘What are you going to buy with all that money?’’ She replied, ‘‘The first thing I want is a new axe.’’ The new riches ultimately proved to be an axe that severed their bonds of matrimony. Humble needed pipelines to West Texas and to Wichita Falls. Most of all, the company needed a refinery of the first magnitude to process its own production and that of other independents. I purchased 2600 acres of land at Goose Creek for a refinery site. Most of the land was dense with pine and hardwood trees. Part of the site adjoined beautiful San Jacinto Bay. We hired Captain Willard Averill Beaumont, who had built several refineries and managed the Dixie refinery at San Antonio, to construct the Humble plant. When he saw my site on Goose Creek, Averill said, ‘‘By golly, this is the first time I ever had land enough to build anything.’’ This mushroom growth and expansion, plus the preliminary costs of the mammoth refinery and the cost of a handsome new office building under construction in Houston, were spreading our finances pretty thin. It was apparent that a large loan would be necessary to complete the Goose Creek refinery on the scale planned and to tide us over until the new developments began paying off. The company found itself at a crossroads where it either had to contract its operations drastically or borrow millions of dollars to go ahead. We knew that eventually we would profit enormously from our greater plans, but money we must have. Will Farish was a member of the War Production Board, which managed the

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William S. Farish. CAH, DI02192.

fuel supply to support our military effort in the World War. In that capacity, he had met the leading oilmen of the country, and he knew his way around in the East. In the summer of 1918, we decided that Farish should go to New York and seek a loan of $5 million. Meanwhile, I took a brief vacation trip to Colorado Springs. Farish phoned me there daily from New York. He called on every trust company in the big city, and each one, after considering his request for a loan, eased him down. ‘‘We’ll think about it,’’ they told him. Farish was about to despair of getting the loan when he ran into Walter Teagle, president of the Standard Oil Company of New Jersey, at a meeting of oilmen. He and Teagle were serving together on the War Production Board. Farish told Teagle that he was in New York looking for money to construct a big refinery and pipelines, and to drill some new wells. ‘‘Well, why didn’t you come to us?’’ Teagle asked. We’ve got plenty of money, and we might make a trade with you. Let’s have lunch together and talk it over.’’ A key company in John D. Rockefeller’s old Standard Trust before the Supreme Court broke up the trust in 1911, Standard of New Jersey had emerged from the war long on cash and short on oil and refineries to supply its worldwide

38

Taking Over Standard

marketing system. It had little production in the United States and was badly in need of more crude oil. Texas offered the best available source of supply. Farish caught the Jersey people at the right psychological moment. That afternoon, Farish sent me a telegram at my hotel in Colorado: had lunch today with the daddy of them all. he may accommodate us. if okay with you will talk with them further. please phone me. I called Farish immediately. ‘‘I wasn’t sure whether you would accept a loan from Standard or not,’’ Farish said. ‘‘Accept it?’’ I replied. ‘‘Bill, I don’t give a hoot if you get it from the Czar of Russia or the Queen of Sheba, just so we get the money. We’ve got to have it.’’ ‘‘That’s all I wanted to know,’’ Farish answered. Before committing themselves, the Standard people wanted to inspect and evaluate our far-flung properties on the ground. They sent Arthur Corwin and two other production men to Texas to make the check. By the time they finished the job and made their report, the Christmas holidays were near. Teagle in New York called Farish in Houston on the phone and said, ‘‘If you gentlemen will come up right after New Year’s, we’ll see if we can work something out.’’ My colleagues and I boarded a Pullman railroad car at the Union Station in Houston on a wintry night early in January 1919, to make the trip to New York. Joining me were my fellow Humble directors, Farish, Wiess and Blaffer. In addition, we were accompanied by three of Houston’s leading attorneys: Judge

Walter Teagle. CAH, DI02191.

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Townes, Humble’s chief counsel; Lobe Carlton, another Humble attorney; and Frank Andrews, acting as special counsel. During the two-day journey we carefully analyzed the situation and rehearsed our negotiating strategy.1 In New York, we were involved in several days of conferences with the Standard officers and lawyers in the old Waldorf Astoria Hotel. All the Standard Company’s directors were present, even those from Canada. Our carefully prepared strategy went by the board, however, when the negotiations developed into consideration of a much more ambitious plan than a mere $5 million loan. Standard proposed to put an amount of money into the Humble treasury equal to the value of Humble’s properties and assets, but we were disappointed when Teagle told us that they had figured the value of our holdings to be $15 million. We protested that our property had a value of at least $20 million. Nevertheless, it was clear that Standard would not budge from their appraisal. Teagle, however, said that Standard would put $17 million in Humble’s treasury and be our bankers. In exchange, Standard would own half of Humble. When we demurred, Teagle asked us to think about it overnight. We could give them our decision in the morning. It was already past midnight when the meeting adjourned on this note. Three million dollars, the difference between what we wanted for a halfinterest in our company and what Standard offered, was as much food for thought as we could digest overnight. It was a choice between getting more money or drastically curtailing our operations, halting our progress. Failure to get the money would mean dumping our plans for a refinery of the first magnitude already under construction and building a one-horse still instead. Besides, we needed capital to develop $500,000 worth of leases we had recently purchased. With Standard’s $17 million we could complete the refinery, drill our leases, and embark on a greater expansion than any of us had ever dreamed. After hours of consideration, I decided that we should accept the proposition. I figured that it would be worth $3 million to us to have such connections with the Rockefeller bankroll. I told my associates that we should consider the offer. ‘‘We’re giving three million dollars for their assistance, support, and goodwill,’’ I argued. ‘‘I think it’s worth more than that to get all the money we need. Remember, they said they want to be our bankers. We will not have to worry about money. That’s the main point.’’ My colleagues agreed. When we went into session again with Standard, we said we would accept the $17 million. Then a new question came up. George Jones, one of Standard’s shrewdest executives, raised it. Mr. Jones later was to become chairman of the board of Standard of New Jersey, and not without good reason. He was what I call a ‘‘sharp-pencil man.’’ I never knew anyone who had so much information in his head. 40

Taking Over Standard

Jones turned to A. C. Bedford, one of his associates at the conference table, and said, ‘‘We overlooked one detail. In deals of this sort we usually require a majority interest, at least fifty-one percent.’’ ‘‘Oh, yes,’’ Bedford agreed. ‘‘We had an experience on that score in Texas once with the Waters-Pierce Oil Company. That’s right, we’ll have to have a majority.’’ I immediately stood up from my chair and said, ‘‘Well, gentlemen, we’ll just have to stop right there.’’ The New Yorkers looked a little shocked. ‘‘Why, what do you mean?’’ asked Jones. I replied that I meant that we had many stockholders in Texas, ‘‘and a lot of them don’t think as much of you fellows as we do. I’m sure none of these boys want to go back home and tell our Texas stockholders that we’ve sold a majority of this company to the Standard of New Jersey. We’re willing to let you have half.’’ Well, the fat was in the fire again. I suspected they were just making a play. Nevertheless, I said, ‘‘Now, Mr. Bedford, between you and me, any time you think we’re not doing things right down there, I’ll transfer you some of my stock.’’ Bedford seemed to welcome this opportunity for reconciliation. ‘‘Well, if you have that much confidence in us,’’ he said, ‘‘we’ll have as much in you. We’ll go along for fifty percent.’’ 2 Thus, the deal was closed. Standard of New Jersey at once paid us a large amount of money to build the refinery, and we proceeded to spend it. Three of the Jersey company’s top executives, Teagle, Jones, and Seth Hunt, came down to look over our properties. They offered the benefit of Jersey’s half century of experience in refinery building in designing and constructing the Baytown plant. Knowing little about refining, we gladly accepted the proffered assistance. Standard’s chief engineer, Charlie Haupt, was assigned to design the refinery. Though wharves had been built, the plant was only in the blueprint stage. With plenty of funds assured, work on the Goose Creek refinery shifted into high gear and pushed ahead full speed. Standard poured trained men and facilities into Texas for the project. From the Eagle Works of New Jersey, a Standard subsidiary, came an engineer named Houston. He was an excellent engineer, but I thought he had some queer ideas. Accustomed as he was to the compact plant areas in the congested East, he was a bit bewildered by the far-flung spaces plotted for the Goose Creek refinery. Houston took the map and went to work staking out the various features of the plant. I had bought fifty head of fine mules for the excavation and construction work. One evening, several days after the engineer came, a friend came by 41

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my temporary offices at the construction site and asked why we were keeping those mules in the pond. ‘‘What pond?’’ I asked. ‘‘One of those buttonwood ponds down in the slough.’’ He replied. ‘‘They’re belly-deep in mud and water and can’t lie down to rest.’’ ‘‘We’ll find out about that pronto,’’ I declared. I picked up the phone and called Houston to my office. I asked him why he had put the mules in the pond. Pointing at the map, the engineer said they were in the place marked for them. I marched to the office of the chief draftsman, another easterner, and asked to see his map. It showed the corral in the middle of the swamp. I asked him why he didn’t put the site for the mules on higher ground? ‘‘I sent scouts out,’’ he answered, ‘‘and they didn’t find any higher ground.’’ I pointed to a place on the map and asked, ‘‘what’s back over there?’’ He replied that it was thick woods. His scouts were afraid of bears and wouldn’t go in there. I took him out through the woods and showed him there were no bears. I found a high, sandy spot and said, ‘‘Put the corral there and move those mules out of that mud and water right away, so they can lie down.’’ Ben and Jim Sterling, the twins, lived at Dayton, twenty-odd miles from Goose Creek. When they visited me, they were amused at how green the easterners were. The twins framed up an East Texas badger fight on a New Yorker named Hayden Hamilton, chief engineer of the refinery construction.3 They got a bulldog and put a ‘‘badger’’ in a canvas bag, then they took Hamilton and some of the other Yankees out to a place in the woods to stage the fight. Some Texans who knew the game went along and made wagers, some betting on the dog and others on the badger. They worked up a great excitement. Then came the climax. Hamilton was asked to open the bag and let the badger out for the life-and-death fight. He opened the sack, turned it upside down, and out fell an old-fashioned chamber pot. The crowd roared. The sophisticated Yankee had been completely taken in. He gasped, dumbfounded for a moment, and then laughed until he nearly cried. After that, Hamilton dropped his air of eastern superiority and became one of the fellows. Everyone was sincerely sorry when he had to return to New York a little later because of his wife’s illness. Since Harry Wiess had been educated in engineering at Princeton, my fellow board members and I asked him to act as vice president to supervise the refinery’s construction. Knowing little of refineries, he relied on the Jersey Standard’s recommendations and entered into the arrangement with confidence and high expectations. While the year 1919 was still young, the far-flung welter of buildings, stills, tanks, and other structures, scattered over the woodland and plain skirting San 42

Taking Over Standard

Humble Oil’s Baytown Refinery. CAH, DI02194.

Jacinto Bay, began to take shape as a great oil refinery. Docks were built at the nearby waterfront, where the San Jacinto River and Buffalo Bayou merged and widened into the bay. At the waterfront, pipes connected with the refinery brought gasoline and crude oil to tankers. The first units of the plant were ready for operation by 1920. Then the troubles began. By the time the refining facilities were installed, technological improvements rendered them obsolescent. We had to replace the whole works and start over, replacing many of the technical men Jersey had recommended. Ever since the completion of the refinery in 1921, it has been in a continual process of expansion, replacement, and modernization, keeping pace with scientific advances in refining. A few miles distant from Goose Creek proper and to the northwest, the area around the refinery developed into a community of its own, which was named Baytown. Twenty-eight years later, in 1947, Baytown was consolidated with its adjoining communities, Goose Creek and Pelly, into the incorporated city of Baytown. Previously the three had been known as the Tri-Cities. On my first day back in Houston after closing the big deal with Standard of New Jersey, I went to the Houston Club for lunch. There oilmen gathered daily for the noon meal at a big table, which came to be known as the Round Table. Executives of the Gulf, Texas, and Humble companies and other oil operators were regular members of the group. They knew that I had been in New York, 43

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and there was considerable curiosity as to what I had been up to. I volunteered no information. Finally, Underwood Nazro, vice president of the Gulf Company, took the bull by the horns. He blurted out, ‘‘R. S., I hear the Standard is taking you over.’’ ‘‘Taking us over, hell,’’ I shot back. ‘‘We’re taking over the Standard.’’ My jest has virtually come to pass. Many of my fellow directors in the early Humble group eventually moved up into control of Standard: Will Farish became chairman of the Jersey company’s board; Eugene Holman, once Humble’s oil scout under Farish, became president of New Jersey’s Standard; Wallace Pratt, the great geologist of the Humble Company, became Standard’s chief geologist and vice president; and John Suman, a Humble director, was promoted to a directorship of Standard. In fact, neither company took over the other. It was clearly understood and agreed by both that Jersey’s interest was that of a stockholder and customer, not a manager. There never was a written contract covering the sale of Humble’s crude to Jersey, but the terms of the original understanding have never been altered in all the years of their association. All sales of crude have been made at posted field prices, determined by the Humble board. Humble has handled nearly three billion barrels of oil, selling most of it to Jersey. The arrangement between the Humble and Jersey companies was designed very carefully to avoid not only any exercise of control but even any appearance of control or domination over the Humble company by the Jersey company. This precaution was prompted by the memory of Jersey’s unhappy experience in 1911. At that time, Standard was made party to a suit filed against the WatersPierce Oil Company and one or more others, charging them with violating the Texas antitrust laws. Jersey actually was not operating in the state at the time, but the company found it expedient to settle the matter under an arrangement, by pleading guilty and paying a fine. Out of this case grew a general supposition that the Jersey Standard had been run out of Texas. Since the company was not operating in Texas, it could not have been run out. Nevertheless, the Jersey Standard became a whipping boy in this state and a political football. Candidates, particularly those for attorney general, sought office by attacking Jersey Standard. It did not seem desirable for Jersey to attempt to secure a permit to do business in Texas or to attempt to do business through another corporation. As a consequence, Jersey purchased the Humble stock as an investment and not as a means by which Jersey could carry on a business in this state. Despite those precautions, Attorney General Keeling filed suit against the Humble Company in about 1923 to cancel its charter and oust it from Texas. 44

Taking Over Standard

Keeling’s suit claimed that Jersey, which by that date owned 60 percent of Humble’s stock, was doing business in the state without a permit, operating through Humble as its alter ego in violation of Texas antitrust laws. The case was tried in Austin. Humble won the decision. The court held specifically that the 1911 decision did not oust the Jersey company from Texas and that Jersey was not doing business in Texas through Humble as its alter ego and did not dominate or control the affairs of Humble. Two years later, in 1925, the Texas Legislature passed a bill to allow out-ofstate shareholders to vote the stock of Texas corporations. This law, which had been requested by the Humble Company, was to become a target for politicians, particularly Lynch Davidson. In a legislative investigation in 1931, Will Farish, then president of Humble, was to explain that this law was not necessary but was designed to remove all doubt from the minds of foreign investors as to their right to vote stock in Texas corporations. That doubt, Farish said, was restraining eastern capitalists from putting money in Texas industry. But all this is getting a few years ahead of our story. Pursuing the aim of selling to the Jersey Standard nearly all of our own production and as much additional oil as we could advantageously buy on the Texas market, Humble laid a pipeline from the booming Ranger field in northwest Texas to Texas City on the Gulf coast, near Galveston. At that time, Texas City was the nearest deepwater port to Humble’s operations; the Houston Ship Channel, passing the Baytown refinery, was still too shallow for oil tankers. The cost of the pipeline, the enormous cost of the refinery, and the company’s vast, expanding operations, soon ate up the $17 million we received from Standard. Farish and I went to New York and told Standard director Bedford that we needed $25 million. ‘‘All right,’’ Bedford said. ‘‘I think we can get it on a note.’’ The Standard executive reached for a telephone on his desk and called Mr. Lamont, of J. P. Morgan and Company. ‘‘My friends from Texas are here,’’ he told the banker, ‘‘Ross Sterling and Bill Farish of the Humble Company. They need twenty-five million dollars. Can you let them have it?’’ There was no hemming and hawing on the other end of the line. Mr. Lamont must have assented instantly, for in a moment Bedford hung up the receiver and told us, ‘‘Okay. Go and see Lamont and Whitney at Morgan and Company. They’ll fix you up.’’ It was all as perfunctory and matter of course as a $100 crop loan in my Sour Lake bank. Farish and I were not even required to give a mortgage on our properties, but we did pledge ourselves not to mortgage them without taking into account the notes that we were to give Morgan and Company. 45

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Issuing the notes was a big job in itself. Lamont wanted them in 500-dollar denominations, which meant 50,000 papers to be printed, signed, and stamped with the Humble Company seal. We had not brought our company seal along, so the House of Morgan had several manufactured for the occasion within less than two hours, while the notes were being printed. The notes were placed on rollers on a large table designed for this particular purpose and were run into a signature machine. I sat at the end of the table, and when I signed my name to a note, two dozen synchronized pens signed my name identically on two dozen other notes. At that, I was five hours signing the 50,000 notes. The job done, I was given a receipt for the notes, a sort of warehouse receipt. I took the receipt to Whitney, who glanced at it, wrote a check, and handed it back to me. ‘‘There you are,’’ he said with a smile, ‘‘twenty-five million.’’ I deposited the money with the Standard Oil Company. Humble wrote checks on it as cash was needed. Humble’s assistant treasurer, who handled the funds, was not used to such large-scale expenditures, and the rapid outflow of money disturbed him. ‘‘Mr. Sterling,’’ he said worriedly one day, ‘‘you know we have just a little bit left of that five million dollars we got the other day.’’ ‘‘That’s all right, Son,’’ I assured him. ‘‘When that is all gone, we’ll get another five million.’’ Humble’s volume of production swelled like a mountain torrent, but occasionally there was a slump. Once, in the early twenties, the price fell so low that the company froze between 10 million and 12 million barrels of oil, valued at nearly twice as many millions of dollars, holding it in storage and in pipelines until the price went back up. Humble was buying great quantities of crude at the lowest possible price and holding it for the highest possible price. All the while it was moving oil to Standard as fast as our eastern partner required it. For this oil, Standard paid Humble a gathering charge and a pipeline charge, in addition to the market price of the crude, making quite a handsome amount altogether. Despite the splendid deal made with Standard, I could not forget the low appraisal the New Yorkers had given my company’s properties. Their refusal to count some of its smaller leases as of any value at all stung my pride a little. I felt as though it was a reflection on my judgment. I had argued for three tracts in particular. I had insisted that those tracts would bring lots of money. George Jones, the sharp-pencil man, shook his head and smiled. One of the three properties was in West Texas. We sank a test on it shortly after we closed the deal with Standard and it came in a gusher. I wired Jones personally, reporting the amount of production, and adding:

46

Taking Over Standard

round number one. Another one of those undervalued leases was at West Columbia. It was only two acres. I had bought it because Harry Wright, a top-notch oil scout, had thought it looked good, and because the price was only $500. Another inducement was the presence of an idle Humble rig at Damon Mound, only ten miles away, which could be used to drill the tiny tract. At one of the Humble operating committee’s daily meetings, Walter Fondren and I decided it was a good time to spud in on the two acres. Farish was absent from that meeting, and at a later meeting, when I happened to ask Fondren how the West Columbia test was coming along, Farish pricked up his ears. ‘‘What’s that?’’ he inquired. ‘‘You say you’re making a well at West Columbia?’’ ‘‘That’s right,’’ I answered. Farish asked, ‘‘How much land have we there?’’ I said, ‘‘Two acres.’’ ‘‘Two acres!’’ Farish blurted out. ‘‘Drilling a wildcat to prove up two acres? Good God, this company needs a guardian.’’ I replied that I had felt the same when he had drilled that well on a city lot at Ranger. Farish grinned and shrugged. That was shortly before Christmas of 1919. During the holidays, Farish was shooting quail in Hardin County when the bit struck pay sand in the West Columbia hole. It blew in before the boys were ready, and they had a merry time setting the screen and building traps and storage to hold the oil geyser. A couple of days later, Farish phoned me from East Texas. He had seen a report of the strike in a Beaumont newspaper. ‘‘Is it true about that well making six thousand barrels a day?’’ he asked me excitedly. ‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘It’s not true, not quite. The well is making ten thousand barrels.’’ That $500 lease was to produce millions of barrels of oil. I sent George Jones of Standard another wire: two acre lease west columbia producing ten thousand barrels. round two. The third holding was a twenty-acre lease at West Columbia, owned by Dick Coon and Dan Japhet. I had entered into a percentage arrangement with them to develop it. Humble was to advance their share of the drilling cost. Although

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it was in a promising area, Jones of Standard hadn’t thought much of it. So, when I wired him about the first whopping producer there, I added: round three. This time Jones wired back: you win. The Japhet lease put millions of dollars into the Humble Company’s coffers and made the Japhets rich. Years later, after Dan Japhet had been dead a long time, I was talking with one of Dan’s sons, who recalled his father’s connection with me. I told him that I had helped ‘‘make your daddy a lot of money. I think he got about six million dollars out of that deal.’’ Young Japhet replied, ‘‘No, seven million.’’ Judge Edgar Townes, Humble’s chief counsel who drew up the papers for the Japhet transaction, later reckoned that lease as ‘‘the most remarkable twenty acres in petroleum history.’’

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five

A Personality Company

n

In 1921 my partners and I built a handsome brick headquarters for our Humble Company on Main Street on what was at the time the fringe of Houston’s downtown business district. The first story was faced with granite, and there was a courtyard on the Polk Avenue side. The structure covered half a block, with entrances on three streets. It was begun as a six-story building, but it was finished with nine stories. Later, the building was expanded to cover the entire block. Its height was raised to fourteen stories, and the courtyard was enclosed. The original cost of the building was approximately $2 million. The ultimate cost, after the additions, was several times that much. Humble’s personnel had grown to more than a thousand workers in seven years. Two members of my immediate family had joined the organization. My sister Florence Sterling, a dynamic, capable woman, continued as secretary of the company. My younger brother Frank became vice president and director. All the directors—Farish, Fondren, Wiess, Blaffer, Townes, Carlton, Goddard, and Frank Sterling—were vice presidents. None of them had any official superior rank over any other. We met every morning, except Saturday and Sunday, as an operating committee, more or less informally in the director’s room near my office, to discuss the company’s problems and policies and to plan its business. As president, I sat at the head of the big table, and the others took regular places around it. Many a big deal was determined in these meetings, and many a fortune was made through those deals for the company’s stockholders and for thousands of royalty owners. Each member of the operating committee handled some particular phase of the work. Will Farish served as my right-hand man. Will was always interested in the production phase. Walt Fondren looked after the drilling. Frank Sterling’s specialty was production after the wells came in. Harry Wiess was 49

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Humble Building at Main Street and Polk Avenue in Houston, soon after completion, 1921. CAH, DI02371.

in charge of the refinery and shaped the company’s sales policies. Blaffer was treasurer. Carlton was associate counselor and director. Goddard was the Oklahoma representative. Judge Townes was the firm’s legal counselor and lawyer. Those eleven o’clock meetings were remarkably harmonious. Every member of the group was earnestly concerned with the company’s welfare, and each gave confident attention and consideration to the others’ views. Humble has been called a personality company. It probably developed more outstanding figures in the oil business than any other Texas concern, and made more persons rich. One of the secrets of the company’s phenomenal success was its executives—they knew the oil business and worked actively and intensively at it. We had a big advantage over competitors with out-of-state headquarters, in that we could act on a problem or proposition immediately without having to get approval from officials in New York or Pittsburgh who might not fully understand the situation. I’ve already said something about each of the original organizers. Among others who came in during my time and attained large stature were John Suman, Wallace Pratt, Hines and Rex Baker, John Bonner, James Anderson, Malcolm and Dan Monroe, and Bernie Brown. 50

A Personality Company

John Suman, a Texas country boy, was a geologist with the Roxana Petroleum Company when I hired him. He was to become a director of Humble and then move up to a directorship with the Standard of New Jersey. Blaffer knew Wallace Pratt at Wichita Falls, where Pratt was working as a geologist for the Texas Company. Blaffer grew fond of him and lured him away from the Texas Company, with their consent. Mr. Pratt has told the story that Humble hired him because other companies were getting geologists and Humble wanted to be in style. At that time, however, geologists had not proved their worth and were scorned by many operators. The average drilling crew had no respect for a geologist, did not want him on the well, and sometimes objected strenuously to doing what he asked. My eldest son, Walter, worked in the field with Pratt one summer while he was a student at the University of Texas. In 1918, Pratt became Humble’s first regular geologist. Within twenty years he became one of Humble’s top executives, and then he went with the Jersey Company. He achieved worldwide renown as a geologist. In 1919 we organized the Humble Pipe Line Company to operate our Southern Pipe Line at Goose Creek, a nine-mile pipeline in the Wichita Falls area, and to plan a pipeline from Ranger to Texas City and another from West Columbia to Baytown. We employed James Anderson, then with the Standard of Louisiana, to handle our pipeline business. R. V. Hanrahan came with Anderson and eventually succeeded him as president of the pipeline company. James Anderson was responsible for mapping our pipelines from the Ranger field to Pelican Spit, near Texas City, and from West Columbia to Baytown. The spot where the two pipelines intersected became the site of our Webster pump station and tank farm. This is said to be the largest main line pump station in existence. Anderson became the director in charge of crude oil purchasing. In the early 1920s Humble contracted to take oil from the Big Lake field, and we laid a pipeline there. It was the only pipeline in that area. Other producers had no other outlet except by tank car. Farish felt that our pipeline should be made available ratably to all other operators in the field. He instigated a proration plan for sharing, on a ratable basis, the available market outlet. That was our industry’s first move toward conservation through concerted action in Texas. Farish was years ahead of the industry generally in his thinking on conservation. Over sharp opposition, Farish got the first statewide proration order entered.1 Another innovation in production methods grew out of our experience in the Powell oil field, which was discovered in about 1923. We had 40 percent of the field and produced 120,000 barrels daily of the field’s 360,000-barrel peak total, in a highly competitive drilling race on a narrow spacing pattern. The 51

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Edgar Townes. CAH, DI02631.

excessive drilling quickly dissipated the reservoir’s gas energy, reducing the quantity of ultimately recoverable oil. After this costly lesson, we decided to acquire property in consolidated blocks wherever possible and to develop fields as a unit so that oil could be withdrawn systematically. The practice, called unitization, proved highly successful, greatly reducing costs and insuring full recovery of oil. Other large producing companies have since adopted that plan. Edgar Townes, son of J. C. Townes, the famous dean of the law school of the University of Texas, was with the Sun Oil Company when his friends Wiess and Carlton induced him to cast his lot with us. Judge Townes engaged W. M.

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Cleaves to help him with our legal business. He had known Cleaves when the latter was quizmaster at the University of Texas. Within another year or so, Townes further expanded the legal department by adding Hines Baker, a brilliant young lawyer from Mills County. Hines’s brother, Rex Baker, followed him into the company. Both were veterans of the first world war and both had taught school at Batson and Saratoga. Later, when I retired, Cleaves resigned and went with me as my lawyer. Hines Baker advanced to a directorship of the company, then became executive vice president. In 1948 he became president of the company when Wiess became chairman of the board. When Judge Townes retired as chief counsel, Rex Baker stepped into his place. Uncle Johnnie Bonner was a typical East Texan with an East Texas drawl. Famous for his impersonations and other characterizations, he was popular with everybody, and he was a natural-born salesman. I knew him in the early days when he ran the Bonner Oil Company, buying crude from Waters-Pierce and selling it mostly to sawmills. Bonner’s oil company had a combination garage and service station in Houston on Main Street at Lamar, where the Lamar Hotel now stands. I induced him to join the Humble Company in about 1920, bringing his holdings in with him. Uncle Johnnie became Humble’s sales manager. When he died, Malcolm Monroe took his place.2 In 1918 Humble acquired a filling station, actually just some small pumps in front of run-down wooden shacks, when it bought the Lone Star Oil Company. We purchased this small company primarily for its plant, as a base of supply for Houston and the surrounding territory. Lone Star’s principal business had been shipping products by rail to farmers. Humble’s first real filling station, however, was completed early in 1919 at Main and Jefferson in downtown Houston. With the stabilization of Humble’s finances and the completion of the refinery, our company’s pioneering days and its formative struggles were over. Humble’s operations were organized and systematized on an ever-expanding but established pattern, with a competent person in charge of each department. As the company became more professional in its management, I was able to spend more time at home with my family, and I had more time for civic interests and public affairs. By an odd coincidence, I found myself in a key leadership position in both the oil industry and in the Port of Houston in the crucial juncture of their history and during the decade of the city’s most prodigious growth. In May 1922 Roy Farrar and I were chosen directors to represent Harris County on the Navigation Board. The other directors were D. S. Cage and R. J. Cummins, who represented the city of Houston, and E. A. Peden, the board chairman.3

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The Port of Houston was created by the digging of a deepwater ship channel fifty miles inland from the Gulf of Mexico through East Galveston Bay and up the San Jacinto River and its tributary Buffalo Bayou. But for two things, Houston’s destiny might have been that of a nice little town of probably not more than a hundred thousand population. Those two things are oil and the deepwater Port of Houston. By the late 1940s, they had made Houston the second metropolis of Dixie, and she is rapidly heading toward the million-population mark and supremacy in the entire South. In June 1922 the first bale of Texas cotton was shipped from Houston directly across the Atlantic. From that time on, the port’s tonnage grew apace. Houston voted a $4 million bond issue to construct a municipal grain elevator and docks and to make other harbor improvements. The city transferred management of its port facilities to the navigation board for thirty years. Peden resigned as chairman in 1924, and I succeeded him. By this time the port was humming. In 1926 the total investment in the port was reckoned at a little more than $12 million, and that was only the beginning. Eventually, the ship channel was deepened to thirty-four feet. The eighteen railroads converging at Houston were scrambling for port business. My colleagues and I conceived a plan for an association of all the railroads to operate a belt system serving the industries along the ship channel. After much haggling, all the railroads agreed to a contract that the Port Commission had prepared. The port terminal belt lines are being operated under that contract today. The port chairman serves as head of the belt system. The navigation district owns the terminal lines, and each railroad furnishes a share of the locomotives. This belt-line plan has contributed greatly to the success of the port and has attracted attention among shipping circles of the world. The system is so arranged that every industry on the ship channel is, in effect, located on every railroad that enters the port. No matter which of the rail lines a shipment is to take, it can be originated on that line right at the industry and move at the cost of a one-line haul. Thus, every industry has equal rail advantages with the other industries. I worked as earnestly on the Navigation Board as if it were my private business. The advantages of the inland port brought traffic from a vast inland area; the twenty-mile area along the channel began to build up with oil refineries, chemical plants, and various other industries. I was proud of the progress we made. When I resigned from the Navigation Board in 1930 to become governor of Texas, I issued the following observation to the press: ‘‘The 1920 census gave Houston a population of about 130,000. The present population is estimated at over 300,000. That is a gain of more than 100 per cent in ten years; 54

A Personality Company

the ten years that the port has been in active operation as a deep-sea harbor. The port has proved the prime factor in the city’s phenomenal growth. It was the determining factor of Houston’s destiny.’’ I was privileged also to participate in the development of another of Houston’s most promising assets, the $100 million Texas Medical Center. Some responsible Houston builders have prophesied that ultimately its value to the city will rival that of the port. The nucleus of the medical center is Hermann Hospital. I have been an active member of the Hermann Hospital Estate since its beginning in 1918, and I have served as chairman of the board of trustees for many years. George Hermann died in 1914, leaving an estate valued at approximately $2.6 million for the founding of a hospital.4 His will was so badly written and confused that it was necessary to get a court to interpret its meaning. The executors became involved, and the Texas attorney general brought suit on behalf of the state, county, and city to straighten out the affairs of the estate. The executors, authorized to name four trustees, agreed to appoint any four the court might suggest. The court asked me to serve with H. F. MacGregor, W. A. Childress, and Gus Brandt. Childress served as paid secretary. We in turn had to name three others in place of the executors, who resigned. We elected T. P. Lee, Joseph F. Meyer, and Paul Timpson. My board colleagues and I brought millions of dollars into the Hermann Hospital Estate by selling and leasing some of the estate’s lands. One tract between Goose Creek and Baytown brought $7500 an acre. I insisted on reserving the mineral rights on all of the estate’s acreage. As a result, some of that acreage paid off fabulously in oil royalties. One tract in the Webster oil field has yielded the estate $12,000 a month for a good many years. Through prudent management and highly profitable deals, my fellow trustees and I have built the Hermann Hospital Foundation into a rich institution, worth many times its original value, which has helped to lay the foundation for the Texas Medical Center. While the Humble Company was mushrooming, some of my earlier enterprises also kept growing, like multiple tree trunks from the same root system. One of the most important was an offshoot of my store at Dayton. A man named Fouts came to Dayton and established a sawmill, in association with some northern interests. I became acquainted with him when he began trading at my feed store. Fouts contracted with me to run the commissary for his mill employees, paying me $150 a month. After I acquired the Dayton bank, Fouts also did business with me there. In fact, Fouts was doing more financial business than his sawmill industry could support, and thereby he came to grief. He deposited some $30,000 of checks in my bank, and they bounced back. In 55

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order to protect my bank, I had Fouts give me a mortgage on the sawmill, a great quantity of timber, and a logging railroad that ran up to Davis Hill. As it turned out, I found myself in the sawmill and lumber business. After I took over Fouts’s business, I conceived the idea of extending the logging rail line to Goose Creek to make a regular railroad of it. It would form a connecting link between the Southern Pacific at Dayton and the Santa Fe at Goose Creek. At Goose Creek it would afford an export outlet for lumber. In 1908 I engaged the Houston engineering firm of Howe and Wise to survey the route, but the northern people associated with Fouts in the sawmill enterprise would not come through with the financial assistance I expected of them, and I dropped the project. Then, after the Goose Creek oil field burgeoned forth in 1917, I dusted off the survey and got busy. I now had financial resources of my own, and a new and stronger incentive to connect Dayton with the oil field town, a distance of some twenty-five miles. Now the railroad could haul oil as well as lumber and other traffic incidental to the new industrial development. I wangled some assistance from the Texas Railroad Commission in the way of better division rates for the line. The rail line was completed to Humble’s refinery in 1919, shortly after the merger with the Standard of New Jersey. Locomotives and rolling stock were put to work immediately, and the Dayton–Goose Creek Railroad soon became the most profitable line of its length in the country. A big factor in the railroad’s revenues was its position as the originating road for a great volume of tonnage that eventually moved over two or more other lines to distant destinations. As the originating road, the Dayton–Goose Creek Railroad got the greatest pro rata of the tariff; for instance, approximately one-third of the total freight rates on movements to Chicago went to Dayton–Goose Creek.5 I hired A. E. Kerr, a tall, keen-eyed sawmiller with experience at Sour Lake and Grayburg, to manage the Dayton mill when I took it over. When I sold the sawmill and its timber resources to Jim West, for approximately $1 million, I made Kerr superintendent of the railroad. West, a shrewd, hard trader, had begun his career in Trinity County as a peckerwood sawmiller and lumberman and was to become, at one time, Texas’ richest oil magnate.6 In the deal with West, incidentally, I fell victim to an amusing bit of highpressure trading. When West agreed to buy the mill and timber properties, I told him, ‘‘I’ve bought one hundred head of mules for use in this business. They haven’t been shipped to me yet. If you buy this timber, you’ll have to pay eight thousand dollars extra for them.’’ West agreed to the deal. When West came to close the transaction by making the down payment and signing the notes for the balance, I was preparing to leave for New York on 56

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business. Because I was in a hurry, I would have preferred to postpone consummation of the deal until I returned, but business prudence advised me to complete the deal. When West gave me his check, I noticed that it did not include the $8000 for those mules. I reminded him that he had agreed to pay for them. Big Jim West grinned and said, ‘‘Aw, I’m not going to pay for those mules. I didn’t bargain for them, and my manager says you ought to throw them in, in such a big deal.’’ I had to catch my train in a very short while, so I didn’t have time to haggle. I wondered whether West had timed his call with that in mind. My plight was aggravated because this was the first of the month and West’s forces had moved in and taken over the mill, anticipating the completion of the deal. I demurred, but West insisted on the $8000 allowance. In my haste and anxiety to conclude the sale before leaving, I finally said, ‘‘All right, take the gol-darn mules.’’ Then I signed the deed, accepted West’s check for the down payment, and took his notes for the balance due. West was leaning over my desk, glancing over the notes, when I happened to glimpse a bank check sticking out of his pocket. I looked more closely and saw that the check was made out to me and was for $8000. So, West had come prepared to pay for the mules but thought he’d first try bluffing me out of it. And the bluff worked! Feeling a little abashed at being out-talked, I did not let West know I had seen the check. I learned a lesson that many others were to learn: one had to get up early in the morning to out-trade Jim West. The Dayton–Goose Creek Railroad performed well before I sold it in 1926. It never had a serious accident or any labor trouble. I sold the road to the Gulf Coast Lines, which also connected with it at Dayton, but the Interstate Commerce Commission stopped the sale. The commission ruled that Southern Pacific was entitled to priority of purchase. Southern Pacific thought so too, and it had a strong lobby in Washington to oppose the sale to Gulf Coast Lines. A year later, W. R. Scott, head of Southern Pacific, asked me what I would take for the twenty-five miles of railroad. I told him $1 million. It was a deal. In the early 1920s, I decided to build a home on Galveston Bay. The salt water had been in my blood since my boyhood days on Double Bayou. I had never lost my love for the seashore. Chambers County, separated from Houston by atrocious roads, was too far away to commute, but with a home on a point of the bayshore nearest Houston I could easily drive to the city and back every day. I found a beautiful site, the Nelms place, at Bay Ridge near Morgan’s Point. It had a broad frontage on the bay. On that site, I built a stone mansion that was to be our family homestead for twenty years.7 57

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The Sterling mansion on Galveston Bay, 1931. CAH, DI02355.

I bought a fast sailboat and had some great times sailing the bay with my sons, Walter and Ross Junior. I acquired about one hundred acres of land adjoining the place and became a gentleman farmer and stock raiser. With a farm home on the water’s edge and boats to sail, I had the same combination I had been reared on in Chambers County, only on an infinitely grander scale. Safely past the struggling stage of my oil company development, I plunged more deeply into the business and civic life of Houston. I bought the controlling interest in the Houston National Bank and remodeled the building. I bought some valuable downtown sites for office buildings and acquired an interest in a hotel. I also organized the American Maid Flour Mills. Because my son Ross Junior was interested in the YMCA, I bought a beautiful sylvan site for a boys’ camp at Point Houston, on the Chambers County side of the bay. It had been a part of Sam Houston’s old home place. I also provided financial support to Texas Christian University, built a public library for Goose Creek, and served as chairman of the YMCA Board of Trustees. In 1925 the Houston Rotary Club honored me with its annual award for outstanding civic service.

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As I neared my fiftieth birthday, I began to think seriously about retirement from the Humble Company. The company was hitting a seven-league stride. Backed by the resources of Standard of New Jersey, the Baytown refinery was completed and running full blast. The Humble Pipe Line Company also was off to a good start. I warned my colleagues about my retirement plan during dinner one evening at Lee Blaffer’s house. This was before Blaffer built his own home in Houston, and he was living in the old Sauter place, also known as the Sharp place, on the site of Sears Roebuck’s present mammoth store on South Main Street. In the early part of the twentieth century, this was in the heart of Houston’s most exclusive residential section, a couple of miles from the business district, which since has engulfed it. During dinner, as we were discussing the company’s future prospects and plans, I startled my fellow directors when I raised my fork and declared that I would be sharing those plans with them but a few years longer. ‘‘When I reach the age of fifty—that’ll be in February 1925—I’m going to retire.’’ Lee Blaffer laughed at this comment. ‘‘You retire at fifty? That’s good. You’re as strong and healthy as a yoke of young oxen, and you’ll probably live to be a hundred.’’ ‘‘Just the same,’’ I replied, ‘‘when I get to be fifty I’m going to check it to you. I’ve worked as much in my lifetime as most men do in sixty-five years. I have all the money I need. Why keep my nose to the grindstone?’’ ‘‘Well, we’ve got a few years to worry about that,’’ said Blaffer. ‘‘When the time comes I’ll bet horses couldn’t drag you away from the Humble Company. It’s your baby, your life.’’

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At the beginning of 1925, I reminded my colleagues about my retirement plan. ‘‘I’ll be fifty in February,’’ I told them, ‘‘and I’m pulling stakes.’’ Finally realizing that I was serious, they raised the issue of who would be my successor as president. I felt strongly that any one of them, Blaffer, Farish, Wiess, Fondren, or my brother Frank, could be president. We had taken every step together in building the Humble Company, so each director was thoroughly familiar with what needed to be done. Some of them, however, thought I was doing the wrong thing in retiring and that it might hurt the company. Frank Andrews, attorney for Standard of New Jersey, shared this fear with me. I protested that Humble was not a one-man company. ‘‘Suppose I had built a new kind of automobile, finer than anything we have,’’ I argued, ‘‘and suppose I should get killed suddenly and no one else could operate it. Wouldn’t that be the devil of a note?’’ I said that if I was the only man who could run the company, I had been a failure. ‘‘You fellows have come along together, and any one of you can take it where I leave off and go ahead without a bobble,’’ I stressed. ‘‘It isn’t going to hurt the company a bit.’’ So, in February 1925 I resigned and sold a large block of my stock to the Jersey Company. Eventually, I disposed of all of my Humble shares. At that time, I was worth $22 million. Although I had retired from the Humble Company, I had not retired from business. In fact, by the time of my departure from Humble, I had become deeply involved in the newspaper business, almost by accident. In the fall of 1923, Thad Scott and another young executive at the Houston Dispatch came to my office in the Humble Building. The Dispatch, a morning newspaper in direct competition with the well-established Houston Post, had been in existence for only a few months and was having serious financial problems. They needed a loan to meet their payroll. Thad Scott showed me a formidable array of merchants’ advertising accounts, but few of those advertisers had paid their bills. I gave them enough cash to pay their employees. They returned two weeks later and I helped them again. This became such a regular routine that I soon had $20,000 invested in their newspaper. This situation made me call in Ray Dudley and Dale Rogers, two young friends of mine who were familiar with the news publishing business. Dudley had been oil editor at the Houston Post.1 ‘‘I’ve got pretty deep into this newspaper,’’ I told them. ‘‘I don’t know just what to do about it. I wish you boys would check and figure out how much more it would take to make the Dispatch self-sustaining. If it isn’t too much, we’ll see what can be done about it.’’ Dudley and Rogers investigated and reported back. They thought $40,000 would put the newspaper on its feet. Feeling that it had good possibilities, they 60

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were willing to take the Dispatch over and run it for me. All it needed was good management, advertising, and financing. Based on their report, I bought the Dispatch for a down payment of $25,000, lock, stock, and barrel, on November 1, 1923. Within six months, my investment in the paper amounted to approximately $150,000. I preferred not to have my name on the masthead as owner of the Dispatch. I supplied the funds, but I let Dudley and his associates run it in their names. My ownership, however, became an open secret. As Dudley remarked later, ‘‘Everybody knew I didn’t have that kind of dough.’’ I told the boys to spend my money judiciously to get results, ‘‘but get results.’’ Dudley and Rogers took over as president and vice president, respectively. Both were bright, capable young men. I had met Ray Dudley when he was covering oil news for the Post, and I had taken a liking to him. I had helped him in a little printing business he started by loaning him $500 to save him from foreclosure. Dudley would eventually build one of the greatest oil publication enterprises in the country and make himself a millionaire. Rogers would eventually become the head of a large advertising agency. Dudley and Rogers spent the money, just as I had told them they could. They spent about $10,000 a week for ten months, over and above the paper’s gross income. The peak was reached one day when the Dispatch, costing some $2000 a day to publish, ran $2 worth of advertising. After that, the only direction in which the enterprise could go was upward. From their original quarters on lower Main Street, the Dispatch offices were moved to the main floor of the Humble Company building in rooms designed to be rented for stores and shops. The contracted arrangement we had with the Minor Printing Company to print the paper was unsatisfactory and expensive. We made plans for our own printing plant at a site on the corner of Polk and Dowling streets, nearly a mile due east of the Humble Building. This project gave assurance that the Dispatch was there to stay. To help us cut into the Post’s monopoly on the morning newspaper field, we lured away some of the Post’s best editorial talent. I offered George Bailey, one of Texas’ most brilliant editorial writers, $125 a week to move from the Post to the Dispatch. Bailey, who had been making $50 or $60 a week, was also fed up with the Post’s editorial policies. I also raided the Houston Chronicle staff. Judd Mortimer Lewis, the popular poet and humorist, and Charlie Maes, one of the city’s star reporters, both came to the Dispatch, lured by much higher salaries. Ed Bateman, a crack newsman, became managing editor of the Dispatch. Bateman would later become a millionaire oilman. With a live newspaper and a hard-hitting business organization, the Dispatch went all out after business. It began to climb up out of the hole. As it went up, 61

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the Post slid down. Soon the Post was losing $10,000 a month. On March 31, 1924, the Post was forced to close its evening edition in an attempt to keep the morning edition above water. The Post, an established institution in Houston nearly forty years in business, was fighting for its life. The Post’s publisher was Roy Watson, who had inherited the newspaper from his father, J. L. Watson. Roy Watson had taken over active control of the paper in 1917, after attaining his majority. A graduate of Princeton, Roy Watson was handsome, idealistic, and a devout Christian Scientist. He reversed the policies with which the Post had climbed to top place in Texas journalism, particularly its anti-prohibition, pro–Joe Bailey, anti–Woodrow Wilson, and anti-woman suffrage stances. He purged the organization of old heads who had made the Post the foremost Texas newspaper, principally Colonel R. M. Johnston, its longtime editor. Young Watson barred all liquor, medicine, and oil advertisements from the paper. In their place, he published lengthy articles and lectures on Christian Science, which were more virtuous but brought in far less revenue. He put in effect numerous other altruistic ideas that drained rather than produced profits. Ray Dudley approached Watson several times about buying the Post, so many times that the rumor got out that I was buying it. Watson flatly denied the rumor, as he had denied a similar rumor a year before that he was selling out to William Randolph Hearst. ‘‘The Houston Post is not for sale,’’ he declared, ‘‘never has been for sale, and will not be for sale.’’ Watson later stated that he felt a spiritual conviction that he did not have the moral right to sell the Post, that it was a quasipublic trust, placed in his hands, and not to be shifted to others. But his attitude soon changed. ‘‘While I did not particularly care to sell the paper,’’ he later explained, ‘‘I felt that I would be willing to sell it if a good enough offer were made.’’ Perhaps the change was influenced by the mounting fury of our competition, and the swelling red-ink figures on his ledger sheets. At any rate, Watson let a Hearst agent know that he was receptive to offers, and the Hearst man promptly suggested a $1 million price subject to Hearst’s approval. Watson agreed to that figure, which was more than twice the value of its actual physical assets. The agent said he would take it up with Mr. Hearst, who lived in California. Then it occurred to Watson that since I had been trying to buy the Post, I should be given the opportunity now. So he informed Wharton Weems, his attorney, that I could have the paper at the same price the Hearst man had suggested. I snapped the offer up. Without making an inventory or an audit of the Post’s books, I gave Watson a down payment. The only hitch was a legal technicality raised by the lawyers, which was the question whether the consolidation

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of the Post and the Dispatch could be held to be in restraint of trade, violating the antitrust laws. While the legal sharks were protractedly pondering the question, Ray Dudley grew impatient and had the Dispatch’s office furniture moved over to the Post building at Travis and Texas streets. Then he mobilized the business and advertising managers of the Dispatch, marched them into the Post’s business offices, and took over. Following through with this fait accompli, Dudley barged into the conference of lawyers and asked what they had decided about the merger. They said they were still debating its legality. ‘‘Well,’’ said Dudley, ‘‘you’ve got a new problem now—how to keep me out of jail. I’ve already consolidated the two papers as solidly as they can be consolidated.’’ That settled it. I consummated the purchase, paying Watson the highest price ever paid for a Texas newspaper up to that time. It was a paper with a circulation of some 40,000, pretty badly run down at the heel, but a paper with a noble past and unlimited future possibilities. The merger removed one competitor from an overcrowded field. On the day that I concluded the deal, Watson received a wire from Hearst, asking him to come out to the coast and close the trade with him. The first issue of the hybrid Houston Post-Dispatch greeted the world on August 1, 1924. That issue featured an editorial that I wrote in an attempt to shake off the millstones of factional strife and mortal competition that had hung around the individual necks of the Post and Dispatch before the merger. My front-page editorial proclaimed: The Post-Dispatch begins its career free, with no grievances, no enemies, no entanglements of any character, completely unfettered, eager for service, determined to achieve nobly for the community and the state, and inviting the good will and cooperation of all the people. The owners of the Post-Dispatch will redouble their efforts to make it a more powerful agency for good, a newspaper with more news, better features and more circulation, a credit to Houston, a benefit to the people it serves, and a greater factor for the moral advancement and civic betterment of Texas. The Post-Dispatch is for Houston first, and we hope to make everybody in Houston proud of it. The consolidation brought George Bailey, Judd Lewis, and Charlie Maes back into the Post-Dispatch fold, to resume their old jobs. It squeezed some men out of jobs. Roy Watson remained in Houston, financially independent.

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He dedicated his life to Christian Science work, becoming its number one exponent in Texas. After several years, he removed to Boston to become treasurer of the Christian Science organization in America. In many instances, the Dispatch men superseded those of the Post. In the main, however, it was more a case of the Post absorbing the Dispatch than of a consolidation. The Post had the printing plant; it had the circulation, the advertising, the established name, and goodwill. Ray Dudley became the vice president and general manager. I hired William P. Hobby to serve as president of the Post-Dispatch. Bringing Hobby to the newspaper would prove to be the most significant change for its future. Nearly thirty years before, as a mere boy, Hobby had worked at the Post as a junior clerk at about $7 a week. After working his way up to the managing editorship, he had resigned in 1907 to publish the Beaumont Enterprise. Hobby had been elected lieutenant governor of Texas in 1914 and was serving his second term when Governor James E. Ferguson was impeached in 1917. Hobby then became governor and was reelected in 1918. He did not seek a third term but returned to Beaumont and the Enterprise in 1921. He purchased the Beaumont Evening Journal from Charles E. Marsh and published it along with the Enterprise. I had known Hobby as governor; in fact, I had supported his candidacy for that office. In 1918, during the strike of oil field workers, in my capacity as president of the Independent Producers Association, I had asked Governor Hobby to intervene. Hobby prevailed on the commanding general at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio to send troops to the Southeast Texas fields to protect the workers from violence at the hands of strikers. I also found common ground with Hobby in political enmity for Farmer Jim Ferguson. I had some business dealings with Ferguson, and as a result, I despised him. When I looked about for an experienced, successful newspaperman to take the helm of the Post-Dispatch and steer it through the shoals of reorganization and the struggle of regeneration, William Hobby was just the man I needed. Hobby could not resist the invitation to return to his first journalistic love. He bought a block of stock in the newspaper and was named as a copurchaser with Ray Dudley and me. With Ray Dudley and a top-notch organization, we launched what Dudley later recalled as ‘‘the darndest newspaper scrap this town had ever seen for circulation, business, and prestige.’’ I was ready to spend money for anything that would get results, while Hobby was the conservative element, the balance wheel, supplying the experience and know-how. For a time, while the Post-Dispatch remained in the old Post building, Dudley worked in the same office with Hobby,

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William P. Hobby. CAH, DI02345.

sitting across a big mahogany desk from him in Roy Watson’s ornate former office. I had plunged headlong into the job of rehabilitating the sadly run-down Post—now the Post-Dispatch. One of our first tasks was to move the newspaper plant from its old quarters in the heart of the city to the larger fresh-air building on the corner of Polk and Dowling streets that had been constructed for the Dispatch. That was accomplished on Sunday, March 29, 1925. In Detroit, Dudley found 20 fifteen year-old Intertype machines to replace the Post’s ancient Mergenthaler Linotypes, which were a radical improvement over the Post’s equipment. J. L. Watson had been the agent for the Mergenthaler

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Miriam ‘‘Ma’’ Ferguson in a campaign photograph, date unknown. CAH, 02364.

typesetting machines in the entire Southwest, and the Post had been the first newspaper west of the Mississippi to install them. As soon as we opened shop as the Post-Dispatch, we were confronted with a difficult editorial choice in the 1924 Texas governor’s race. The Post and the Dispatch had supported Houstonian Lynch Davidson’s candidacy for governor in the Democratic Party primary, but Lynch was eliminated in the first primary by a hairbreadth and a peculiarly developed margin. That left the Post-Dispatch on the horns of a dilemma: whether to take sides in the runoff between Felix Robertson, the Ku Klux Klan candidate, and Miriam Ferguson, the wife of the impeached governor Jim Ferguson. Jim Ferguson’s impeachment conviction barred him from holding political office in Texas, and he was merely running in his wife’s name. Fergusonism was as repugnant to me as it was to Will Hobby, so neither one of us wanted any part of Mrs. Ferguson’s candidacy. On the other hand, we did not want the Klan candidate as our political bedfellow. Under their previous management, both the Post and the Dispatch had been slightly tarred with the Klan brush. I wanted to keep the reincarnated paper’s skirts clean.

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On August 1, 1924, just as Ferguson and Robertson were squaring off for their runoff tussle, I stated my editorial position in these words: The Post-Dispatch has no word of disparagement for Mrs. Ferguson personally. What alarms us with respect to Mrs. Ferguson’s candidacy, however, is the circumstance that Jim, barred from holding office in this state . . . stands a chance of side-stepping the judgment of the court of impeachment and getting his clutches on the state government again. . . . The alternative to a Klan governor is Jim; the alternative to Jim is a Klan governor. What is a good citizen to do in a situation like that? Political battles had been the old Post’s meat and drink; on them it had thrived and achieved statewide prestige and power. We decided to sit this one out, taking no stand on either side. Because the Post had occasionally sniped at Ferguson, however, the afternoon Houston Chronicle tried to put the Klan brand on us. Chronicle publisher Marcellus Foster, who was a former managing editor of the Post, was putting his paper on the map by waging an all-out war on the Ku Klux Klan. He soon found out that in tackling us, he had grabbed hold of a bear.2 Our George Bailey was a match for Foster. I turned him loose on the editorial page. Bailey could mix spirits of English with Latin distillate into a literary solution that left an odor of burning hide on everything it touched. I went to the editor’s office each day at noon, and together we would compound the next morning’s dose. Governor Hobby joined us in concocting the daily acid throwing. Our editorials were so searing that the Chronicle publisher finally phoned and said he was ready to call a truce. The Fergusons won the nomination. Then when the Republicans brought out George Butte, a highly respected professor at the University of Texas, to oppose them in the general election, we climbed down off the fence. We said editorially: The clean-cut issue is honesty and righteousness in government. There is no issue of Klan or Anti-Klan; that has been settled. Only the issue of Fergusonism and the menace it offers to decent government remains. The Democrats of Texas, who were maneuvered by an outrageous statute into a choice between Ku Kluxism and Fergusonism, are now free to extricate themselves. They have eliminated the Klan; now let them eliminate Fergusonism. This can be done by selecting George C. Butte—a Christian gentleman, a patriot, a clean-minded and clean-tongued exemplar of private and public righteousness.

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I did not know it at the time, of course, but I had begun my political career with the same kind of a fight, and against the same foe, with which I was to end it. Although Butte received the largest vote ever polled by a Republican candidate for governor of Texas, Ma Ferguson beat him decisively. So the PostDispatch waited for another day. In 1924 I became involved in another business enterprise that would have a major public impact: commercial radio. Just as in the case of my involvement with the Dispatch, a radio station came into my possession through a whimsy of fate. My son, Ross Sterling, Jr., was a schoolmate and playmate of Howard Hughes, Jr. Howard’s father was the founder of Hughes Tool Company, an enterprise destined to become one of Houston’s greatest industries. Hughes Tool manufactured a rotary drill bit invented by Howard Hughes, Sr. The Hughes rotary bit revolutionized oil well drilling, making Hughes and his son a huge fortune. It was the fortune on which Howard Junior later was to build his fame in California as a motion picture producer and airplane manufacturer. In the late teens of the twentieth century, the senior Hughes was having a tough struggle. Humble was buying a lot of his tools, as were other oil companies, but Hughes could not get sufficient credit from the banks to expand. He eventually came to me and asked for a $50,000 advance on future orders. ‘‘I believe I could get the Gulf and Texas companies to match it,’’ he said, ‘‘and that would put me on my feet.’’ I persuaded my colleagues on the Humble board of directors to grant the loan, and the other two companies duly followed suit. Hughes came back for two repeat performances before he attained full speed on the road to large success. He always gave me major credit for his start. The Hughes Company was well established and flourishing on the day in 1923 when Hughes Senior suffered a heart attack in his office in the Humble Building and fell out of his chair, dead. We lived just a few blocks from the Hughes family. As a youth, Howard Junior spent many after-school hours with Ross Junior. Even then, Howard Junior’s inventive genius was evident, as he incessantly devised one kind of contraption after another. At one point, my son and Howard Junior rigged up a small motor on a bicycle, perhaps the original forerunner of the motorbikes that infest the streets these days. When radio came along in the early 1920s, Howard and Ross were among its earliest enthusiasts in Houston. They visited an amateur broadcasting station, the pioneer ham operator in these parts. Little Ross, as we called him, went completely overboard for radio. He mounted a campaign to persuade me to

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establish a regular broadcasting station. Alfred P. Daniel, who had the amateur station, joined in the offensive, as did Howard Hughes. I capitulated. I could hardly refuse my boy anything halfway within reason. Besides, Little Ross’s sales talk had aroused my mild interest in the commercial possibilities of radio. I paid $25,000 for the equipment for a class B broadcasting operation. From that moment on, my son became enthusiastically involved in planning the details of the enterprise, as though it was to be his sole property. He decided that Alfred Daniel would run the station, and he selected Henry Crossland, another amateur operator, for the technical work. Others were far less optimistic for the prospects of a broadcasting outfit. I remember with amusement the foreboding expressed by Jesse Jones, who told me that I had gone crazy to spend $25,000 for a radio station. I purchased the equipment shortly before the merger of the Post and the Dispatch. It was left uncrated pending completion of our new publishing plant. It was still uncrated when Little Ross suddenly fell ill and died after an operation. I was stunned by this tragedy. Young Ross was the apple of my eye. I had cherished great hopes and planned grand things for the boy. After his premature death, life lost its zestful flavor. For a time, I took no interest in my own enterprises and plans, except for one. I resolved that the radio station would be a living monument to the memory of my son. The responsibility of setting up the broadcasting operation fell to the lot of Ray Dudley as general manager of the paper. He was dismayed to learn that the cost of operating the station properly would run up to $30,000 or $35,000 a year. That was before radio stations thought of stooping to the mercenary practice of accepting pay for radio time. Dudley thought that too expensive a luxury; it would eat up the newspaper’s profits. He stalled, hoping I would forget it, but one day I asked him point-blank how the radio station was coming along. ‘‘All right,’’ he replied brightly. ‘‘I’m dickering with a fellow to take it off our hands for what it cost us.’’ I looked him in the eye with a steely gaze and said, ‘‘I’ll give you three weeks to have the radio set up and operating. Twenty-one days!’’ Dudley gave me a little hand salute and said, ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ During those three weeks, Dudley did the fastest work of his life. There wasn’t time to erect a new building to house the radio station, so a hole was cut in the roof of the threestory newspaper plant and a penthouse was constructed atop it to house the radio mechanical works and a studio. On May 9, 1925, radio station KPRC (‘‘Kotton Port Rail Center’’) went on the air as Houston’s first commercial broadcasting station. It was one of the finest in the South, with 500-watt power. The Humble Company’s forty-five-piece

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band played on the opening program, and Governor Hobby, as master of ceremonies, said, ‘‘We can . . . conceive of no greater service to our city, our state, and our nation than to pledge this station to the cause of better understanding, to the promotion of goodwill, and to the widest circulation of truth.’’ But these aims could not be achieved without listeners, and few Houstonians had radio sets with which to enjoy its programs. So the Post-Dispatch management bought up a large stock of the little old-fashioned crystal sets with the ear phones, and offered them free as newspaper subscription premiums. More than 12,000 sets were distributed in this way. Thus, we killed two birds with one stone. We built a listening audience and the newspaper’s circulation by the same instrumentality. Station KPRC grew and expanded with the Post-Dispatch. As paying commercial programs came into vogue, the station belied Dudley’s apprehension by turning a profit. Later on, during the depression in the early 1930s, the radio station earned more money than the newspaper of which it was a subsidiary. At first, radio dealers complained about the competition of our free crystal sets, but in time they learned that this competition helped rather than hurt their trade, for every crystal set owner became a prospective purchaser of a regular radio. The station became an important vehicle of news and sports reporting and of political campaigning, as well as a popular source of entertainment. Soon, few homes in the Post territory were without a receiving set. The broadcasting medium gave the Post-Dispatch so great an advantage over opposition papers that Jesse Jones’s Chronicle soon established a broadcasting station of its own, KTRH. When I took over the Post, its business curve was doing a power dive. With all the new blood and the new management’s aggressive campaign for news and for business, coupled with the radio station, the curve zoomed upward. Circulation grew from approximately 40,000 in 1924 to 54,700 in 1926, a gain of about 37 percent. At the end of 1925 my newspaper colleagues and I had a dinner at the San Jacinto Inn, a popular eating place near the San Jacinto Battlefield, celebrating the largest gain in advertising linage shown by an American newspaper during the year. I had initially seen radio as a plaything. I had never dreamed that it would play an important role in my political career. I would be the first Texan to go on the air in a political race, and the first to take a sound truck along on a campaign tour to amplify my speeches.

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I was lured into the ranching industry by the innocent machinations of two young friends, Malcolm Monroe of Houston and Dolph Briscoe of Uvalde, both toilers in the Humble vineyard. Malcolm and Dolph were boyhood pals in the little community of Fulshear, in Fort Bend County, Texas. Dolph worked with Malcolm for the Texas Company. When Malcolm went with the Humble Company in 1919, he persuaded Dolph to follow him. Dolph became bulk distributor for Humble in the Uvalde territory.1 Living in the Southwest Texas cattle country, young Briscoe, who knew a lot about the cattle business, developed an ambition to be a rancher. But he had no capital, and if there is anything that modern ranching requires, it is money to buy the cattle and to acquire the land on which to run them. So one day Malcolm told him that I liked to give promising young fellows a start in business. Malcolm knew that I liked cattle. I used to raise a few in Chambers County. Malcolm told Briscoe that if he could get me to come out to Uvalde to look around, I might stake him in the cattle business. That was in 1923, and at that time the livestock business was in a state of coma. The bottom had dropped out of the cattle market two years before. Briscoe knew that good cattle could be bought for about $25 a head because of the depressed market. Dolph asked Malcolm how he could get me out to his part of Texas. ‘‘Well, he likes to hunt and fish,’’ Malcolm told him. ‘‘If we could get him a good deer hunt, I think he’d be interested.’’ That was easy for Dolph. He arranged with a stockman whose ranch was overrun with deer to hunt on his place. I accepted the invitation. Briscoe drove me over the pastures of mesquite, shinnery, and cactus in a Model T Ford. He told me all about the cattle industry. I was impressed by the bright, earnest per71

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sonality of Dolph Briscoe, a man of about thirty years with a West Texas drawl and close-cropped blond hair that stood straight up on top. I asked Dolph a lot of questions, and he gave me the answers. He tactfully told me of his ambition to be a rancher and of his lack of capital. He told me how cheap cattle were at that time. I asked Dolph if he could make any profit on cattle if he bought a herd. ‘‘I don’t think I could fail,’’ he answered. ‘‘Prices are bound to go up.’’ I asked him to see if he could find about a thousand head of cattle. ‘‘You do the work,’’ I told him. ‘‘I’ll furnish the money, and we’ll split fifty-fifty.’’ Briscoe jumped at this opportunity. He lost no time. Pretty soon, he phoned me at Houston to say that he had found a bargain in a thousand head of cattle. He asked me to come out and join him in closing the deal. I told him that it was all right. He could go ahead, close the deal, and draw on me for the cost. But Dolph had a little idea in mind. ‘‘I’d rather have the benefit of your business experience and judgment and trading ability,’’ he said. He persuaded me to come out to West Texas and supervise the transaction personally. W. B. Silliman of the 0-9 Ranch, near San Angelo, had the cattle. He was ready to trade, and I found the stock in good shape. I was about to close the deal at $25,000 for the thousand head when Silliman said, ‘‘I’ve got five thousand head of cattle; I wish you could afford to buy them all, for I’d sure make you an attractive price.’’ I replied, ‘‘Afford to buy ’em? Where’d you get the idea I couldn’t afford it?’’ That was the opening shot in a round of dickering. Briscoe cannily withdrew and let Silliman and me negotiate after the manner of old hoss traders. Silliman started off with a price of $200,000 for 5000 cows and all their calves and 640 acres of pastureland. A long siege of bargaining got the rancher down to $151,000, while I held at $150,000. There we were stalemated. Silliman wouldn’t budge $1000. My train to Houston was coming, and it looked as if the deal would fall through without my buying even the thousand head. Poor Briscoe was on the verge of heart failure. He later told me that he was kicking himself for being too ambitious. He had overdone it and was losing everything. I went ahead and boarded the train, which was stopping at the station for just a few minutes. I stood in the vestibule of the train car, while Silliman stood on the ground outside. We were locked in a last-minute skirmish of haggling. I told Silliman that I would not offer him a dime more than $150,000. Then I said, ‘‘But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll flip this half dollar down there on the ground; if it comes up heads I pay you my price; if tails, I’ll pay you your price.’’ Silliman agreed. I flipped the coin, and it was heads. Dolph Briscoe looked as though he had swallowed his heart. That half dollar had put us in partner-

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ship in the ownership of 5000 head of cattle and their calves, with 640 acres of land and a lease on several thousand acres of state pastureland! We formed a corporation and named it the 13 Ranch because Dolph said thirteen was his lucky number. The cattle market soared and the business thrived and expanded. Dolph soon felt the need for more land to accommodate our growing herds. He found a 60,000-acre ranch called the Chupadera, which bordered on the Rio Grande, in Maverick and Dimmit counties. The price was $6 an acre. He got me to come down for a deer hunt and look it over. We rode together over the hilly brush country, through the wooded flats and the open fields. I was captivated by the herds of deer we saw. There were hundreds of bucks, does, and fawns in sight, more than I had ever seen in my life. I could have killed a score of bucks on that hunt, but I waited and picked the one I wanted, a huge fellow with rocking-chair antlers. I was about to leave when Dolph asked me, ‘‘Well, what do you think of Chupadera?’’ I laughed. ‘‘To tell you the truth,’’ I said, ‘‘I didn’t pay much attention to the range. Do you think cattle will do all right on it?’’ ‘‘Yes, it’s fine grazing,’’ Dolph replied. ‘‘All right, let’s buy it,’’ I said. ‘‘I figure the deer are worth six dollars an acre.’’ Chupadera proved a good business investment, but it won its fame as a hunting preserve. In 1927 Briscoe and I invited a score of prominent Texans to hunt there during the Christmas holidays, which were the closing days of the Texas deer season. The party was so successful that we repeated it the next year, and the Yuletide hunt became an annual affair, the year’s red-letter sporting event of its kind in Texas. Governors, captains of industry, judges, and other top-drawer dignitaries coveted the distinction of an invitation. In 1929, for example, the party bunking at the ranch house and stalking the wary stag included Governor Dan Moody, former governor Hobby, Houston developer Jesse Jones, cotton entrepreneur M. D. Anderson, Southern Pacific Lines executive vice president H. M. Lull, Fort Worth and Denver Railway executive vice president Frank E. Clarity, Missouri Pacific Lines executive vice president H. R. Safford, a Houston bank president, two federal district judges, and an Army general. Typically, our invitees would travel in three or four private railroad cars to the remote little village of Catarina, the nearest station to the ranch. The rail cars would be uncoupled from the train and parked out on a railroad spur near the station. Chupadera headquarters were a good hour drive from Carrizo Springs, the nearest town on the highway. That drive was mostly a rough winding trail through a primeval wilderness, vast forbidding wastes of mesquite, huisache, scrub oak, and cactus, broken by rocky hills and occasional open flats and grass-carpeted valleys. A deer leaping across the trail ahead was

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a familiar sight, though after a few weeks of hunting season they were mostly does and fawns; the bucks became more wary. The coyote’s mournful howl was a common sound, and javelinas or wild hogs ranged the ranch in small droves, rooting for acorns under the oak trees. There were some wild turkeys on the ranch, but they were even wilder and harder to find than the deer. Quail and dove abounded, especially around the windmills, affording good bird shooting and tasty food. Evening gatherings of the deluxe deerslayers around the fireplace of the ranch house after a heavy supper of wild game naturally evolved into tall tale– telling contests. One night, for instance, Jesse Jones told of taking a shot at a squirrel across a river with a pistol, aiming about fifty feet high to allow for the bullet’s fall over the great distance, and hitting the creature squarely in the head. That topped the one I told about some target practice Dolph Briscoe and I had taken once while driving over the ranch. I told the party that Dolph aimed at a hawk with an Enfield rifle, saying, ‘‘I’m going to shoot his eye out.’’ The hawk fell, and sure enough he was plugged squarely in the eye. Then I took the rifle and said, ‘‘If you can do it, I can too.’’ So I took a pop at the next hawk we saw, perched in the top of a distant tree. The hawk toppled over, and when they examined it they found its eye neatly drilled out. General Fechet of San Antonio recalled having killed a huge Mexican lion on the previous year’s hunt. Not even Dolph and I could make that boast. The guides would brief the city dudes carefully on being stealthy while hunting. A neighbor rancher serving as a guide cautioned Mr. Jones, ‘‘Save your coughing, throat clearing, and nose blowing until you’re moving from one stand to another. When you use your handkerchief, hold your hands over it so it doesn’t show. A deer can see that flash of white and will run away.’’ The Houston capitalist laughed off his admonition. ‘‘I reserve the right,’’ he said, ‘‘to blow my nose whenever it needs blowing.’’ However, he followed the orders to the letter. At the end of that hunt in 1929, I had the boys take a buck I had killed from the cooling house and load it on the car for Governor Hobby, whose buck had let him down. As it was being tied on, Hobby cracked, ‘‘I hadn’t thought I hit him that third shot.’’ R. M. Farrar, president of the Union National Bank of Houston, went on every annual hunt we had at Chupadera and never killed a deer. As he was leaving after the 1929 hunt, the boys tied on his car a jackrabbit that the ranch dog, Chief, had caught. They attached a tag to the rabbit that read: ‘‘R. M. Farrar—his deer.’’ The banker permitted his picture to be taken holding the animal, and nonchalantly remarked, ‘‘I hit him running.’’ On one hunt, my son Walter and I were hunting out on the brow of a hill 74

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when we saw a great big old mossback, over on another hill about 400 yards away. That was just what Walter wanted—a long shot—to try his new Star gauge Springfield for distance. He cracked down, and the buck fell with a broken leg, but the animal got up and started off. Walter fired again. Down went Mr. Buck again, this time with a broken jaw. We started after him on foot. We had nearly reached him when the buck managed to get up and stagger away. Another shot checked his progress, but he still wobbled on. Heavyweight though I am, I showed my son that I could still move by catching up with the deer after running half a mile or more. I grabbed the buck’s tail, set his heels, and leaned back to stop him, but off came the fellow’s white flag! We finally captured him and dressed him with Walter’s hunting knife. It was a fine specimen, with the handsomest set of horns yet brought in. It had about twenty points. One evening, Dolph Briscoe and I were riding with San Antonio businessman D. K. Martin through the wilds of Chupadera in an old-fashioned touring car with the top down. We had been after deer but were then shooting coyotes from the car for practice and to rid the ranch of some of the predatory beasts. Dolph was driving and I was riding in the front seat with him. D. K. Martin was in the back seat. The sun was sinking low over the mesquite and cactus when I said, ‘‘Well, boys, we won’t shoot any more coyotes. We’ve got to kill our deer before dark.’’ The words were hardly out of my mouth when Dolph drove into a clearing of about forty acres, and right in the middle of the opening they spotted a big coyote. Dolph swerved to drive by him so as to place him on my side. Instantly forgetting my cease-fire order, I raised my automatic rifle and opened a bombardment at the fleeing varmint. I emptied my gun and then Briscoe emptied his. By this time the animal was well on his way out of the clearing, but Martin stood up in the back of the car and took two long, running shots. The second one downed the coyote, ‘‘accidentally,’’ Martin modestly related. I asked Martin what kind of gun he was using. ‘‘It’s a thirty-thirty Remington,’’ said Martin. ‘‘Why?’’ ‘‘I just wondered what kind of gun it took to kill him,’’ I replied. ‘‘I shot a hole clean through that critter and he just kept on going.’’ In the financial crash of 1932, Briscoe and I lost Chupadera and all of our other ranch holdings. After the nightmare of the Depression had faded in the dawn of better times, I again hunted deer on Chupadera, as the guest of my old friend Jim West, the man who had fast-talked me out of $8000 worth of mules in the Dayton sawmill deal. In the liquidation of my assets, West had come into possession of 75

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the ranch. The only cattle business I engaged in thereafter was that of raising blooded Brahman stock on my 100-acre farm on the bay. Briscoe, a shrewd businessman with a winning personality, was not one to stay broke. He gained a new toehold in ranching in the Catarina Country, adjoining Chupadera. Within a decade and a half, he owned approximately 100,000 acres in that area and a good run of stock, besides a lucrative wool and mohair business at Uvalde. Through thick and thin, he retained his agency as bulk distributor for the Humble Company in his territory, an enterprise bringing him a larger income than most men ever enjoy. Today, in his middle fifties, he is a wealthy man and a leading citizen of Uvalde.2 Incidentally, he is a neighbor and longtime friend of John Nance Garner, the former vice president of the United States. Dolph and I have always been and still are the closest of friends. Dolph always kept a warm spot in his heart, too, for his old boyhood crony, Malcolm Monroe, who brought us together to get Dolph his first big chance in ranching. In the winter of 1945, Monroe went out to Briscoe’s ranch for a deer hunt. They were eating breakfast at the ranch house, and chatting happily, when Monroe suddenly reached his hand behind him and groaned, ‘‘I’ve got a pain in my back.’’ Dolph observed his face twist in pain and saw his body sway backward. Dolph sprang to his feet and caught Monroe as he fell from his chair. He laid him on the floor, holding up his head and shoulders, and Monroe took a deep shuddering breath and went limp. He died in his old friend’s arms. Out of the wreckage of the Depression Briscoe salvaged a fine-blooded young Hereford bull, one he had purchased at a fancy price for breeding purposes. He kept the magnificent animal for a number of years, proudly cherishing him as a memento of our ranching partnership. I visited Dolph at his ranch house at Catarina and asked him about the bull. ‘‘Come in here and I’ll show you,’’ Dolph smiled. He led me to the handsomely furnished guest room of his ranch house and, with a wave of his arm, said, ‘‘There he is, Governor.’’ I replied, ‘‘What do you mean?’’ ‘‘Well, the bull was getting a little old and fat for breeding so I sold him—got a good price for him. And with the money, I furnished this room. I’ve named it the Governor’s Room, and it will be reserved for your use when you come here to hunt.’’ 3

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When the Ku Klux Klan was at the peak of its power in Texas in the 1920s, Dan Moody, the tall, lank, red-haired young district attorney of Williamson County, attracted statewide attention with his courageous and successful prosecution of the hooded floggers. As a result, in 1924 Dan rode on a wave of popularity into the office of attorney general of Texas. That was the year the impeached Jim Ferguson won his vindication campaign by getting his wife elected governor. Less than a year after Moody’s election, Lou W. Kemp of Houston, an engineer with a penchant for research and investigation, began to delve into the activities of the Ferguson administration.1 As executive secretary of the Texas Highway and Municipal Contractors Association, Kemp had heard from road contractors and engineers’ reports of shenanigans in the letting of highway contracts. He dug up a mass of sensational evidence and showed it to Attorney General Moody. He suggested that Dan might make a bigger hit by filing suits to cancel these contracts than he had scored with his Klan prosecutions. Here was an issue that could sweep him into the governor’s office. Moody was politically ambitious, but this was too hot a potato to pick up. So Kemp took his evidence to Amarillo and laid it bare in a speech before the State Convention of County Judges and Commissioners, on September 28, 1925. He charged that Ferguson’s highway commission had awarded $5 million worth of highway construction work without bids and at exorbitant prices. Ferguson usually sat in on the commission’s meetings and dominated them. This story made front-page newspaper headlines. Moody then brought suits to cancel contracts awarded the American Road Company and the Hoffman Construction Company. He won judgments recovering nearly $1 million of excess profits from the contractors. As Lou Kemp had predicted, this made Moody

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Outgoing governor Dan Moody, at Sterling’s inauguration, at the State Capitol, Austin, 1931. CAH, DI02350.

the man of the hour in Texas. Early in 1926, when Jim Ferguson dared him to run against Ma for governor, Dan leaped into the fray. I did not know Moody very well, but I was attracted to the fiery young attorney general. I believed he would be a good crusader against Fergusonism. I threw the full force of the Post-Dispatch behind his candidacy for governor, along with my all-out personal and financial support. Politicians remarked that I had been accused of Klan leanings, but now I was the champion of a candidate who had gained political recognition by his prosecution of Klansmen. Under the editorship of Rienzi Johnston back in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the Houston Post had played a leading role in the most memorable Texas political campaigns since Reconstruction days, but not even in the historic Hogg-Clark race, the Bailey-Johnson conflict, or the Ferguson78

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Hobby battle had the newspaper thrown so much ammunition at an adversary as the Post-Dispatch hurled at the Fergusons in 1926.2 I told the boys running the paper not to spare the horses or the newsprint. They carried out my wishes with a vengeance. It was by no means an unpleasant job for Governor Hobby to battle his old political enemy, Jim Ferguson. The generalship with which Hobby managed his fighting forces and mounted the offensive would have won the admiration of his old journalistic mentor, R. M. Johnston. Nearly every day throughout the intensive stage of the campaign, the Post-Dispatch greeted the dawn with a militant editorial blasting the Ferguson highway and textbook contract scandals, the wholesale pardons, and all the other administrative sins that came under the head of Fergusonism. A front-page editorial column headed ‘‘Houston’’ kept up a continual bombardment, as did a semi-editorial column ‘‘Texas Talk’’ on the first page of the second section. Paul Yates wrote most of these dissertations. George Bailey, the editor and paragrapher, peppered his daily column, ‘‘Early Morning Observations,’’ with stinging cracks at the Fergusons. Letters from readers on the campaign filled columns, and unlimited space was devoted to news reports and articles about it. Bert Blessington’s cartoons presented the issues pictorially, endowing Ferguson with horns and Moody with a halo. Perhaps the most potent feature of all was Boyd Gatewood’s coverage of Moody’s speeches. Gatewood, a brilliant reporter, seasoned and wise in politics, accompanied the leather-lunged Moody throughout practically his entire speaking campaign, serving as his unofficial press agent and publicity counselor, helping him plan his strategy and his speeches. No Texas newspaperman ever distilled more poison for the opposition or more effective publicity for his candidate into straight news stories than Boyd Gatewood did in that campaign. The Post-Dispatch opposition hurt Jim Ferguson, and he did not conceal the pain. He frequently hit back at the paper, calling it the ‘‘Pest-Disgrace.’’ In a Houston speech on June 3, he assailed Sterling and Hobby, tooth and nail. Lynch Davidson was equally bitter toward the newspaper for not supporting him, a home-town candidate, for governor. The Post-Dispatch had championed his cause in the 1924 race, but I now felt that Davidson had had his chance and it was Moody’s turn. The Scripps-Howard newspaper chain’s Houston Press, whose editor, Marcellus Foster, was Ferguson’s friend, attacked the Post-Dispatch and the Chronicle for their anti-Ferguson campaign. Pointing out that I owned the PostDispatch and that Jesse Jones owned the Houston Chronicle, a Press editorial declared that our ‘‘widespread connections with large enterprises’’ created a ‘‘dangerous situation from the standpoint of the public.’’ Claiming that the Press was an independent publisher, it warned its readers that for the city’s other 79

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newspapers ‘‘the day of independent publishers in Houston is past—and in their places we have millionaires with new toys to play with.’’ ‘‘Independent publishers!’’ the Post-Dispatch chortled. ‘‘This from a newspaper controlled by a foreign corporation with offices in New York!’’ Subsequently, Jim Ferguson proposed that his wife would withdraw from the race if she led Moody by less than 25,000 votes in the first primary, provided Moody would agree to withdraw if she should lead by more than that number. Moody promptly accepted the challenge and scored a first primary plurality of 126,250 votes. Mrs. Ferguson, however, would not get out of the race. The battle raged with redoubled fury in the runoff, pitched by Moody on the issue of Fergusonism. The state resounded with war cries: ‘‘Dan’s the man,’’ ‘‘Me for Ma,’’ and ‘‘No Ma for me; too much Pa.’’ Dan won the nomination on the same evidence that had enabled him to win the lawsuits canceling the Ferguson highway contracts, by the thumping vote of 495,723 to 270,595. As a reward for my assistance, which more than anything else had made his victory possible, Moody appointed me to the most important and the hardest position he had to offer: the chairmanship of the State Highway Commission. The highway department was in even worse shape than I had expected after the Ferguson administration’s scandals. Road construction was virtually kaput, and maintenance was next to nil. The whole highway business was in such a mess that Texas had been cut off from federal aid, at a loss to the state of $6 million or $7 million a year. The one-cent state gasoline tax and the motor license fees yielded scarcely enough revenue to keep up the few hundred miles of roads already improved, let alone build new ones. I went to Austin and looked through the department before the other two new commissioners, Cone Johnson and W. R. Ely, took office.3 The personnel were demoralized and dormant; most of the engineers and employees of the vanquished Ferguson regime seemed to be marking time, expecting to be replaced by the incoming administration. The records were in a chaotic condition, and there were distinct signs of malfeasance. I had R. A. Thompson, a Dallas engineer, come over and help me clean up the Augean stables. I persuaded Harry Washburn, the Harris County auditor, to take some time off from his job and straighten out the books. Washburn eventually installed a complete new system of bookkeeping in the department, patterned after the system in use in the Pennsylvania highway department. My fellow highway commissioners and I had to drive over the state’s road system in order to compile an inventory of its equipment. We were appalled at what we discovered. Maintenance tractors, trucks, and other machinery lay abandoned along the rights-of-way all over Texas, rusting and deteriorating in the weather. It all amounted to little more than junk. 80

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As soon as we could complete a statement of the department’s condition as to finances, equipment, status of improvement, and the like, I took it to Washington and showed it to Thomas H. McDonald, chief of the Bureau of Good Roads. I told McDonald that I had little experience in the work of road building, but that I had a lifetime of business experience. I told him that I regarded the Texas government and the national government as partners in the roadbuilding business in my state. I wanted him to know that I was giving him that statement showing our condition so that he would know that we had nothing to keep from the federal government as our partners in this business. I promised McDonald that we would continue to give him such statements at proper intervals and that he could be assured that he was dealing with partners in every sense of the word. This frank approach impressed the federal official. Federal relations with the Texas highway department were resumed. McDonald, who wielded great power in the distribution of aid to the states, became a good friend of mine, and from that time on was sympathetic to the problems of improving Texas’s far-flung highway system. Our immediate need in Texas, however, was more operating revenue. I told Governor Moody that we needed at least a three-cent gasoline tax. Moody agreed. The question was whether a three-cent tax could be put through the Legislature. With the burgeoning of motor traffic and the atrocious condition of Texas highways, the people were becoming conscious of the need for good roads, but an organized campaign of opposition might easily defeat so drastic an increase in the tax. By way of precaution, I asked some of the major oil companies what their attitude would be. They were agreeable. The tax bill was introduced and passed in the closing hours of the regular session in April 1927. It was later raised to four cents a gallon. With the new heavy revenues assured, the Highway Commission planned an unprecedented volume of construction. My fellow commissioner Cone Johnson, who was from Tyler, was dubious about the magnitude of the program. Johnson was not in the best of health, and he gave less time to highway affairs than Ely and I did. Normally rather blunt and outspoken, Johnson became a bit cranky when he wasn’t feeling well. One morning Cone Johnson arrived late for a commission meeting in Austin. Without taking time to go by his desk, he took the elevator down to the basement room of the highway building, where the commissioners sat in a row along a long counter on a low platform facing the audience of road contractors, county delegations, and others interested in highway work. One county delegation asked that a certain road be paved. After hearing their plea, Judge Ely and I indicated our approval of the project, but Cone John81

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son blared out, ‘‘Here we are spending money and don’t know whether we have it to spend or not!’’ I assured him that we knew that the money was available. ‘‘Well, I don’t,’’ Johnson retorted, ‘‘and if we go to spending money we haven’t got we’ll be as bad as Ferguson.’’ This exchange caught the attention of the newspaper reporters who covered the highway meetings. ‘‘Mr. Johnson, you must not have gone to your office this morning,’’ I said. ‘‘The whole situation is on your desk in a statement, showing that we do have the money. I think you should correct your remarks for the press.’’ ‘‘I can’t do that,’’ Johnson replied. ‘‘The more I’d say, the worse it would be. You correct them.’’ ‘‘No,’’ I argued, ‘‘you’re the one to do it.’’ Johnson would say no more. The meeting was recessed for lunch. The early edition of the Austin Statesman featured a headline quoting Cone Johnson comparing Governor Moody’s highway commission with Ferguson’s. Moody had a fit when he saw the story. ‘‘I’d rather lose a right arm,’’ Moody told me, ‘‘than have anything like that come out.’’ I explained it, and Dan, though understanding, was no less perturbed. That afternoon, I again asked Johnson to correct his error, but again Johnson countered with the suggestion that I do it. So I called in the reporters, gave them a copy of the commission’s financial statement, and explained everything to them. They sent the story to their papers and wire services. The published story placed Johnson in none too favorable a light. After that, the commission had no more trouble with him; whenever we talked with a county delegation about a proposed road project, Johnson would look at me over his glasses and say, ‘‘Ross, can we do that?’’ Maybe it was a good thing, for he never blew off again. Meanwhile, the commission had found evidence of criminal offenses committed by certain highway employees of the preceding administration, and we prosecuted them. Soon after we took charge of the commission, a young woman employee went to Judge Ely and said, ‘‘I guess I’m on the list to be let out.’’ As a matter of fact, no one had thought of firing her. She went on, ‘‘Whether you fire me, or not, I’m going to tell you something.’’ And she told him how a certain engineer and his assistant had ‘‘crooked’’ the highway department out of enough money to build themselves nice big homes. Judge Ely investigated and found the records to support her statements. The information was turned over to the grand jury in Austin, and an engineer and his assistant were indicted. Evidence was found involving numerous other employees. The commission hoped to bring out testimony in the trial of the two 82

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employees to clinch charges against the others. When the case came to trial, however, their defense attorney, T. H. McGregor, promptly entered a plea of guilty. That denied us the evidence to use against the other guilty employees, which would have broken the scandal wide open. The engineer and his assistant were given two years each in the penitentiary. Several other individuals were subsequently convicted, and the state recovered $360,000 of stolen highway funds. Some offenders, however, went free for lack of sufficient evidence to convict. Among the most urgent needs to be met with revenues from the new gasoline tax was the replacement of all the equipment that had gone to pot. Estimates of all the required machinery added up to about $2 million. To compare the efficiency of various makes of tractors, my fellow commissioners and I had dealers submit their machines to the eighteen division engineers for performance tests. Johnny Blair, engineer of the Bryan division, reported unfavorably on a certain vehicle, and the salesman offering it protested vehemently to me. At a commission meeting, he accused Blair of being unfair and of lying about their tractor. I was quick to challenge the salesman’s statement. ‘‘Mr. Blair isn’t here to defend himself,’’ I said, ‘‘so I’ll take his part. Also, I’ll take his word about your tractor. I say he didn’t lie, and if you don’t want to go out that window you’d better take that back.’’ The salesman quickly retracted and apologized. That would have been all there was to the incident, except that the story got out. Thereafter, people having business with the highway department seemed to have a little more respect for the chairman. My operational methods also earned me some new friends in the engineering division. I established the practice of calling the engineers in two or three times a year for a day in the main office, topped off by a banquet to which the governor and other notables were invited. These gettogethers proved popular with the engineers and developed a lasting family spirit among them. As highway chairman, I had no serious trouble with anyone in state government, except Roy Tennant, a member of the State Board of Control. He did the buying for all the state departments and institutions. Tennant also happened to be a holdover Ferguson appointee, from Ferguson’s old hometown of Temple. These circumstances promised no aid or comfort to the Moody administration. In previous years, the Highway Commission’s requisitions for needed machinery and vehicles went through without question, but not so now, with Roy Tennant sitting at the purchasing desk. He challenged the commission’s specifications for a vast amount of the equipment it requested. He asserted his judgment over that of the trained highway engineers by insisting on types and makes of equipment different from those that the engineers deemed best suited for 83

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the department’s work. Tennant refused to approve and order these noncontroversial items until the commission revised its requisitions to conform to his demands. I have never been one to duck a fight, so I pitched into this one tooth and nail. I issued a public statement vehemently denouncing Tennant’s presumptuous action. I said that some of the most important changes he had demanded were to types and makes of equipment sold by firms in his home county. This scrap between the commission and the state purchasing agent went on for months, waxing hot and bitter. It stirred up anew the old war over Fergusonism. I took it up in my newspaper, blasting Tennant in a series of staff articles that provoked a $100,000 libel suit. The suit dragged through the courts for nearly seven years and was finally settled for $3200. One member of the Board of Control, Dr. H. H. Harrington, a Moody appointee, sided with the Highway Commission against Tennant, but the third member, R. B. Walthall, a holdover from the Neff and Ferguson administrations, seemed more sympathetic to Tennant. I won the immediate controversy, and Tennant bought practically all the machinery the department had requisitioned. In retaliation, Ferguson’s friends in the Legislature got behind a resolution calling for an investigation of the highway department. Representative Elwood Gerron, a youthful son of a Ferguson appointee, sponsored the resolution. My colleagues and I had no objection to the inquiry, so the administration’s friends in the Legislature acceded to it. Ed Murphy, the huge representative from Livingston, who later served as a district judge, was chosen chairman of the investigating committee. The Fergusonites used the probe as a sounding board for all sorts of charges against the highway department. The department, having more ammunition, gave them better than it received. The committee’s verdict gave the road builders a clean bill of health. As the revenues from the tripled gasoline tax came rolling in, the highway department began building roads on an unprecedented scale. Each month, it awarded construction contracts in the millions of dollars. All over the state, roads were graded, concrete bridges and culverts were built, and long stretches of highway were paved or topped. Texas motorists were delighted to find they could go places without getting stuck in the mud. On intrastate roads, the highway department usually shared the cost of improvements with the counties. On federally designated routes, the federal government furnished part of the money. R. A. Thompson of Dallas was the state highway engineer when I joined the commission as chairman. He soon resigned, and Gibb Gilchrist took over the management of the department. Gilchrist developed a splendid organiza84

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tion and did a great job throughout the remainder of the administration. He later became dean of engineering at the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas. He is now the chancellor of that institution and its subsidiary schools.4 My fellow commissioners and I adopted one new policy that proved to be especially popular with motorists. Previously, the county commissioners courts had determined the routing of highways through their respective counties. Those commissioners or citizens of sufficient influence could cause a road to be bent around to go past a farm or village. Through such practices, much of the Texas highway system was in danger of developing into a network of meandering trails. We put a stop to that. We required that routings be as straight as possible, and that main-line highways miss the business sections of towns rather than go through them. When merchants and gasoline filling station operators protested at commission meetings that this would cost them business, I would tell them that some day they would thank us for keeping the traffic out of their business districts. In many instances that already has come to pass. Another innovation, ultimately far more important, was the widening of rights-of-way. When my colleagues and I took office the maximum legal width of rights-of-way in Texas was sixty feet. We envisioned, however, the time when the state’s growth would require wider roads. We knew that it would be many times more expensive and difficult to widen a right-of-way after the country was settled along a highway than before. So we asked the Legislature for a law providing for wider rights-of-way, up to one hundred feet. There was militant resistance to the proposal. Opponents said that we had sixty feet and didn’t use it all. Why did we want more? The lawmakers finally compromised on an eighty-foot maximum, but we weren’t satisfied. On State Highway No. 1, we found a county where property owners would give us any amount of right-of-way we wanted. We built wide sections of highway there to serve as an example to show the people the difference. A farmer or landowner from another county would see this beautiful section of road and how nice it was, and he would ask us why we didn’t widen the road like that in his county. During the next legislative session, we had no trouble getting our 100-foot allowance or as much as might be deemed necessary. Today, in 1949, many highway rights-of-way are 200 feet wide. On the whole, my tenure on the commission was busy but harmonious. One other disturbance stands out in my memory, however. In the Texas Panhandle, the Hutchinson County government built a costly courthouse at the village of Stinnett and awarded a contract for a highway from there to the roaring oil boomtown of Borger. The problem was that this action was taken before the Highway Commission had designated a road there and before the county had voted bonds to finance it. Then, after granting the designation, we learned that 85

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the contract was irregular, so we canceled the designation. An involved controversy ensued, during which the county officials assailed the Highway Commission and called us crooks in their newspapers. A bond issue was finally voted, and the county authorities came back to Austin for aid. At the commission hearing, I informed the Hutchinson County delegation that we would not allow them to make a presentation to us. ‘‘You’ve published nasty false statements about us,’’ I told them. ‘‘The only way you can get a further hearing is to retract those statements, apologize in open session of your commissioners court, and place the retraction and apology on the minutes of your commissioners court.’’ The county officials said they would do it. Cone Johnson didn’t believe they would, so I asked Lou Kemp to go up to the meeting at which the court promised action on the matter and see whether they retracted and apologized. Kemp returned and reported that they did.

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By the end of my first full year as chairman of the State Highway Commission, I was convinced that even with the state gasoline tax plus federal aid and county contributions, it would still be many years before we could get Texas motorists out of the mud. After paying for highway maintenance, new bridges, new equipment, and related administrative costs, the commission had only a few million dollars a year for new road construction. With more than 20,000 miles of designated roads urgently needing paving as the automobile age came into full flood tide, and permanent construction costing $20,000 per mile and upward, it was a simple problem in mathematics. It would take twenty years or more to pave those and thousands of miles of secondary roads. I knew that was too long a period of time. Texans needed the roads now, and I was gol-darned if they weren’t going to get ’em. Some forward-looking states (notably North Carolina, California, Florida, and Oregon) had solved their problems by issuing state highway bonds. I didn’t know why Texas couldn’t do likewise. Texas was eager to attract tourists, new industries, and settlers to her vast expanses, but she could not expect them to come on boggy mud roads. I proposed a constitutional amendment authorizing a state bond issue in the amount of $300 million to $350 million to be retired with proceeds of the 3-cent per gallon gasoline tax. That would enable the state to build as many good roads in a decade as would be possible in half a century at the pay-as-you-go rate. The plan also provided for reimbursement to the counties of the money they had contributed to state highways under the policy then in effect. The counties could use these reimbursements, amounting to approximately $50 million, to build lateral and local roads. I shared my idea with my good friend Ed Kilman, a reporter on the Post87

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Dispatch, during lunch at the Stephen F. Austin Hotel café in Austin in the spring of 1928. Ed had become my unofficial press aide after I became chairman of the Highway Commission. Ed not only thought my plan was a great idea but he also thought it would make big news if released to the press. I gave Ed permission to file a story to the Post-Dispatch about the plan. On further thought, we decided to write the whole thing up in the form of a statement and give it to all the boys in the Capitol pressroom. Thus it went out over the entire state, and in a day or so, all Texas was talking about what became known as the Sterling Plan. In my statement, I reasoned that under the system then in operation, the Highway Commission had to distribute its aid only to counties that offered their part of the financing. That made it impossible to close the gaps and link up even the most important routes, for some of the counties could not or would not vote bonds for their share. By the same token, the system was unfair to the poorer counties that could not afford the necessary bond issues. It permitted the richer counties to get more than their just share of state and federal aid. Likewise, it took from the counties money for state highways that should have gone toward building their local and lateral roads. I stressed that coming generations would reap the same benefits from the highways that we would enjoy, so it was only fair for the future citizens of Texas to pay their share of the cost. I argued that a lack of good roads had been the greatest deterrent to settlement in Texas during the past decade, and that it was a particular drawback to our farmers in marketing their products. Smooth connected highways would bring home-seekers, industry, and trade swarming to Texas. Those incoming forces would not only contribute a large share of the taxes to pay for the highways but would also bring wealth that would soon more than pay for them. The advantages of the plan seemed to be innumerable. Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal era, in which the spending of billions and billions became commonplace, was still in the womb of time. In 1928 a third of a billion dollars was something to talk about, and Texans talked about it, loudly and long, pro and con. I was proudly amazed at the public reaction to my proposal. Hundreds of Texas newspapers ran the story on their front pages. Nearly all the larger city papers gave it a friendly editorial reception, as did many weeklies and small dailies. Many gave the plan their outright endorsement. I was fairly swamped with phone calls, telegrams, letters, and personal callers, praising the plan. I had never seen such a tremendous spontaneous response to a public proposition in Texas. Chambers of commerce endorsed the program by resolution; so did commissioners courts, the Texas Association of County Judges and Commissioners, the Texas Tax Assessors Association, and various other organizations and 88

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groups. An important boost came from the U.S. Bureau of Public Roads, which dished out federal aid. J. A. Roundtree, director-general of the U.S. Good Roads Association, enthusiastically approved the proposed state bond issue. Of course, the other two members of the Highway Commission, Cone Johnson and W. R. Ely, also supported my plan. So many requests for explanations of the plan flooded my office that I prepared an information pamphlet on the topic. Five thousand copies were mailed out over the state. The provision for reimbursing the counties for all money spent on state roads, less depreciation, seemed to be the feature of the plan that received the widest immediate approval. All the reaction was not favorable; there was just enough opposition to offer a contrast. Jim Ferguson, of course, led the anvil chorus. In his characteristic temperate and refined style, Jim discussed the bond proposal in his political weekly, the Ferguson Forum. Ferguson wrote that ‘‘Millionaire Sterling, chief adviser and Moody appointee on the Highway Commission, and Cone Johnson, willing to make a million, came out and announced that they are for a highway program calling for a $350,000,000 (boys, it’s so darn big I have to write what the figures mean—three hundred and fifty million dollars) bond issue, to be put on the people and spent during the next four years while Sterling and Johnson are in office.’’ Ferguson concluded by saying, ‘‘Oh, my God, what a melon somebody is fixing to cut and there won’t be no rind.’’ By a sheer coincidence, Ferguson’s candidate for governor against Moody, Louis J. Wardlaw, took the same view of the bond idea that Ferguson did. ‘‘Ross Sterling,’’ Wardlaw said in his campaign speeches, ‘‘has told the people of this state that he wants to enslave future generations by the voting of a $350,000,000 statewide road bond issue.’’ Wardlaw tried to smoke Dan Moody out on the bond proposal. He charged that Moody’s silence on the subject was an admission of approval. Indeed, he accused Dan of being the daddy of the idea. But Moody was too cagey to stick his neck out on the issue of my plan. He had his own issues without borrowing mine. After disposing of Mr. Wardlaw and getting his reelection out of the way, Governor Moody called a meeting of a statewide advisory committee of thirtyone members, created at his suggestion to formulate a plan and a policy for highway financing to insure a connected system of roads. State senators and representatives appointed the members of the citizens committee. The group met in Austin on November 27, 1928. I explained my program and urged that it be submitted to the people. I told the committee that if the people ‘‘will not approve it now, they never will, and we had better find it out once and for all. Other states have done it, and there is no reason Texas cannot.’’ The committee adopted resolutions recommending legislative submission 89

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of a statewide bond issue not to exceed $225 million at any one time. The bonds would have to be retired with proceeds from the three-cent gasoline tax and motor registration fees. W. C. Huggins of Houston, editor of the Houston Chronicle and president of the Gulf Coast Good Roads Association, drafted a proposed constitutional amendment to authorize the bond issue. Governor Moody told the group that he would submit its recommendation to the Legislature and suggest a joint session of House and Senate committees to hear the advisory committee. Now all that remained was for the Legislature to muster the two-thirds vote necessary to submit the constitutional amendment, and for the voters of Texas to adopt it. That could not be done before the regular session of the Legislature in the spring of 1929. Meanwhile, I spent much time driving over the far-flung Texas road system in the Highway Commission’s big Lincoln sedan, inspecting construction projects and conferring with county judges, commissioners, mayors, Chamber of Commerce officers, and other local interests on their highway problems. I would stop all along the way to talk with construction foremen and even road laborers. I was giving practically all my time to the state for the $2500 that the highway chairman is paid as a part-time salary. I donated that pay to the State Confederate Home. I was allowed an unlimited traveling expense account, but I never asked for a dollar’s reimbursement. I got around to all the celebrations of highway and bridge openings. I was never much of a hand for public speaking, but I always responded to calls to speak with a brief, businesslike talk. My road bond proposal had become the talk of the state, a topic of lively discussion and debate everywhere. This issue, coupled with the widespread interest created by the commission’s unprecedented road-building accomplishments, was drawing the public spotlight more and more brightly on me. Everywhere I went, I was extolled and called on for speeches. Everywhere, I explained my highway finance program. I spoke of it as the unbonding plan, because of its provision for relieving the counties of their road bond debt. One bleak day in February 1929, I saw General Jacob F. Wolters, the Texas Company’s attorney and lobbyist, on the front steps of the State Capitol. We stopped to pass the time of day. Wolters, a fellow Houstonian, noticed that I was not in a cheerful mood. He asked if anything was wrong. I said yes, a peewee politician in the Legislature had accused me of building a political machine through the highway department to get myself elected governor. I told Wolters that I was going up to the pressroom to tell the newspapermen I wouldn’t be governor if they hog-tied, gagged, and dragged me into the office. Jake Wolters was a seasoned political bellwether. He laid a restraining hand on my arm and said, ‘‘Wait, Ross, don’t do that now. Think it over first. I 90

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wouldn’t pay any attention to the braying of that jackass; nobody else does. Giving out such a statement wouldn’t do you any particular good, and it would burn your bridges in case you should ever change your mind.’’ Jake told me that I was making a great record at the Highway Commission and that the people were talking about that record as well as my road bond proposal. ‘‘You’d stand a very good chance of being elected,’’ he said. I told him again that I didn’t want it. ‘‘But I’m not thinking of just you, Ross,’’ Jake replied. ‘‘Listen, you know Jim Ferguson is going to run again, and if there isn’t a strong candidate against him, he’ll be elected. You wouldn’t want that.’’ I protested that there were other good men. ‘‘Who? Dan Moody is my friend, but I don’t want to see him stand for a third term,’’ Jake replied. ‘‘I’m doubtful that he could make the grade. And who else is there? Wait before you make any public statement. Texas may need you, and your first duty is to Texas.’’ I told Jake that I wouldn’t say anything publicly yet, but I still had no intention of running for governor. To my great disappointment, my road finance plan failed to pass the Legislature by only a few votes. Nevertheless, I went on with my job, planning and building highways, and traveling thousands of miles monthly over Texas’ farflung road system, inspecting the work, conferring with local authorities, and occasionally making a speech at the dedication of a new highway or bridge. County Judge C. D. Duncan and other officials and citizens of Austin County had appealed to the Highway Commission to build a new bridge over Mill Creek on State Highway 36. I made a special trip to the place and personally inspected the old span. I saw that a new one was badly needed. Austin County had no funds to contribute and the Highway Commission’s policy still required county participation in construction projects except in extreme emergencies. Moreover, Representative Tillotson of that county had been the archenemy of my state bond plan. Nevertheless, I was convinced that a bridge should be built there, and I had it built. In the course of the negotiations and the construction, I got to know Judge Duncan, who was a popular, intelligent community leader. He and I became warm friends. When the bridge was finished, the judge was a moving spirit behind a barbecue picnic given by the Bellville and Sealy Chambers of Commerce in my honor and to celebrate the opening of the bridge. A large party of my Houston friends drove up for the occasion. Most of Austin County, it seemed, turned out for the soiree in a shady grove at Mill Creek, a few miles south of Bellville. Asked to speak, I mounted a table and addressed the gathering. I deplored the 1929 Legislature’s failure to submit the state highway bond amendment. I 91

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hinted that but for the militant opposition of Austin County’s representative Tillotson, it might have passed, but I did not blame the county. In this and similar speeches, I was making the first real campaign in Texas for county roads. ‘‘No county should have to contribute to the building of state roads,’’ I declared. ‘‘The credit of the counties should be used to build lateral roads, and the state should construct and maintain its roads. It is not fair for the farmer who lives five or ten miles off the highway to have to pay for highways except to the extent that he uses them.’’ Someone called on Judge Duncan for a few words, and he was boosted up on the table. He was extremely kind in his remarks, praising my work as a highway commissioner, which I appreciated. I was shocked, however, by his next remark. ‘‘One thing more I want to say before I close,’’ Duncan said. ‘‘I doubt that Mr. Sterling wants to hear it, and it may not be exactly appropriate, but I cannot help saying that I hope his many friends over Texas will not let him rest until he consents to offer himself as a candidate for governor.’’ This was the first public proposal for me to be a candidate. The crowd cheered. I’ve always blushed when praised, so I’m sure my face turned a deep red. I was glad that no one pressed me for a response, because I was too bewildered to speak. Similar episodes occurred at various places where I was making an appearance in my capacity as a highway commissioner. Other speakers at these programs called on me to run for governor. I remember a particularly enthusiastic group at Mexia. By the fall of 1929, although I had given no word of encouragement to the movement, I was generally regarded as a prospective candidate. On October 29, 1929, I took a trip down toward the Rio Grande Valley on highway business. I spent the night at the Nueces Hotel in Corpus Christi. The next morning at breakfast in the coffee shop I saw the bulldog edition of the Houston Post-Dispatch. The banner headline proclaimed the collapse of the stock market. After reading the reports from New York, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Ed Kilman was traveling with me. I told him that the bottom seemed to have fallen out of the market. It was a good while before office hours (I always rose with the chickens), so we decided to journey on for an hour or so before I telephoned Houston for details. At Hebbronville I called my office and talked with my son, Walter. I also called A. E. Kerr at my Houston National Bank. From them, I learned the particulars of the Wall Street disaster and of people’s reaction to it. They said banking and business circles were panicky, scared, and fearful of worse yet to come. Little more was said of the stock market crash during the remainder of the trip. I was not to feel its full impact for a year or so. I did not dream and could not have believed that the morning’s

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news marked the beginning of a financial hurricane that was to wipe out my entire fortune. By the end of the year, I was receiving a large number of letters urging me to run for governor. General Wolters told me that he was making a canvass of political leaders all over Texas, in an effort to determine my chances of election. The results were not particularly encouraging. Wolters reported that some of the finest fellows in Texas, who love their state and wouldn’t support Ferguson, Tom Love, or Earle Mayfield, told me frankly that we couldn’t elect a millionaire governor of Texas. Wolters still believed that I could be elected, and he kept hammering away. Governor Moody, however, was dead set against my running. During a deer hunt at Chupadera Ranch, Moody tried to dissuade me from making the race. On the way back to Austin, he strenuously insisted that I wait. I monitored the political situation while I continued to carry out my duties at the Highway Commission. During a tour of Southeast Texas roads, at a night meeting in Galveston on April 2, 1930, I made the first public proposal of a project that was to materialize, nearly two decades later, from the nebulous realm of dreams into one of Texas’ most magnificent highway developments. I proposed that a super highway between Houston and Galveston should be built and that it should be a tree-lined expressway eighty feet wide. At the time of this writing, in 1948, the project is being carried out on an even grander scale than I had envisioned.1 Early in April 1930, my fellow highway commissioners and I were inspecting roads throughout South Texas, winding up a series of tours extending from the Panhandle to Point Isabel, a distance of some 900 miles. Nearly everywhere we stopped, crowds welcomed us with ovations. At luncheons and dinners, local leaders acclaimed us as benefactors of Texas for the commission’s road-building accomplishments. Everywhere it was suggested that I run for governor and, as one county official said, ‘‘administer the state’s business as you have administered the highway department.’’ I turned off all such suggestions with a noncommittal remark, ‘‘Why bring that up?’’ Al Prince, editor of the Mercedes News Tribune, pressed me hard for an answer. Prince told me there was strong local sentiment for me to run. I told Prince that I couldn’t be a candidate, but I also asked him not to print that comment in his newspaper until he heard it from me. I was disinclined to make the race, but I had not decided definitely. The pressure on me to make a decision increased as a result of a major event in Livingston, attended by several thousand people, to open a new highway in Polk County. In their speeches, the local officials all called on me to enter the

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governor’s race. Will Hobby, Governor Moody, and I also addressed the crowd. I spoke first, and former governor Hobby, a native of Polk County, immediately followed me. Hobby said: ‘‘You now hear from a governor who has been. When I have finished speaking you will hear from the governor who is . . . and you have just heard from the governor who will be.’’ Hobby’s comments brought forth a rousing cheer from the crowd. Although Governor Moody was the only speaker who did not call for me to be a candidate, his remarks included a gracious comment about my public service. He spoke favorably of my state road bond plan and said that I had ‘‘sacrificed more financially for the state than any politician who has run for governor in the past ten years.’’ It remained clear, however, that Dan, who had every intention of running for a third term, still wanted me to stay out of the race. Moody’s intentions were confirmed on May 10 by an Associated Press story from Austin. Moody was quoted that he was ‘‘figuring on getting into the race.’’ He also attacked Jim Ferguson and Earle Mayfield, between whom he said the voters might have to choose. At least three others besides Dan Moody were doing their utmost to dissuade me from becoming a candidate. They were my wife, Maud, my son, Walter, and my attorney, W. M. Cleaves. Cleaves warned me that financial clouds were growing darker on the horizon and that my private affairs urgently needed my closest attention in order to weather the storm. He grew rather vehement in his protests against the folly of my abandoning my personal business at this critical juncture to plunge headlong into politics. ‘‘Everything I’ve said was for what I believed to be your own best interest,’’ Cleaves said, ‘‘but I realize it’s your life and you’re the one who should decide how you are to live it.’’ Another good friend of mine, State Senator Thomas B. Love of Dallas, also urged me to stay out of the race. Love had announced his candidacy. He argued that I would do better for the state, as well as for myself, if I remained at the Highway Commission and continued my work on the good-roads program. Love stressed that I could run for governor once my road plan was further advanced. ‘‘I think I’m entitled to run now,’’ Love declared. ‘‘It’s free for all,’’ was my reply.2 The State Democratic Executive Committee did not share Love’s view. It refused to place his name on the ballot because he had bolted the Democratic ticket in 1928 to support Republican Herbert Hoover against Democrat Alfred E. Smith for the presidency. Love filed an application for a mandamus to compel the committee to certify his name. On May 18 the State Supreme Court granted it, holding the Democratic committee had no right to bar a candidate who had all the legal qualifications for the office. Lieutenant governor Barry Miller, another Dallasite, tossed his hat into the 94

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ring. I was no fan of Miller’s. He had leaned toward Fergusonism, and he had opposed my state road bond plan. Earle B. Mayfield also jumped into the fray. He had been elected United States senator in 1922 with Klan support but was defeated for a second term in 1928 by Tom Connally. James Young, a former congressman, also entered the lists, as did Clint Small, the smart and popular state senator from Amarillo. Four minor contenders, who together were to poll about 11,000 votes, brought the number of entries in the governor’s race up to ten. Most observers agreed, however, that Mrs. Miriam Ferguson would be the candidate to beat. The Houston Chronicle was the first big-city newspaper to call for my entrance into the race. Judge Huggins, the editor, was working in close cooperation with the Highway Commission as president of the Gulf Coast Good Roads Association. He and I were on warm, friendly terms. Of course, Jesse Jones, the Chronicle’s publisher, was a friend of mine. Despite the Chronicle’s call, I decided to keep my intentions secret for just a while longer. As the deadline date for filing came close, I decided to enter the race. I announced my decision on May 30, 1930. My announcement stressed my belief that Texas needed an administration awake to the demands of an era of change, and dedicated to efficiency in meeting those demands. It would be my major purpose, if elected, to give the state such an administration. The statement briefly outlined what would be the principal aims of my administration: continued highway development and improvement of the educational system, eleemosynary institutions, and the penal institutions. I also called for tax reform. I made it clear in my announcement that I would be strongly committed to strict law enforcement, particularly the prohibition law. I had always voted for and favored prohibition, and I have been a total abstainer all my life. Thus, the die was cast. My announcement closed the lists. The six other major contenders and I squared off for a hot eight-week campaign. Having called for my entrance into the race, the Houston Chronicle immediately published the following editorial: Ross Sterling for Governor of Texas! To Houston people the announcement is far more significant than the mere pride of Houston in one of its citizens. Without any doubt whatever, the private affairs—the business affairs—of Ross Sterling would be far better advanced if he should, from now on, devote to those affairs that great force and ability which have brought him the long way he has come in this world. But sometimes a man doesn’t belong to himself. Some men belong to the public. They belong to the rest of us and preeminently our fellow citizen, Ross Sterling, is one of these men. 95

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I made my announcement without consulting Governor Moody or informing him of my intention. Now the question of whether Moody would run became more acute than ever. In response to an inquiry from the Capitol press corps in Austin, Moody wired from Teague, where he was filling a speaking engagement, that it had been his plan to announce for governor. He had delayed his announcement, Moody said, because he had accepted a number of speaking engagements in his official role as governor of Texas. This caused him to feel that he should not announce until he had filled the last of those engagements, because he didn’t want to appear in the character of a candidate. Moreover, he did not prefer a long campaign and did not intend to announce publicly as a candidate until the time for filing on the ticket. Moody’s disclosure, coupled with his next remark, would indicate that my announcement had circumvented Moody’s intended candidacy. ‘‘Mr. Sterling has been a staunch political friend of mine,’’ Moody declared, ‘‘and I would not like to run against him. My concern is to see a continuation of the present well ordered, efficient, and honest administration of the affairs of state government.’’ After reading this telegram, the Capitol correspondents still weren’t certain whether Moody would make the race. The young chief executive was in no hurry to end their suspense. Carl Estes, the Tyler newspaper publisher, and two dozen other friends of Moody’s filed the governor’s name as a candidate with the Democratic secretary and paid the $100 filing fee. Pat Dougherty, the governor’s secretary, claimed that Moody was being flooded with telegrams and letters urging him to run for a third term even though I was a candidate. Still, Moody persistently refused to clarify his Teague telegram. The Austin newsmen said he left the impression that he would stay out of the race and not take the stump even on behalf of Sterling’s candidacy. State Representative Alfred Petsch of Fredericksburg, who was close to both Moody and me, commented in a Houston newspaper interview that he thought Moody would withdraw and support my candidacy. The Associated Press subsequently quoted Moody as saying Petsch ‘‘talked too much.’’ Either Moody enjoyed keeping Texas on tiptoe awaiting his decision or he could not make up his mind. If it was the latter case, perhaps a barrage of newspaper editorials endorsing my candidacy and the news reports of the favorable public reaction to it helped Dan to resolve the question. When the State Democratic Executive Committee met in Austin to certify the primary election candidates, Moody withdrew his name as a candidate for governor. He took the opportunity to denounce both Jim Ferguson and Earle Mayfield. Grizzled old Jim Ferguson rose in the audience, shook his finger at

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the governor, and shouted, ‘‘I dare you to get in the race. You’re afraid. I dare you. You’re a coward.’’ Moody started to shout back, but his hometown friend D. W. Wilcox of Georgetown, chairman of the state committee, restrained him. Dan told the committee he would not want to contest my bid for the governor’s office. He denied that his administration was sponsoring my candidacy. ‘‘So far as he and the administration are concerned,’’ Dan declared, ‘‘he runs on his own initiative and merit.’’ Thus, Dan Moody put away his third-term intentions and stepped aside for my candidacy. Privately, Dan was pretty bitter about it at first, but on June 10, the day after the state committee meeting, he and I rode together in my car during a threeday motorcade of good-roads boosters. Former governor Pat Neff, then a railroad commissioner, rode with us. We chatted congenially. It seemed that Dan became friendlier toward me during that trip. Our motor caravan traveled over the route of the old King’s Highway, or El Camino Real, as the Mexicans had called it in early times. The purpose of the trip was to stimulate interest in county bond issues for the improvement of the road. At each county seat and other towns along the way, crowds assembled and held receptions for the scores of travelers. At Nacogdoches some 2500 students, faculty members, and townspeople crowded the auditorium of the State Teachers College to hear us speak. It was a cultured audience to whom fine oratory was no novelty. The chairman of the meeting called on Governor Moody to speak. He made a ringing plea for the development of the King’s Highway. Next on call was former governor Neff. His speech on state parks was, as usual, a gem of words and thoughts. Then the silver-tongued highway commissioner Cone Johnson was presented. Observing that the meeting was held in the interest of a highway, Johnson said he was going to discuss another highway, ‘‘the straight and narrow way, where every foot is paved with some good resolution fulfilled, some noble deed performed, the high road that leads to happiness here and hereafter.’’ Johnson preached an impromptu sermon of which any minister of the gospel would have been proud. At the end of his speech, Johnson said, ‘‘Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life.’’ Then the chairman invited me to speak. Any accomplished orator, following those eloquent addresses, might have had qualms for fear of providing an anticlimax. Oratory was not one of my endowments. I knew little of the niceties of rhetoric. In my brief schooling at Double Bayou, I had learned precious little grammar. I had learned the language of the country people among whom I was reared, people who said ‘‘I seen,’’ ‘‘I done,’’ and ‘‘I taken.’’ I spoke the only

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way I knew how: directly, simply, and bluntly. Some of my best friends had misgivings as to the effect of my speeches on the stump in selling my candidacy. I told the audience that I was no orator. ‘‘I’m only a country boy,’’ I explained. I also admitted that one of the keenest regrets of my life was that I did not have an opportunity to get an education when I was young. I told them that I never went to school after I was thirteen years old. ‘‘Ever since then I have been attending the University of Hard Knocks, but my lack of schooling has been a source of embarrassment to me all my life.’’ I stressed to the college crowd that I had learned the value of an education. If I had my way, I declared, every Texas boy and girl would have a chance to go through high school and college. I did not want our children ever to get into such an embarrassing position as I then found myself, called on to speak before such a cultured audience following Governors Moody and Neff and Mr. Johnson. I pledged that I would do what little I could to make it possible for the youth of Texas to have the advantage of an education. The crowd had generously applauded the preceding speakers. When I finished they stood and cheered. Dan Moody said that he feared for me when I was called on to speak in those circumstances, but he thought my speech was one of the finest speeches he had ever heard. ‘‘Those who have criticized Mr. Sterling’s literacy,’’ Dan later said, ‘‘could have found in that speech no mistake in grammar, of subject matter, or of fitness.’’ Dan Moody’s withdrawal from the race was followed by that of Lynch Davidson of Houston, whose friends had filed his name with the state committee. In his withdrawal statement, Davidson took a potshot at the road bond plan and those advocating it, meaning me. Oscar Holcombe, Houston’s mayor, announced his full support for me, saying he himself had decided not to run for governor because I was a candidate. Thus, I was left with a clear field in my hometown. As the campaign progressed, more Texas newspapers endorsed my candidacy as well as the state bond plan. An additional number of influential Texans came out in support for me, and more Sterling-for-Governor clubs were organized. The campaign was shaping up nicely.

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Having crossed my Rubicon, I had the task of forming a campaign organization and making an intensive statewide canvass within less than two months. I might not have entered the race if I had understood just how Herculean a job it would be to take my candidacy over 20,000 miles of roads to nearly seven million people in 254 counties, spread out over an area of more than 263,000 square miles. My close friends in Houston, Will Hobby, Paul Wakefield, John Jones, and General Jacob Wolters, served as my unofficial campaign directors. I appointed William Strauss of Houston as my official state campaign manager. There was no finer, bigger-hearted man who ever lived, but Strauss knew nothing about state politics. In the past, however, he had developed a wonderful capacity for organizing men. He took hold of the job and began to organize. Murphy Townsend of Dallas agreed to serve as my campaign manager for North Texas. Townsend is a great lawyer, but he knew nothing about politics. Nevertheless, he took hold. Ernest Alexander in Fort Worth became my manager for Tarrant County and West Texas. Alexander is a grocery merchant. I doubt he had ever entertained a political thought. Then A. E. Kerr went to Waco and prevailed on Hilton Howell, a lawyer but in no sense a politician, to take charge in McLennan County and a tier of adjoining counties. Albert Steves, Jr., and Reagan Houston, two businessmen who had no political experience whatsoever, agreed to manage my campaign in Bexar County. Jacob Wolters questioned the wisdom of that decision, but he acquiesced. Colonel Charles Tobin and a number of other citizens in San Antonio also worked for my campaign. Paul Wakefield, who handled the publicity, was the member of my organization with the most political experience and ability.

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That was how I organized my campaign. Here and there, I had a local manager who had political experience, but the key people throughout the state were individuals who were not politically minded. They had no political ambitions or personal or selfish motives. They were motivated by the sole desire to serve Texas by helping me get to the office of governor. Although individuals with little or no political experience ran my campaign organization, no one made a blunder worth remembering. They went at it in a business way. They had my candidacy to sell, and they created an organization to do that. General Jacob Wolters, who served as unofficial stage manager of my campaign, later said that our campaign was the most remarkable in the history of politics in Texas. Men with almost no political experience dominated it, and he included me among those with no experience. Wolters admitted that at the start, he had some misgivings as to the wisdom of the effort. From the moment that I made my announcement, I plunged heart, soul, and body into the campaign. I put my old formula for success into utmost operation: ‘‘Hit four licks while the other fellows are hitting two or three, and they can’t keep up.’’ On the afternoon of June 20, I formally opened my speaking campaign on the courthouse lawn at Huntsville, making the first straight political speech of my career. My choice of that little teacher’s college town, of all the hundreds of towns and cities in Texas, for my kickoff was largely a matter of sentiment and patriotism. In all of Texas, I know of no more inspiring place to discuss matters of state government than amid the tree-clad hills of old Huntsville. It was an inspiration to me that the immortal Sam Houston, who gave Texas government its working start, spent his last years there and is buried there. I was inspired as well by the thought that education in Texas received one of its greatest impulses there, in the establishment of the state’s first teacher’s college. I love Huntsville for its historical distinction, for its Old South character, for its modern progress, and the wide-awake spirit of its warm-hearted people. It was chiefly through that spirit, manifested in an eagerness for good roads, that I had the opportunity to improve my acquaintance with Huntsville in the previous few years. My rally turned out to be a gala event. Huntsville closed shop for the occasion, and the town was decked out in holiday array. Delegations came from neighboring communities and counties. A large group from Goose Creek paraded through the streets behind its band. Delegates from La Porte joined the procession bearing banners proclaiming that they were from my hometown. Scores of Houstonians drove up for the event. A large reception committee met me at Sam Houston’s old home and gave me a royal welcome. Radio station KPRC set up its equipment on the lawn to broadcast the speaking pro100

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gram. General Wolters warmed up the microphone with color sidelights and personalities. Judge W. L. Dean of Huntsville, a former state senator and author of the Texas prohibition law, presided. He evoked a big laugh by inadvertently referring to me as ‘‘Mr. Ferguson.’’ Colonel A. T. McKinney, last survivor of the Texas constitutional convention of 1876, and a friend of Sam Houston, spoke briefly. Cone Johnson of Tyler, my colleague on the Highway Commission, introduced me in eulogistic terms. Because my speech formally set forth my campaign platform, I was careful to read it. At the outset, I warned the audience that I was no orator. ‘‘Many a man has been elected to public office on the strength of his ability to make fine phrases and soar to lofty heights of eloquence,’’ I declared, ‘‘but if I am elected governor it must be on other qualifications.’’ That was neither an apology nor a boast but a simple statement of fact. The large audience appreciated it and applauded. I briefly reviewed my early life, my success in the oil business, and my work on the Highway Commission. I discussed at some length my plan for a state highway bond issue and for refunding to the counties the money they had contributed to state roads. I advocated a revision of tax laws, reform of the prison system, help for the state’s unfortunate, full rights and opportunities for labor, and better educational advantages, law enforcement, and conservation of the state’s natural resources. ‘‘I am not running for governor on the demerits of other candidates, but upon my own merits,’’ I declared in conclusion. ‘‘If you vote for me it will be because I stand for something.’’ The state press gave the Huntsville opening a big play. After making speeches at Ammannsville and Fayetteville, I returned to my home on Galveston Bay for a night’s rest before hitting the campaign trail again. I faced a solid month’s nonstop whirlwind drive. Pausing in Houston, I found the campaign organization well under way. Harris County women had initiated a statewide women’s organization with Mrs. J. W. Fincher as chairman. Mrs. Fincher’s husband had run my little bank in Humble, twenty years before. He had acted as secretary of the embryonic Humble Oil Company when it held its first meetings in the back room of that bank. Mr. Fincher later became an officer of my Houston National Bank. Mrs. Roy L. Arterbury, wife of one of my best friends, was chosen chairman of the Houston women’s Sterling-for-Governor Club, which was the largest of my clubs in the state. Its membership was virtually a feminine Who’s Who of Houston, and it included many other women not so prominent socially but equally interested in good government. 101

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My first full day of campaigning was on June 25. The first stop was Buna, a little sawmill town north of Beaumont. I had no engagement to speak there, but a group of friends met me and drummed up a crowd of about one hundred, who gathered at a street corner to hear me talk about my campaign. I spoke from the flatbed of a truck that was backed against the sidewalk. L. G. Hilliard, president of the Buna Chamber of Commerce, introduced me. After I left Buna, I traveled over the dusty roads through the red hills and green valleys amid the towering pines of East Texas, skirting the eastern border of Texas. At Kirbyville, the fire siren was blown to summon the people to hear me speak. At Jasper, the crowd filled the courtroom to overflowing, and when I rose to speak, the Jasper town band played ‘‘The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.’’ It was a hot summer day, so, asking the ladies to excuse me, I removed my coat and gave my speech in my shirtsleeves. I pled the cause of business and honesty in government, dwelling particularly on the state road bond plan. After the courthouse rally, I was guest of honor at a luncheon in Jasper’s Belle Jim Hotel. At the luncheon, it was announced that a baby born a few days before had been named for me: Gene Sterling Woods. From Jasper, I traveled to San Augustine, Center, and Carthage. Judge J. D. Strong, president of the State Association of County Judges and Commissioners, presented me to a street-corner crowd at Carthage. Among those who greeted me there was Texas’ first woman state senator, Margie Neal. At Woods Store, near Carthage, I received a warm welcome. My hosts likened me to James Stephen Hogg, who had once opened a campaign for governor there. I also stopped for brief speeches at the villages of Tenaha and Beckville. The last stop of the day was at Marshall. Myron T. Blalock, the political bellwether of that little city, gave me a eulogistic introduction to the responsive audience that filled the spacious city hall auditorium. That night, I was sweltering, weary, and a little hoarse from the day’s ten speeches, but I was in high spirits. I ate a steak dinner with french fried potatoes, pie, and coffee, and retired to a deep dreamless sleep. Vic Davis, an employee from my Houston office, joined me the next day. He brought some papers that my son, Walter, needed me to sign. Vic, who had driven his Ford car to Marshall, started to return to Houston that evening, but I stopped him. My campaign tour had attracted some reporters, and my Lincoln wasn’t big enough to carry everyone comfortably. I realized that we needed Vic and his Ford to follow my Lincoln for the remainder of the tour. Vic had not brought luggage or even a coat, so he had to phone his wife to send him some clothes. He trailed the Lincoln throughout the rest of the campaign. Still another vehicle joined the party a little farther down the line. It was a sound truck, filled with loudspeaker equipment from radio station KPRC. 102

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Sterling campaign literature, 1930. CAH, DI02370.

A lanky youth, Harvey Wheeler, drove the truck, and Henry Crossland set up the microphone and amplifiers for me to use when I spoke. I think I was the first Texas candidate ever to take a loudspeaker outfit along in my campaign. Reporters called it the milk wagon and the hearse. During my speeches, Vic Davis would pass among the crowd and hand out posters and other campaign literature. At one rally in a small Northeast Texas town, a firm-mannered little woman shook my hand and showed me a poster that Vic had given her. It had my photograph on the front. ‘‘I think you would do better,’’ she said, ‘‘if you would send your pictures out and stay at home yourself.’’ One of the things I remember the most about my campaign tour of East Texas was the broiling heat. At Atlanta, the mercury stood at 103 in the shade 103

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as I spoke for half an hour on a street corner. Judge Hugh Carney introduced me there. At historic old Jefferson, County Judge Tom D. Rowell, Jr., who had attended the University of Texas with my son Walter, introduced me to an audience in the district courtroom. Judge Sam Henderson gave me a good send off at Linden. The Texas-Arkansas state line splits the main street of Texarkana. One night while I presented my candidacy in the high school auditorium on the Texas side, a candidate for governor of Arkansas held forth across the street. I started out on my speaking tour with a written speech, and I followed it pretty closely the first couple of days, but reading the script interfered with my delivery. Then at one stop—it may have been Texarkana—I couldn’t find my speech anywhere, so I was forced to talk freehand. It upset me for a while, but before long, I quit trying to remember my lines and I cut loose. I just said what was in my heart, rather than what was on the written page. From that point on, the crowds began to sit up and take notice. I observed that they were interrupting more frequently with applause. That gave me more confidence and enthusiasm. I tore into the opposition. That’s when I began to hear people from the audience call out the old Texas political war cry, ‘‘Pour it on!’’ I didn’t know it until much later, but Vic Davis and Ed Kilman had conspired to lose my written speech. Vic had pointed out to Ed that my reading the speech took the punch out of it. Ed agreed, and it was soon thereafter that the speech disappeared mysteriously. Throughout the campaign, I read the newspapers to see what my opponents were saying. I was elated because half a dozen of them were concentrating their fire on me. ‘‘They’re all shooting at me,’’ I told Ed Kilman. ‘‘When I’m deer hunting I always go after the lead buck. But they’re not touching me, because they’re shooting popguns loaded with china berries.’’ As I entered the courtroom at Gilmer to make a campaign speech, a grizzled farmer in overalls asked me a hostile question about the bond issue. I told him to come in and hear what I had to say about that. The man took a seat on the front row. I looked at him throughout my address, as if I was speaking exclusively to him. After the rally the man shook my hand and said, ‘‘Well, Brother Sterling, you converted me.’’ In my appearance one night on the courthouse lawn at Longview, I varied my speech to dwell at length on the story of my life and career. I answered the charge that I was a rich man by telling of my early struggles and of the grinding hard work I had done to earn what I had. The crowd of some 1500 cheered my recital.

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Cone Johnson introduced me to a great crowd at Tyler. That night after the meeting, I made the long drive to Fort Worth to spend the weekend. There, talking with supporters and reading newspaper clippings, I brought myself up to date on developments in the campaign. That is when I first became aware of an amusing sidelight involving my fellow Houstonian, Lynch Davidson, a lumberman. Davidson had run for governor two or three times. In his last campaign, Davidson had declared that win, lose, or draw, he would not be a candidate again. However, some friends signed a petition and filed his name as a candidate, seeking to draft him. On Sunday, June 29, Davidson issued a statement withdrawing from the race, saying that soon he would announce whom he would support. A few days later Davidson suggested that everybody vote for either Clint Small or James Young in the first primary, and then take their choice of those two in the runoff. Davidson was kidded in newspaper editorials for keeping the state breathless with suspense, waiting to learn which candidate he would support, and then not being able to decide on one himself. Jim and Mrs. Ferguson were hitting the campaign trail. Everybody expected as a matter of course that Jim’s vest-pocket vote would get his wife into the runoff. The big question of the first primary was which candidate would run second and enter the runoff with Ma Ferguson. The Fergusons had a big rally in Houston on July 1. There Ma sounded the Fergusonian slogan: ‘‘If you want two governors for the price of one, just give me your vote. I believe I’ll be the best governor Texas ever had.’’ Informed of Ferguson’s comment while on the campaign trail, I told my audiences that ‘‘it would take more than two like them to make half a governor.’’ Jim Ferguson referred to himself as ‘‘the only animal in the United States not permitted to run for that office,’’ but he assured the voters that when Ma became governor he would be ‘‘right there by her side, picking up chips and bringing in the wood and water.’’ Jim claimed that the cement trust was behind my road bond plan. ‘‘They propose to have you issue three hundred and fifty million dollars in bonds,’’ he scoffed, ‘‘and then promise to give back to the counties seventy nine million of that money. It’s like saying to you, Take three hundred and fifty million dollars out of one pocket and put seventy nine million back in another pocket.’’ Since my formal announcement, my newspaper support had been growing steadily. A few papers switched to me from other candidates, while others waxed friendlier toward my road bond plan. As the campaign continued, I began to feel that I was thundering down the straightaway, crowding toward the inside track.

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The second week of my campaign was very different from the first week, when I had toured East Texas, an area with which I was familiar. The second week, however, I ventured out into the north-central section of the state, where I was little known. At Denton, my first stop in July, an advance man from my Dallas headquarters had found not a single outstanding supporter of my campaign. Although my advance man assured J. Edwards, publisher of the Denton Chronicle, that I was very strong in South Texas, he remained unimpressed, as did Denton mayor McKenzie. Edwards and McKenzie assured my people, however, that they would give me a courteous reception. Nevertheless, the group of local people that assembled in the sizzling sun on the Denton County courthouse lawn was small and apathetic. As I spoke, a dark cloud gathered and a cool wind blew up, threatening rain. ‘‘Looks like I’ve brought you folks a badly needed shower,’’ I remarked, as drops began to fall. The audience cheered, and from then on, I was among friends. I got a good hand in my speech at the teacher’s college in Denton when I declared that there had been ‘‘only one time when I have missed and regretted my lack of educational advantages, and that has been all the time.’’ The folks in Denton seemed to be impressed by my sincerity when I said that I ‘‘could take it easy the rest of my life, but I have a sense of gratitude, and if I can repay my native state for some of the blessings it has given me, I will feel that I have done something worthwhile.’’ At McKinney, the advance man once again could not find a single supporter for me. Tom Perkins, publisher of the McKinney Courier, was openly supporting another candidate, but Perkins was everybody’s friend and he agreed to introduce me to Collin County. Perkins’s circulation manager printed and distributed handbills announcing the meeting, even though the editor was for an opposition candidate. When Perkins introduced me to the audience, I was not pleased when he alluded to his support for someone else. On the way back to Dallas, I told Ed Kilman that from then on, I would introduce myself before I would let someone introduce me who didn’t support me. At a Confederate reunion celebration at Jack’s Creek Park near Mexia, my friend J. I. Riddle introduced me. He recalled having introduced me at Mexia nearly a year before, when he had expressed the belief that he was introducing the next governor of Texas. ‘‘Now,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m sure of it.’’ An opponent of mine had charged that I was a liar for saying that the gasoline tax to support the proposed state road bond issue would not be a lien on property. During my speech at Cleburne, I answered that charge by pointing out that the constitutional amendment authorizing the road bonds, which had been considered by the Legislature, expressly exempted property from the tax. 106

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‘‘Why should he stoop so low as to call me a liar?’’ I asked. ‘‘He also said I lied when I said I didn’t own any Standard Oil stock, but he would not say that in my presence. My reputation in Texas is an answer to that charge. As he knows there is a God in heaven, he knows Ross Sterling is not a liar.’’ H. C. Custard, who presented me at Cleburne, said, ‘‘I have known Mr. Sterling personally and in a business way for many years, and I have yet to hear a man question his honesty and integrity, or his management of public or private affairs.’’ Not only was the weather in Fannin County hot as we drove into Bonham, the county seat, but also the county’s political leaders were hotly opposed to my candidacy. No one could be found to handle my meeting at Bonham, until someone recalled that Judge S. F. Leslie had once played on the Houston baseball team. For old times’ sake, he was persuaded to introduce me. Leslie became a warm supporter of mine. A similar situation greeted me at Paris, where I had only two active supporters: R. L. Pethybridge, the manager of the Gibraltar Hotel, and Sam Weiss, a prominent American Legionnaire. District Judge George P. Blackburn introduced me at the rally. I left Paris with many more friends than I had found on my arrival. I returned to Fort Worth for another weekend, staying at the home of my daughter, Mrs. Wyatt Hedrick. In Fort Worth, I counseled with friends and members of my organization. Mr. Strauss, my state campaign manager, came up from Houston along with my son Walter, Paul Wakefield, and Paul Yates of the Post-Dispatch. I also met with Ernest Alexander to plan my Northwest Texas campaign tour. My daughter served the group a Dutch lunch on the breezeswept veranda, overlooking a pleasant valley. Governor Hobby arrived the next morning for a consultation. From all indications, the campaign was going well. Newspapers throughout the state were noting a swing in my favor. After a Monday morning in the Fort Worth headquarters, I struck out for West Texas. We arrived in Brownwood for a night rally shortly after Lieutenant Governor Barry Miller finished an afternoon speech in his campaign for governor. Ed Kilman happened to get the hotel room from which Mr. Miller had just checked out. The bed was made, but it was evident that Mr. Miller had been there and rested. He had left on the bed a copy of a printed campaign circular the size of a newspaper page, containing my biographical sketch that Ed had written. Ed said that it had struck him as a little pathetic. He had visualized the elderly lieutenant governor lying there reading about the opponent who, he perhaps reflected, was going to defeat him. I had never considered Miller a friend.1 The Brownwood Bulletin greeted my arrival by printing a hostile editorial. 107

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Aroused by this and by Barry Miller’s attack on me during his appearance in Brownwood, I went after both the newspaper and the lieutenant governor, hammer and tongs, during my speech. The deeper we went into West Texas, the more solid I found the sentiment to be for Clint Small’s candidacy. My reception, however, was not discouraging. A large crowd greeted me at San Angelo. I found the most royal welcome of the whole campaign thus far at Abilene. The Abilene Reporter, which was edited by Max Bentley, a former Houstonian, welcomed me with a front-page editorial declaring that Abilene would be host to ‘‘the man who should and probably will become governor of Texas next January. That man is Ross Sterling of Houston, one of the ablest men who has offered for the governorship in the history of the state.’’ That, and the warm greeting given me in this hometown of Mrs. Dan Moody and Highway Commissioner Ely, put a keen edge on my appetite for the evening rally. The meeting increased my enthusiasm. Among those seated on the bandstand platform was George L. Paxton, father-in-law of Governor Moody. Commissioner Ely called me the ‘‘biggest and brainiest man in the race, who will make the greatest governor since Jim Hogg.’’ Sam Ashburn of San Angelo, whose newspaper column, ‘‘From the Top of the Windmill,’’ was known to ranchers throughout West Texas, published his interview with me. He said that when the cowpunchers came to see me at San Angelo, they expected to find ‘‘a city man who smelled of perfume and who looked soft of muscle; but when they felt his handshake, looked him in the eye and gave this he-man a man-to-man survey, they recognized him as one of them, for he owns five thousand head of cattle in Webb and Dimmit counties.’’ Ashburn claimed that I left San Angelo ‘‘with enough well wishes to carry him through a month of cold receptions.’’ We reprinted Ashburn’s story in the Post-Dispatch. At Stamford, A. J. Swenson, the noted cattleman, commended me to his neighbors as one ‘‘who I think has done more perhaps for Texas than any other man.’’ 2 After speeches in Stamford, Anson, Albany, and Breckenridge, I drove 100 miles back to Fort Worth for my first big-city speech of the campaign. A long procession of cars through the city heralded the rally at Capps Park that sweltering Saturday night. I spoke to a crowd of 2500, which had been swelled by a delegation from Houston. Dr. E. M. Waits, president of Texas Christian University, of which I was a trustee and benefactor, introduced me. I hammered away at my unbonding plan, and I left no one in doubt as to how I stood on other issues of the day. Pointing out that Jim Ferguson was receptive to the legalization of racetrack gambling, I stressed that I would oppose it. I also explained that the Fergusons couldn’t lose on the issue of prohibi108

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tion. Jim said he was wet and Ma said she was dry. ‘‘As a lifelong prohibitionist and total abstainer,’’ I declared, ‘‘I shall uphold the prohibition laws and all other laws.’’ During that speech in Fort Worth, I introduced a new response to the attacks on my wealth. It got so good a reception that I used it throughout the remainder of the first primary campaign. ‘‘They’ve been harping on the charge that Ross Sterling is a rich man until they have me believing it,’’ I complained. ‘‘I believe that I am the richest man in Texas, because I believe I have more friends than all the others in the race, and that is the greatest riches any man can have.’’ The crowds also liked it when I spoke of myself as ‘‘the big fat boy’’ and ‘‘the old fat boy.’’ Harry Baker, who came to Fort Worth from Houston to chauffeur me through the rest of the campaign, drove the Lincoln to Lubbock the next night. Vic Davis followed with the Ford press car, and young Wheeler whipped the sound truck over the long West Texas trail. Harry Baker had been my driver back in the early Humble days when my car had been a Pope Hartford. I had staked Harry’s purchase of Humble Company stock, which had made him financially independent. At Amarillo, Gene Howe’s newspaper, the Globe-News, gave me a chilly reception, the kind he had given other visiting notables whom he did not like.3 The Globe-News made it clear that this was Clint Small’s hometown and that they were supporting Small. I accepted Howe’s challenge. I reminded the crowd that came out to the courthouse lawn to hear me that Amarillo’s candidate, who was now condemning the bond plan, had voted for it in the Senate. Also, I reminded them that Small had supported the antibolter bill, which attempted (but Moody had vetoed it) to bar from the Democratic primaries a couple of hundred thousand Texans, including many there in Potter County, who had bolted the ticket to vote for Hoover in 1928. My campaign reached a crucial point in mid-July. Big events were developing rapidly and sentiment was gelling. My cause was given a big boost by a statewide poll conducted by the Dallas Dispatch, a sheet favorable to Barry Miller. This canvass showed me running neck and neck with Mrs. Ferguson. The general publication of this poll resolved the question that agitated the minds of many Texans: Which candidate has the best chance of entering the runoff with Ferguson? General Wolters later told Ed Kilman that during the first primary campaign, Governor Dan Moody said privately that he would vote for me, but he expressed a lack of confidence in my ability to get in the runoff. Wolters told Moody that my campaign didn’t want Moody to make any open declaration 109

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for me in that first primary campaign. That was the only thing we were agreed on during those few weeks. We had received floods of letters and telegrams suggesting that Governor Moody be kept off the stump. We listened to all, but Wolters and others in the campaign management knew that we needed Dan to prosecute Jim Ferguson. On July 15, the day before I was scheduled to make a speech in Dallas, Moody broke his silence. He issued a statement charging that Ferguson was attempting to gain control of the governor’s office, the attorney general’s department, and many legislative positions by actively working for the election of candidates. Moody particularly attacked Farmer Jim’s support of Cecil Storey for attorney general and blasted him on that score throughout the remainder of the campaign. The influential Dallas News also gave me a big boost. In the weeks before I appeared in Dallas, the News had been running a series of special articles on the campaign by Harry Benge Crozier, its star political reporter.4 An article each day was devoted to one of the major candidates, reviewing the candidate’s career, platform, and claim to consideration. Each of the articles had been friendly, and each had been followed by a friendly, gracious editorial. None of the editorials, until the last one, had endorsed a candidate. On July 14, two days before my rally in Dallas, the News published a frontpage analysis of the campaign by Ted Dealey, son of the News publisher. The analysis was based on his observations during an extended tour of the state. Mr. Dealey said there were straws in the wind indicating clearly a crystallization of sentiment for Ross Sterling as the candidate to oppose Mrs. Ferguson in the runoff. The Dealey article appeared on the same day that the Dallas Dispatch announced the results of its statewide poll indicating that I was giving Mrs. Ferguson a serious challenge. Then, on July 15, the News printed Harry Crozier’s favorable article about me; the next day the paper brought its series of editorials to a smashing climax by proclaiming its full support of my candidacy. The News declared that I was ‘‘an outstanding candidate,’’ with no past to conceal, who had ‘‘a constructive policy and a clear vision of the needs of the state.’’ The News declared that it favored my candidacy ‘‘as the one best suited by experience and character to carry on with efficiency and economy the important duties that devolve on the chief executive of the state.’’ The News editorial, together with the Dispatch’s poll and a big turnout at the city auditorium for my address, combined to give me a royal welcome to Dallas. From then on, my campaign flag flew high throughout the erstwhile unresponsive North Texas. Over the length and breadth of that section, enthusiastic campaign workers repeated the admonition that ‘‘a vote for anyone ex110

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cept Sterling in this primary is in aid and comfort of Jim Ferguson. There’s no alternative. Sterling is the man.’’ July 16 was a big day for my campaign. In addition to the positive developments in Dallas, Jesse H. Jones, publisher of the Houston Chronicle and one of the most influential political and business leaders in Texas, endorsed my candidacy during a statewide radio broadcast. In a lengthy and highly personal statement, Jesse declared that he was supporting me for governor because of my ‘‘sound business judgment, and a lot of good old-fashioned horse sense.’’ Jesse also said that I was ‘‘a glutton for work’’ and that I was endowed with ‘‘good health, good sense, and a wholesome appreciation for right thinking and right living.’’ The Houston businessman argued that I believed in people and that I was willing to leave them in charge of my many private enterprises while I devoted my own time and efforts to the public service. ‘‘I have been in his office many times,’’ Jesse said, ‘‘and his desk is always piled high with work that keeps him there long after the average man leaves his office.’’ Jesse Jones’s endorsement included a warm personal recollection of the visits that he had made to my home. ‘‘I have eaten at his table and that of Mrs. Sterling many times,’’ Jones stated, ‘‘and I do not recall having eaten a meal there when there was not at least a dozen people at the table, and a meal served in the good old-fashioned country style, with Mr. Sterling asking the blessing and helping the plates.’’ Even more relevant to the issues of the campaign, however, was Jesse’s concluding observation. He said that I would ‘‘put orderly business methods into our state government, just as he has put them into the State Highway Department, the Houston Harbor Board, Hermann Charity Hospital, and the many private enterprises that he owns and operates. He will make Texas a great governor.’’ From Dallas, my campaign moved into Central Texas. My first stop was the little village of Cumby, where R. R. ‘‘Uncle Bob’’ Williams presented me to a small but sympathetic audience. A blacksmith and Confederate veteran, Williams had won political fame in 1908 by giving Tom Campbell the race of his life for the governorship. I found the rustic atmosphere of this little rally touching. It reminded me of the camp meetings of my youth. A Saturday night meeting at Waco was another triumph. Hilton Howell, my Central Texas campaign manager, introduced me to a responsive crowd of more than 2000 assembled on the courthouse lawn. At the rally, I took notice of Earle Mayfield, who had been assailing me savagely. I told the crowd about a certain public utility executive who had sent an emissary to tell me that he was tired of supporting Mayfield because he was a losing horse, and that if I would promise to be nice to his utilities he would switch to me. I told the audience that my 111

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Jesse H. Jones, ca. 1940s. CAH, Dodd Collection.

reply was for him to ‘‘put a hundred more Mayfields in the field if you wish,’’ but I would not consider any such proposition. At Waco, I asked Joseph S. Thompson, a resident of that city seated on the platform, to stand up. I placed my hand on Thompson’s shoulder and said, ‘‘This is the man who endorsed my note. He is the best friend I have in the world.’’ The audience cheered. The day after my Waco rally, I rested at Marlin and visited with Dr. N. D. Buie, head of the famous hot baths establishment and clinic and brother-in-law of United States Senator Tom Connally. Dr. Buie was a warm friend and ardent supporter of mine. I had first met him through editor George Bailey of the PostDispatch, who came to Marlin periodically for the baths. When he asked me how Bailey was doing, I responded that he was fine, ‘‘but he’d feel better if I’d turn him loose on Jim Ferguson on the editorial page.’’ ‘‘I can always tell when George is planning a trip up here,’’ said Dr. Buie. 112

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‘‘He always precedes it by writing something about Marlin in his ‘Early Morning Observations’ column, and about the catfish singing in the Brazos. He’s a grand soul.’’ One day early in the campaign at a political rally for a candidate for a local office, Dr. Buie received permission to speak. When he announced that he wanted to put in a word for me, all the supporters of the opposing candidates got up and left. By the time I came to Marlin, however, there had been a big swing to my candidacy, thanks largely to Dr. Buie.5 My first stop after Marlin was the little town of Schwertner, where I spoke to a large picnic crowd. Little Miss Adeline Zindler presented me with a bouquet of flowers. I was touched, so I kissed the child. The audience applauded approvingly. After my speech, another moppet, Eva Rose Jurecka, started crying. When I asked her what was the matter, she said, ‘‘I want to meet the next governor!’’ I picked her up and kissed her, and she ran happily away. Hurrying to San Antonio, I cautioned Harry Baker to drive carefully, because a day or so before, Harry had given me a scare by running our big car into a ditch to miss a flock of turkeys. ‘‘I didn’t want to kill any of ’em,’’ Harry had explained. ‘‘Well, Son,’’ I gently reminded him, ‘‘as between the turkeys’ lives and ours, I’d rather save our own.’’ Bexar County, long famed as a center of machine politics, was strong for Barry Miller and Mrs. Ferguson. Mayor Chambers and City Commissioner Rubiola, two city bosses, were for Miller, but Commissioner Wright leaned toward me and eventually joined my forces. Soon, the police and fire departments came over. Reagan Houston and Albert Steves were aggressively pushing my campaign in Bexar and adjoining counties, with a committee that included Richard Gill, Charles M. Tobin, D. K. Martin, Mrs. Alex Adams, Harry P. Drought, Frank C. Davis, and others. They gave me a rousing rally at the historic old Alamo. At Raymondville, the redoubtable Nat Wetzel escorted me to the rally, where County Judge A. H. Dorsett introduced me to what was pronounced the largest audience ever to have heard a political candidate in Willacy County. A caravan of automobiles met me at Raymondville and escorted my party to Harlingen. The Cameron County delegation was headed by County Judge Oscar C. ‘‘Concrete’’ Dancy.6 Entering Corpus Christi with a motorcade that had met me at Kingsville, I found more than 100 cars and a band waiting to join the procession. We paraded through the business district with band playing and horns honking, and wound up at Artesian Park, where approximately 4000 persons had gathered. Grady Kinsolving, publisher of the Corpus Christi Caller-Times, presided, and S. Maston Nixon introduced me. 113

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The next morning, I began a triumphal homeward march. After a brief stop at Sinton, I moved on to Goliad. There, a huge banner was stretched across the main street, reading: ‘‘Goliad is for Ross Sterling, the Road Builder.’’ Joseph Weardon, member of the State Prison Board, did the introductory honors. Before I began my speech in Victoria, three little girls presented me with a bouquet of roses. The girls were Misses Rose Mary Lee, Felice Taggard, and Martha Buhler. Each girl addressed me as ‘‘our next governor,’’ and each in turn spoke. One said, ‘‘All the Democrats are for you.’’ The next girl said, ‘‘All the Republicans are for you.’’ The third girl said, ‘‘Everybody is for you.’’ During my speech, which was in the courthouse at Victoria, I was remarking that I didn’t recall exactly how many candidates were in the race, when the courthouse clock struck the hour of eleven. I paused to count the strokes as they pealed out. Then I said, ‘‘That’s it. There are eleven of them. In two hours that clock will strike one, and after a month from today, there will be just one candidate in this race. That will be Ross Sterling.’’ The large audience laughed and cheered. My night rally in Houston nearly filled Sam Houston Hall. This was the grand climax of my speaking campaign, three days before the primary. I received a warm and enthusiastic welcome in my hometown. One veteran newspaper correspondent said it was the largest Texas political outpouring in a decade. Colonel Tom Ball presided, and brief speeches on my behalf were made by William Strauss, Judge Norman Atkinson (my Harris County manager), Henry Schuhmacher, Joe Chestnutt, Mrs. H. F. Ring, and Dr. Stockton Axson of Rice Institute. Jesse Jones introduced me. When I rose to speak, a battery of motorcycle officers set up a din with their sirens and a band blared out, ‘‘The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.’’ I stood for a moment on the spot in the Convention Hall where, only two years before, Franklin D. Roosevelt had placed Al Smith in nomination for the presidency of the United States. I was deeply moved by the welcome given me by my home folk. Then I said, ‘‘You can’t know how the old boy feels over this demonstration. It’s worth more than being governor of any state.’’ After the big rally at the hall in Houston, I spent my first night at home in exactly a month. I needed the rest for the last lap of my first primary canvass. The next morning at Liberty, the old home of my father and mother, I found another royal welcome among old friends. Judge E. G. Pickett, son of a member of my father’s company in the Civil War, presented me to a large crowd that had gathered on the courthouse lawn. At Beaumont, I attended a reception and luncheon, followed by an early afternoon rally in nearby Orange. That same afternoon, I returned to Beau114

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mont to address a crowd at Wiess Park. The Beaumont rally was attended by many of my friends from surrounding communities, including Earl Hankamer, N. A. Cravens, A. E. Sturrock, Clyde Smith, George B. Dodd, Norman Sherer, and J. E. Broussard. At Port Arthur that night, a crowd of some 1200 gathered at a ropedoff downtown corner. The crowd received me very coldly. The people there were resentful because they felt that the Highway Commission was not keeping its word to their part of Jefferson County. I had been told of this feeling, so I made it the first topic of my talk. I recalled that I had been born only thirty miles from Port Arthur, and that I knew the place before it was Port Arthur. ‘‘It made my heart sick,’’ I said, ‘‘to hear that you people thought I was discriminating against this city.’’ I assured them that southern Jefferson County would get its full share of road improvements. ‘‘This highway commission will not break a promise to Port Arthur or any county.’’ The audience cheered this pledge, and throughout the rest of the speech they applauded and shouted ‘‘Hurray for Sterling’’ and ‘‘Pour it on.’’ Friday morning, the last day of the campaign, I drove 130 miles to Lufkin. That town closed shop and turned out in force to stand in the sun on the high school campus to hear me. At Palestine that night, I found an audience of more than 2000 waiting for me on the courthouse lawn. I did not have time to rest before repeating, for the fifth time that day and the last time of the first primary campaign, my plea for their votes for the governorship. Highway Commissioner Cone Johnson came over from Tyler for the valedictory at Palestine. He rallied the crowd with a full-dress display of his oldtime eloquence. By this point, I was feeling confident. I turned my speech into a heart-to-heart forecast of victory. I had closed, and the crowd was breaking up with the usual group of well-wishers coming to shake my hand, when stalwart Ted Dealey of the Dallas News rushed up to the platform and whispered something in my ear. ‘‘Just a minute, folks!’’ I shouted, raising my arms. ‘‘I forgot something. I promised the newspaper correspondents that I’d end this campaign with a little verse. Some of them have already quoted me as saying it, in their dispatches for the early editions, so I’ll have to make it good.’’ Shouts of ‘‘Let’s hear it’’ came from the multitude, so I recited: I live for those who love me, For those who know me true; For the heavens that shine above me, And the good that I can do. 115

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Before leaving Palestine, I kept another promise to Ted Dealey. I gave him, as a souvenir of the campaign, a straw hat I had worn throughout the statewide tour.7 I spent Saturday, the primary election day, at my bayshore home, resting and awaiting the returns. When the final count came in, Mrs. Ferguson had received 220,668 votes, while I had tallied 157,221 votes. Clint Small surprised the state by running a strong third. I issued a statement the following Monday declaring, ‘‘The issue now before the people of Texas is honest government. I hope that all friends of good government, regardless of past political differences, will aid me in the forthcoming campaign.’’ Tom Love, who ran fourth in the primary, promptly declared his support for me. ‘‘I shall continue the fight,’’ Love said, ‘‘against restoring Fergusonism to power in the State Capitol.’’ Governor Moody also declared himself on the day following the election, even before the final outcome was certain. Dan said that he was for anyone who goes into the runoff against the Fergusons. ‘‘Whether I agree or disagree with Mr. Sterling on other matters is unimportant,’’ he stressed. ‘‘I know we cannot differ on the only issue in the campaign, and that is honesty and responsibility in government.’’ To these battle cries Ma Ferguson replied, ‘‘If the issue can be more quickly described as Fergusonism against Moodyism, then so be it, and I welcome the contest. If the people want a continuation of present conditions, vote for Mr. Sterling. If they want a change, vote for me.’’ Clint Small, like Bre’r Rabbit, said nothing.

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To get the runoff campaign started with a bang, my campaign chairman, William Strauss, organized a statewide anti-Ferguson meeting in Dallas on August 4. ‘‘We are on the eve of a moral uprising on the part of the people of Texas,’’ Strauss declared, ‘‘to prevent a repetition of the irresponsible proxy government that we had during the last Ferguson administration.’’ We decided to call our runoff campaign organization the ‘‘friends of good government.’’ On August 4 a large crowd gathered in the assembly room of the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas to organize against Mrs. Ferguson. Many of the key supporters of several candidates who were eliminated in the first primary attended. Clint Small was still silent, but we rejoiced at an editorial published in his hometown paper, the Amarillo News. The newspaper declared, ‘‘The issue squarely before the voters of Texas now is whether Jim Ferguson goes back to the governor’s office, or whether Texas retains its self-respect and good name.’’ Walter Woodward of Coleman, the portly, deep-voiced leader of the Texas Senate, who had been a mainspring of Small’s campaign, accepted the chairmanship of the Dallas rally and made the keynote speech. ‘‘When I learned that Small had met honorable defeat,’’ Woodward announced, ‘‘I turned my eyes toward the battleground of San Jacinto and Ross Sterling, whose forebears fought with Sam Houston and with [Robert E.] Lee and [Thomas ‘Stonewall’] Jackson. . . . Our duty now is to go forth as soldiers and present Sterling’s record to the people of Texas and compare it to the administrations of the Fergusons.’’ Governor Moody also sounded a militant call to arms against Fergusonism. ‘‘It would have made no difference who entered the runoff,’’ he said. ‘‘Dan Moody would have been against Jim Ferguson. . . . I don’t know and I don’t care

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what Sterling’s views are on other issues; I know how he stands on the question of honesty.’’ Other speakers, prominent citizens from all over the state, made rousing pep talks. Finally, Woodward introduced me. The crowd gave me a noisy standing ovation. ‘‘This has been one of the hottest days of the year,’’ I observed as I wiped my brow, ‘‘but there will be a hot time in the old state from here on until August 23.’’ ‘‘Pour it on,’’ shouted several in the audience, and the rest clapped, whooped, and whistled. After 100 stump speeches, I appeared before them as a seasoned campaigner. ‘‘The fight is on,’’ I continued, raising my clenched fist. ‘‘Let us all go forth singing ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’ ’’ All the activity that had been scattered on half a dozen major candidacies and several minor ones in the first primary race was now concentrated on two contenders. My first campaign had been largely a one-man effort, but now most of the political leaders of the state took the stump for me. In my traveling entourage were staff correspondents from most of the larger daily newspapers. Senator Woodward, an outstanding orator, started out on the speaking tour with me. Hillsboro was the site of my first campaign rally for the runoff. On August 8, an overflow crowd filled the spacious Hillsboro auditorium and then spilled out over the lawn outside the building. Several Hill County political leaders who had opposed me in the first campaign attended the rally to show their support for me. In his introductory speech, Arthur M. Anderson, a substantial farmer, recalled Jim Ferguson’s first campaign speech at Hillsboro in 1914, in which he modestly described himself as ‘‘the degenerate son of a noble sire,’’ a phrase for which Ferguson was to become famous. ‘‘Subsequent events have borne out his statement,’’ said Anderson, and the crowd whooped. Following Anderson, Senator Woodward made a remark that brought roars of laughter and cheers from the Hillsboro crowd. He said he had nothing in particular against the Fergusons. ‘‘I feel toward Jim as the farmer felt about the boll weevil. He said he didn’t hate the weevil, but objected to the way he made a living.’’ It was a remark that Woodward would later put to effective use at rallies throughout the state. Woodward also warned that ‘‘if the twin governors should be reelected and carry out their promise to turn two thousand more convicts loose upon us, I shall introduce a bill to repeal the pistol law, so that citizens may carry arms to protect themselves.’’ I spoke after Woodward. In this longtime stronghold of the Fergusons, I was 118

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applauded almost continually as I read the record of Fergusonism. I told of the Ferguson administration’s highway contracts that had been canceled as a result of lawsuits brought by Dan Moody as attorney general. I reviewed the Ferguson pardoning record, specifically citing the Langhorne case, which subsequently was circularized throughout Texas. Young Langhorne confessed to murdering a young woman and assaulting her sister. He was given the death penalty, but when the judge was about to pronounce sentence, an associate of Ferguson presented a proclamation signed by Mrs. Ferguson as governor that commuted Langhorne’s sentence to life imprisonment. ‘‘Several days before the commutation order was entered,’’ I recited, ‘‘a deed of trust had been filed in the county clerk’s office of Washington County.’’ I explained that this deed of trust was executed by Langhorne’s father, and it assigned to James E. Ferguson and an associate six tracts of land, which I was informed are worth about $90,000. ‘‘The land was pledged to secure payment of notes that Langhorne had given to Ferguson and one other person,’’ I declared. ‘‘Ferguson says that the notes and deed of trust were in payment of services he had rendered the elder Langhorne in a civil damage suit growing out of the murder and assault case.’’ At my next stop, which was Wichita Falls, I encountered the first premeditated heckling of my campaign. It came from a group of rowdies who, newspaper correspondents said, had planned a concerted effort to disrupt the meeting. The leader was described by one reporter as ‘‘a blue-shirt Bolshevik who had been thrown out of a union for carrying an IWW card.’’ ‘‘Hurrah for Ma!’’ the leader bayed while Woodward was speaking. The senator shot back, ‘‘I’ll bet you have received a pardon, or hope to receive one, or have some friend or relative who has or hopes to.’’ ‘‘I’ll bet a dollar I haven’t,’’ said the heckler. ‘‘I’ll bet,’’ rejoined Woodward, ‘‘that if I stood you on your head on this platform and shook you, there wouldn’t as much as a dollar fall out of your pockets.’’ As the audience roared, the hoodlum rushed excitedly up toward the platform, yanked some coins from his pocket, and flung them up on the floor at Woodward’s feet. Woodward gathered them up and held them out for the audience to see. ‘‘Thirty cents,’’ he announced. We recognized that West Texas, where Clint Small had scored so heavily, was the main battleground for the runoff. The Fergusons and I both headed for that section early in the campaign. At Quanah, I issued a statement releasing all newspapers from liability for printing Ferguson campaign statements about my candidacy. I challenged Jim Ferguson to do the same regarding my remarks about him. Ferguson declined 119

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the dare, to the disappointment of Texas editors, for Jim had filed libel suits on things published about him in the past, and had won judgments on more than one of them. Sweetwater gave me the largest crowd of my West Texas swing. Here a prisoner in the jail adjoining the courthouse lawn heckled me, yelling, ‘‘Hurrah for Jim Ferguson.’’ After I finished speaking at Tahoka, a weather-beaten traveler drove up in a battered jalopy and asked for time to speak for Jim Ferguson. Few of the audience remained to hear, so the Fergusonite followed our group to the next town, and repeated his act. He was interrupted by the Rev. McKinley Norman, pastor of Quanah’s First Baptist Church, who said that he had planned a revival for the Sterling meeting, but not for a Ferguson speech. At Lamesa, I recognized the fellow, who joined the crowd on the courthouse lawn and listened to my talk. I jollied him, saying, ‘‘You ought to get fat like me so people will like you more. You keep following me, and I’ll have you making Sterling speeches.’’ Car trouble prevented the interloper from following us any farther. One of the newspapermen put moth balls in his gasoline tank, and his carburetor jammed. Just as our rally was opening at Big Spring, my brother Frank drove into town. He was passing through on a vacation trip, and stopped to look in on the meeting. I called him up to the speaker’s stand, greeted him affectionately, and then presented him to the crowd. Senator Woodward did not miss this opportunity to refer to a statement made by Jim Ferguson’s brother only the day before, saying he was supporting me rather than Ma. In fact, Woodward drew a double contrast in brotherly relationships, for his own brother, Garland Woodward, of Big Spring, had presented him with warm praise to the audience. These incidents made a big hit with the local people. At a rally in a tabernacle at Merkel, I failed for the first time during the campaign to make a scheduled address. Six appearances were on the itinerary that day, and my voice was becoming so husky that I decided to give it a rest until afternoon. Senator Woodward and Judge Taylor spoke for me. This was the only basis for Ferguson’s subsequent charge that I did not speak to my Amarillo and Lubbock audiences, ‘‘but just sat there on the platform like a rhinoceros.’’ A regular feature of Woodward’s speeches was a moving tribute to Texas womanhood, which seemed to please the distaff element of the audiences. At Banger, just as he concluded this eloquent testimonial to the fair sex, a deepvoiced Fergusonite boomed: ‘‘That’s Ma!’’ I opened the final week of my runoff campaign at Denton. Albert Sidney Johnson of Dallas, the handsome young secretary of the State Democratic Ex120

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ecutive Committee, joined me there as preliminary speaker, in place of Senator Woodward. After a long hot dusty drive, we arrived at Paris for an evening engagement. There, where a scant 500 had heard me during the first campaign, nearly 7000 now greeted me. The city auditorium at Terrell was packed to suffocation for my rally, and the crowds outside heard the speaking program through loudspeakers. Bushy-browed Cullen F. Thomas, a redoubtable orator, made a ringing speech for my candidacy. He drew applause with his reply to Ferguson’s charge that I was illiterate. ‘‘Mr. Sterling may say, ‘I done,’ but when he says that, you can bet your boots he has done it,’’ Thomas said. ‘‘And when he says, ‘I taken,’ you can be dead sure he has taken that which belongs to him.’’ Ferguson frequently remarked that ‘‘they had to burn the schoolhouse down to get Ross out of the second grade.’’ My rejoinder in Terrell was that I didn’t have much opportunity to go to school, ‘‘but I learned the Ten Commandments at my mother’s knee, and one of them is, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Also, I learned to tell my money from the state’s.’’ After the appearance at Terrell, my campaign tour went to Marlin, where I spoke on the courthouse lawn. The noise of a passing freight train drowned out my voice for a few moments. After it got quieter, I said, ‘‘I used to own a railroad. It wasn’t as long as the Katy line, but it was just as wide.’’ As the end of the train went by, I observed that it had two cabooses. ‘‘I wonder if they got those two cabooses for the price of one.’’ The crowd caught the point and howled. Everyone knew I alluded to Mrs. Ferguson’s appeal, ‘‘Elect me and get two governors for the price of one.’’ After a stop in Georgetown, I reached Austin late in the evening. I went up on the balcony of the Stephen F. Austin Hotel and greeted a mass of several thousand crowding the street corner below. ‘‘Next January,’’ I beamed, ‘‘I’m going to become governor and live here in Austin, and we’re all going to be good neighbors and friends.’’ Hurrying on to San Marcos, I addressed about 2000 at Riverside Park, on the beautiful San Marcos River, and then headed the big Lincoln toward San Antonio. It was nearly midnight when I finally arrived in the Alamo City, but a crowd that had jammed the City Auditorium was still waiting for me and greeted me with an ovation that gave me a real thrill. What a difference, I thought, between this vociferous reception and the friendly but unenthusiastic turnout at San Antonio in the first campaign. The last day’s itinerary included rallies at Gonzales, Columbus, and Galveston. At Columbus, the Weimar Chamber of Commerce band played a song, ‘‘Sterling’s the Man,’’ written by A. P. Hinton, a resident of Columbus. A group of women sang it. 121

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After the Columbus speech, I issued an election-eve statement. ‘‘The campaign is about over,’’ I said. ‘‘The race is run. . . . I have made the best fight I could, and victory is at hand. A campaign of amazing slander has been waged against me, . . . but those who have known me longest and are most familiar with the record of my life are my truest friends and staunchest witnesses.’’ I declared that the people of Texas generally would come to know me better during the coming two years, and they would learn that my life is and ever has been dedicated to the right. ‘‘Tonight I rest my case with the people who tomorrow must sit on the jury,’’ I stated. ‘‘I shall await the verdict with absolute confidence, anticipating a majority of not less than one hundred thousand.’’ The final night meeting in Menard Park at Galveston was like a homecoming. Once I had called the island city home. To Galveston I had first flown from the family nest. There I had first tried my wings in business on my own. In Galveston my brother John and my sister Mrs. Barrow lived. Four thousand Galvestonians welcomed me tumultuously as a local boy who had made good. My wife joined me there and sat on the platform. My old friend Adrian F. Levy made the introductory speech. Among old friends, I made a jovial homefolks talk, but I also administered a final verbal drubbing to Jim Ferguson. Answering Jim’s charge that I lived in a mansion with twenty-nine bath tubs, I shouted, ‘‘If old Jim had a hundred bathtubs it wouldn’t be enough to wash his old soul clean.’’ The crowd roared, but as usual, from the dark fringe of the audience, came the defiant Fergusonian battle cry: ‘‘Hurrah for Ma!’’ As usual, that was my cue to review some of the more interesting Ferguson pardons. ‘‘Tomorrow we’re going to bury old Jim face down under an avalanche of ballots,’’ I told the heckler, ‘‘so the more he scratches to get out, the deeper he will bury himself.’’ My parting statement was an invitation to the crowd to come to Austin next January for the inaugural. ‘‘Come and see your old fat boy perform,’’ I declared. ‘‘We’ll be there!’’ came a loud voice from the audience. After the rally, my wife and I drove down the bayshore road to our home at Morgan’s Point. On primary election night, I received the returns until my victory was assured. Then I issued a statement expressing my ‘‘deep and humble gratitude’’ to the voters, and the hope that ‘‘any animosities created by the heat of the campaign may be forgotten and the people of Texas united in a constructive era of progress in government.’’ I would learn, bitterly, that this hope was unavailing. The animosities were yet to blaze more fiercely than before, and the cleavage of public sentiment on the sharp rock of Fergusonism was to widen and deepen. Austin news correspondents reported that Governor Moody received the 122

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election returns in Austin as excitedly as when he had been a candidate himself. When the outcome became apparent on that Saturday night, August 23, Moody wired his congratulations to me, saying, ‘‘The people of Texas are to be felicitated upon the leadership which they have placed in your hands and in your nomination for governor.’’ Then Moody told the Capitol correspondents he was going fishing. The Fergusons remained silent. They did not deign to make the customary concession of defeat, much less congratulate the winner. Belated final tabulations by the Texas Election Bureau gave me a majority of 88,969, out of 857,773 ballots cast.

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My primary victory over Mrs. Ferguson showed me just how much the world loves a winner. From the moment my nomination was assured, I received a constant torrent of congratulatory messages and calls at my office in the PostDispatch building. It continued for days without letup. My newspaper published daily columns of extracts from some of the letters and from editorial comments from around the state. The four months before inauguration day were busy ones. Life became an unceasing swirl of functions given in my honor. I held conferences early and late to select candidates for appointive office and to make administrative plans. Job seekers besieged me. Of course, I resigned my chairmanship of the State Highway Commission. Governor Moody appointed D. K. Martin of San Antonio to take my place. I also resigned my chairmanship of the Houston Port Commission. One evening toward the end of August, I was deeply moved when a large group of my neighbors in La Porte and the adjacent bayshore gathered at my home to acclaim me as the next governor. The group included leaders in business who came from their summer estates along Bay Ridge, farmers from the surrounding country, and little people from the little towns, some of them my boyhood friends. Crowding the veranda of my mansion, they cheered when I drove up from Houston, where I had just been honored with a dinner. My friends serenaded me with music by the 143d Infantry Band, directed by C. J. Hart, who had led the Humble Oil Company’s Baytown band while I was the company’s president. The State Democratic Convention in September at the Buccaneer Hotel in Galveston was a jubilee for my victory. If a single Fergusonite was present, he did not call the convention’s attention to the fact. As the victorious gubernato124

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rial candidate, I was accorded the traditional privilege of dictating the selection of those who would run the show, as well as the terms of the party platform. I was kept mighty busy conferring with my leading supporters and managers, including Hobby, Moody, Huggins, Wolters, Strauss, Cone Johnson, Woodward, Love, and others. The ovation I received when I lumbered into the convention hall and up to the platform surpassed any of the noisy demonstrations I had witnessed in the campaign. John Darrouzett, Galveston’s Black Eagle of the Gulf and unofficial speaker of the Third House, said he was the original Sterling-for-Governor man.1 T. J. Holbrook, the island city’s state senator, told the convention that Galveston regarded me as its son. ‘‘He was born within a hound’s bark of Sam Houston’s old home across the bay,’’ he said, ‘‘and we believe he will make you the same sort of governor that those fearless men of earlier days did.’’ In making the formal nomination, Highway Commissioner Johnson said, ‘‘I know Ross Sterling a little better than most of you do, and I know that in any office he occupies no rascality or wrongdoing will find a congenial atmosphere.’’ In my acceptance speech, I recalled my memories of Galveston with much nostalgia. I pointed out that it was the first city I had ever known, and that in my youth I had considered it my second home. I recalled my first visit there at the age of nine, my first sight of a mule-drawn streetcar and of a locomotive; and my many visits there while freighting goods across the bay. I recalled my work in Galveston when I first went out into the world to seek my fortune. I remembered those anxious hours at Double Bayou when the 1900 hurricane caught my wife in Galveston. I recalled the first suggestion that I run for governor, made in Galveston by John Darrouzett. ‘‘At that time,’’ I said, ‘‘I didn’t think it would ever come to pass.’’ I admitted that I had learned a lot about Texas people in the campaign. ‘‘I found in traveling over the state that the fellow who voted against me did not know me,’’ I said, ‘‘and two years from now . . . well, I won’t promise that I will last longer than two years.’’ Former governor Hobby, as chairman of the Platform and Resolutions Committee, was the guiding spirit in formulating the party’s blueprint for the incoming administration’s program. The platform condemned proxy government, endorsed the Moody administration, reaffirmed the party’s stand for prohibition, and cussed the Republican party and high tariffs. It also called for a long-range program of state highway development, to be financed from taxes on traffic. The platform urged the Legislature to consider the adequate financing of a state highway system, and to devise a means of refunding money to the counties that had already raised funds for state roads through local bond issues. We believed that it was the state’s obligation to build state highways, 125

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leaving it up to the counties to build lateral roads. The platform also called for conservation of natural resources, a program of park development, and other constructive measures. I preserved a copy of the platform for future reference, and I did not forget to refer to it during my administration, as some governors have been known not to do. A few days after the convention, Jim Ferguson sent out a feeler in his weekly Forum, asking his friends’ views on the idea of bolting the Democratic ticket in the November general election and rallying to the support of George C. Butte, the Republican nominee for governor. Such a movement would have been cute, since I had joined a few hundred thousand Texans in 1924 in bolting the ticket when Ma Ferguson first ran. I voted for the same George C. Butte. ‘‘The real Democrats of Texas are in a pretty kettle of fish,’’ Jim wrote, ‘‘in being forced to choose between Ross Sterling and a Republican.’’ Butte relieved them of the necessity for that choice by withdrawing as the GOP nominee. It may have escaped Ferguson’s notice during the primary campaign, but Butte had announced in my favor.2 Colonel William Talbot of Dallas was the Republican nominee for governor. After I won the general election in November, he wired me a day or so later: ‘‘You got the votes and I had the fun. May I express to you my sincere hope that you will enjoy good health and a profitable administration for our Texas.’’ Colonel Talbot sent me a pair of Texas-made shoes.3 As a gesture of goodwill, I later appointed Talbot a member of the Texas commission for the celebration of the George Washington Centennial. A year later, Talbot wrote me a letter stating, ‘‘I think you have made us a good governor, better than any we have had for a long time. To be downright frank with you, you haven’t done a thing that I wouldn’t have done myself.’’ During the general election campaign, I caused some controversy when I suggested that the economic situation might be relieved if employed wives of employed men gave up their jobs in favor of jobless men. My suggestion actually brought a round of applause throughout the state, but it sent chills up and down the spines of married women holding state jobs. Another problem occurred when I had to refuse a request from powerful Texas congressman John Nance Garner.4 In 1930 Cactus Jack was intensively campaigning to elect a Democratic majority in the national House of Representatives. He urged me to use my influence and make speeches to elect the Democratic congressional nominee in the one district in Texas that had gone Republican, the San Antonio–Corpus Christi district. Harry Wurzbach, a Republican who had been elected to Congress several times from that district, again was the GOP candidate. I told Garner that it would be embarrassing for me to speak against Wurz126

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John Nance Garner. CAH, DI02346.

bach because his brother-in-law was a particular friend of mine and he was one of my staunch supporters in the race for governor. Also, it was my understanding that Mr. Wurzbach’s brother in San Antonio was very active on my behalf. ‘‘For these reasons,’’ I told Garner, ‘‘I would rather not become active against Mr. Wurzbach.’’ 5 After my victory in the general election, Will Hobby, who was in Washington, sent me a telegram stating that ‘‘With the exception of one, your election is the most gratifying to me in the history of our state.’’ Edgar Witt of Waco, who was elected lieutenant governor on the Democratic ticket with me, combined congratulations with requests for several appointments for his friends. He subsequently recommended even more persons for state jobs. It may be that my failure to grant some of his requests was the reason Witt later seemed to sour on me.6 During those weeks before I became governor, I took time out from making 127

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preparations for my administration to dedicate the twenty-one-story Sterling Building, across the street from my Post-Dispatch office building on Fannin Street in Houston. Those two skyscrapers, together with one I had built in Memphis, Tennessee, cost millions of dollars. After the stock market crash, I now found that by erecting those buildings I had overextended myself financially. I began to feel the squeeze of the Depression. Members of my business organization watched the gathering economic storm with grave foreboding. They tried to persuade me to devote more attention to my private business, but I was too busy with public affairs. They complained that I thought more of the public welfare than of my own. They were right about that. By the fall of 1930, the Depression had hit Texas hard. Everyone was alarmed at the rapidly increasing unemployment. In Houston, a city of approximately 300,000 people, the army of jobless numbered more than 5000 by December 1930. A citywide campaign sought to find work for them and rid Houston of soup lines. This picture was duplicated in other cities and towns throughout the state. I offered a suggestion that caught on. I proposed a ‘‘buy Texas products’’ program as a way to increase Texas employment and at the same time stimulate the development of the state’s industries.7 The three regional chambers of commerce adopted the idea, and on December 2, a statewide meeting of businessmen was held in Waco to put the plan into effect. I spoke at the meeting. ‘‘We should let the world know,’’ I declared, ‘‘that Texas products are as good as those manufactured elsewhere, if not a little better.’’ I argued that we should not build a wall around Texas, but instead, we should develop our own resources for other states and ourselves as well. ‘‘I think we have more resources than any other state in the Union.’’ The audience agreed—vociferously. A statewide ‘‘manufacturers’ committee of fifteen’’ was established to initiate a five-year program of advertising Texas products. By Christmas of 1930, the Depression clouds had all but blacked out the sun of optimism that men of affairs had expressed during October and November in predictions that the country had hit bottom and soon would bounce back up to happy days. Amid the encircling gloom, I issued a Christmas message to the people of Texas. I urged my fellow Texans to have faith and confidence in one another. ‘‘The season of peace and goodwill . . . is a good time to rededicate ourselves to those things which make for prosperity and progress,’’ I noted, ‘‘chief among which are industry and credit, and faith in the future of our country.’’ I believed that fear of the future had contributed substantially to the Depression.

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That fear, I stated, ‘‘is now the only deterrent to the growth of Texas, which we know has only begun. Let us then take new heart and go forward.’’ The social event of the pre-inaugural season was a testimonial dinner in my honor at the Knife and Fork Club of Houston. Some 700 persons from all over Texas crowded into the Rice Hotel banquet room for the event. Several of Houston’s business leaders gave speeches. John T. Scott, president of the First National Bank of Houston, confided to the audience that he would have been a millionaire had he bought some Humble Oil Company stock that I had once offered him. Frank Andrews, the patriarch of Houston’s lawyers, attributed my success largely to my wife, but added: ‘‘For a man to come from the environment that he did and reach the heights that he has, is a lesson for the youth of the nation.’’ John Henry Kirby, Houston’s first industrial behemoth, recalled the days when his father was a neighbor of my family in Tyler County.8 He recalled that my grandfather, Uncle Billie Sterling, operated a grist mill and a cotton gin for the farmers during and after the Civil War. Kirby remembered that Uncle Billie distributed spinning wheels to the women of the vicinity, enabling them to make clothing. Will Hobby presented me with a handsome carving set, on behalf of the Knife and Fork Club. Will said, ‘‘We know you will not use the knife at the pie counter or the fork in the appropriation bill, but we want you to use it in carving for yourself a name in the Hall of Fame.’’ Responding to all the panegyrics, I said that I stood convicted. ‘‘It’s useless for me to try to defend myself after all the things this array of orators have told you—most of which I don’t deserve. . . . I hope and trust I may be able to serve Texas for the time the people have elected me to serve, and retire from office and return home with more friends than I have tonight.’’ After the election, I was pleased and surprised to learn about an advertisement in support of my candidacy that had appeared in the Cleburne newspaper during the campaign. Unknown to me at the time, my friend Homer B. Adams, who lived in Cleburne, paid for space in the newspaper to inform voters that in 1923 he, Adams, as a sophomore at Texas Christian University, was incapacitated for quite a while by a severe injury. I had taken him into my home to recuperate and then had given him enough money to finish his studies at TCU. ‘‘It may interest the citizens of Cleburne to know,’’ Adams added, ‘‘that Mr. and Mrs. Ross Sterling gave to TCU more than one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars during the time that this writer was a student there, and that he has given more since.’’ On January 10, 1931, I went to Austin to confer with members of the Highway

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Commission and other state officials. I also went to the governor’s office, with Claude Teer, chairman of the Board of Control and a close friend of Moody. In the rotunda of the Capitol, under the big dome, we ran into James V. Allred, the newly elected young attorney general, and his first assistant, Bruce Bryant. I invited them both to come to the governor’s office with me. We were ushered into my future private office, and I talked with Allred and Bryant for a while. Dan Moody was absent at the time. The Capitol news correspondents spotted me and tried to worm some advance information out of me about whom I was going to appoint to state offices. ‘‘If I announced them now,’’ I bantered, ‘‘people would forget about me before inauguration day.’’ One reporter asked if I would sit at the governor’s desk for a photograph. I said no. I felt that it might look like a discourtesy to Governor Moody. By the time the Legislature convened in regular session on January 13, 1931, a week before my inauguration, I had made some of my appointments. But I was struggling with an avalanche of applications and recommendations for other offices. I doubt that any previous chief executive in the history of Texas had been so mobbed by job hunters as I was during those Depression days of unemployment. Not only that, but because I was reputed to be a multimillionaire, people in dire need all over Texas clamored for my personal aid. They did not know that I was already beginning to feel the onset of catastrophic financial reverses. People thought I had more money than I knew what to do with, and when I failed to respond to their pleas, many of them turned against me. Another unanticipated worry was the invitation list for the inaugural ball. Campaign leaders and special friends throughout the state sent me names of persons who should have invitations. The problem was not to overlook anyone who rated an invitation. For instance, my friend C. M. Caldwell of Abilene wired me that his secretary as well as several other individuals in Abilene had received invitations but he had not. He complained that they ‘‘didn’t vote half as strong as I did. Damn if I vote for you two years from now. What shall I do with my dress suit? Wire answer collect.’’ To which I replied by wire, prepaid: ‘‘Sorry your invitation has not reached you. My information your secretary furnished Abilene invitation list. I don’t care a damn what you do with dress suit after it has graced your beautiful figure at the [inaugural ball]. Have requested two more invitations sent you.’’ When the Texas House of Representatives held its ceremonies to open the regular legislative session, Jim Ferguson sat at the press table. He listened in his familiar posture, one hand cupped to his ear. I did not attend. I was busy in Houston, wrestling with appointments and making other preparations. A week before taking office, I took the liberty to make a recommendation to the Legislature. As a measure of Depression relief, I sent a telegram to the law130

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makers urging quick passage of a bill permitting the payment of current state and county taxes in semiannual installments. I told the Legislature that I was convinced that such a measure was not only sound governmental policy ‘‘but would be of substantial advantage to our people at this particular time.’’ Governor Moody submitted the proposal as an emergency matter. Senator Ben G. O’Neal introduced it, and the legislative mills went into high gear to grind it through. Public sentiment was in favor of the move. Many people lacked the money to make full payment of taxes due by January 31 under existing law. I was still waiting for inauguration day when my legislative protégé, Senator Walter Woodul of Houston, phoned me from Austin that he had introduced a series of measures embracing my highway program. The Highway Commission had formally advocated the road bond issue a few days before the Legislature convened. In my first batch of appointments, announced a few days before my inauguration, I named my friend John T. Scott of Houston to be a regent of the University of Texas. I also appointed Leslie Waggener of Dallas and M. Frank Yount of Beaumont to the university’s board of regents. I selected Henry Schuhmacher of Houston, from whom I had bought goods in my merchant days, as a director of Texas A&M College, along with Joseph Kopecky of Hallettsville and Rollie White of Bray. I chose Colonel Tom Ball, who had been attorney for the Houston Port Commission, as a regent of the State Teachers College. I also appointed Paul Wakefield, Pat Dougherty, and Mark Wiginton to be my secretaries. I asked Mrs. Jane Y. McCallum to remain in her post as Secretary of State, and she agreed.9 When I was ready to appoint the adjutant general, whose office supervised the Texas Rangers, I called in William W. Sterling, a tall, colorful Ranger captain from Falfurrias.10 I gave him the names of several men who had applied or been recommended for the position, and then asked, ‘‘Bill, whom would you suggest for adjutant general?’’ Bill replied that he would like to see Torrance of Fort Worth get it, but added, ‘‘I could get along very well with any of those you mentioned.’’ ‘‘You won’t have to get along with any of them,’’ I responded. ‘‘Why, what do you mean, Governor?’’ I laughed and said, ‘‘Because I’m going to appoint you!’’ That was Captain Bill’s first intimation of his appointment. Although Bill Sterling had lived on the shore of Galveston Bay, had sailed boats as a youth, and had also been around the South Texas oil fields, we were not related, as far as either of us knew. Our acquaintance had grown out of an incident in the Dayton oil field, back in about 1914. I had seen a teamster in the mudflats there, beating his mules unmercifully, 131

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Houston Shriners Band at Sterling’s inauguration, 1931. CAH, DI02357.

when a stranger walked up. Incensed by the brutality, he intervened. ‘‘If you hit those mules another lick with that whip,’’ the man said, ‘‘I’ll knock your block off.’’ Admiring the man’s humane spirit, I walked over to him and said, ‘‘I want to congratulate you on stopping that cruelty. My name is Sterling.’’ The stranger took my proffered hand and said ‘‘Sterling? That’s my name, too.’’ He was the father of the future Captain Bill Sterling. No other member of my official family was closer or more loyal to me than Adjutant General Bill Sterling. On the Saturday preceding the inaugural Tuesday, I was caught in a maelstrom of final conferences in my Houston office, preparatory to leaving for Austin. Finally, a bit wistfully, I closed my desk for two years, and left the nerve center of operations involving millions of dollars to take up a $4000-a-year job as governor of Texas. With me on the drive to Austin was my wife, our daughter Norma, and my wife’s sister, Miss Zilla Short. Two special trains took Houstonians to Austin for the inauguration. The passengers on one of the trains were entertained by the 132

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Arabia Temple Shrine Band, which was to be my personal hometown escort at the inaugural. My family and I rented rooms at the Stephen F. Austin Hotel pending our move into the executive mansion as the first Houston family to occupy it since Sam Houston.

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My inauguration as governor of Texas at high noon on January 20, 1931, was the supreme honor of my life. Before leaving the Stephen F. Austin Hotel for the ceremony, I dressed very carefully for the occasion. My friend Dr. P. W. Horn, president of Texas Technological College, sent me a special white cotton dress shirt to wear. The shirt was made of cotton raised, woven, and fashioned by Tech students. Another good friend, W. L. Justin of Fort Worth, the son of the famous boot maker, sent me a pair of highly polished shoes to wear. My wife, Maud, and our youngest daughter, Norma, and I were about to leave the hotel lobby for the inaugural ceremonies when I suddenly realized that I had forgotten something terribly important. I turned to my wife and said, ‘‘Maud, I can’t go up there to be inaugurated.’’ ‘‘Why not?’’ Maud asked. ‘‘I haven’t a red rose to wear in my coat lapel.’’ A red rose in my suit jacket lapel was standard equipment for me. Maud laughed. ‘‘Pinning a rose on you, Ross, would be painting the lily.’’ But Norma told me to wait as she darted off and then returned with a rose. The inaugural ceremonies were held on a large temporary platform built on the broad granite steps of the State Capitol. A bright sun warmed the crisp winter morning, and a crowd estimated at 15,000 gathered outside the Capitol for the occasion. Members of the Legislature, state officials, and other distinguished guests took their places in front sections reserved for them. As the inaugural party walked out of the Capitol through the heavy portals of the statehouse to the platform, the Arabia Temple band of Houston struck up ‘‘The Old Gray Mare,’’ and the multitude on the Capitol grounds rose and cheered. Joining my wife and youngest daughter and me on the platform were my 134

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Sterling giving his inaugural speech as governor, 1931. CAH, DI02356

father, sister Florence, and my brothers A.A., Jim, and John with their wives. Also present were my older daughters, Mrs. Wyatt Hedrick and Mrs. Winston Wheeler, with their husbands, and my son Walter and his wife. Chief Justice C. M. Cureton of the Texas Supreme Court administered the oath of office. The audience stood when I rose, faced Cureton, placed my hand on the century-old Texas Inauguration Bible, and repeated the oath, phrase by phrase. ‘‘I, Ross S. Sterling, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties incumbent upon me as governor, and according to the best of my skill and ability, agreeable to the Constitution and laws of the United States and of this state.’’ When I finished the oath, I stepped forth and grasped my father’s hand. A cannon in a corner of the Capitol grounds began firing the seventeen-gun governor’s salute. This was followed by a solemn rendition of ‘‘The Star-Spangled Banner’’ by the A&M College band. When Dan Moody introduced me for my inaugural address, the crowd gave me another mighty ovation. In my speech, I surveyed the state’s condition, and in a hopeful vein contemplated its outlook, its opportunities for development and progress, and the forces needed to realize Texas’ great destiny. ‘‘I am not concerned so much about the honor of this great office,’’ I said, 135

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‘‘as I am about the responsibility. I think the most important function of the government is to build Texas . . . economically, physically, mentally, socially, and spiritually.’’ Just before the inaugural ceremony, Governor Moody had cleaned up the desk at which he had worked for four years. He put his hat on and took a key from his key ring. He handed it to Mark Wiginton, one of his secretaries. ‘‘Here’s the key to the office, Mark. Give it to Governor Sterling.’’ Moody shook hands with each member of his office force, said ‘‘So long,’’ and departed. The furniture and belongings of the Moodys were loaded on a moving van shortly before noon, along with little Dan Junior’s toys. In keeping with custom, when they bade farewell to the stately white mansion across the way from the Capitol, the Moodys left a hot lunch of turkey prepared for my family and me.1 Following the inauguration, my family and I went directly to the mansion and made ourselves at home in the house that had been the official home of Governors Sam Houston, Jim Hogg, and Richard Coke. After the sumptuous meal, I went to the Capitol and took my seat at the desk vacated by Moody, to begin two years’ work. Seated in the larger swivel chair I had shipped from Houston and looking about the office, I found on one wall a portrait of Woodrow Wilson; on another was the mounted head of a deer Moody had killed. On the desk were a carnation and a Bible that Governor Neff had first left to his successor with a passage marked. Moody had marked this verse for me: ‘‘Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.’’ The inaugural ball that night was a brilliant affair. Much of the social cream of Texas was skimmed and poured into Gregory Gymnasium on the University of Texas campus in full formal regalia to dance in the spacious but crowded hall. In the receiving line with my wife and me were Lieutenant Governor Witt, Attorney General Allred, and other state officials and their ladies. The climax was the grand march, led by the incoming and outgoing governors and their wives. The dancing and hilarity overflowed to the two principal downtown hotels. After it was all over, my wife and I returned to the mansion a bit fagged, but not too tired to read through the congratulatory messages that had been pouring in all day. Among the ones that I relished most were those from my old partners in the development of the Humble Oil and Refining Company. Bill Farish, Walter Fondren, Harry Wiess, and Edgar Townes sent their warm felicitations and promised to support my administration. The nationwide publicity on my election and inauguration brought greetings from men in high positions far and wide, and from old friends from whom I had not heard in years. 136

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Dan Moody (left) and Ross Sterling (right) greeting guests at the inaugural ball in Gregory Gym at the University of Texas, 1931. CAH, DI02351.

L. W. Levy of New York, with whom I had done business in the old days, wrote: ‘‘It gives me quite a kick to write a friendly letter to the Governor of Texas as for so many years I’ve been addressing you as ‘Dear Ross.’ Write me a few lines and tell me how it feels to be governor.’’ Jack Lane, a Kansas automobile dealer, recalled our associations and ‘‘ups and downs’’ in old Chambers County. He said: ‘‘I have often thought that I probably would not be here today, had it not been for your sister Florence, who nursed me through that siege of typhoid malaria on the bayou front. I consider it an honor to be a friend of a man who has reached the success in life that you have.’’ The prize letter came from Dean Averill of Houston, regarding my house on the shore of Galveston Bay. He said that since I was going to be governor, he figured that I wouldn’t need my house. ‘‘I am writing to tell you I will use it if you want me to. Please send keys in next mail.’’ As I went to bed for my first night in the Governor’s Mansion, I felt that with such assurances from government, civic, religious, and business leaders from around the state and the nation, how could my administration fail? My first official task as governor was to send a message to the Legislature out137

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lining my view of the issues to be confronted during the session. In my opening statement, I urged the legislators to be ‘‘careful and jealous’’ in the spending of state funds. I reminded them that they were spending the people’s money. I told the Legislature that we had to continue to build Texas, despite the darkening clouds of Depression, especially in ways that would contribute to a return to prosperity. A modern road system was among those areas that could help usher in a better future. Accordingly, I recommended the financing of new state roads, but through the levying of taxes on traffic rather than on property. The remainder of my message was a reaffirmation of the Democratic Party platform, adopted at Galveston in September, with emphasis on good roads and the refunding of money contributed by counties to state highway construction. The state’s newspapers responded positively to my legislative message and my inaugural speech. The Fort Worth Star-Telegram, for example, declared that my slogan ‘‘Build Texas’’ was the ‘‘happiest epigram that can be selected by any incoming governor at this or any other time.’’ The Austin American wrote that my inaugural message was ‘‘an admirable public document’’ and that ‘‘Build Texas’’ was ‘‘a noble slogan.’’ Nine days after I took office, the Legislature passed my proposal to extend the deadline for paying state, county, and district taxes from January 31 to November 15. That was my first opportunity to sign an important bill of my own proposing. My first public appearance after the inauguration was at a performance by Will Rogers in Austin. Americans at that time were jamming theaters and auditoriums all over the country to see Rogers. I was supposed to present the famed humorist to the theater audience, but shortly before the show was scheduled to begin, it turned out that no one had been asked to introduce me. Will Rogers, the nimble-minded cowboy-wisecracker, decided to go out on the stage and present me, so that I could introduce him! Twirling his rope and chewing his gum, Rogers told the audience, ‘‘I like your new governor. Although a little fat, he’s firm, and he’s starting off well.’’ We gave a luncheon at the Governor’s Mansion for Will Rogers. A number of state officials and other prominent men also attended. At the luncheon, Rogers voiced a chilling apprehension that was to prove his uncanny prescience. ‘‘Most of the nation’s wealth is in the hands of about five hundred families,’’ he said, ‘‘and if those families keep their money frozen and out of circulation I look for the worst panic this country has ever known.’’ I remarked that I wouldn’t hoard my money in annuities or other safe nonworking forms of saving. ‘‘The nation’s salvation depends on wealth being put to work in commerce and industry,’’ I declared, ‘‘and that’s where I’m going to keep mine!’’ 138

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Adjutant General Bill Sterling, who attended the luncheon, later attributed my financial losses to my determination to keep my money working in business. He urged me to safeguard myself financially, but I replied, ‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll never get into a situation where I can’t take care of myself.’’ The excitement generated by the inaugural and the first days in the Governor’s Mansion soon calmed as I began carrying out the day-to-day responsibilities of my office. I found the daily routine rather grinding. There were endless lines of callers pressing for and against legislation, daily piles of mail, an incessant clamor of invitations for me to make speeches, and heart-sickening and unending appeals from job seekers as well as from people convicted of crimes seeking clemency. My office was soon systematized. The usual routine began at 8 a.m., or thereabout, and ended whenever I finished the pressing tasks at hand. Many a time I had the light burning in my corner office until the late hours of the night. I went through my tasks like a sawyer cutting cord wood. Finishing an interview, I would ask impatiently, ‘‘Who’s next?’’ If there was no one, I usually rang for my stenographic secretary, Miss Jessie Ziegler, and plowed through my evergrowing pile of correspondence. I dictated rapidly, conversationally, leaving any kinks in my composition for the amanuensis to iron out. Often I merely wrote a few words at the bottom of a letter, instructing Miss Ziegler what to say in reply. I deemed it a waste of valuable time to answer many of the letters that came from cranks and persons seeking clemency. Nor was I disposed to send my personal autograph to everyone requesting it. Among the office staff that I inherited was an invaluable Negro file clerk and porter named Hugh Green, who had become a rather notable fixture in the chief executive’s office. He had worked there under many governors. One of Hugh Green’s many duties had been to sign autograph cards for the governors. He could duplicate their signatures so well that they themselves could not tell the difference. When Miss Ziegler suggested that I let Green sign my autograph cards, I said no. ‘‘They wouldn’t be autographs, they’d be forgeries.’’ I insisted on efficiency in the office. I did not want to lose a minute loafing. My passion for economy in government had full sway in my office. I hated to waste stationery, stamps, or anything else. A familiar sight in the executive office was an old black leather sofa, piled high with the blue-backed petitions for clemencies. It was the duty of my secretaries, particularly Paul Wakefield, Ethel Roberdeau, and Miss Ziegler, to go through them and summarize the salient facts of each case in a memorandum. Then when I had time, I would have a tall stack of them brought to my desk and go through them in rapid-fire order. If I wasn’t satisfied with the memo, I would study the file until I could make a decision. If I concluded that a case did not 139

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warrant clemency, not even a legislator working for the road bond resolution could talk me out of it. Pleas for reprieves from death penalties had a profound effect on me, but I would not let my sympathy sway my judgment. I recall one case particularly. On the afternoon before a condemned man was to be executed, his parents and wife came in and begged me for a reprieve. They were all crying when they went into my private office; when they departed, they were calm. Miss Ziegler asked me what I had said to them. ‘‘I told them I had reviewed the case carefully, and explained to them why I could not stay the execution,’’ I replied. ‘‘Then I talked with them about funeral arrangements, and they left resigned if not happy.’’ Miss Ziegler told me that she thought there should be a board of three members to pass on such cases. I did not agree. The state has a pardon board, but the final responsibility should rest with one person alone. Occasionally, when I caught up with my work and there were no more visitors in the waiting room, I would put on my hat and walk around the Capitol if the weather permitted. That was about the only exercise I got in Austin, except when I walked from the mansion to my office and back. If I wasn’t busy, I was restless; but I was a little shy, too. I did not visit very much around my own offices or the offices of other departments. I believe that many people mistook my reserve for coldness. I was always quite friendly and genial with people I knew who were not afraid of me or awed in my presence. Once Ed Kilman told me that people were afraid of me. That surprised me. I told Ed that I didn’t know why they should be afraid of me. ‘‘I like people, especially the common folks.’’ Among my inner circle of friends who always found a warm welcome in the office was Charles B. Cook, an Austin undertaker, who was an unofficial receptionist to governors and who would drive them anywhere they wanted to go in one of his limousines. The group of my close friends also included Claude Teer and Adrian Pool, members of the Board of Control; former governors Hobby, Neff, and Moody; highway commissioners W. R. Ely and D. K. Martin; Gibb Gilchrist, state highway engineer; Joe Martin and Murrell Buckner, members of the Game, Fish, and Oyster Commission; Eldred McKinnon, president of an Austin bank; the Schreiners and the Klebergs; Adjutant General Bill Sterling; J. C. Clopton, manager of the Stephen F. Austin Hotel; Senators Woodward of Coleman, Woodul of Houston, and J. W. E. H. Beck of De Kalb; General Wolters; Lou Kemp; William Strauss; and many others. Though blessed with hosts of friends, I was not a socially inclined governor. I loved to hunt at Chupadera or on the King and Schreiner ranches and to fish on the bay, although I always felt that hunting deer on the Schreiner ranch 140

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Maud Sterling. CAH, DI02363.

was like going out to the barnyard and shooting a cow. I enjoyed entertaining friends at the Governor’s Mansion, but usually I preferred spending evenings at home to gadding about. I was always a family man and I am deeply devoted to my wife. The marriage and departure of our children from the parental roof left both of us a bit lonely, and visits from our children and grandchildren always delight us. When my wife had occasion to visit the governor’s office, she would not intrude on my work. But when the grandchildren came, they would rush in to see me, and Grandpa was never too busy to stop and jolly them. As much as I mingled with smokers, I never could overcome my acute distaste for the smell of tobacco. One day, a visitor left a cigarette smoldering in 141

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the office cuspidor. A whiff of the fumes choked me and I became nauseated. Miss Ziegler dashed out for a glass of water, poured it on the cigarette, and then all was well. As a practical businessman, I hated to lose the time necessary to cut ribbons and address gatherings to which I was invited as a drawing card. I begrudged the time wasted by callers who had no constructive mission. I suffered futile agonies of compassion for the destitute Depression victims I could not help. My long training in grappling with businessmen for advantage had conditioned me to relish the challenge and the stimulus of skirmishes of wits with the legislators who kept the path hot between my office and the House and Senate. The lawmakers stimulated and challenged me with their problems and their plans for and against bills and resolutions. I believe they liked me, too, for they soon learned that I was not trying to run their business. I recommended legislation, as the Constitution required me to do; otherwise I recognized and acknowledged that the legislative and the executive departments were two separate, independent branches of state government. One of the first proposals I made to the Legislature, however, resulted in quite a battle. On January 30, I tossed a stick of dynamite into the midst of the legislators, in the form of a message recommending stringent regulation of motor carriers. This legislation was needed, I said, to protect the highways from excessive wear and tear under unlimited loads of cotton and other freight that were roaring over the roads, to safeguard life and property, and to even up the competition between the rail and motor carriers. That message sounded the tocsin that brought the railroad and truck and bus forces to grips in a perennial legislative war that was to rage for more than a decade. We enjoyed a brief respite from the daily pressures of government when the Legislature adjourned on January 31 so that its members could attend the annual gridiron dinner of the Houston Salesmanship Club. Most of the state’s officials joined the members of the Legislature in a weekend excursion to Houston. A special train had been arranged to take them from Austin to Houston. The train paused in Houston long enough to pick up a local welcoming committee, and then it sped on to La Porte. I met the train when it arrived in La Porte and escorted the party to my home on Galveston Bay. My wife and our children, Norma and Walter, served our legislative guests a breakfast of scrambled eggs, country sausage, grits soaked in brown gravy, hot buttered rolls, and coffee. After breakfast, the big crowd went down to J. M. West’s mansion on Clear Lake. Later, they returned to Houston on a boat that traveled up the ship channel. That evening, at the gridiron dinner in the ballroom of the Rice Hotel, we roared with laughter as the state’s key political and business leaders were raked 142

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Legislative breakfast on Sterling mansion grounds, 1931. CAH, DI02352.

over the hot coals. As governor and as a Houstonian, I was the principal target of most of the good-natured gridiron jibes. The headline attraction of the show was a skit inspired by Amos and Andy, radio’s black-face comedians. The crowd howled with mirth at the allusion to my rivalry with Jesse Jones for dominance in Houston affairs. Kingfish Jones suggested making Brother Ross governor so as to get him out of Houston and leave the local field clear for him. I laughed as loudly as anyone. Back in Austin after the festivities, my feet were planted again on the gridiron of grim reality. The Depression was perversely refusing to respond to the hopeful predictions of the nation’s optimistic leaders. The people were becoming frightened. All sorts of ideas were being advanced for economizing and saving money. The Philadelphia Record called and asked what my attitude was toward a $25 million federal food appropriation to relieve suffering in drought areas. I replied that I was for it. ‘‘The money is to relieve starving persons, isn’t it?’’ I stressed. ‘‘For that purpose almost anything would be justified.’’ A demonstration of unemployed farmers and workers in front of the Capitol culminated in the presentation of sixteen demands for relief by a committee 143

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of four. These demands, submitted to me by Alma Krause of San Antonio, as secretary of the organization, called for just about every concession and benefit the committee could think of, amounting in sum total almost to full pay, no work, and all expenses paid for the ‘‘poor farmers and unemployed workers.’’ Adjutant General Bill Sterling reported to me that most of the supposed statewide group was recruited in the vicinity of Austin, and that it was composed principally of Negroes. I received their demands and thanked them. Amid the ceaseless whirl of public affairs, I found time to be homesick for the bay and for my home and farm at Bay Ridge. Occasionally I sneaked off for a weekend’s relaxation there and spent much of the time looking after my blooded cows and hogs. One of my various philanthropies, of which little was ever heard publicly, was the donation of registered Duroc pigs to communities, agricultural groups, and individuals. The purpose was to encourage the raising of better swine. No doubt, thousands of fine hogs in Texas today are descended from the prize porkers I gave away. I gave one to the community of Schulenburg. Myke Klein, a local civic leader, wrote me that the pig was received ‘‘in royal fashion by a Republican mayor, passed on to a Sterling Chamber of Commerce Secretary, who then presented it to a Ferguson farmer to raise.’’ At this time oil proration was becoming a very live issue in Texas. E. G. Templeton, a farmer in Trinity, wrote me that his big Duroc sow ‘‘had fourteen pigs last night and has only twelve teats. Please advise at once.’’ I sent him a one-word telegram: prorate.

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In the early spring of 1931, the swelling torrent of petroleum from the great new East Texas field began to flood the already depressed oil market.1 Prices skidded downward and downward. Landowners saw their natural resources drained away for 50 cents a barrel. Royalty checks shrank. Revenue from the oil production tax, a major source of state funds, dwindled. The oil situation was rapidly taking on the aspects of an emergency. The problem was aggravated by large imports of cheap foreign oil. Governor ‘‘Alfalfa Bill’’ Murray of Oklahoma and I, joined by the chief executives of New Mexico and Kansas, wired President Hoover urging him to ask the major oil companies to curtail their imports in an effort to stabilize the oil industry. ‘‘We are dealing with a grave emergency,’’ our message said, ‘‘and appeal to you as president to urge an immediate agreement by those importers with the sanction of the various authorities.’’ I attended a conference of governors from oil-producing states where it was decided to set up the Oil States Advisory Committee to work toward a conservation program. I appointed R. R. Penn of Dallas to represent Texas on the advisory committee. Oklahoma governor Murray named his cousin Cicero. Governor Harry Woodring of Kansas appointed Alfred Landon to represent his state, and Governor Seligman of New Mexico appointed Dr. E. H. Wells to represent his. Texas had a proration law of sorts to regulate production; it was largely the result of the efforts of Bill Farish, who had succeeded me as president of the Humble Company. The proration law could limit production only to a volume sufficiently low to avoid physical waste, and that was a nebulous amount that was hard to determine. The law did not allow prorationing to be used for economic reasons.2 145

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I was anxious to bring the East Texas field under proration controls to limit production, but powerful forces were massed to resist it. Wells in East Texas were flowing wide-open. Some producers did not want their gushers cut down from thousands of barrels daily to a few hundred barrels, even though a limited yield would mean a higher price per barrel. It also would insure a much greater ultimate output by preserving the gas pressure and thereby avoid water encroachment that would ruin the wells. President Hoover responded to the plea of the oil-state governors. After querying the major oil companies, the president stated that all but one had agreed to limit their imports. He added, however, that the oil industry could not be stabilized until the East Texas field was under proration controls. I asked Governor Woodring of Kansas to urge the Standard Oil Company to rescind a cut it had made in its purchasing price of crude oil. Woodring replied that he did not feel like making the request until something was done in East Texas. I replied to Woodring that I agreed that the East Texas field needed to be controlled and that we had been working hard to bring about prorationing in that field. I said that the Texas Railroad Commission soon would hold a hearing to determine if prorationing should be imposed in that area. The Railroad Commission was slow to confront the issue, however. Exasperated by the delay, I issued a statement censuring the commission. I blamed the collapse of oil prices on the unrestricted deluge of crude from East Texas and on the commission’s failure to check the flow. ‘‘The duties of the commissioners incident to the regulation of the rail and motor carriers are so heavy,’’ I complained, ‘‘that they really don’t have time to attend to the oil business.’’ As a remedy for that situation, I suggested the creation of a separate conservation commission to regulate oil and gas, relieving the Railroad Commission of that function. Railroad commissioners Lon Smith and C. V. Terrell responded that my censure was unwarranted and, by implication, questioned my motives, as well as those of President Hoover. They implied that our call for prorationing was at the behest of the major oil companies. ‘‘If I am to be criticized by my good friends of the Railroad Commission,’’ I retorted, ‘‘I feel flattered that they have selected the President of the United States to criticize jointly with me.’’ Commissioners Smith and Terrell also implied that I had a personal interest in this matter because of my past involvement with the Humble Company, which was advocating the control of production in East Texas. I replied that my first interest was in the conservation of the natural resources of the state of Texas. ‘‘I am very much interested in the welfare of that vast army of citizens who are dependent on the oil industry of this state,’’ I stressed, ‘‘and primarily those interested 146

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in North and West Texas and other sections of the state where the wells are small and where present prices force them to operate at a loss.’’ When I submitted the proposal for a new oil and gas commission to the Legislature as an emergency measure, I quoted the recommendation of the Oil States Advisory Committee that such commissions should be established in the southwestern oil states. I also quoted the commission’s warning that ‘‘if present conditions continue unchecked and unabated, they will result not only in the abandonment of hundreds of thousands of small oil wells and the loss of millions of barrels of oil, but in the elimination of virtually, if not entirely, the army of small or independent oil producers in this country.’’ The bill was introduced in the House by J. R. McDougald of Beaumont and others, and in the Senate, by Walter Woodul of Houston and Walter Woodward of Coleman. The commission finally called a prorationing hearing on March 24, 1931. Headlines on that day proclaimed two developments in the oil crisis. One was a favorable House committee report on my bill to create a separate oil and gas commission. The other was the oil prorationing hearing. Dan Moody appeared before the Railroad Commission as chief counsel for the East Texas group of antiproration oilmen. After hearing five days of hot argument, the commission issued an order prorating the East Texas field. The opponents promptly and militantly announced that they would not accept the prescribed production allowables without a court fight. Moody filed a petition for a court injunction to restrain enforcement of the proration order. A few days later, a district court granted Moody a temporary restraining order. Other similar injunctions followed. Oil proration was at a stalemate. Meanwhile, other problems were making steam. The cotton surplus was having the same effect on the cotton market that the overproduction of crude oil was having on the oil market. Distressed farmers, threatened with five-cent cotton, were demanding relief. A bill to reduce cotton acreage 50 percent as a means of eliminating the surplus, and thereby bolstering the price of cotton, was mauled nearly to death in the House. Only the breaking of a quorum saved it from being killed outright. The measure was assailed as socialistic, Bolshevistic, economically ruinous, a violation of farmers’ rights, impracticable, unenforceable, and unconstitutional. I sympathized with the farmers who were getting next to nothing for their product. I wanted something done to help them, but I gravely doubted the wisdom and the validity of an act making it a crime to plant more than half of their acreage to cotton. After its hostile reception in the House, the bill languished 147

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on the calendar, its proponents fearing to risk it until they could see more votes in favor. Overshadowing all else in excitement and acrimony, however, was the state road bond issue. The conflict over that matter was deep-seated. Fundamentally, it was Fergusonism, though some opposed the bonds for other reasons. The dispute dated back to 1927, when the Highway Commission’s resurrection of the moribund road system had discredited the preceding Ferguson administration. When I was on the Highway Commission, my duel with Roy I. Tennant of the Board of Control over the purchase of road-building equipment in 1928 added fuel to the fire. In addition, there were hard feelings left over from the Fergusonsparked investigation of the Highway Commission in 1929 and from the 1930 gubernatorial campaign. Ferguson’s supporters were grimly determined to beat the bond measure, and they bent every effort to that end. The ringleader of the opposition was the shrewd, grizzled Representative T. H. McGregor, who had been Jim Ferguson’s right hand in his political wars, and during Jim’s and Ma’s administrations as governor. He was the brains and moving spirit of a secret meeting of House members on April 12, when the bond resolution proponents were organizing for their legislative drive. At the closed caucus with McGregor were Coke Stevenson, Elmer Pope, J. L. Goodman, Homer DeWolfe, Ben Ramsey, Preston Anderson, and others. After the meeting, McGregor laconically told reporters, ‘‘you can say we’re going to beat the goddamn bond issue.’’ Coke Stevenson, who would later serve as governor, denied that he was a Ferguson supporter, but he would eventually be Ferguson’s candidate for Speaker of the Texas House of Representatives in 1933, and he worked hard against my plan. Another leader of the opposition to the bond amendment was Senator Clint Small. I never understood why he opposed the program, because he was not a Ferguson supporter. The only reason my friends and I could guess was that Clint had not forgotten that I had beaten him out of a place in the runoff for governor. In a surprise maneuver, Senators Woodul and Woodward got the road bond resolution up for floor consideration on March 26. Opponents bombarded it mercilessly with crippling amendments, without cracking its armor. The only material change approved was one decreasing the amount from $300,000 to $212,000. The Senate engrossed the measure by a vote of nineteen to ten, which was two short of the two-thirds necessary for final adoption. Senator Woodul told the press he was undecided when it would be brought up again. I knew, of course, that he first wanted to line up the two votes we needed. The Senate finally passed the road bond amendment on April 8, by a vote of twenty-two to eight. It permitted the state to issue $100 million of bonds for 148

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constructing and maintaining a system of state highways and $112,000 to repay counties and road districts for money already spent in building state highways. The bond program would be submitted to the people in two separate propositions, and the voters could adopt or reject either or both. Representative R. M. Hubbard of New Boston, a former member of the Highway Commission, was the generalissimo of the House road bond forces. He steered the Senate resolution speedily through the House Constitutional Amendments committee, of which he was chairman. On Monday, April 13, its proponents put through a motion setting it for special order on Wednesday, April 15. Then began a legislative tug of war as intense and bitter as any that Texas had witnessed since the adoption of prohibition. It was hot enough in the open, but behind the scenes, it attained the savagery of a vendetta. The House engrossed the resolution readily enough. That action required only a simple majority. The first test brought only 80 votes for submission, which was 20 short of the required two-thirds. Fifty-nine voted against submission, while 12 did not vote. Hubbard expressed confidence that the 100 votes would be forthcoming in due time. He and the other active advocates became the busiest men in Austin, trying to line up the 20 votes we needed. Our forces were thrown for a loss when the House passed a bill introduced by Ben Brooks of Bagwell, which provided for repayment of county expenditures on state highways from current gasoline tax revenue of the highway department. Some members were more interested in the county refunds than in the state road bonds and figured that the statutory route was more direct and certain than submission of a constitutional amendment. It was a full month before the bond amendment came to a final showdown. In the meantime, other matters of critical emergency demanded attention. One of them was an alarming shrinkage of the state’s current income. That was due generally to the Depression and particularly to the reduced revenues from the oil production tax, since the drop in crude prices to 10 cents a barrel. The treasury was fast running in the red, and it was obvious that some sort of emergency financial blood transfusion must be given quickly. At this juncture, I took an action that I later learned was probably unique in the annals of Texas government. I sent Pat Dougherty, my secretary, to the legislative galleries to ask several of the leading corporation lobbyists to come to my office at 9:30 on the following morning. None of them was told the purpose of the summons; none was told that any others were being called. At the appointed time, the lobbyists showed up, wondering what was up. Each was promptly ushered into my executive office. ‘‘You fellows all have been doing a fine job for your clients,’’ I began. ‘‘I don’t know what they’re paying you, but I’ll bet it isn’t as much as you’re earning.’’ 149

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Sterling at his desk in the governor’s office. CAH, DI02354.

The puzzled gentlemen of the Third House chorused their thanks for the compliment, and then waited for me to reveal the gimmick. ‘‘Gentlemen,’’ I began in a graver tone, ‘‘I want you to work for the state for a little while.’’ Jake Wolters smiled and said, ‘‘All right, out with it.’’ I told them that they knew the state’s financial condition as well as I. The Legislature had appropriated a lot more money than there were revenues available to pay. ‘‘We’ve got to levy more taxes.’’ The lobbyists squirmed. I could tell that they were worried that I was going to ask them to accept a heavy load of taxes. ‘‘You know, Senator Berkeley of Alpine is proposing an amendment to the sulfur tax bill,’’ I said, ‘‘providing for a tax on cigarettes. Now cigarettes are a nonessential luxury, and I think they could stand a tax.’’ The lobbyists heaved a concerted breath of relief. None of them represented tobacco interests. I argued that such a tax would yield $5 million or $6 million a year that we needed badly. I felt that everything else seemed to be taxed about as much as the traffic would bear. ‘‘So, I’m asking you gentlemen to do a job of lobbying for the state of Texas and help put this cigarette tax over.’’ 150

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General Wolters promptly boomed that he would help. Roy Miller of the Texas Gulf Sulphur Company quickly added that he would support the tax as well. They were joined by Jack Dies of the Humble Company and all the others in the group. Someone, sensing a point of ethics, suggested that the tobacco lobby had left Austin, supposing that all danger for their industry was over for the session. They might feel that their fellow lobbyists had double-crossed them if the cigarette levy were slipped through in their absence. ‘‘Well, it’s their business to watch the Legislature,’’ I responded. I did not deem it necessary to mention that Senator Berkeley had waited until the tobacco lobby had departed before springing his amendment. The Third House leaders got together and mapped their campaign. In a few days, men of influence all over Texas were hearing from them, and in turn, members of the Legislature heard from the influential men. With the double incentive of serving the state and keeping taxes off their clients, the coalition lobby got the cigarette tax through both houses in quick time. Amendments necessitated a conference committee. Meanwhile, young Representative McDougald of Beaumont was having his troubles. For some unknown reason, he had talked against a cigarette tax in his election campaign, and he had voted against its passage. But now, while the measure was in conference, his constituents were besieging him with demands to support the tax. McDougald was a friend of mine, and he told me about his plight. I assured him that it was easy. ‘‘You’ve got an opportunity now to show that you’re a big man,’’ I said. I advised him that when the conference report came to a vote in the House, he should get up and make a roaring speech. I told him to declare that he voted against the bill to keep his campaign pledge, but that conditions have changed since the election, and it is necessary to raise $5 million for the schoolchildren and for that reason he felt compelled to change his position. McDougald followed my advice. He told the House that many of his constituents had urged him to change his vote, and he had heard from only two constituents against the bill. ‘‘When I go home,’’ he said, ‘‘I want to be able to tell my people that I voted to maintain the schoolchildren’s $17.50 apportionment.’’ The House applauded his forthright speech and passed the bill with a whoop. The Senate also passed it quickly. The cigarette tax bill went into the statute books as one enacted through the efforts of the corporate lobby, that fraternity whose chief concern with legislation is to protect their clients or employers from taxation. 151

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At the initial meeting of the newly created Oil, Gas, and Natural Resources Conservation Committee on April 17, I was elected chairman, and Representative Andrew Howsley of Albany, secretary. We passed a resolution inviting the governors, oil regulatory authorities, and legislative committees of other oilproducing states to send representatives to the next meeting, on May 4. That was the first step toward the formation of the Oil States Compact Commission, which was to become an active organization for the development of uniform oil conservation laws in the petroleum-producing states. On the next day after this meeting, I took time out to toss the first ball at the opening game of the Texas professional baseball league, between the Houston Buffs and the Beaumont Exporters. I threw the ball straight enough for Houston mayor Monteith to catch it. Monteith, an old college athlete, was behind the batter’s plate with the breast-protector across his back instead of his front. Beaumont won the game by a score of 5 to 4. On April 21, the ninety-fifth anniversary of the Battle of San Jacinto, which won Texas independence, Bill Hobby read my message to a crowd gathered at the battlefield. A feature of the ceremonies was the dedication of live oak trees that had been planted along the drive from the main highway to the battlegrounds in honor of the heroes of San Jacinto. The State Highway Department provided the trees. With the rapid growth of truck traffic, I was becoming concerned about the danger of trucks hauling unlimited loads of cotton and other freight on the highways. It was clear that they were damaging our roads. Accordingly, I gave my blessing to a bill drastically limiting truckloads and speeds. The bill was sponsored in the House by Representative Ed Murphy of Livingston and in the Senate by Clint Small and Walter Woodul. Its enactment was a triumph for the railroads, but the truck operators were to come back again and again and finally turn the tables. May 5 was a momentous day for administration legislation. The Senate voted to increase the State Highway Patrol force to 150 men. This legislation more than doubled the size of the Highway Patrol. I had championed the bill because I wanted Texas to emulate Pennsylvania and other states that had found large highway patrols effective in the interest of public safety and in enforcing highway laws and regulations. The bill, introduced by Senator W. A. Williamson of San Antonio, became law and went on the record as a major achievement of my administration. I was mainly responsible for the development of the motor patrol into the splendid organization that it became by virtue of that legislation. Through his influence L. G. Phares, who had once been a truck weight checker for the highway department, was made chief of the Highway Patrol. Phares built an efficient organization that was a credit to the state. 152

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Another bill introduced on that eventful May 5 was one to put teeth into the oil proration law by prohibiting the production of oil in excess of current reasonable market demand. The existing law prohibited only physical waste in production. Representative Howsley introduced the bill, saying he did so at the request of East and West Texas independent producers. Carl Estes, a belligerent East Texas newspaper publisher, and J. D. Collett promptly declared war on the proration measure. ‘‘This bill,’’ said Estes, ‘‘represents an attempt to win a lawsuit outside the courthouse.’’ He referred to the injunction suits pending against the existing proration law. Also on May 5, the Senate killed the Brooks county road refund bill, thus removing a formidable obstacle from the path of the $212 million highway bond resolution. The moment this action was taken, the House proponents of the road bond proposal brought it up for final adoption. After a fiery debate, the vote was 88 to 53 in favor. Although it had gained 8 votes, the bill was still 12 shy of the required 100. At this point, when the bond proponents were straining day and night on a final desperate hunt for the needed votes, I was subjected to about as strong a temptation as a governor ever underwent. A certain person came to my office, gave me a list of eighteen House members’ names, all on record against the bond issue, and told me that everyone would vote for the resolution if I would appoint a certain friend of Jim Ferguson’s to a certain office. At that moment, 100 House votes for that measure was the thing I wanted most in life. I could have them for a nod of my head. Instead, I shook it. ‘‘I’ll be damned if I do.’’ A week later, the bond resolution was put to a vote for the last time. It mustered 95 ballots, 5 short of the necessary 100. The road bond issue was dead. I was tested again when a certain Central Texas politician called at the executive office. He was an old acquaintance of my secretary, Pat Dougherty. The man told Pat he wished to talk politics with me. Taking the friend at his word, the secretary ushered him into my office. The politics he wanted to discuss was a clemency for a friend or client who was in the penitentiary on a murder conviction. In the course of the conversation, the politician made a veiled suggestion that there was a farm I could have if I would grant the pardon. ‘‘Say that again,’’ I replied, ‘‘and if it’s what it sounded like, I’ll come over this desk and mop up the floor with you.’’ The caller recoiled, assuring me he was only trying to help a friend. He took a hasty exit through a side door, and that was the last I ever saw of him. Incidentally, a subsequent governor paroled the convict. One day, as the convict walked the streets of a Central Texas town, he was shot and killed by the son of the man he had slain. Although I had suffered a defeat in the road bond legislation, I enjoyed more 153

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success with other legislation of importance to me and my close friend William Strauss, who had worked my election campaign. About the only thing Strauss wanted as a reward for managing my campaign was my support for a bill to create a child welfare department. His heart was wrapped up in that humanitarian measure. He spent time and effort in Austin working for it, and as adjournment time neared in May, he grew distraught over its lack of progress. On the last day for consideration of bills without suspension of rules, he walked into my office with tears in his eyes. ‘‘They’ll appropriate money,’’ he bitterly complained, ‘‘for the propagation of fish and everything else except for little children.’’ I realized that I had been too preoccupied with more pressing matters to think much about the child welfare bill. Strauss’s complaint sent me into action. I called in Secretary of State McCallum and my assistants Paul Wakefield and Jessie Ziegler. ‘‘I wish you’d all get busy,’’ I told them, ‘‘and see what you can do for Mr. Strauss’s bill.’’ The three went in three different directions: to the House, the Senate, and the corridors and lobbying rooms. Miss Ziegler entreated House Speaker Fred Minor to lay the bill out for consideration. Minor was a good friend of mine. He agreed to bring the bill out, and it passed the House. The Senate also passed the bill. Both enacted it without an appropriation, but that came at a special session later in the year. Thus, the child welfare department was born as a child of my administration. The bill to create a separate oil and gas commission was killed, however, but only by a fluke. At first the support of all three railroad commissioners promised the proposal an excellent chance of passage. Commissioners Lon Smith and C. V. Terrell were satisfied with my promise to appoint one of them chairman of the new state agency, the other to continue in the Railroad Commission as chairman. Commissioner Pat Neff was agreeable, too. At a committee hearing on the bill he was the first railroad commissioner summoned to the stand. It was then and there that the whole deal was killed. At the hearing, Neff criticized his colleagues severely. He made both of them mad, and made their friends in the Legislature mad. Then at a meeting of the commissioners, Neff moved that they endorse the separate commission bill. Both Smith and Terrell opposed the motion. I attended the meeting and told them, ‘‘That’s strange, you fellows reversing yourselves like that.’’ They went out, and in a few minutes Terrell came back and said to me, ‘‘Governor, I’m sorry about that. We did it because of the way Neff has acted.’’ I told Terrell what I thought of their letting personal feelings influence their action in an important matter of state government. 154

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At about that time, President Brooks of Baylor University died. Someone suggested that Pat Neff, a Waco man, would be a good person to take his place. I thought it was a natural. It would not only be good for Neff, but it would also take him out of Smith’s and Terrell’s hair, and then maybe they would be all right. I got busy and got my friend D. K. Martin busy. He was a Baylor trustee and a good friend of Mr. Kokernot, who practically ran Baylor. We got Carr Collins and others to urge Neff to resign and take the presidency of Baylor. Eventually he was elected to the place and accepted. That did not come to pass until a year later, however, and by that time, the oil commission bill’s chances had about parsed. I chose Neff ’s successor on the Railroad Commission. Early in 1932 I joined with some of my friends to call a statewide meeting in San Antonio to launch a Garner-for-President drive. Colonel Ernest O. Thompson, the former mayor of Amarillo, was there. After the meeting, I invited Thompson to my room in the Gunter Hotel, and I asked him if he would be interested in taking Neff ’s place on the Railroad Commission. Without hesitation, Thompson replied, ‘‘Governor, I can eat that job up.’’ ‘‘All right,’’ I said, ‘‘you’ve got the job.’’ Mr. Thompson has been eating it up ever since. Through his long service on the commission, he has become probably the foremost oil conservationist in the country.3 The Legislature voted to adjourn the regular session on Friday, May 22, ten days beyond the constitutionally allotted four months at full pay. Then it postponed adjournment until Saturday. The members disregarded my plea that they only recess for a few weeks, to save the trouble and expense of an extra session. I reminded the lawmakers of the state’s critical financial condition. We faced a prospective deficit of more than $4.5 million in the general revenue fund by the end of the fiscal year, and it looked as though we would face a deficit of about $7.5 million by the end of fiscal year 1933, even with the cigarette tax. I told them, in effect, that they were leaving me a choice between gutting the appropriations with the veto knife or raising the ad valorem tax to its constitutional maximum. I ruled out the latter alternative, because homes, farms, ranches, and other property were overtaxed already. My only recourse was to do as our Depression-stricken citizens were forced to do individually: cut expenses. On the day the Legislature adjourned, I had to be in Houston. As I sped homeward in my Lincoln car driven by my Negro chauffeur, Alex, my farewell message was read to the members back in Austin. I told the members that my regard and affection for them was such that I would be lonesome for them after 155

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they were gone. I would be so lonesome that if it developed that an additional session would be necessary to complete the program of needed legislation, I would soon ask them to return in twenty or thirty days. My first veto killed a million-dollar appropriation. The House had first passed the measure authorizing half a million dollars for combating the pink bollworm. Then the Senate tacked on an amendment adding another halfmillion to reimburse farmers for losses incurred in tick eradication. Publicly, I declared that the state could not stand the financial drain to which the tick eradication amendment would open the gates. Privately, I remarked to my secretary while dictating the veto message, ‘‘Jessie, you know what happened to this bill? The cattle tick got on the pink bollworm and killed it.’’ That my fellow Texans were concerned over the threat of more taxes was indicated by the commendatory messages I received for swinging the economy axe so lustily. They cheered my action. Gordon Shearer, veteran chief of the United Press bureau at Austin, was regarded as pro-Ferguson, but he conceded in a review of the session that I had the goodwill of the legislators. They seemed to like me, Shearer indicated, because I had ‘‘shown less disposition than many other governors to dictate to the legislators.’’ Shearer pointed out that I had ‘‘sent them few messages and kept off the floor of both House and Senate.’’ While the two proposals that I pushed the hardest—the road bond issue and the separate oil and gas commission—failed, some important acts were entered on the credit side of my administration’s ledger. One bill in which I was deeply interested was to provide for soil conservation and prevention of erosion. I have a passion for the conservation of all natural resources, and this bill, sponsored by Representative P. A. Fuchs of Burton, inaugurated a far-reaching program for saving the soil. I had my disappointments, but I was proud of other major accomplishments of the regular session. Those accomplishments included the cigarette tax, regulation of truck traffic, expansion of the State Highway Patrol, provisions for the control and prevention of malaria, the creation of a minimum wage scale for highway workers, improvements in the methods of investing the State University Permanent Fund, an act making it illegal for a husband to desert his wife and children, and the creation of a division of child welfare. In addition, the Legislature submitted the constitutional amendment that was adopted by the people in 1932 exempting all homesteads up to the valuation of $3000 from taxation.

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The moment the regular session adjourned, Texas was engulfed in a desperate controversy between oilmen who wanted a special session to enact an effective proration law and those who opposed it. I found myself pressed between a rock and a hard place. I conferred early and late with oil operators, large and small. I found that the advocates for a special session were men who were frantic over the depletion of their oil production at prices as low as 5 and 10 cents a barrel.1 Their opponents in the main were refiners who wanted to stock up with crude while the price was low so that they could make huge profits by selling when the market revived. Others who opposed a special session wanted to pay out their wells in a few weeks with unlimited production even at prices that in some places were lower than the cost of water. Some of the oilmen simply opposed regulation on principle.2 The North Texas Oil and Gas Association petitioned me to call a special session to impose stricter prorationing on the East Texas field. Many independent operators joined in the plea. H. T. Staiti, president of the Valley Oil Corporation, expressed the conviction that unless steps were taken to curb the unrestricted flow of oil, the industry would be lost. Will Farish, president of the Humble Oil and Refining Company, asserted that unless orderly and ratable production were established, overproduction would make the stabilization of the price structure impossible. H. R. Cullen, a Houston independent oilman, militantly opposed such a measure. ‘‘The only thing that will control the oil industry,’’ Cullen said, ‘‘is supply and demand, and as long as there is overproduction we must be content with low prices.’’ I made it clear to everyone that I much preferred not having a special session, but the oil price emergency was raising such a demand that one might be necessary. 157

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At the Yoakum annual turkey celebration on May 29, after I paid tribute to King Turkey Tom Tom and his queen, I discussed the Depression. I took a hopeful view of future prospects and said that I believed the economic condition was ‘‘due entirely to the Republicans and not the Democrats.’’ Facetiously, I added, ‘‘I think that with the next election we will have a new deal in Washington, and that conditions will never again be allowed to return to this chaotic plight of the past few months.’’ That was about a year before Franklin D. Roosevelt came forth with his New Deal platform. Throughout the month of June, I struggled with the clamor for and against a special session. I kept saying I hoped that the operators in East Texas would obviate the need for early legislation by voluntarily reducing their oil production. In a press conference, I intimated that before I would call the lawmakers back, I had to be convinced that they would give a proration bill the two-thirds vote necessary to put it into immediate effect. Otherwise, it would not become operative for ninety days, which might be too late to do much good. Malcolm Crim, mayor of Kilgore, in the heart of the East Texas field, told me there had been a swing of sentiment toward proration and he believed 90 percent of the people in his section were for it. On June 12, all but three of the thirty-three parties to the injunction suits pending against the Railroad Commission’s proration orders had agreed to a voluntary plan limiting production in East Texas to 300 barrels a day from each twenty acres. I hailed this as a possible solution to the problem, but others quickly opposed it. ‘‘Proration based upon acreage rather than potential production is unscientific and unfair, and would not be maintained,’’ argued Representative Paul Hill of Laredo, a member of the House Oil and Gas Committee. In the midst of the new furor that blazed up over this issue, I finished my work of approving or vetoing the mass of bills left by the Legislature. I killed only 7 of the 500 passed during the session. I then left Austin for a weekend at my bayshore home. Chatting with newspapermen while cleaning up my desk to depart, I said I felt the relief of a student when school is out for the summer. ‘‘It’s almost like getting over a spell of fever,’’ I added with a laugh. I pointed a finger at two framed printed prayers on my desk—a ‘‘morning prayer’’ and ‘‘an evening prayer’’—that a friend had given me. ‘‘I’ve about concluded,’’ I said, ‘‘that I also need a noon prayer.’’ The weekend’s rest came in handy, for Monday the pulling and hauling was stronger than ever. The East Texas antiprorationists opened a concentrated drive for the 200-barrel daily production plan, which was called the Cranfill plan. My hopes for the plan dimmed when I discovered that it had a loop158

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hole big enough to drive a truck through. It provided that the production limit should not apply to any bona fide contract or commitment, written or verbal, when the quantity of oil to be delivered should be greater than 300 barrels. In such cases, a well’s production would be unlimited. I was willing to try the plan, but I thought it should be given the legal status of a legislative act. The antiprorationists protested. They did not want a special session or legislation under any circumstances. When I asked Tom Cranfill why, he responded, ‘‘Because in these times we are afraid some law might be passed that would ruin us at some future time.’’ ‘‘You don’t seem to have much confidence in your Legislature,’’ I replied. Myron Blalock of Marshall, legal counsel for the so-called East Texas Arbitration Committee, said he believed the people preferred to do things by agreement than being forced into them. There were meetings and conferences all over the place, and daily public statements for and against legislation. I finally yielded to the enormous pressure that was being brought to bear on me and convened the Legislature on July 14. I said the existing law and Railroad Commission orders issued under it were unenforceable, and I had become convinced that the voluntary 300-barrel limit would not work. In the midst of this controversy, I received a letter from my brother Frank, who was still an executive of the Humble Oil and Refining Company. Frank, having held on to his stock from the beginning of the company, was better off financially than I was. I had sold much of my Humble stock and used the profit as venture capital to build other things. Frank had written his letter before learning that I was calling a proration special session. His letter rang with the sincerity and conviction that I knew must have moved my brother to write it, knowing what capital the antiproration forces would make of it if they should discover that a major oil company official was trying to influence my course. In his letter, Frank said that he was writing me in what he believed to be his duty as a citizen of Texas. ‘‘I am very much alarmed about the oil business,’’ he said. ‘‘Oil is selling in East Texas at nine cents per barrel to the producer, and if this continues for thirty or sixty days it will cause a great calamity.’’ My brother said that in his judgment, many oil companies would go broke and many banks would fail. At the end of his letter, Frank wrote that he had given the issue considerable thought and had finally come to the conclusion that it was his duty to express his views to me. ‘‘No other official of the Humble Oil & Refining Company knows I am writing this letter,’’ Frank said, ‘‘and I am not writing it for the company; I am writing it because I feel an interest in the welfare of the people of Texas.’’ He urged me to call a special session of the Legislature to pass a law that could be enforced in all oil fields so the oil could be left in the ground in159

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stead of being produced and practically given away. ‘‘I think this is one of the greatest wastes of the natural resources of the state,’’ Frank argued. The Legislature convened in special session on July 14. The Legislature was divided into two factions that were poised like opposing football lines at the kickoff opening a game. A motion was filed to organize the House into a committee of the whole to investigate the oil situation, pending consideration of the administration’s oil conservation bill. Similar action followed in the Senate. The motion was sponsored in the House by R. M. Wagstaff of Abilene, Alfred Petsch of Fredericksburg, and A. P. Johnson of Carrizo Springs. They were all good friends of mine. In the Senate, Walter Woodward of Coleman filed the motion. I raised no objection to the investigation, for it was reasonable and natural that all members would want to find out what the shooting was all about. My enemies, however, seized on the probe as a vehicle for hauling out all the antiadministration dead cats they could collect. Of course, those who opposed proration for business reasons used it to grind their axes. I was invited to meet with the Senate to tell why I had called the special session and to present my views on the need for conserving oil and other resources. Grady Woodruff, a young senator from Decatur, cross-examined me concerning my personal affairs and the allegations by my enemies that the major oil companies had manipulated me to call the session for their economic benefit. I told the senators that it had been a long time since I had been connected with the oil business. ‘‘But I know the industry is in a bad way; it is suffering more than any other business—more than even agriculture. If cotton were selling for as much below its normal price as oil is, cotton would be one cent a pound.’’ Senator Tom Pollard of Tyler pitched me a fast one, asking whether the low price of oil should not bring a lower price of gasoline. I tossed it back even faster. I pointed out that I had purchased gasoline a couple of days before at 12 or 13 cents per gallon. I told them to take the 4-cent state tax from 13 cents and that left 9 cents. Then take 2 cents freight from that and it leaves 6 and a half cents. Then take off 3 cents for the dealer and that leaves 3 and a half cents. After that, deduct 2 cents for the wholesaler, and that left the manufacturer with 1 and a half cents for his product. Even if the refiner was given the crude oil, I didn’t believe he could make any money refining it at those figures. I told the Senate that other oil-producing states had enforceable proration laws, but that the law in Texas was impotent. I entreated the lawmakers to pass a bill that would empower the government to stop the dissipation of Texas’ oil at give-away prices. Several days later, at my own request, I took the stand again in the Senate 160

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hearing to spike a rumor that had been slipped into the record the day before. This rumor, retailed by Harry Pennington, a San Antonio oilman, concerned a $600,000 bond issue floated by my Houston Printing Company, which published the Houston Post-Dispatch. The San Antonio oilman claimed he had heard that part of the bond issue was purchased by the South Texas Commercial National Bank of Houston and that some of the bank’s directors were also directors of the Humble Oil and Refining Company. Pennington claimed that the money was repaid to the Humble Company in satisfaction of an alleged $400,000 loan Humble Oil had made to me. I testified that the $600,000 in bonds were sold to two Dallas banks and a Houston bank, not the one Pennington had mentioned, for general resale. Their payment at maturity was secured by a deed of trust to the newspaper properties, and by my personal guarantee. I did not know who had bought the bonds from the banks. However, I flatly denied that the Humble Company had made me a $400,000 loan. I explained that Humble had paid me a $175,000 bonus on a lease and had advanced me $225,000 in deferred royalties. ‘‘There’s no loan to it,’’ I said. ‘‘I don’t owe Humble a penny, and I don’t intend to pay it back. If the company doesn’t get two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars worth of oil from my one-sixth interest, which it paid me as advance royalty, it will be their hard luck.’’ I explained that I had, with nine other individuals, leased 1500 acres in Chambers County to Humble, after competitive bidding. Humble offered a 6 percent royalty and a $350,000 bonus. Half of the bonus was to be paid in cash and the balance from oil produced from the tract leased. I told the Senate that in January of the previous year, the Humble Company brought in a well but didn’t want to develop the lease immediately. I waited a long time and then proposed that in consideration of the delay they advance me $225,000 on royalties and the remaining $175,000 of the bonus, making a total of $400,000. Sitting up straight in the witness chair on the presiding officer’s dais, I looked the Senate straight in its collective eye and added in a clear voice: ‘‘The royalty advance and the Post-Dispatch bond issue were two separate matters and there was no remote connection between them.’’ A senator asked, ‘‘Governor, have you anything more to say on the subject?’’ ‘‘Nothing,’’ I replied, ‘‘except that I regret that you folks have gone to dealing in rumors. If you’re going to do that I’m afraid you’ll be here all summer.’’ The next day, I also took the stand in the House. I gave them the same explanation of the Post-Dispatch bonds and the royalty advance that I gave the Senate. After spending half of the thirty-day session investigating, the Legislature went into a seance on oil regulation. It divided on the question of whether the 161

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law to be enacted should restrict production merely to the extent of preventing physical waste, or to reasonable market demand. The bill I favored forbade consideration of economic waste. It also provided for a separate conservation commission, which was another major bone of contention. The session was two-thirds gone, and approximately thirty conservation bills awaited action, when the lawmakers were thrown off the trail by another grave issue that confronted Texas and other Southern states: the huge cotton surplus. It, like the overproduction of oil, was ruining the market and ruining the farmers. Governor Huey Long of Louisiana had drummed up considerable sentiment in the South for a uniform law in the cotton-growing states, prohibiting the planting of cotton on the same land two years in succession. A bill to that effect was pending in the Texas House of Representatives. Huey Long’s plan was endorsed by a Southern conference that I called pursuant to a legislative resolution. Held in the Stephen F. Austin Hotel, the conference rejected a counter resolution sponsored by W. L. Clayton of Houston, head of the world’s largest cotton firm. Clayton’s resolution was seconded by M. H. Gossett, president of the Federal Land Bank of Houston, and J. W. Hoopes of Dallas, president of the State Bankers Association. To stabilize the market, Clayton’s plan proposed that the Federal Farm Board withhold from the market the 3.5 million bales of surplus cotton it had on hand until January 1933, or else replace immediately whatever amount it might sell, from the current year’s crop. I found the idea of prohibiting the planting of cotton repugnant, so I favored the Clayton plan. Applying common horse-sense to the problem, I told the conference that I didn’t believe there was a surplus of cotton because millions of people needed clothes. The great trouble with cotton, as well as other business, was lack of customers. It’s like a game of marbles when one fellow wins them all and the others can’t play. The trouble was that there had been too great a concentration of money, and confidence seemed to have flown. The United States had most of the gold and the other nations can’t buy, so commerce stagnated. Huey Long’s representative, Colonel T. Arthur Edwards of Lake Charles, Louisiana, sold a majority of the conference on the Long plan, but not the Texas Legislature. Two other proposals that fell by the wayside with little struggle were one providing for creation of a separate oil and gas commission and another for levying a gross production tax of 2 cents per barrel on oil. In recommending the latter, I told the Legislature that the existing tax of 2 percent of the sale price of crude was bringing in only one-fifth of the revenue that it would yield under normal prices with the same production. As for oil proration, which was the primary objective of the special session, 162

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the Legislature’s deliberations degenerated into a hair-splitting and near hairpulling farce. First, on August 5 the House passed a prorationing bill authorizing the Railroad Commission to regulate oil production to prevent physical waste. The Senate killed that bill and replaced it with Senator Rawlings’s bill prohibiting any prorationing. In the debate, Senator Woodward asked Senator Rawlings if Harry Sinclair’s attorney had not written the antiprorationing bill. Sinclair was notoriously antiprorationing. When Rawlings replied ‘‘No,’’ Woodward rejoined, in his sonorous voice and with his dignified bearing, ‘‘Harry Sinclair himself couldn’t have drawn a bill that would suit him better.’’ 3 After the Senate’s action, the lawmakers recessed for the weekend. On the following Monday, I turned on the heat with a statement strongly hinting that I might impose martial law on the East Texas field if the Legislature didn’t pass a proration law. I deplored Rawlings’s bill as a blow that had dashed the hopes of the state. I said that I would continue to do everything possible to protect the interests of the state, ‘‘even if it means resorting to more drastic measures than have hitherto been used.’’ The House then overwhelmingly rejected the Rawlings Senate substitute, necessitating conference action. On August 13, the final day of the session, the prorationing proponents rebounded from apparent defeat and secured adoption of their measure by the conference committee. Both houses overwhelmingly adopted the conference report, and I signed the bill at 10 p.m., just before the Legislature brought down the curtain on its thirty-day session. Passage of the proration act by no means ended the turmoil in the oil industry. The Railroad Commission quickly called a hearing to establish a schedule of proration orders under the new law, but the law required ten days’ notice before the hearing could be held. In the meantime, East Texans raised a concerted wail of fear that producers would turn the valves wide open and sluice out all the oil they could during the interim. I issued a warning through the Capitol press. ‘‘If there is any monkey business to justify it,’’ I stated, ‘‘I’ll declare martial law tomorrow. I’m not backing up on anything I’ve said.’’ A group of East Texas oil operators called a mass meeting for the night of August 14 at Tyler to consider the situation. W. E. McKinney, spokesman for the operators, said they were determined that the field should not be drained of cheap oil during the next ten days. He advocated clamping martial law on the field until the proration act became effective. A committee from East Texas called on me at this point and pleaded that a ‘‘state of insurrection’’ existed in the oil field area, and that unless I acted, and acted quickly, there would be armed conflict, with consequences no one could foretell. 163

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As the controversy deepened, I received a barrage of telegrams and telephone calls on the matter. At my request, Ray Dudley visited East Texas and quietly conducted a thorough investigation of the situation. Dudley found that many producers planned to drain every barrel of oil they could from the ground before a proration order could be put into effect that would run up the price. Landowners were threatening violence against this wanton dissipation of oil at prices that left them a royalty of almost nothing. Dudley’s report and other testimony convinced me that martial law was necessary, and that the sooner it was invoked, the better.4 On Saturday, August 15, I called the heads of the big oil companies, and all agreed to shut down their East Texas wells immediately in the event of martial law. Then I called Jake Wolters, who was the commander of the Texas National Guard, 56th brigade. I told Jake to call up his troops and proceed to East Texas. ‘‘Yes, sir,’’ Jake replied. ‘‘They’ll be there, Chief.’’ 5 I asked Wolters to come to Austin the next day to help prepare the necessary proclamation. I gave no hint of the move to the press, but the dissemination of the general’s mobilization orders to guardsmen all over Texas was almost like broadcasting it on the radio. On Sunday morning, August 16, the papers announced that the militia was being assembled to march on East Texas and shut down the wells in Gregg, Rusk, Smith, and Upshur counties, under command of General Wolters. Adjutant General Bill Sterling was to take active command of the Texas Rangers as an auxiliary force. For four hours that Sunday, I met with my military and legal advisers to prepare the proclamation and orders for troop movements. When it was all done, I retired to the mansion. I was worn out. A newspaper correspondent asked General Wolters what cavalry companies would be sent to the field and by what routes. ‘‘You don’t expect me to tell you that,’’ Jake snapped. ‘‘If I did, my troops might be ambushed on the way.’’ During the early morning of Monday, August 17, 1931, 800 militiamen deployed throughout the far-flung oil field, the world’s largest single source of petroleum, and began throttling the flow of 1600 wells. There was no resistance or disorder. Reacting to my telephone call, the large companies operating in the field all had their wells shut down by the time the troops arrived. There were a few minor incidents. Ray Starnes, an East Texas independent who loved Ferguson and hated me and prorationing, had his employees knock the ladders down from his tanks so that the national guardsmen could not climb up and gauge the oil flow. The guardsmen combined a request that he put the ladders back up with a pointed explanation of the use for which bayonets were made. Mr. Starnes obligingly complied with their request. One man tending a well near Kilgore was arrested and lodged in the guardhouse for violating the 164

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Texas National Guard troops establishing martial law camp in East Texas, 1931. CAH, DI02361.

shutdown order, but General Wolters concluded that the man did not know about the proclamation and released him. A Dallas oilman named Constantine asked permission to call a mass meeting of unemployed oil workers in Tyler to protest martial law. Jake Wolters denied the request. Martial law was the sensation of Texas news. The newspapers ran layouts of pictures and stories of the khaki-clad guardsmen who were in evidence in the oil field towns. East Texans talked of little else. Some of my enemies warned that when I signed the martial law order, I signed the death warrant for my second term. Reelection was the least of my worries at that point. I told clamoring reporters that I would call off the troops as soon as it was prudent to do so, and that would not be until I was convinced that the field’s operators would not waste oil if left alone. I promised that when the Railroad Commission’s new conservation powers went into effect and the civil authorities were back in control, I would withdraw the militia. As the excitement over martial law subsided, trouble broke loose in another quarter. Reports came from Washington that I favored the Federal Farm Board’s proposal to plow up one-third of that year’s cotton crop. I denied those reports and declared that I thought it would be just as reasonable ‘‘to ask the Farm Board to burn up a part of the cotton it is holding, as to ask the farmers to destroy a part of their crops.’’ 165

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Governor Huey P. Long, the Louisiana Kingfish, had called a meeting in New Orleans of governors of cotton states, and with virtual unanimity they decided to call on the Southern legislatures to prohibit the growing of cotton during the year 1932. When the conference ended, Governor Long telephoned to urge me to call a session of the Texas Legislature for action on the subject of reducing the cotton crop. I told Long that I would not call a session until I was sure that the people wanted it. Governor Long invited the Texas Legislature to pass a law to suppress cotton planting entirely in 1932, or a law reducing the cotton acreage by one-third or one-half. He recalled that the Texas Legislature during the recent special session had declined to pass a cotton reduction bill. Long pointed out, however, that since that time ‘‘there has been a great reduction in the price of cotton which has caused great confusion and unrest in the minds of our cotton farmers.’’ J. E. McDonald, Texas commissioner of agriculture, advocated the limitation of 1932 cotton acreage to one-third of the land cultivated in the Southern states. He urged the supporters of that plan to ask me to call a special session. I asked the public to send me letters about what steps we should take in the cotton matter. My query brought responses from approximately 53,000 Texans favoring a special cotton session, and from 110 of the 150 House members. Only fourteen senators responded favorably, however. I decided not to call a special session unless a majority of both houses wanted it. Meetings were then held all over the state, to arouse public sentiment for a cotton reduction law. M. E. Foster, editor of the Houston Press, who had been sniping at me about prorationing and martial law in his ‘‘Mefo’’ column, wrote, ‘‘Why does Governor Sterling want the Legislature to tell him what to do? Why not send the soldiers to the cotton fields next spring with orders to shoot the farmers?’’ Editorial comment on the whole, however, was preponderantly favorable. Meanwhile, Huey Long lost no time putting his plan through his rubberstamp Louisiana legislature. The measure stipulated that it would not become effective unless and until other states growing 75 percent of the nation’s cotton should pass similar bills. That meant it was void unless Texas concurred. Louisiana legislative officers took the enacted bill to the Kingfish in the dead of night for approval. He received them in flaming red silk pajamas and signed it in bed. Above his signature he wrote: ‘‘Approved August 29, 1931, 1:40 a.m.’’ Long hustled his chief lieutenant, O. K. Allen, and Huey’s son off on a plane to Austin with a signed copy of the bill, bound with blue ribbon. On the yellow cover Long wrote in green ink: ‘‘Dear Governor Sterling and Texas Legislature: Adopt this baby and it will save Texas and the farmers of the South.’’ It was signed ‘‘Huey P. Long, Governor—U.S. Senator-elect, Chairman Cotton States Conference.’’ 166

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Landing at Austin, Allen, who was chairman of the Louisiana Highway Commission, was surprised to find no reception committee, although Long had wired me that he was coming. ‘‘Where are the photographers?’’ Allen asked, when he stepped off the airplane. I was not in Austin to greet him because I had gone to Houston for the weekend. Allen found Agriculture Commissioner McDonald and with him flew on to Houston. I met them at the airport and received the bill, but I did not comment on it. ‘‘That is up to the Legislature,’’ was all I would say. ‘‘I’ll have more to say after conferring with legislators.’’ As a matter of fact, my opinion of the Long plan had not changed. I thought it a monstrous economic folly to prohibit the planting of cotton, and the same in lesser degree to limit the acreage by law. It wasn’t like restricting oil production; if you didn’t produce your oil it remained in the ground, for removal when needed. If you planted no cottonseed, however, you would have no cotton. One of the legal pretexts Long used in passing the Louisiana bill was that the law was to control root rot. It was all rot as far as I was concerned. The clamor for a cotton session rose in crescendo. Governor Long sent me a telegram pleading that unless Texas acted quickly it would be too late to affect the price of the current crop, already moving to market. ‘‘Governor Long is not running Texas,’’ I told my associates. ‘‘He may be able to get his legislature to vote whatever he wants, but we are a little more democratic in Texas. I feel that I am a better judge of whether and when to call a session than my friends, the governors of other states.’’ One group of rabid West Texans was so incensed at me for delaying a session to ban cotton planting that it sent me a rope with a noose in one end. A letter accompanying the rope said, ‘‘We have the mate to this rope, and if you come to Coleman we will hang you with it.’’ As I had promised, when a majority of the Senate had pledged to support a cotton relief program, I issued a proclamation calling a session to convene on September 8. I told of the dire plight of the cotton farmers and added, ‘‘If legislation can help Texas agriculture in its present emergency, I believe it is my duty to convoke the Legislature in the interest of the state generally.’’ During the evening of the second day of the special session, an estimated crowd of 8000 cotton growers and their supporters gathered at a mass meeting in Austin to put the heat on the lawmakers. Governor Huey Long had planned to attend but decided not to leave Louisiana because Lieutenant Governor Paul Cyr refused to sign a pledge that he would not take over the executive office if the governor crossed the Sabine. Instead, the Kingfish broadcast an impassioned radio appeal from Shreveport that was broadcast by loudspeaker to the Austin meeting. 167

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Calling for legislation throughout the South to prohibit cotton planting in 1932, Long asked all those at the rally in Austin who were in favor of a year’s cotton holiday to stand. A majority of the audience, it appeared, came to their feet. Then, when Long asked all those favoring some other restrictive policy to stand, only a handful responded. I attended the rally and spoke following Long’s broadcast. When I declared my opposition to Long’s plan, I was heckled repeatedly. ‘‘What would Stephen F. Austin think,’’ I roared, ‘‘if he should awake from his blissful sleep and find the Texas Legislature thinking of passing a law to prevent a man from growing cotton on his farm? What would Sam Houston think if he should return to life tonight and behold the governor of Louisiana telling the people of his beloved Texas what to do?’’ ‘‘Hurrah for Long,’’ shouted several farmers. In my speech, I blamed the Republican party and ‘‘that spineless cactus at the head of the government,’’ meaning President Herbert Hoover, for most of the farmers’ troubles. I warned that ‘‘when you get too much government in business you won’t be a free people very long.’’ I advised the farmers to seek changes in federal policies as a means of relieving their condition. In passing, I took a dig at the Louisiana executive. ‘‘Huey is said to have more pajamas than any other man in the country. He has about five hundred pairs, but none of them are cotton.’’ That got a chuckle even from some of the Kingfish’s votaries. Lieutenant Governor Cyr of Louisiana sent me a letter expressing his sentiments. Its contents, complete with spelling, follow: My dear Governor: The purpose of this letter is to express my sorow that it ever became necessary that a gentleman of your tipe should ever have to come in contact with a man so illmannered], putrid and such a character assasinator as the present governor of Louisiana, Huey Long. Unfortunately, I have had to put up with this wild man for three years, I wish to apoligize for his insults to you, to the Ligislature and the people of Texas. While I favored the no crop for ’32 I certainly reconize the rights of your Legislature to act with out the inter ferance of the Louisiana Governor . . . The opposing factions in the Legislature dug in for a fight to the finish. I implied that I would veto a ‘‘no crop for ’32’’ bill with the declaration that ‘‘my feet are firmly on the ground and I don’t expect to let any radical hysteria swoop them off. The South is looking to Texas to save the cotton farmer, and if that is to be done it must be along sane, reasonable lines.’’ 168

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Huey Long came back with another radio speech, advising the legislators to pass the cotton prohibition bill and stay in session until it was approved. ‘‘Refuse to adjourn,’’ Long bellowed over the radio waves. ‘‘He will sign the bill faster than a duck ever went to water.’’ Long said he was no dictator and didn’t wish to cross state lines, but he warned that he was prepared to make a list of all Texas lawmakers who voted against his bill. Just what he meant by that, he did not explain. The Kingfish’s slurs drew fire from an unexpected and surprising quarter. In a spontaneous speech, Representative McGregor, long known as Jim Ferguson’s alter ego and therefore an enemy of mine, denounced Long on the floor of the House as ‘‘that arrogant ass who brays from Louisiana.’’ When he said that Long was a ‘‘plain liar,’’ the House cheered. Defending me against Long’s assaults, McGregor declared that he had heard Governor Long make the statement by radio that he had driven the lobbyists out of Louisiana and that they had come to Texas to corrupt the Legislature of this state with wine, women, and money. ‘‘There are one hundred and eighty-one members of this Legislature,’’ McGregor said. ‘‘If there is a man in either house who has seen a lobbyist during the session using wine, women, and money to influence cotton legislation, I will ask him now to rise and name him.’’ No one rose or spoke. ‘‘This man,’’ McGregor continued, ‘‘has indicted not only the rights of the people of Texas, but this bully, this intellectual pervert with his billingsgate, has been trying to intimidate the House and the Senate.’’ McGregor then accused Long of being a liar, adding that his ‘‘attitude toward the governor of Texas is unthinkable and unbearable.’’ ‘‘Whatever may be said of the present governor of Texas,’’ McGregor continued, ‘‘I want to say that he has invaded the legislative prerogative less than any other governor of modern times.’’ McGregor warned his fellow legislators never to let the day come in Texas when the governor of any other state tells the people of Texas what they should or should not do. This came from the righthand man of my nemesis. McGregor’s speech was such a sensation that the Senate persuaded him to repeat it in their wing of the Capitol that afternoon. If the Long cotton bill had had a ghost of a chance before, it was a dead mackerel when McGregor finished speaking. Next morning, the Senate adopted a resolution formally calling Huey Long a ‘‘consummate liar.’’ Specifically, it said that Long’s published charge that members of the Texas Legislature had been ‘‘bought like a sack of corn to vote against the cotton prohibition plan’’ was a lie cut from whole cloth. Believing that any measure that would prohibit a farmer from raising a full cotton crop would be unconstitutional, yet recognizing the popular demand for 169

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some plan of crop reduction, I asked some of the best lawyers in the Legislature to frame a bill. They did, and it was passed and I signed it on September 22. It provided for curtailment of the 1932 crop to 30 percent of the land cultivated in 1931. The act carried penalties ranging from $25 to $100 per acre for all excess cotton planted. In the course of time, the law was duly tested in the district court of Brazos County at Bryan and was duly held unconstitutional. That was the end of cotton acreage reduction until the New Deal came along, two or three years later, with federal restrictions.

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In that panicky early stage of the Great Depression, one legislative crisis crowded on the heels of another. The ink of my signature was scarcely dry on the cotton reduction bill when a war of nerves developed over reduction of state salaries. The alarming shrinkage of tax revenues threatened the government with financial calamity, necessitating still more taxes. On the assurance of two-thirds of the House members and seventeen members of the Senate that they favored scaling salaries down, I formally presented to the Legislature a plan to cut the pay of all state employees receiving more than $134 per month by 10 percent. The House gave quick approval to the reductions, but the Senate finance committee reneged on the pledge. I issued a public statement pointing out that the ‘‘House of Representatives has kept its word, but the Senate has about-faced from its repeated committal.’’ My good friend Senator Woodul was one of the opponents of salary reductions. ‘‘This business of branding the Senate with responsibility for the failure of this or that legislation is politics,’’ he declared. The lawmakers were more obliging in passing another one of my recommendations. It was a bill empowering the state to lease riverbed lands for oil development. It was designed particularly to authorize leases on Sabine River lands in the East Texas oil fields. Senator George Purl of Dallas and former senator Love, its sponsors, believed that the state’s financial crisis could be relieved through this one act. It took a bit of prodding, however, to get it passed. I learned from various sources that oil lobbyists were blocking the riverbed bill. When the Legislature finally agreed on an adjournment date of Saturday, October 3, I suggested in a news conference that if they quit without passing that measure, they had ‘‘better not pack their grips too tightly.’’ I warned that I might call them right back, or else possibly exercise my executive authority and 171

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drill the riverbeds myself for the state. ‘‘I may go back into the oil business,’’ I said, ‘‘and I don’t think I’ve forgotten how to drill a well.’’ The Capitol correspondents chuckled at that threat. That was good copy— the former president of the Humble Company drilling oil wells for the state. The Legislature nipped the story in the bud, however, by passing the riverbed bill. It created the Board of Mineral Development, consisting of the governor, the state land commissioner, and the chairman of the Texas Railroad Commission, to lease lands under streams. After the Legislature adjourned, when the members returned home, they read in their local newspapers predictions that I would soon call another session to raise needed revenues. The rumor was that a legislative tax survey committee was preparing, at my request, a state income tax bill for early submission. I denied that I was contemplating another special session for that or for anything else. When a reporter suggested to me that such an income tax might be the best solution of the state’s fiscal problem, I replied with a smile, ‘‘But my dear sir, where is any income to tax?’’ Meanwhile, martial law continued in East Texas. In mid-October, General Wolters warned that if the wells were again opened wide, the landowners, royalty owners, and a large majority of the independent operators, probably joined by many other citizens, would likely resort to force of arms to shut down the wells. ‘‘The wells,’’ Jake said, ‘‘will be shut in by citizens, and if this cannot be done by reason of guards around them, the pipeline and storage tanks will be blown up so that there will be no place to put the oil, and therefore by that means force a shutdown.’’ Many other responsible citizens affirmed Jake’s warning. My correspondence files for 1931–1932 bulge with their letters and telegrams. Naturally, I heard some criticism that an attorney of a major oil company was in charge of martial law. Senator Woodward, my trusted adviser, expressed anxiety to me on this point. He warned that Jake Wolters’s connection with a big oil company would provide my political enemies with ammunition against me. Woodward warned me to be careful in any statement I made, because Ferguson and his crowd would take advantage of any and every thing to embarrass me and to bring about my defeat in the next election. Woodward expressed the hope that I could soon terminate martial law. Before the Railroad Commission had time to promulgate a new prorationing order, a rash of incendiary fires broke out in the Kilgore area, presumably a perverted expression of defiance of the oil shutdown. At length, on August 30, provoked by a fresh outbreak of fires, General Wolters ordered his men to open their pistol holsters when they caught a firebug committing arson, and ‘‘if forced

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to shoot, shoot at the waist line, and if you miss don’t come back here and alibi. You may as well keep going over the hill.’’ After the hearings, the Railroad Commission issued an order limiting each well in the East Texas field to 225 barrels of oil per day. This so-called ‘‘allowable’’ was calculated to keep production in the field under 400,000 barrels daily. I did not approve of the commission’s order. I told the press that it would ‘‘put the little fellow out of business because he hasn’t the money, as the big operators have, to drill more wells.’’ I preferred the unit plan of prorationing, advocated by the prorationing advisory committee, which restricted production according to acreage. I decided to continue martial law in East Texas. Commissioner Neff had dissented from the order. He thought it would ‘‘result in a drilling orgy, with rigs running night and day.’’ The commission redrafted its order but came up with another with the same limitations: 225 barrels per well per day. It stipulated, however, an oil and gas ratio that evidently won Neff ’s approval. I announced that the commission’s order would not go into effect until I put it into effect. I indicated that I had no thought of removing the troops immediately. I conferred with the commission, and it withheld the order. I was still hopeful that the commission would change the order to an acreage basis. The commission made an attempt to limit drilling to one well per twenty acres, but it fell through. As the drilling race roared on, the allowable was lowered to 185 barrels, 165 barrels, and then to 150 barrels, in the effort to keep the total field output under 400,000 barrels. I warned that if they kept drilling, the allowable would be reduced eventually to 50 barrels per well. I did not dream that within a decade there would be more than 25,000 wells in that gigantic field, each restricted to less than 20 barrels daily and allowed only 23 days of production each month. Meanwhile, because of repeated proration violations, I kept the militia in East Texas. I was determined to maintain martial law until orderly production was securely established. The effect was sensational. The price of oil, down to 8 cents a barrel and in some instances as low as 5, climbed out of the hole and zoomed to 65 cents within a couple of months. Assistant State Auditor W. Frank Caster reported a 50-cent average increase in oil from mid-August to the last of November. This, he pointed out, increased the value of oil produced during the intervening period by more than $35 million above what it would have been at the previous average price. Thus, he said, the producers and land and royalty holders benefited by more than $35 million by reason of martial law, and the state’s revenues from the 2 percent gross production tax were increased by more than $700,000.

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By the second week of October, martial law was reduced to virtually a nominal status. The Railroad Commission was promulgating and enforcing its orders, but the militia was still available to back them if necessary. Then, on October 1, a bombshell fell out of a clear sky. The Brook-Lee Oil Company quietly went to U.S. District Judge Randolph Bryant of Tyler and obtained a temporary injunction restraining the commanding general of the military forces from limiting the flow of its five East Texas wells. I moved quickly and assumed charge of the militia as commander in chief of the National Guard. I then incorporated the Railroad Commission’s schedule in a military order and directed General Wolters to obey no one’s instructions but mine. ‘‘Only the Supreme Court of the United States or the President of the United States can interfere with the administration of martial law,’’ I declared. ‘‘This is the state’s affair and the federal Government should not throttle the will of the people.’’ Telegrams and phone calls poured into my office, commending my determination to keep East Texas production under martial law in the face of the federal court injunction. General Wolters was deluged with offers from Texas lawyers to assist in defending the state conservation laws. Among them were former governor Dan Moody and former assistant attorneys general P. F. Smith and Paul D. Page. Carrying out my orders, General Wolters closed four wells of the Brook-Lee Company, which were discovered operating despite the ban. When Jake closed the wells, the federal court cited him for contempt. Action on the contempt charge was held in abeyance, however, pending a hearing before a three-judge federal court. The purpose of the hearing, which was set for January 4, 1932, was to rule on the application to make the injunction permanent. In the meantime, there was a continuing controversy over the question of prorationing on an acreage basis. I favored a proposal to limit drilling to 4 wells to the acre. I felt that it would protect the small operators who could not afford to compete in a race for more and more wells. Many East Texas operators advocated the acreage plan, and many opposed it. Both factions agreed, in the main, that my martial law regulation of the field had proved their salvation. On that point, I assured a meeting in Dallas of about eighty East Texas oilmen that I was ‘‘going to hold the bull as long as I can.’’ They applauded loudly. During the meeting in Dallas, J. R. Parten, a native Texan operating out of Shreveport, Louisiana, said that although he was supporting prorationing in deference to those who wanted it, personally he would prefer that the East Texas field be turned loose without government regulation.1 ‘‘It may sound strange,’’ I replied, ‘‘but I am perhaps more in accord with 174

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J. R. Parten. CAH, DI02488.

Mr. Parten’s views than anybody else in this room.’’ I agreed with Parten that the industry should work out its own problems, but we had a serious condition in East Texas that had to be dealt with. ‘‘Our natural resources should be conserved,’’ I stressed. ‘‘I believe the terrible thing that was going on in East Texas was wrong. I have acted in the best way I know how to remedy it. I shall continue to do the best I can for the state, carrying out the trust that was placed in me.’’ Almost unanimously, the oilmen assured me that I was doing the best thing for East Texas and urged me to continue. At this time, there were more than 2300 wells in the field, and the number was increasing daily. I pointed out to the group in Dallas that by the time 5000 or 6000 wells were drilled, it would be necessary to reduce the allowable so low to avoid water encroachment and to conserve the resources that operations 175

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would hardly be profitable. ‘‘By removing this unwholesome incentive to excessive drilling,’’ I said, ‘‘it is estimated that sixty million dollars of unnecessary development may be saved.’’ The issue of acreage prorationing rocked along without a decision. Railroad Commissioner Smith said that the commission had washed its hands of the East Texas field until military rule in the zone was lifted. He opposed the acreage prorationing plan. Secretary of the Interior Wilbur, in an Armistice Day speech in San Antonio, praised my martial law program. ‘‘I practiced medicine for years and never criticized a fellow doctor if he got results,’’ the secretary said. ‘‘Before martial law was invoked, the American oilmen had been dealing with the oil problem much in the manner of cutting off a sick man’s toe nails to cure his illness.’’ Secretary of Commerce Robert Lamont, in a speech in Chicago before the American Petroleum Institute, also implied his endorsement of martial law. Lamont warned that a ‘‘straitjacket’’ of federal legislation would be the fate of the industry if the ‘‘mad waste’’ of the past continued. The board of directors of the East Texas Chamber of Commerce, in annual convention in Houston, also expressed their support with a resolution praising my action. The Chamber’s membership declared that ‘‘without Governor Sterling’s aid, it would have been impossible to clear the situation in the East Texas oil field.’’ The resolution warned that the removal of the soldiers would threaten ‘‘the peace and dignity of the four counties affected.’’ On the evening of November 23, 1931, I went to East Texas for my first personal inspection of the great oil field under martial law. I arrived in Longview, my first stop, fully aware that before I had imposed martial law the price of crude oil had been 8 cents a barrel. Since martial law, the price had climbed to 83 cents a barrel. The warm welcome I received during my two-day tour of the field confirmed that my action pleased many of the people in the area. I was thanked repeatedly for ‘‘bringing the oil industry out of chaos.’’ In a speech in Kilgore, in the heart of the field, I assured the crowd that the situation was looking up and that the ‘‘confidence comeback is what we’ve been waiting for, and it’s here.’’ Several East Texans told me that the operators were receiving $8.5 million dollars more per month for their oil than they were getting for the same quantity at 10 cents a barrel prior to martial law. The strengthening of the market had saved many independents from bankruptcy, and the industry generally had been spared from collapse. Oil field communities and those individuals who depended on the industry for business had profited the most, of course. The most important feature of martial law, accord-

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ing to geologists and petroleum engineers, was the stupendous saving of oil by the prevention of physical waste. Without restricted production, they told me, water encroachment would have reduced the ultimate recovery by hundreds of millions of barrels. During World War II, when East Texas provided much of the oil for the American war effort, oil authorities estimated that prorationing had made possible an ultimate yield of a billion barrels more than could have been recovered if wide-open production had continued. in december, a rumor spread throughout East Texas that I soon would lift martial law. As a result of the rumor, I received large numbers of wires, letters, petitions, and telephone calls, pleading for me to keep the troops in the field. East Texans predicted that reopening the field would run the price back down to a dime a barrel. Many seemed genuinely afraid that it would cause violence and the possible burning of the field. The rumor was false; I had no immediate plans to end martial law, although military occupation of the field at that point was scarcely more than nominal. In mid-February 1932, a three-judge federal court in Houston held a threeday hearing to determine whether the October temporary injunction against martial law, which had not been enforced, should be made permanent. The presiding judge, J. C. Hutcheson of Houston, made no effort during the trial to conceal his prejudice against the military control of the oil field.2 The hearing was pretty spirited in spots, especially while General Wolters was on the witness stand. At one point, Joe Bailey, Jr., counsel for the plaintiffs, asked Jake, ‘‘Is it true, General, that some time ago the governor called you up and asked whether you thought martial law should be declared in Corpus Christi, and you answered, ‘Yes, what city did you say?’ ’’ ‘‘That’s a lie,’’ Wolters roared from the stand. Judge Hutcheson immediately declared that ‘‘both the question and the answer are out of order and unnecessary.’’ When I took the stand, I defended my imposition of martial law on the East Texas field. I was cross-examined by the opposing counsel and also by Judge Hutcheson. The judge asked about a public statement attributed to me, to the effect that a court could not enjoin me. I pointed out that the statement had been made by Oklahoma’s governor ‘‘Alfalfa Bill’’ Murray. ‘‘Don’t confuse the governor of Texas with the governor of Oklahoma,’’ I said. ‘‘I think everyone knows I don’t take advice from him.’’ After the hearing, the litigants were given fifteen days to file briefs. Hutcheson remarked that the ‘‘defendants’ brief will have to be strong enough to

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Judge Joseph C. Hutcheson. CAH, DI02362.

change my mind.’’ He agreed with Judge Bryant, who expressed the conviction that martial law was ‘‘nothing more than a subterfuge, a pretext to regulate oil production.’’ ‘‘I would say,’’ said Judge Hutcheson, ‘‘there has been a trespass on the property of the citizens. The act of the governor was to prevent the oil from being dissipated. It doesn’t matter how great the motives were. If we have got to enlarge the powers of the governor then let’s do so, but don’t let’s argue that the court is going to blink at the facts.’’ My brief did not change the judges’ minds. On February 18, they entered a 178

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ruling to the effect that I had exceeded my legal authority and that I had been ‘‘illegally depriving plaintiffs of their right to operate their own properties in a prudent and reasonable way.’’ Judge Hutcheson, however, then wired me some elaboration of the decision that I interpreted to mean that I did not have to observe it literally or strictly. When the federal court decision was flashed out over the state, Carl Estes of Tyler called me on the phone and wanted to know where he could get hold of ‘‘that damn Houston judge.’’ I told him Judge Hutcheson was in New Orleans, and that he stayed at the Roosevelt Hotel there. Carl was hopping mad and all wrought up because he thought the decision would turn the oil field loose and it would be ruinous. Later that night, about twelve o’clock, Estes phoned me again. Carl said that he was in bad because he had talked pretty roughly to the judge on the phone. In fact, Hutcheson threatened to have him arrested.3 Immediately after the judges announced their decision, the Overton Refinery and the Arrow Refinery companies appealed to military headquarters at Kilgore for protection. They said they expected trouble whenever they opened their wells. J. D. Wrather, head of the Overton Refinery, was one of the plaintiffs who had sought the injunction against martial law. General Wolters withdrew troops from the Overton leases specifically affected by the court order, but Jake said he would continue to control the rest of the field. The Brook-Lee Oil Company had withdrawn from the case, leaving Wrather and Constantine as plaintiffs. With the federal injunction in place, I returned supervision of the East Texas field back to the Railroad Commission, under the new prorationing law. I said, however, I would maintain martial law there as an adjunct to civil authority. I did not believe the commission had enough men to administer the law. ‘‘I don’t know how long the Railroad Commission needs them or wants them,’’ I said, ‘‘but the people over there don’t want them withdrawn.’’ By that action and statement, I reasserted my right to maintain martial rule over the more than 4000 wells not released by the court order. Then, years later—in about 1946, I think it was—Judge Hutcheson and his brother Palmer came to see me, and the judge said, ‘‘I want to tell you that you were right and I was wrong about the martial law situation.’’ I told the judge that I was ‘‘mighty glad’’ to hear him say that. ‘‘It confirms the opinion I’ve always had of your character.’’

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n

Because of economic conditions, I was having a tougher struggle than any previous Texas governor had experienced in forty years or more. I, like nearly everyone else, kept thinking that the crest of the Depression had passed and times were about to improve, whereas it actually had not yet started in earnest. Like most public leaders, I may have expressed a little more optimism than I really felt, for, as I repeatedly said, a major cause (if not the primary cause) of the whole trouble was a collapse of public confidence. You couldn’t restore people’s confidence with pessimism. President Hoover wasn’t the only one who envisioned prosperity ‘‘just around the corner.’’ We were all whistling in the dark. The panic grew fiercer daily. More and more businesses went to the wall; the army of unemployed swelled by tens of thousands daily. Suggestions for improving business conditions, relieving unemployment, and economizing in government were regular fare in the news. There were occasions during those days when I felt like offering a reward to anyone who could talk five minutes without mentioning the word ‘‘depression.’’ It would have been a great thing if we could have all gotten together to run Old Man Depression out of Texas. I believed we could do that very thing. The people seemed to have lost faith and confidence in their own cities, their state, and their country. We needed to act to restore that faith and confidence. To that end, I called a conference of business and industrial leaders from all over the state to try to work out some definite plan for reducing unemployment. Several hundred came to Austin for the meeting. I told the gathering that I didn’t believe in a dole system. ‘‘Old John Smith was right,’’ I said, ‘‘when he said that those who don’t work shouldn’t eat.’’ I did think it was our duty, however, to make some provision for those who wanted

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to work to eat. We also needed to provide for those physically unable to work. I told the group that there was much public work to be done in Texas, and by funding such projects we would be providing food for those anxious to work. Even should some of those public projects not be worth the money expended, it ‘‘would be worth all it costs’’ because of the aid it would provide the working needy. My proposal was the first public suggestion by a Texas official of a plan along the lines of the WPA (Works Progress Administration) and PWA (Public Works Administration), to be put into effect by the Roosevelt New Deal administration two years later. My good friend Senator J. W. Beck of De Kalb chaired the conference, which considered and adopted various proposals, most of them in the nature of suggestions to local, state, and federal governments and to industry for providing more work. Having made those suggestions, the conference adjourned. It plowed the ground for later benefits, but the Depression was not ready to be checked yet. Ironically, despite my constitutional aversion to the dole, I became the high priest of the Depression dole in Texas, handling millions of federal dollars for the destitute. Under President Hoover’s original program, federal relief funds were distributed through the governors of the states. The responsibility added countless hours of extra work and worry to the second year of my administration. I set up the State Relief Commission, headed by the managers of the three regional chambers of commerce, who handled the distribution of funds in their respective sections. Those managers were Hubert Harrison of the East Texas Chamber, D. A. Bandeen of the West Texas Chamber, and Ray Leeman of the South Texas Chamber. Maury Maverick of San Antonio, my chief supporter in Bexar County and later a congressman, also was active in the relief organization. As far as I knew, the expenditure of that money was not marred in any detail by any scandal of any character. I turned over millions of dollars to men whom I trusted and not a penny was unaccounted for. At the time, Ray Leeman admitted to me that he did not think it very businesslike to give such large sums of money to him and his two colleagues to distribute without more controls in place, but I knew those men could be trusted. There was one awful scare, however, when we were checking on the relief money and found that something like $1 million was missing. I checked and double-checked, and finally in the wee small hours of the morning, I remembered. ‘‘Oh, Lordy,’’ I exclaimed to my three administrators, ‘‘I forgot. I gave that money to Fred Florence of Dallas to put in his bank!’’ My commission administered relief affairs in Texas at a cost of about half

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of 1 percent. As soon as Ferguson came into power, he created a bureaucratic setup, shot through with politics. Ray Leeman later told me that the cost jumped up to something like 40 percent. In the effort to reduce the cost of state government, a legislative committee on economy and efficiency engaged E. O. Griffenhagen, a noted economist, to make a survey of the Texas government and suggest reforms. In a ponderous report, Griffenhagen outlined a complete overhauling of the system to eliminate duplication, overlap, and inefficiency. The report cost the state $74,000. At the next session of the Legislature, the House passed without debate a bill to carry out the revolutionary changes, and then the Senate, without debate or discussion, killed it. I wrote the governors and administrators of most of the states seeking information as to their experience in making their governments more efficient and economical. In response, I received a mass of valuable data. I developed a correspondence with many other governors. Quite a cordial friendship developed by mail with Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt of New York, who wrote me numerous letters. While I was striving to foster more confidence and faith among my fellowmen and trying to cheer them up and drive Old Man Depression out of Texas, I was undergoing the harrowing last stages of my own transformation from a multimillionaire into a poor man. The Depression caught me, as it did many others, overextended. As income shriveled, I lacked liquid assets with which to meet my obligations. I had to borrow money on my properties. Then came the financial crisis of my life. It was precipitated by the precarious banking situation in Houston, as elsewhere. I had borrowed from my Houston National Bank, for myself as well as others, approximately $800,000. Rumors spread that my loans totaled more than the bank had in resources and deposits. Some people were saying that the bank’s credit was overstrained and its condition thereby weakened. The truth is that the Houston National Bank was as safe as it could be. There never was a run or a threatened run on my bank. One man had over $100,000 in the bank, much of that money I had made for him, and he went there and called for it in cash. He spilled the money on the floor, causing some comment, and then took it to another bank, which really was weaker than mine. My little old bank had the intestinal fortitude to fight its way through and came out without any help from the federal Reconstruction Finance Corporation (RFC). One Houston bank would have been gone if it hadn’t been for Jesse Jones, chairman of the RFC. He got the bank back on its feet, which was the proper thing to do, for if any Houston bank had crashed, others might have toppled like dominoes.1 But I was the one who suffered. I had to pay for lots 182

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of loans I had taken out for other people, fair-weather friends, in whom I had misplaced confidence. Other bankers and businessmen in Houston met with me and concluded that to safeguard the city’s banking structure against possible catastrophe it was necessary to strengthen the cash position of the Houston National by the liquidation of my $800,000 obligation. I consented to a plan setting up a trust estate, with the National Bank of Commerce as trustee and a citizens advisory committee, headed by John T. Scott of the First National Bank, to counsel with the trustees in the liquidation. Virtually all of my liquid assets went into this trust, including my majority stock in the bank, my Southwest Texas ranch, and my newspaper. They were all sold to pay off my debt. The shrinking rental income from my buildings in downtown Houston was not sufficient to meet the payments on the buildings, so I lost them too. Joseph F. Meyer, Jr., the principal bank creditor, bought my bank stock. Jim West got the ranch. J. E. Josey, a Houston oilman, acquired the Post-Dispatch stock, which had been held by West and three Houston banks as security for my personal loans. Mr. Josey paid approximately $1 million for the newspaper. Governor Hobby continued as president of the newspaper. The new owner restored its original name, the Houston Post. Several years later, Hobby acquired control and ownership.2 Thus vanished what was left of the fortune I had amassed through my years of hard work and enterprise as a feed merchant, banker, rice farmer, railroad operator, and developer of the Humble Oil Company. They were gone with the wind. I did not speak of my misfortune publicly. My personal conduct and disposition gave little hint of the crushing blow that had fallen on me. Naturally, however, gossip about my reverses circulated through the state. The gossip was mostly a distortion of the facts. Naturally, from the news that I was broke, the inference was drawn that I would not seek reelection. Speculation that I would not run again accelerated when I vetoed a special session bill that would have diverted one-fourth of the proceeds of the gasoline tax to the counties for payment of bonds for state road construction. Actually, the idea behind this bill was mine, and I had urged its passage during the regular session. The problem was that I had called for the special legislative session to consider specifically listed issues, and this matter was not among them. The Texas Constitution prohibits the Legislature from considering any issue not included in the governor’s original reasons for a special session. The attorney general issued an opinion that the bill was unconstitutional and that I had to veto it. Nevertheless, my veto caused an uproar because the bill was very popular. Many voters did not understand why I had to veto the 183

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bill, especially since it was one that I had advocated. One political commentator observed that my disapproval of this popular measure would provide other candidates for governor a political horse ‘‘all saddled and groomed and ready to ride.’’ As the rumor that I would not run for a second term spread, I decided to nip it in the bud by issuing a public statement. In it, I observed that I had noticed certain newspapers were saying that I would not be a candidate for reelection. ‘‘Any such statement,’’ I declared, ‘‘is wholly unauthorized and without foundation.’’ I explained that I was too busy attending to the state’s business to be conducting a campaign and that I felt that the people of Texas would be better pleased by my pursuing this course instead of talking about reelection. After my statement was issued, I received a large number of letters applauding it. Among the messages was one from the venerable Pat O’Keefe of Dallas, known for half a century for his jig-dancing antics at Democratic conventions. Pat said my statement seemed to have ‘‘killed off a few would-be governors.’’ According to the Dallas Times-Herald’s astute political writer Alex Acheson, one of the would-be’s discouraged by my statement was Senator Clint Small. I also was encouraged by Acheson’s claim that the uproar over martial law and ‘‘other matters’’ was dying down and not causing so much dissatisfaction as some people had thought it would. During a press conference a few days after Christmas, I hinted broadly that I would be a candidate for reelection in 1932. My expression of my desire to ‘‘get out and see the people’’ during the coming year was interpreted as an announcement for reelection, but I was careful not to commit myself positively. Tom Hunter, a squat independent oilman and ambitious politician from Wichita Falls, announced his candidacy for governor a few days before Christmas 1931. Lieutenant Governor Edgar Witt of Waco followed with a coy admission that he might run. He thought it was too early to announce but wanted to get his name in the pot, just in case. During the Christmas holidays, Jeff Strickland of San Antonio, head of the Great American Life Insurance Company and a former state senator, took a swing through North and West Texas to find out what the people were thinking of my performance as governor. After the trip, Strickland reported to me that it was his opinion that I would be reelected if I ran again. ‘‘At the close of the last session I could not have truthfully said this,’’ Strickland said. ‘‘Your stock was low, but the current has swung back very strongly.’’ Strickland believed that the publicity regarding my financial problems had helped me politically. ‘‘Everybody is broke and sympathetic with their fellow-sufferers.’’ I received a similar report from V. B. Hamilton, an influential oilman from Wichita Falls. He stated that he had visited several towns in West Texas and had 184

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tried to determine how business leaders and newspaper publishers felt about the martial law episode. He reported that ‘‘to a man they are with you in upholding the rights of the State of Texas to handle its domestic affairs and to conserve its natural resources.’’ I was doing nothing at all, however, to advance my political interests. Looking back now, I realize that I was heartsick and maybe a little bitter over the wiping out of my fortune. I went quietly about my work at the Capitol and, for the most part, spent my evenings at home in the executive mansion and my weekends puttering about my farm at Bay Ridge. The swarm of fair-weather friends hovering about me had thinned out somewhat since the publicizing of my financial reverses. Appreciating my need for solace, Maud drew nearer to me and kept me cheerful. Alone in the mansion, we spent evenings playing dominoes and chatting. On a visit to Goose Creek, the town that owed its existence principally to my oil, refinery, and railroad developments, I addressed a gathering of citizens. The Houston Gargoyle, a short-lived magazine that aped the style of The New Yorker and the politics of M. E. Foster’s Houston Press, quoted me as saying, ‘‘I am not happy over having lost what it took me a long time to build up.’’ The Gargoyle added the cute comment, ‘‘Referring, we imagine, to his feed business in Humble.’’ Editor W. C. Huggins pounced on that crack in his front-page ‘‘Our City’’ column of the Houston Chronicle, with this devastating rejoinder: ‘‘Referring also, perhaps, to that scene of development and progress at the Tri-Cities area, out over which Governor Sterling was looking when he made the statement, for it was in that connection that he expressed pride and gratification at what he saw about him.’’ Huggins also said that I may have been referring as well to ‘‘that great refinery in the background, one of the greatest in the world. Perhaps he thought of the great Humble Oil Company at Houston. Perhaps he thought of great ranches in Southwest Texas. Perhaps he thought of a great newspaper and great office buildings. Yes, Ross Sterling has quite a bit more to remember and to find satisfaction in than the feed business at Humble.’’

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Flying Words and Eggs

n

From 1914 to the late 1930s, no political campaign season in Texas was considered officially open until Ma and Pa Ferguson announced for office. They had not missed a race in eighteen years; between the two of them, Jim or Ma had run for office nine consecutive times, beginning in 1914. They had won three times. They were not expected to break the chain in 1932, even though Jim Ferguson had averred after their 1930 defeat that they were ‘‘forever through seeking public office.’’ Mrs. Ferguson’s formal announcement in February 1932 set the political bees to buzzing. I still had said nothing definite about running. In fact, while I had been careful to leave the gate open, I had not finally made up my mind. All my selfish inclinations were against running. Being governor had brought me only toil, grief, and poverty. The privilege of rendering public service had cost me dearly. ‘‘I have got much kick and pleasure out of the job,’’ I told the convention of the East Texas Chamber of Commerce, which met at Lufkin, ‘‘but mostly kick. I’ve been kicked so much that there’s no place left on my body politic where I can feel it any more.’’ After the laughter subsided, I added, ‘‘I haven’t done one thing that I wouldn’t do again if it became necessary.’’ Prorationing had been the cause of most of the kicks, but I now pointed proudly to the price of crude oil, up to $1 a barrel, which was ten times what it was when martial law was declared. Texas landowners and royalty holders were getting ten times more for their interests in oil than they had realized eight months ago and had profited $12 million from martial law. The state was getting ten times as much in oil production taxes and had profited by slightly more than $1.5 million. Most of my friends wanted me to stand for reelection. Those who held public 186

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offices or jobs subject to my appointments naturally wanted two more years of work. I thought of them. Some warned me that if I did not run, the Fergusons probably would return to power. That was an intolerable thought. At his own request, I had relieved General Wolters of his command of the skeleton National Guard force left in the East Texas field. He resumed his duties as attorney for the Texas Company. Jake also was an expert campaign analyst and election oracle. In that capacity, he declared to the press that I would beat Ma Ferguson decisively if I ran for a second term. Lawyerlike, he buttressed his prediction with compelling logic. The people had learned, Jake declared, that in bad times they should not rock the boat, and that in such emergencies the need of a steady hand at the helm is the greatest. ‘‘The people of Texas know,’’ he said, ‘‘that Ross Sterling is a safe and sane governor, and that his reelection would assure the state a constructive and responsible administration. They want no more proxy governors.’’ As I struggled to make a decision about my political future, there were other factors that I had to consider. One was my public conscience, which never had given much thought to my private interests. Another was my pride. I didn’t relish the thought that people might say, ‘‘He lost his fortune and then quit.’’ For my own good, however, I knew I should quit politics and try to get back on my feet financially. It would be pleasant to live again without so many kicks. Another serious consideration, of course, was my family. Maud and other members of my family begged me not to stand for reelection. Her feelings on the matter convinced me, and at one point I told my secretary, Miss Jessie, that I would not run. By an odd coincidence, Representative Alfred Petsch of Fredericksburg, my friend and House leader, who had prematurely announced Dan Moody’s retirement in 1930, now took it upon himself to say in an interview at Austin that I would stand for reelection. He announced that my platform would call for reorganization of the tax system, regulation of public utilities, and the elimination of expensive duplication in state government and school affairs. Petsch, unfortunately, made this announcement without first consulting me. As soon as I saw his interview in the newspaper, I issued a statement to the press. ‘‘Mr. Petsch spoke without my knowledge or consent,’’ I stressed. ‘‘No one speaks for Governor Sterling but himself.’’ Adding to the pressure was a letter I received from Clint Small, saying he had no intention of opposing me for a second term. Small added, however, that ‘‘every day you delay announcing, you are menacing the chances of good government in Texas.’’ Small argued that I would have to make a hard campaign to beat the Fergusons. It would be even harder, Small pointed out, for any other candidate to beat them. If I intended to run, I should announce and 187

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get to work; if not, I should say so and give someone else a chance. ‘‘Unless you make a positive statement before Saturday, May 14,’’ Small wrote, ‘‘I will take your silence to mean that you do not expect to run, and the papers on the following day will carry my announcement.’’ It was at this point that Dan Moody came to my office late one afternoon to discuss the political situation. We had an intensive meeting that lasted two hours. Moody’s arguments, based largely on the premise that I was the only person who stood in the way of the Fergusons’ taking control of the governor’s office, helped to change my mind. I decided to run again. Maud and my family accepted my decision. My wife told the press soon thereafter that it is ‘‘a poor wife who will not stand by her husband in all his undertakings.’’ As far as my chances of reelection were concerned, I had no serious doubt that I could win. Of course, neither I nor anyone else at that time could foresee the Depression’s tidal wave of public reaction that was to sweep the incumbents out of office. Everyone from the president and the Republican Congress on down to constable, including about 90 percent of the members of the Texas Legislature, would suffer defeat in the coming election. At any rate, I issued an official announcement that I would be a candidate. I followed this with a telegram to Small, affirming my candidacy and soliciting his support. The senator expressed gratification at my decision and added, ‘‘That’s good enough for me.’’ I had never made a specific public reference to the trust transactions whereby my private fortune had been cleaned out, half a year previously. Now, having announced for reelection, I gave out a frank explanation of the affair, saying I deemed it to be of interest to the public, in view of my candidacy. The reaction to my statement reminded me of a conversation I had some days before with my close friend James Shaw, the state banking commissioner. I had asked Shaw’s advice about running for reelection, and he had urged me to run. I asked Shaw, ‘‘but what will the people of Texas say of me, who they thought was a rich man, when they find out I’m broke?’’ Shaw answered, ‘‘I don’t think it will make any difference, Governor.’’ I was to learn that it did make a difference with some people. The reaction of most rank-and-file voters seemed to be sympathetic and therefore politically favorable, but among my personal friends, especially men of means and influence, it enabled me to distinguish many of the fair-weather variety from the all-weather kind. I was disappointed and hurt to discover that some I had thought were in the latter classification actually were in the former. Mrs. Ferguson opened her campaign at Waco on May 21. Ma presented a ten-point platform in her brief talk. She modestly said that she ‘‘may not be the 188

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best governor Texas ever had, but in this awful task of recovery, which I will inherit as your next governor, I will have the best governor Texas has ever had to help me.’’ She meant, obviously, her husband, Jim. At the opening of my campaign on June 11, also in Waco, I emphasized my administration’s accomplishments. They included the submission of a homestead tax exemption amendment, prison reform and improvements, great highway progress, truck regulation, farm aid and soil conservation, the stopping of oil production waste through prorationing, child welfare, unemployment relief, and the curbing of county fee graft. ‘‘I am seeking reelection solely on the record of my administration,’’ I declared. Admitting that I had suffered a large financial loss since I had been in public office, I assured the audience that my financial situation was a personal matter that did not affect them, nor had it kept me from carrying out my duties as governor. ‘‘I make no appeal for sympathy,’’ I said. ‘‘In truth, I have plenty of company, so much company that if all those who have lost money in the past two years were to vote for me and all those who have made money were to vote the other way, I would be elected by the largest majority ever given a candidate for office.’’ The enthusiastic crowd attending the opening of my campaign filled the spacious courthouse lawn in Waco. The speakers preceding me included Dan Moody, Fort Worth newspaper publisher Amon Carter, Senators Woodward and Holbrook, Galveston businessman John Darrouzett, Dallas political leader Cato Sells, and Waco newspaper editor Frank Baldwin. The announced theme of my 1932 campaign was ‘‘Honesty in government.’’ In his speech at the Waco rally, Woodward emphasized the theme by declaring that he would ‘‘rather have a governor who went in rich and came out poor than one who went in poor and came out rich.’’ I had decided to drop my fight for a state road bond issue, at least until times got better. Economic conditions did not warrant any new indebtedness for the state. Instead, I renewed my proposal that part of the gasoline tax be used to relieve counties of their road bond indebtedness. Lawyers had advised me, however, that this could be done only by constitutional amendment. Friends of Wright Morrow of Houston had petitioned the State Democratic Executive Committee to place his name on the ticket as a candidate for governor. After long deliberation, Morrow decided to withdraw his name. That left me with eight opponents, including Ferguson, Hunter, and six minor entries. The State Democratic Committee injected into the campaign the controversial issue of repealing the Eighteenth Amendment (Prohibition). The committee voted to submit the question as a referendum on the July primary ballot. Some of the ultra-drys threatened a revolt against my candidacy unless I op189

Sterling campaign flyer, 1932. CAH, DI02369.

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posed the repeal movement. Friends of mine who recognized the ground swell for repeal warned me that opposing repeal would cost me thousands of votes. One of those friends was Representative Walter Beck of Fort Worth, one of my strongest supporters in North Texas. Beck wrote me a letter in mid-June saying that the ‘‘Fergusonites would like to harness you up with a camel and let Jim profit by the tremendous swing that has developed for repeal of the Eighteenth amendment.’’ Beck reminded me that my dry views were well known. He suggested that I state publicly that I had never attempted to dictate to the people as to what their views should be on the subject and that I was disposed to encourage them to vote however they wanted. I was never one to compromise or temporize, however, with what I thought was evil, even though it might cost me the election. In my book, the liquor traffic was Public Evil Number One. I protested the referendum to the Democratic Committee, even though my close friend Judge Huggins, who I had made its chairman, was a prime mover of the proposed poll. As for the Fergusons, they handled the issue so as to catch the voters coming and going. Ma took a dry stand, while Jim took a wet stand. Of course, few voters had any illusions as to which spouse’s views would prevail. I did not begin campaigning intensively during June. I didn’t think I needed to. Good reports were coming from all over the state. I received a report from Harry Hines about a Ferguson rally in Wichita Falls. Harry later served as a highway commissioner, and he would be an unsuccessful candidate for governor. Harry wrote that Ma and Pa Ferguson had held ‘‘a great meeting’’ in the North Texas city. He estimated the crowd to be around 5000. ‘‘I have lived here for many years,’’ Harry stated, ‘‘and in milling around through the crowd I was astonished at not seeing anyone I knew. I cannot imagine where all those people came from, but I’ll wager there were not over five hundred poll-tax receipts in the entire crowd.’’ Elias Mann of Fort Davis, who signed himself ‘‘your unhired campaign manager,’’ wrote that he had canvassed many citizens in his section, and only one said he was against my candidacy. ‘‘He was a squint-eyed truck driver . . . against you because you signed the truck bill.’’ Curiously, a prominent citizen of Grayson County, a railroad center, wrote confidentially that the railroads were going to support Ferguson because he promised ‘‘to put trucks and busses off the highways.’’ A statement in the Ferguson Forum that I voted for Hoover for president in 1928 brought some repercussions. By that time, Hoover was being generally blamed for the Depression, and he was poison to Democrats. In response, I

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issued a statement that it was not true that I voted for Hoover. I had voted for Al Smith, and I supported him with my newspaper, the Houston Post-Dispatch. With the sultry weather of July, the campaign began heating up. I hit the campaign trail to stay on it until the first primary. It was for the most part a repetition of 1930, but I had gained a lot of political experience since July 1930. At Forney, in Northeast Texas, I recalled having bought hundreds of carloads of the famous Forney hay during my career in the feed business. That probably got me more votes there than a half-hour’s talk about political issues. I gained even more by reminding the crowd of my action as highway chairman in closing the notorious Forney gap. At New Boston, near Texarkana, I scored one of the best political strokes of the campaign, and did it without thought of my own political interest. New Boston was the home of Dr. J. W. E. H. Beck, one of my best friends in the Senate. Dr. Beck had been stricken with tuberculosis and had to stop campaigning. He was to leave in a few days for a West Texas sanitarium. So, at New Boston, instead of speaking for my own renomination, I devoted most of my talk to Beck’s reelection. I concluded with the request that everyone in the audience bow their heads in a moment’s silent prayer for the doctor’s recovery. At Corsicana, I encountered the first heckling of my 1932 campaign. A crowd of young rowdies persistently attempted to shout down C. L. Jester while he was introducing me. Finally becoming ruffled, Jester tore into the disturbers, reciting the lurid record of Fergusonism from Jim’s impeachment down to date. His onslaught brought repeated cheers, and the heckling soon subsided. I devoted most of my speech to the hoodlums by attacking Fergusonism, followed by a review of my administration’s accomplishments. C. L. Jester’s son, Beauford, who was to become a railroad commissioner and then governor, drummed up a crowd of Corsicanians to go to nearby Cooledge for the Sterling rally there. At the little town of Rice, near Corsicana, I met Grandpa Edmundson, aged ninety, who proudly told me that he had fought in the Civil War in the company commanded by my father, Captain B. F. Sterling. Edmundson showed me his official discharge, signed by Captain Sterling in 1865, to prove it. During a campaign stop in San Angelo on July 6, I divulged publicly for the first time the offer made to me during the regular legislative session to deliver eighteen House votes for the road bonds bill if I would appoint a specific friend of Ferguson’s to a certain office. I explained that I had spurned the offer, adding that ‘‘every last one of those members, whose names were given to me, voted against the bond measure.’’ When travel delays prevented me from appearing at Brady in time for a scheduled morning speech, my wife, who had come over from Austin to join 192

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me, volunteered to speak in my place. She discussed the governor’s office from the viewpoint of the governor’s wife and received a rousing ovation from the festival crowd of several thousand. At Sweetwater, one of my strongholds, I deviated from my own campaign to advocate the election of Franklin D. Roosevelt and John Nance Garner to the presidency and vice presidency. While frankly saying that I did not agree with all their ideas, I declared, ‘‘We are going to turn the Republican moneychangers out of the temple in November.’’ Roosevelt was then preparing to launch his campaign, and I wired him offering to lend him Adjutant General Bill Sterling as a bodyguard and traveling companion. Roosevelt replied that he already had engaged as many campaign attachés as funds would permit, but thanked me warmly. When Bill Sterling was campaigning for me in Bastrop County, he solicited the vote of a grizzled old farmer. Congress had just increased the cost of firstclass postage stamps from two to three cents. When the towering, square-jawed former Ranger asked the farmer if he would vote for me for governor, the old clodhopper replied, ‘‘Sterling? Hell, no. I ain’t aimin’ to vote for him. That sucker upped stamps to three cents.’’ Tyler, the metropolis of East Texas, had a political field day on July 8 and 9. Jim Ferguson spoke there one evening and I spoke the next. Old Jim, though rumored in failing health, showed no lack of his old-time vigor. He claimed that he had left $3.5 million in the state treasury when he ‘‘retired’’ in 1917. Hobby dissipated that, he said, and Mrs. Ferguson inherited a deficit when she became governor in 1925. When she left office, he recited, there was more than $3 million in the treasury. ‘‘Then greasy Dan [Moody] come a-lopin’ along, and half of that was wasted.’’ Jim said his wife wanted him to tell the voters that if any of them didn’t like the idea of having two governors for the price of one, they should consider that ‘‘this at least would make up for the time Texas hasn’t had one governor.’’ My appearance in Tyler was preceded by the circulation of the most vicious of all the libelous stories about me published by the Gladewater Journal during the campaign. This country oil-field weekly had become a Ferguson campaign sheet. It was filled with intemperate attacks against me, and hundreds of thousands of copies were distributed throughout the state. Wherever my supporters or I spoke, copies of the Journal were passed out among the audience. Tyler was plastered with the July 8 issue when I arrived. Its front-page headline declared, ‘‘A Shameful Record of a Crooked Governor.’’ All four pages of this newspaper were devoted exclusively to venomous and libelous assaults on my record, with special attention paid to my martial law order, which the Journal claimed was ‘‘imposed by the major oil companies.’’ 193

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The libel sheet was given a greater circulation by free distribution than any daily newspaper in the state could boast. Many voters, uninformed of the facts, although the larger and more responsible Texas newspapers were virtually unanimous for me, read it and wondered, ‘‘Can this be true?’’ Among the 10,000 who gathered in the open air to hear me at Tyler were several hecklers. They were all tough-looking customers. They bawled, ‘‘What about martial law?’’ I was tired and hot and out of patience, so I let them have it. More correctly (perhaps than I realized, as events were to reveal), I said, ‘‘I doubt if any of you roughnecks yelling about martial law are from East Texas. You have drifted in from other states.’’ I recalled how the land was being drained of oil at 10 cents a barrel and less, back in 1931. ‘‘The red-blooded landowners of East Texas said they would not stand for it,’’ I declared. ‘‘They were being robbed of their birthright and petitioned me by the hundreds to stop it. If I had not stepped in with troops and shut down every well in the field, they would have been destroyed.’’ ‘‘What about the bypasses?’’ shouted the hecklers. I shot back, ‘‘Some of you were stealing oil and the troops stopped you.’’ ‘‘What about the Humble bypass?’’ This referred to charges in the Gladewater Journal that major oil companies were bypassing the gauging tanks with secret pipes to avoid proration. ‘‘If a bypass is found at a Humble well,’’ I replied, ‘‘it will be dealt with the same as the others, but none has been found.’’ Jim Ferguson, like the Gladewater paper, was following the policy of hurling one wild charge after another at me. In Houston on July 15, Ferguson made the most amazing accusation of all. He said that ‘‘Sterling and his crowd’’ had stolen $100,000 in highway funds and had done certain other felonious things. ‘‘I haven’t got the evidence yet,’’ Jim admitted, ‘‘but I am going to get it.’’ He repeated the charges several times during the campaign but never came forth with the evidence. A few days later, State Auditor Moore Lynn released a report on an audit of the highway department. It showed the complete falsity of Ferguson’s charge. ‘‘There has been a discrepancy of only three hundred dollars in the expenditure of one hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars,’’ I said. ‘‘The man responsible for that was caught and is now in the penitentiary.’’ In one of his blunderbuss attacks on me, Ferguson said that the Hug-theCoast Highway, running practically the entire length of the Texas coastline, was built for the convenience of a few fishermen and that little more than cranes and crawfish lived in the area it traversed. That road, by the late 1940s one of the state’s best and busiest routes, was a major project of my administration, championed by Judge Huggins as president of the Gulf Coast Good Roads As-

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sociation. In a swing through Southeast Texas, I made it a point to remind the people of Jim’s aspersion. ‘‘Would you vote for a candidate,’’ I asked in a speech at Galveston, ‘‘who would cut your fair city off from outside traffic by stopping construction of the Hug-the-Coast Highway from the Sabine to Brownsville?’’ Many prominent Texans took the stump for me. Dan Moody was nearly as hard for me as he would have been for himself. Amon Carter, publisher of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, supplemented his strong editorial support with speeches. I also received praise from Albert Sidney Burleson of Austin, postmaster general in President Woodrow Wilson’s cabinet. Burleson said he had not approved of martial law, but added that ‘‘candor compels me to say that it saved millions of dollars to owners of small land holdings in East Texas . . . and multiplied by eight the revenue the state was receiving from its production tax.’’ General Burleson said there had never been ‘‘a breath of scandal, a whisper of wrongdoing’’ about me during my years of public service. ‘‘Every selfrespecting Texan should vote for those who will protect us from the shame of graft and corruption in public office.’’ An egg hurled at Dan Moody during his speech at Palestine splashed on the outer edge of the speaker’s platform. This enraged the red-haired former governor. He unleashed one of the most devastating castigations of Fergusonism ever heard in Texas. He called the egg thrower a ‘‘white-livered coward’’ and dared him to come out from hiding ‘‘behind the women and children.’’ Moody offered to wait on the platform after the audience departed and give the egg thrower or any of his ilk an opportunity ‘‘to try to run me off.’’ J. C. Hunter, an independent oilman, wrote me that he too had been a target for eggs at a Sterling rally in Gladewater. ‘‘All the speakers were insulted in the crudest manner by a small minority of hoodlums,’’ he said. ‘‘I had the honor of being the target for the two eggs that were thrown.’’ He was pleased that their ‘‘marksmanship was as poor as their judgment.’’ One of the eggs accidentally hit a man standing on the podium who was speaking for Ferguson. ‘‘He shouted,’’ Hunter reported, ‘‘that he would whip the dirty coward who threw the egg.’’ Hunter claimed that he promptly switched his allegiance from Ferguson to me. ‘‘He is now one of your most ardent supporters.’’ Myron Blalock, heading the state speaker bureau for my campaign, reported that 3000 speakers would take the stump for me in the final week of the first primary drive. The person who drew the biggest crowds, next to me, was my wife. She was billed as the first governor’s wife in Texas—perhaps the first in the nation—to make a regular speaking campaign for her husband’s election. Maud was slight of build, but she was tireless and high-spirited as she trav-

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eled throughout the state pleading my cause. Everywhere, she made a hit with her folksy, democratic ways. Women who went to hear her found her just like themselves, a normal housewife, intensely loyal to her husband. ‘‘You know where I am, right up there on the hill,’’ she told an Austin rally. ‘‘Just come up any time and you will be welcome.’’ The crowd gave her a rising ovation. My wife’s activities may have been the inspiration for a chain-letter movement carried on by Texas women during the campaign. From the Red River to the Rio Grande, postmen delivered their letters, each one containing one sentence: ‘‘The women of this state are determined that Miriam A. Ferguson shall not be our next governor.’’ I continued to receive insistent queries from the Women’s Christian Temperance Union of Dallas asking me to reveal my stand on prohibition. In response, a few days before the election, I issued another statement on the subject, saying in effect that it was the same that it had always been. ‘‘I have been a life-long prohibitionist and a teetotaler,’’ I declared. ‘‘I have always supported local option prohibition, statewide prohibition, and national prohibition . . . and have supported the dry cause with my vote, voice, and money.’’ Because Ferguson had accused me of having dealt in alcoholic beverages in Liberty County, I added that I had never engaged in the liquor business in my life. Perhaps the drys discovered in the primary election returns the political mistake of their agitation and clamoring for me to declare and repeat my stand on the issue. They knew that in me they would have a fundamentally dry governor, regardless of what I said in my campaign, and that in Ferguson they would have a fundamentally wet one. Those returns revealed how unpopular it was at that time to preach prohibition. The referendum vote was 405,309 for submission of a repeal amendment and 177,618 against submission. No doubt the same sentiment that produced the more than two-to-one vote for repeal had a good deal to do with the results in the governor’s race. In the first primary election, Mrs. Ferguson had a large lead, receiving 402,239 votes. I finished second with 296,383 ballots. Tom Hunter shocked us all by attracting 220,391 votes. Five other candidates divided a little more than 43,000 votes. Tom Hunter’s strong showing was the surprise of the primary. Naturally, both Ferguson and I instantly went after the Wichita Falls candidate, seeking to swing his support. Dan Moody had a long conference with Hunter at Austin on my behalf. Hunter said he didn’t think he would support either of us in the runoff. He sent me a letter with this gem of ambiguity: ‘‘Until my tired mind may relax I will take no action. Whatever I do if anything will be in behalf of the great plain people. . . . My supporters were independent thinkers.’’ Politicians generally figured that the preponderance of Hunter’s vote came from my following, people who hoped that a change might help economic con196

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ditions. This belief was the consolation and hope of my forces. We were encouraged by declarations of support by numerous Hunter campaign leaders, among them his South Texas manager A. J. Schuhsler of Houston, and Mrs. Lelis Grafius, chairman of the Hunter women’s campaign organizations. Roy L. Arterbury of Houston, who managed my campaign in South Texas, was instrumental in swinging Schuhsler over. Some of my Austin supporters thought Moody’s activities had hurt rather than helped me in the primary campaign. I did not agree with them. Nevertheless, Carl Estes, the Tyler political prodigy, invited Moody to accompany him to Minnesota on a fishing trip during the August runoff campaign. Moody politely declined the invitation and added curtly, ‘‘The only ones I ever heard suggesting that I not take the stump against Ferguson were Ferguson people. I shall stay in the campaign and do everything I can to help continue good government in Texas, and I hope you will do likewise.’’

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After the first primary election results were official, I soon was back on the reelection front, powwowing with my campaign leaders, laying plans for the runoff, receiving messages of support, and catching up with my correspondence. Obviously, the most critical task for my campaign in the primary runoff was attracting Tom Hunter’s voters. Accordingly, my first campaign appearance in the runoff was in Tom Hunter’s hometown, Wichita Falls, bidding for Hunter’s endorsement and the support of his townspeople. I paid tribute to Hunter and invited his followers to ‘‘rally to the cause of good government in Texas.’’ The county-level Democratic conventions, meeting the next day throughout the state, seated wet delegates and called for repeal of the Dean prohibition act. The following day, Senator Tom Love of Dallas urged all dry Democrats to take part in the runoff and support me. His plea probably influenced many wets to take part and support Mrs. Ferguson, for there was a widespread feeling that repeal would improve economic conditions. As in 1930, my forces held a statewide pep meeting at Fort Worth to launch the second drive officially. Approximately 1000 leaders attended. I climaxed a day of oratory with a brief talk saying I would start out on the next day and ‘‘cover this state as it has never been covered before.’’ To my supporters I declared: ‘‘This is your battle; it’s the battle of the people of Texas for good government.’’ Maud was in the Lincoln with me when I headed for Central Texas. I made my tenth speech of the day at Brownwood. That day’s strenuous grind set the pace for the remainder of the campaign. At Burleson, I laughed at an exhibit in a bank window. A large, perfect ear

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of corn was labeled, ‘‘raised by Tom Hill, a Sterling supporter,’’ and a scrubby little nubbin, mostly shucks, bore the name of a Ferguson supporter. While I was shelling the woods, my chief supporters were pondering widespread reports of irregularities and suspicious circumstances in the July primary. In Dallas, Dan Moody and Myron Blalock said they had information that many counties polled more votes than the number of poll-tax payers. Moody and Blalock said they would ask for supervisors at the polls in the runoff primary. In Houston, Charles E. Kamp, county Democratic chairman, criticized precinct chairmen for permitting irregularities in the primary. He warned that such conduct would not be tolerated in the runoff. Two valuable reinforcements to my campaign were Clint Small and Senator R. A. Stuart of Fort Worth. Stuart had filibustered against my three-cent gasoline tax in 1927. He now took the road with me and made speeches at my meetings, as Senator Woodward and Albert Sidney Johnson had done in 1930. Senator Small made speeches in West Texas, where he was popular. Stuart bore down on the tax relief to result from my proposal to refund the counties from the gasoline tax fund for bonds they had sold to build state roads. He told the farmers that their average savings would amount to the value of one Jersey cow. As the Depression steadily worsened, I announced on August 7 that I would call a special session of the Legislature in September to enact county bond refund legislation, and also to amend the law to permit homeowners to avail themselves of aid offered by the new federal home loan banks. Fred Minor of Denton, Speaker of the House and a staunch supporter of mine, took over the campaign speakers bureau in the runoff. He booked 350 speakers for the third week. My wife was more active in the second primary drive than in the first. Maud pleaded for a continuation of responsible government. She talked of government efficiency, of the excellent record made by the prison administration, and of domestic economies in the Governor’s Mansion, such as reducing the gas bill. She gave comparative statistics on road contracts under Ferguson and under me. She recalled how in other years she would rise at 4 a.m. to cook breakfast for twenty-five hungry farm hands, and at the end of the day work until 10:30 p.m. washing dishes. Referring to the cotton eyelet dress she wore, Maud urged the women to wear more cotton and thereby create more demand for the staple. ‘‘Quit supporting the silk worms of Japan,’’ she exhorted. I lost a couple days of campaigning after being hit with a severe case of food poisoning following a dinner late one evening in Gonzales. I rushed home to Austin in acute pain. My physician put me to bed and told me to stay there for

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at least two days. My wife, learning in Fort Worth of my illness, canceled her engagements and hurried to my bedside. She called off my speeches for the rest of the week, but I was sufficiently recovered to take the road again after only two days of rest. My next appearance was in Dallas, where I sailed into Fergusonism with renewed vigor, particularly attacking Jim’s administration of the highway department and the prison system. I told how the state prison system, under Lee Simmons’s management, had become self-sustaining for the first time in known history and had saved more than half a million dollars of its appropriation for the current fiscal year. This was made possible largely by the grow-your-own truck farm program, inaugurated by my administration. I contrasted the $278 per man annual cost of keeping the state prisoners under my administration to the Ferguson regime’s yearly cost of $444. I was particularly proud of an endorsement of my candidacy by the Brotherhood of Locomotive Firemen and Engineers, for my ‘‘friendly record toward union labor.’’ That endorsement was prompted by gratitude for my treatment of men who had worked under me while I was chairman of the Board of Control of the Port Terminal Railway in Houston. I. B. Arnold, Houston chairman of the Brotherhood, stated that I had secured for the Terminal railroad employees the right to organize and had given them a contract, after the railroad officials had forbidden them to organize. Later, when the railroads refused the men certain back pay claimed because of trouble with contract violations, I ordered the railroads to pay the back wages. One other endorsement that gave me special pleasure was from Jim Ferguson’s brother, A. M. Ferguson of Howe, Texas. I found out about his support when I received a copy of a letter he had sent to a Fort Worth man advocating my election and bitterly opposing that of his own brother. I dictated a brief note of thanks to A. M. Ferguson. Afterward, I told my secretary that ‘‘if I should be defeated it won’t be with the opposition of my own brother.’’ Despite the endorsements and our hard work in the campaign, we had powerful forces working against us, and the most deadly and senseless of all was the Depression. But for that, I probably would have had no serious opposition for reelection. Henry Whiddon, a public accountant, put his finger on the sore spot of public opinion in a letter to Roy Arterbury, expressing puzzlement that any good citizen could think of putting a man with Ferguson’s record back into power. ‘‘The awful thing is the idea some people have in blaming Mr. Sterling for the depression,’’ he added. ‘‘I have had businessmen tell me in all seriousness that Dan Moody started the depression and that Sterling kept the depression in Texas. What can we do with a situation like that?’’ Whiddon argued that if I

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could exert that much power, the voters should put me back in the governor’s office ‘‘with instructions to stop the depression at once.’’ A week before the primary, I called the special legislative session for August 30, the Tuesday following the balloting. I proclaimed three Depressionrelief subjects for legislation. I asked the Legislature to pass county road bond refunds; release penalties and interest due on delinquent taxes if paid by January 31, 1933; and permit life insurance companies and building and loan associations to invest in the stock of federal home loan banks in the interest of financing and refinancing homesteads. Ferguson charged that the real purpose of the special session was to repeal the Robertson Insurance Law, which kept many insurance companies out of Texas. He also asserted that I planned to take away from the counties twothirds of the automobile license fees that they then received. Incidentally, Jim explained why his wife was not with him on his campaign tour. He said she had remained in Austin ‘‘saving her strength for the duties of her office.’’ The Dallas News reported that county and district attorneys over the state were investigating the abnormal first primary vote in the governor’s race. In more than half of the counties, the News said, the number of ballots cast was greater than the number of poll-tax payers. The vote in 132 counties exceeded poll taxes by 37,719. Normally the vote ran about that much less than the poll taxes. Chairman Huggins of the State Democratic Committee directed county chairmen to be sure to give proper instructions to precinct chairmen and to caution them against law violation. He warned that election officials who willfully permitted illegal voting would be prosecuted. Huggins announced the appointment of a subcommittee of the executive group to investigate any reports of election irregularities and to prosecute offenders. I issued an executive proclamation offering a $500 reward for the arrest and conviction of any election official knowingly permitting illegal voting, and $100 for the arrest and conviction of any person voting illegally. My campaign leaders had convincing information that there would be a mass movement of nonresidents from adjoining states into the polls of East and North Texas, especially the big oil field boxes of the piney woods section of East Texas. Judge Huggins and I were doing what we could to discourage this threatened voter fraud. When vandals dynamited a Humble Company well near Gladewater and committed other acts of sabotage, big Bill Sterling decided to act. On his own authority, and without consulting me, he ordered thirty-five Rangers to East Texas to clean up the oil field.

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Bill Sterling knew there was a great influx of floaters from other states into the oil field, and he had reason to believe that thousands of them intended to vote in the runoff primary. Among the Rangers who went over there with him were twenty-seven ex-sheriffs who knew Texas politics. They held a council of war and carefully planned a round-up of drifters in that section during the last few days before the election. They figured that would scare off the prospective illegal voters. They were all set one night to jump off the next morning, when I called Bill at midnight and countermanded his cleanup order. I told Bill that I preferred not to send Rangers to East Texas at that time for fear the action would be misunderstood as an attempt to patrol the ballot boxes in the election. When I rescinded the order, Bill Sterling’s only reply was ‘‘You’re the commander-in-chief.’’ I didn’t tell Bill at the time, but Amon Carter had called to warn me about the Rangers because he feared that the move might make me liable to the charge of intimidating voters and thereby backfire. In later years, when Bill Sterling found out who had warned me off, he said that Amon Carter may have been right, but Bill believed that his plan would have forestalled enough fraudulent votes to save the election for me. I concluded my campaign with a speech in Houston and a swing through South Texas, San Antonio, and Waco. My speech outside John Marshall School on Houston’s North Side was interrupted continually by young rowdies in the crowd. Former senator Charles Murphy, a leader in North Side political and labor affairs, introduced me. He was mortified by the disruptions in my hometown and in his own neighborhood. Bob Stuart, who had accompanied me over much of Texas, said it was the most disgraceful conduct he had observed anywhere. Two days later a large number of North Side residents published a statement deploring and resenting the disturbance. At Texarkana, Dan Moody, in his closing speech of the campaign, read aloud from a seventh-grade Texas history textbook the account of Jim Ferguson’s impeachment. ‘‘I can’t see,’’ Moody said, ‘‘how anyone could teach the children by their example that it is all right to return Jim Ferguson to office, and teach in the schools that he was convicted by the Senate.’’ Less than forty-eight hours before balloting time, Rene B. Creager of Brownsville, the Republican National committeeman for Texas, dipped his finger into the campaign pie. He sent a telegram to John Garner of Uvalde, the Democratic vice presidential nominee, urging him to issue a public statement immediately, urging his friends in Texas to support me. Creager said his message was being sent in no partisan spirit but as a plea from one native Texan to another. ‘‘Our beloved state is in grave danger of a return of Fergusonism to power,’’ Creager warned Garner. ‘‘If any citizen of Texas is in a position to avert 202

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this unthinkable disaster, it is you. With your wide popularity, a word from you might easily make history.’’ 1 I had been a prime mover of the statewide meeting in San Antonio, early in the year, which had launched the Garner-for-President campaign. In my campaign speeches, I had occasionally given the Roosevelt-Garner ticket a plug. I had written Garner early in August, assuring him of my support for his vice presidential run. But Mr. Garner did not see fit to utter on my behalf the word that ‘‘might easily make history.’’ John Garner made me pretty sore. I may not hate him, but I come durn near it. While I was governor, Garner phoned or wired me occasionally from Washington, asking me to do this or that, and I usually accommodated him. Then, I promoted the San Antonio meeting in his behalf. After all that, the bugger went on supporting Ferguson. Maybe Garner remembered my refusal to make speeches against Harry Wurzbach in 1930, or maybe Cactus Jack just figured that an endorsement of my candidacy might lose him votes. Ferguson’s comment on Creager’s wire to Garner was typical. He said, ‘‘No one should be afraid that Garner will not support my wife,’’ and suggested that Garner’s friends should vote for her, ‘‘since she is the only one who can beat the Hoovercrats in a clean-cut election.’’

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After the runoff voting ended on August 27, 1932, poll workers throughout the state began the tedious process of counting ballots. The Texas Election Bureau issued hourly reports, and the vote would seesaw back and forth. I would be ahead after one count, and Mrs. Ferguson would be ahead on the next. At midnight on election day, Jim Ferguson claimed that his wife had won by a margin between 10,000 and 60,000 votes. I declined to comment when informed of the 1:30 a.m. totals. ‘‘It is too early to make any prediction of the outcome,’’ I told the Houston Post over long-distance telephone from my bayshore home. By Sunday night, the Election Bureau reported that Ferguson was ahead by 493 votes, with approximately 2000 ballots still out. Ferguson announced his intention to contest the election if his wife should not be declared the Democratic nominee for governor. A force of stenographers was busy in the Ferguson headquarters at Austin, mailing out requests to precinct chairmen to send certified statements of the vote to Ferguson. Monday’s tabulations gave Ma a lead of 404 votes. I went to Austin to prepare my message to the special legislative session, convening the next day. As the lawmakers poured into Austin, hotel lobbies buzzed with talk of a possible legislative investigation or a contest. It was the closest major election anyone could recall, except the one in 1924, when Mrs. Ferguson nosed Lynch Davidson out of the runoff. Facing the Capitol press gang across my desk, I told the reporters that I felt as good as I ever had in my life. I had lost some weight and my health was better than when I had started out on the long campaign. ‘‘I had a lot of fun,’’ I said. ‘‘I guess it’s because my conscience is clear.’’ As Mrs. Ferguson’s lead slowly mounted, my campaign leaders took counsel 204

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in Dallas as to the best course of action to pursue in protecting my interests in the election count. My friends in the Legislature discussed the advisability of an investigation. I greeted the lawmakers with a brief message repeating the reasons for the special session as stated in my proclamation. I assured them that ‘‘only the most imperative demand and need’’ impelled me to call the session. Many citizens had beseeched me to convene the Legislature in July, but I had put it off until after the primaries rather than interrupt the reelection campaigns of the members. I thought they could pass the bills proposed within a week, and I expressed the hope that they would do so for the sake of the taxpayers. The session was two days old and Mrs. Ferguson’s lead had passed the 2000 mark, when I announced that reliable information from all over Texas indicated beyond a doubt that I had ‘‘a substantial majority of all the votes lawfully cast in the runoff.’’ I said I had reason to believe that thousands of illegal votes were cast and that gross errors occurred in the count. I proposed to ‘‘leave nothing undone that is within my power to secure an honest count and to eliminate every unlawful vote cast.’’ This served notice to all that I expected to contest the election. By way of facilitating and expediting an honest count, Walter Woodward and other friends of my administration presented and got quick committee action on a resolution to create a committee of nine senators to investigate the alleged election irregularities. ‘‘It’s a scheme to steal the election from Mrs. Ferguson,’’ cried Senator Archer Parr of Benavides. The grizzled old Duke of Duval, famous for delivering all but a few of the votes of his county to his chosen candidates, was back on Jim’s side again, after taking a flier with me when I looked like a sure winner.1 That same bandwagon psychology evidently was causing a subtle change in the attitude of some legislators. The larger the woman candidate’s reported majority grew in belated county returns, the less inclined some members were to challenge her claim to nomination. The Senate resolution was kicked about for a day or so and then amended to defer the investigation until after the State Democratic Convention at Lubbock on September 13. Finally, the Senate shelved it by sending it back to committee. The State Capitol still seethed with excitement, however, over the odd political situation. Lawmaking took a back seat as all interest centered on the election imbroglio. Reports of election irregularities poured into my office. My friends from every quarter told of specific instances in their own boxes. They encouraged me to contest the election. This mass of evidence was turned over to District Attorney Sam McCorkle of Mexia, who was making a statewide investigation. Within two weeks after the primary, McCorkle said he had names, 205

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addresses, and ballot numbers of about 20,000 voters in several counties who were not on the official poll-tax lists. ‘‘I can prove,’’ he said, ‘‘that these voters were not legally entitled to poll tax exemptions.’’ M. M. Crane of Dallas, former attorney general of Texas and a distinguished lawyer, told me that he believed Mrs. Ferguson could be barred from becoming governor independent of the primary, on the ground that she was ineligible. ‘‘If you feel as I do,’’ he wrote, ‘‘that we ought to get a decision from the Supreme Court, if possible, adjudicating her ineligibility, and thus save this state from being annoyed every two years by their candidacy . . . we will have done a wonderful work for Texas.’’ Crane thought the suit could be pushed through the courts to a decision in good time before the November general election. The consensus of my legal advisers, however, was that they should challenge Mrs. Ferguson’s nomination on grounds of election fraud. Ferguson, possibly fearing adverse action by the Democratic organization, filed application for a writ of mandamus directing the state committee to certify the candidate shown by official returns to have received the most votes and instructing the state convention to nominate that candidate. The State Supreme Court rejected this motion. Then the Ferguson forces decided to try the philosophy that the best defense is offense. Representative J. C. Duval of Fort Worth filed a resolution to investigate the election, as a preliminary to possible impeachment proceedings against me. ‘‘Come on, we’re ready for you,’’ shouted Alfred Petsch. ‘‘If impeachment charges are to be presented against Governor Sterling, the sooner it is done the better for the state.’’ Representative Harry Graves of Georgetown, soon to become a member of the State Court of Criminal Appeals, also replied angrily to Duval’s proposal: ‘‘If you’ve got anything on Ross Sterling bring it in here and let us see what it is.’’ Graves said he had voted for me in the primary and would feel compelled to vote for Mrs. Ferguson in November if she were declared the nominee, ‘‘but it will be with shame and a feeling that the brightness of the Star of Texas has been dimmed.’’ In the Senate, Welly K. Hopkins of Gonzales, later to achieve renown as an attorney for John L. Lewis, president of the United Mine Workers, demanded to know by what authority the Rangers had obtained a huge quantity of voter affidavits, which the Sterling forces had cited as evidence of illegal voting. Such affidavits, Hopkins said, were required by law to be placed in the sealed ballot boxes. In response to this question, I said that a young man employed in the City Hall at Kilgore had found the affidavits abandoned and left in the polling place

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by the election officials. He delivered the papers to a Ranger, and they were turned over to the district attorney. I said that several thousand persons had voted in Gregg County with such printed affidavits, headed ‘‘For Voters From Other States,’’ in lieu of poll-tax receipts.2 All of them were taken by two notaries public, who must have been kept busy all day filling out the forms and taking the oaths. Each individual swore that he had moved to Texas from another state during 1931, and that on January 31, 1932, the deadline for paying the poll tax for the 1932 elections, the individual had not lived in Texas the full twelve months necessary to qualify. They also swore, however, that they had resided here continuously for a year or more up to the time of the primary election and therefore were qualified voters. Had all ballots cast by means of such affidavits been thrown out, Mrs. Ferguson would have lost the primary and I would have been the nominee. The State Executive Committee, meeting at Lubbock on September 12, the eve of the State Democratic Convention, went on record as favoring a recount of the runoff primary by a judicial committee. It refused me the privilege of formally protesting Mrs. Ferguson’s nomination to the committee, holding that such action would be out of order. I told the committee that ‘‘if on the convention floor illegal ballots again defeat us, I shall meet Ferguson in the courthouse.’’ As a matter of fact, my contest petition already had been prepared. The rough element of Fergusonites moved into Lubbock en masse, determined to withstand any effort on the part of my forces, legal or otherwise, to deprive Mrs. Ferguson of the nomination. The air was surcharged with threats and rumors of violence. Adjutant General Bill Sterling was watching the situation closely and, hearing the threats, took a large force of hand-picked Ranger officers to the West Texas town to protect my people from harm. Some of the Rangers were worked up to a high pitch and wanted to take aggressive action against the Ferguson toughs, but Dan Moody calmed them down. ‘‘We’re contesting the election,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll have our day in court. The Supreme Court will give us a fair decision. We mustn’t start any trouble; it would embarrass Mr. Sterling and jeopardize his case.’’ On this assurance of a fair court test they subsided. Bill Sterling told me later that if the Rangers had known how the case was coming out, he might not have been able to restrain them. My supporters and I went to Lubbock hoping to gain control of the convention, but in the face of the election returns, many of my delegates concluded that the opposition would be in the driver’s seat. They didn’t care to be subjected to the ignominy of being flattened by a Ferguson steamroller. The result was that a number of my delegates did not bother to show up. Ferguson’s dele-

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Texas Ranger William W. Sterling. CAH, DI02347.

gates, however, turned out in full force, attracted by the scent of fresh political meat, promised by Mrs. Ferguson’s majority. I held a caucus with my advisers on the night before the convention. I was pretty wrought up when I spoke to the group, and I let my feelings flow out in a strongly worded speech. When I concluded and turned around to take a seat, I stumbled and nearly fell. Dan Moody caught my arm. ‘‘If you had made two or three speeches like that in the campaign,’’ he laughed, ‘‘we’d have won hands down.’’ We could see that we were outnumbered at the convention. Having no intention of engaging in a brawl with our foes, who had threatened violence, we decided to make no effort to gain control. Of course, the convention noisily declared Mrs. Ferguson the nominee. I returned to Austin without having entered the convention hall. As I prepared to wind up the special legislative session, I also planned to prosecute my election case. The Legislature passed and I signed all of the acts I had proposed, including the bill allowing loan companies to invest in stock of the federal home loan banks and making the benefits of the Federal Home Loan Act available to Texas

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homeowners. It was estimated that these acts would mean at least $7 million to Texans, as well as provide twice that much federal money for home investors. With all of the proposed bills taken care of, I thanked the members of the Legislature for their service and gently suggested that they adjourn the session, which had lasted nineteen days. But the Ferguson forces were not yet ready to quit. They were concerned about my legal suit contesting the election and they wanted to do something if possible to forestall it. They decided that their best bet was to threaten me with impeachment proceedings. On the very day that I blew the Legislature a farewell kiss, Representative Elmer Pope of Corpus Christi, my most relentless enemy in the House, announced that a steering committee of which he was a member was ‘‘practicing’’ on a proclamation calling the newly elected Legislature into special session on November 9, immediately after the general election, to consider impeachment charges. This threat, it was plainly intimated, was conditional upon my dropping the lawsuit contesting the election. When I learned of Pope’s suggestion, I issued a statement that this second effort at intimidation, with threats of investigation, revealed more clearly than the first one did that the Ferguson crowd was trembling with fear of a recount of the ballots. ‘‘Smokescreen threats will not deter me from prosecuting this contest,’’ I declared. ‘‘I want my friends everywhere not to be misled or deceived by false propaganda. Facts will vindicate my contention that I am the legal nominee of the Democratic Party.’’ Although Texas legislators had never assumed office until the January regular session following their election in November, Representative Pope said the constitution empowered them to begin serving immediately after election. Ferguson claimed a majority of the newly nominated legislators. Representative R. H. Holland of Houston squelched this contention by digging up an old opinion written by C. M. Cureton as attorney general, holding that the legislator’s term of office continued until the second Tuesday in January following his successor’s election. Cureton was now chief justice and would pass on the question if it went to the Supreme Court, which left Pope and his cohorts little hope on that score. So the special session was adjourned on September 21, without further consideration of Pope’s plan. My counsel filed the lawsuit challenging Mrs. Ferguson’s nomination as soon as it was reasonably possible to gather the statewide evidence and prepare the case. That was in mid-September, two weeks after the primary. Sam McCorkle of Mexia filed it for me. Roy Arterbury of Houston also was active in the case. It was ten days before District Judge W. F. Robertson set the case for trial in Austin. The judge docketed it for October 3.

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The suit alleged that more than 20,000 illegal votes were cast for Mrs. Ferguson. We believed that those illegal votes were counted through a variety of methods. Our suit charged that more than 3000 nonresidents, not legally eligible, had voted for her on fraudulent affidavits in Gregg, Smith, and Upshur counties, which was most of the area under martial law. The suit also claimed that more than 3000 legal ballots were thrown out by election judges in Dallas, Tarrant, Harris, and other counties on the pretext that they were defaced, mutilated, or improperly marked. We also had evidence indicating that transients in various sections were picked up on the streets and taken off freight trains and induced by illegal means to go to the polls and vote for Ferguson. The suit stated that residents of adjoining states were transported into Texas in a systematic way and rewarded by various means for voting for Ferguson. Negroes voted in four or more counties, in violation of instructions given by the State Democratic Committee to county and precinct election officials that Texas laws did not permit colored people to vote in the primary.3 In numerous counties, pro-Ferguson election judges did not check the names of voters against poll-tax lists as required by law, but allowed anyone to vote without establishing the person’s legal right to do so. In some counties, men were hauled from one precinct to another to vote for Ferguson. Specific instances of illegal voting were alleged in 128 counties. An enormous mass of evidence gathered by my investigators was to be introduced in the trial in support of these allegations. Large filing cases bulged with affidavits, letters, statements, tabulations, and other data testifying to illegal balloting. I received many letters from citizens, voluntarily reporting irregularities that they said they had observed at first hand. Not since Reconstruction days of carpetbag rule had such a mountain of evidence of unlawful acts in a Texas election been accumulated. In addition, the petition asserted that Mrs. Ferguson was not legally eligible to hold the office of governor because she was the wife of James Ferguson, an impeached governor and licensed attorney, entitled to a share of his earnings under the community property law. It alleged that during Mrs. Ferguson’s previous administration as governor, her husband served as her attorney-in-fact and agent of various large interests, thereby increasing the community earnings of himself and Mrs. Ferguson. This latter pleading carried out Crane’s suggestion to challenge her eligibility. In Ferguson’s answer to the suit, he charged that 900 votes had been cast illegally in Webb County, a county that I had won by a large majority. John A. Valls, district attorney and political boss of that border county, immediately issued a subpoena commanding Ferguson to reveal to the grand jury the information on which he based his charge. With breathtaking speed, Jim retracted 210

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the allegation in a syrupy telegram to Valls, saying: ‘‘I have the kindliest feelings and friendship for the people of your section. I believe the election in Webb County was fairly and legally conducted.’’ Valls then canceled the subpoena. By the time the election suit was called for hearing in the district court, Mrs. Ferguson had complicated the situation with another court action. She had asked the Supreme Court to mandamus Mrs. Jane Y. McCallum, the Secretary of State, to certify her name for a place on the ballot in the general election. After arguments, the court took the application for mandamus under advisement. Chief Justice Cureton warned that this should not delay the district court contest, which was to go to trial two days later. Luther Nickels and Ocie Speer, attorneys for Mrs. Ferguson, made a countercharge in their answer to my suit. They claimed that I had received more than 20,000 illegal votes, and that more than $500,000 had been spent in my campaign in violation of the act limiting a candidate’s expenditures to $10,000. The answer also challenged the jurisdiction of the Travis County district court in which the suit was filed, and asserted that the case was moot and that it would be impractical to try it in the time remaining before the printing of the November election ballots. As the trial got under way it became apparent that Ferguson’s lawyers were shooting at the latter contention, that the case was moot. Through dilatory pleas in abatement, they evidently sought to drag out the preliminaries until it would be too late to complete the trial and the appeal. My lawyers, now including M. M. Crane, recognized the filibuster. When Luther Nickels launched what promised to be a week’s argument, Crane interrupted. ‘‘Your Honor,’’ he said, ‘‘the time is short. The proceedings could be greatly expedited if you would appoint commissioners to begin immediately taking testimony and recounting votes in the counties. Then the argument could proceed without loss of time.’’ Judge Robertson decided that the plea then under way could be completed, and then he would consider the appointment of commissioners before continuing arguments. Nickels and Speer concluded their arguments on the first plea, and Crane had begun his, when the judge abruptly adjourned court until the next morning. When the actors and the audience returned, Judge Robertson greeted them with a strange announcement. In the face of the Supreme Court’s admonition that the district court case not be delayed on account of the mandamus application, he said he had decided to hold up the proceedings until the high court acted. My lawyers protested, and then Judge Robertson reluctantly consented to proceed with the hearing. He still seemed to be under mental stress, however, 211

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and my lawyers were puzzled by the judge’s attitude. After the first day’s hearing, they thought he seemed changed. The judge heard arguments on a Ferguson plea in abatement challenging the district court’s jurisdiction to try the case. Then, at noon, he declared a recess until 3:30 p.m. On reconvening after the long recess, he asked the lawyers if they had any more authorities supporting their arguments and recessed again until the next day. ‘‘This is an important matter,’’ said Judge Robertson, ‘‘and I want to be sure I’m right before I act.’’ That was the end of the trial. The next day, the judge ruled that he did not have jurisdiction to try the case. He read a lengthy opinion in support of his ruling. My lawyers quickly appealed the case to the Court of Civil Appeals. That tribunal promptly certified it directly to the Supreme Court on the question of jurisdiction. Meanwhile, the Secretary of State withheld certification of Mrs. Ferguson pending Supreme Court action. Certificates of nomination for state offices were mailed to county clerks, with the space for the gubernatorial nominee left blank. Maury Hughes of Dallas, chairman of the new Ferguson-dominated State Democratic Executive Committee, protested. He said his group would take a hand, if necessary, to force the Secretary of State to perform her sworn duty. He said that they would do everything in their power ‘‘to see that the name of the legally constituted nominee for governor is duly placed on the ticket.’’ After Hughes issued his statement, I issued my own. ‘‘This is a great common cause of the people of Texas,’’ I declared. I argued that the issue was larger than any candidate or any political ambition. ‘‘There has appeared in our state a monster swindle,’’ I charged, ‘‘which if not checked at the start will remain a blotch in Texas history.’’ I claimed that the Fergusons had bought votes, hauling men and women from town to town so they could vote although they were not citizens of Texas. The Fergusons had produced false affidavits, printing exemption certificates by wholesale. I warned that it was ‘‘time for the people of Texas to awaken and to realize protection of the ballot is far more important than who becomes governor.’’ I pointed out that Ferguson’s counsel had filed in district court documents to the effect that 45,000 illegal votes had been cast in the last Democratic primary. ‘‘Are not their claims so grave,’’ I stated, ‘‘that a court inquiry is justified and required? Certainly something has gone wrong with the election machinery of this state, and when a machine won’t work, repairs are required.’’ The truth is, I continued, the Fergusons had made a ‘‘farce’’ of the Democratic primary. The same day that I issued my statement, the Texas Supreme Court accepted our election appeal. The very next day, Chief Justice Cureton announced the court’s decision in a twenty-five-page document. The decision came so quickly 212

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that Cureton must have started work on the document the moment the court received the appeal. Although the court overruled Judge Robertson’s opinion that the district court lacked jurisdiction to try the case, it held that Robertson was justified in dismissing the case for the reason that there was not sufficient time left to try it. Cureton argued that the case was moot because a recount could not be conducted and a final decision determined in time for the county clerks to post my name as nominee before the ballots could be printed and distributed to absentee voters before the election on November 8, 1932. The court’s decision was unique in Texas history. It established the precedent that a statewide primary election could not be contested if there is not sufficient time to try the case before the time when the Secretary of State is required by law to certify the names of candidates for printing on the November election ballot. The result was that I lost office as governor of Texas not because I lacked a majority of the legal ballots, as the evidence indicated, but because the statute prescribing the time for printing absentee ballots took precedence over the laws against election fraud.4 In my public statement immediately following the decision, I declared that I accepted the court’s ruling as final. I argued, however, that the law should be rewritten ‘‘so that if at any future time a nomination for governor is obtained by improper means, there will be a court in which the wrong may be righted.’’ From the large amount of mail that flowed into my office, it was clear that many Texans resented the Supreme Court’s ruling. For example, Max McCrary of Dallas sent me a letter stating that after reading the court’s decision, he felt himself in accord with the sentiments expressed by the woman in a verse he quoted: There ain’t no jestice in the lan’, Fer I got a d’vorce f ’m my ole man, An’ the jedge, in renderin’ his decision, Give him the kids—when they wuzn’t his’n.

‘‘Certainly,’’ McCrary wrote, ‘‘Texas has been given the kids!’’ As Clay Cooke, a Fort Worth attorney, pointed out to me, as governor, I could have used my executive authority to send the Rangers out to seize the ballot boxes and bring them to Austin. I could have then appointed a commission to act as a grand jury to investigate the election. Under the circumstances, I doubted the advisability of taking that action. The reality was that the court’s decision was the end of the road. I would not be on the November ballot. There was something I could do, however. I issued a statement urging every Texas Democrat who loved his state to smash 213

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Fergusonism once and for all by voting against Mrs. Ferguson in the general election. ‘‘Knowing Jim Ferguson’s record,’’ I argued, ‘‘and having concern for my state, I would consider it a positive act of dishonor to cast my vote to put the government of Texas back in his hands.’’ I told the people of Texas that the Fergusons had perpetrated a fraud and stolen the election. ‘‘Fraud in the procuring of the nomination,’’ I said, ‘‘has relieved me and all other Democrats of any obligation to support the one declared to be the nominee of the primary.’’ I cited Grover Cleveland, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Alfred E. Smith as examples of Democrats who had refused to support a nominee of the party. In the meantime, a quickly formed organization named the League of AntiFerguson Democrats held a turbulent statewide meeting in Dallas. Led by Cato Sells, the organization decided that if I should lose my court challenge, it would support Orville Bullington of Wichita Falls, the Republican nominee for governor.5 George W. Armstrong, a Fort Worth steel manufacturer running as an independent candidate for governor, tried to get the League’s endorsement of his candidacy. When that attempt failed, Armstrong led his followers out and held a rump meeting. I had known Armstrong a long time. I had bought some banks from him back in the early days at Humble. In the spring of 1932, Armstrong had announced as a candidate for governor in the Democratic primary, but he soon withdrew from the race. Later, he declared his candidacy for governor running as an independent in the general election in November. After the Supreme Court ended my campaign, Armstrong eagerly sought my support. Arguing that Bullington, as a Republican, could not defeat Ferguson, Armstrong believed that his candidacy was the only alternative. The Texas Republican Party was suffering from internal factionalism, and many Republicans were refusing to vote for their own candidate. ‘‘Besides,’’ Armstrong pointed out, ‘‘the people have had enough of Republican administration. Those who voted for Hoover four years ago feel that they have been sold out and they are resentful.’’ There was more truth in what Armstrong said than most of us believed, until we saw the returns of Roosevelt’s landslide. But I did not agree with Armstrong. I believed that Bullington would poll five or six times as many votes as Armstrong. I felt that the best thing to do was to concentrate the anti-Ferguson forces behind Bullington’s candidacy. I had another problem with Armstrong. In his appeal for my support, he claimed that in his brief campaign during the primary, he had not engaged in personal attacks on my character and had always expressed confidence in my integrity. That was absolutely false. During a speech in Houston that was broad214

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cast on the radio, Armstrong charged that I was insipid and incompetent and did not know what it was all about, or something to that effect. When I confronted him on that point, Armstrong admitted to having made the remark, but he insisted that it was ‘‘decent, legitimate, political discussion.’’ He continued to plead for my endorsement, and I continued to urge him to withdraw from the race. Wearing a ‘‘Bullington for Governor’’ button on my coat lapel, I plunged into the campaign in earnest. I issued statements advocating the Republican’s candidacy, wrote letters, and cooperated with the League of Anti-Ferguson Democrats in its campaign for Bullington. I attended a Bullington rally in Austin and sat on the platform with Mrs. McCallum and Tom E. Hogg of San Antonio, son of the late Texas governor James Stephen Hogg. Tom Hogg introduced Bullington. Senator Woodward and Jake Wolters, two of my close political associates, decided against bolting the Democratic Party to vote against Ferguson. Senator Woodward told the Associated Press that he would vote a straight Democratic ticket. He added, however, that if there was ever a time when a Democrat was justified in not supporting the party’s nominee for governor, it was in 1932. ‘‘The fact that I am holding office in the Democratic Party and having been its nominee on several occasions,’’ Woodward explained, ‘‘causes me to think I possibly should support the ticket—feeling that I am under obligations to the party. I have no criticism of anyone who thinks otherwise.’’ I understood Woodward’s position, but I could hardly believe the newspaper report that Jake Wolters would vote the Democratic ticket. Wolters did not have Woodward’s obligations as an officeholder who had been elected as a Democrat. Jake’s only bid for public office had been back in 1912, when he lost the U.S. Senate election to Morris Sheppard. I wrote Jake a letter asking for an explanation. His reply lacked the warm intimacy that had characterized our previous relations. ‘‘All my life,’’ Jake wrote, ‘‘I have not only been a Democrat but have believed in the organized party. I have no quarrel with anybody and particularly not with you.’’ He said that he had always voted a straight ticket and that he would vote the straight ticket in 1932 ‘‘without looking to see who is on it.’’ Jake added that he appreciated my position and asked that I concede to him the same privilege that I had ‘‘so cheerfully’’ conceded to others. Dan Moody was not among those who held party regularity sacrosanct. To a reporter’s query on the eve of the November election as to how he would vote, he replied that he was enthusiastically for the Roosevelt-Garner ticket. He added, however, that he had so often expressed his feeling that Jim Ferguson brought discredit on the state that it was well understood by the people. ‘‘I don’t suppose any citizen of Texas could for one minute imagine that I would cast a 215

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vote or do anything else,’’ Moody said, ‘‘that would help to place him in charge of the government of my state.’’ The Fergusons pleaded for party loyalty in the general election. Jim denounced bolters as ‘‘skunks’’ and ‘‘moral cowards.’’ The Dallas News, however, recalled in an editorial that in 1920, Jim organized the American Party and nominated himself as its candidate for president against the Democratic national ticket. Amon Carter’s Fort Worth Star-Telegram reminded its readers that in 1918, after Hobby had defeated his bid for the Democratic nomination for governor, Ferguson had urged all Democrats to vote for the Republican candidate, regardless of the primary pledge, which he said had no binding effect. Ferguson bolted the party again in 1922 when he supported the Republican nominee for the U.S. Senate. The Star-Telegram concluded: ‘‘Jim Ferguson preaching party loyalty is even funnier than Jim Ferguson preaching good government, and heaven knows he was funny then.’’ No one really expected Bullington to win the November gubernatorial election, not even Bullington himself. No Republican had come anywhere near being elected governor of Texas since the Democrats wrested political control from Edmund J. Davis and carpetbag rule, three score years before. The GOP was in lower standing after four years of Hoover than it had been in generations. Nevertheless, Bullington made a remarkable showing. He polled 317,807 votes to Ferguson’s 528,986. Armstrong barely scratched with 706 votes. This showing was the more impressive when compared to the Texas results in the presidential election. Hoover, who had swept the rock-ribbed Democratic Lone Star State in 1928, trailed Roosevelt in 1932 by 652,389 ballots. My career in politics was over. The truth is that I had never been a politician, never acted politically, and never thought politically. Throughout my administration I had done things not with the politician’s calculation as to how I could best make votes for myself, but with the businessman’s judgment as to the way they should be done, even when I knew it would cost me votes. At that, in normal times and under normal conditions, I believe I would have been reelected as a matter of course, without serious opposition, but Fate had thrust me into the governor’s’ office at the worst time anyone had entered the office since Reconstruction days. I believe that if all the illegal votes had been thrown out, I would have beaten Mrs. Ferguson by a substantial margin. I could cite a dozen different factors, any one of which probably cost me more votes than Mrs. Ferguson’s official 3,333-vote margin. The three most critical factors were the Depression, martial law, and prohibition. I also had been hurt by other factors, especially the bitter controversy over cotton crop reduction. Ferguson’s wholesale charges and those made by the 216

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Gladewater newspaper were taken at face value by thousands of uninformed voters but never substantiated. My stern attitude toward gamblers, bootleggers, vice, and criminal elements caused them to fight against my renomination. My unwillingness to play ball with politicians by making appointments and granting political favors that would redound to my own political benefit had created powerful political enemies. My inability to backslap and flatter falsely, a major ingredient in most successful political careers, had been a political handicap. I was grateful for the help my friends gave me, but because I did not gush about it, many felt that I lacked appreciation, and they lost interest in me. Few appreciated the crushing stress I was under in 1932 and the latter part of 1931. Few realized that I had really lost my fortune and that I was a poor man. I had been forced to appeal for donations to finance the election suit. That was no mere political strategy. I actually lacked the necessary funds. I would have been in sore straits had not supporters kicked in several thousand dollars to pay attorneys’ fees, court costs, investigators’ salaries, and other expenses.

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My political career may have been over, but I would continue to serve as governor of Texas until January 1933. In those last few months of my term in office, the East Texas oil field would continue to be a dominant issue in state affairs. In October, a three-judge federal court panel ruled in the Sherman case that the state was illegally restricting oil production to the point of preventing economic waste, instead of applying the valid law to prevent mere physical waste. At that time, the Railroad Commission had reduced the daily allowable in East Texas to 40 barrels a day. The federal decision lifted the lid again from the Pandora’s box of proration troubles. The court allowed fifteen days of grace before voiding the commission’s proration order. Nevertheless, nearly a score of producers jumped the gun to reap the golden harvest of liquid gold from wideopen wells. To meet this emergency, I moved National Guard reinforcements and Rangers into the field to clamp the lid back down. Immediately, there arose a clamor for a special session of the Legislature to change the proration law. A mass meeting at Tyler gave impetus to this demand. The United States Supreme Court had upheld the Oklahoma proration statute limiting production to market demand, so Railroad Commissioner Terrell suggested that a similar statute in Texas would make impregnable the commission’s authority to prorate the field. At first, I objected to legislation aimed at fixing prices of any commodity, but it began to appear that there was no alternative. I didn’t want to call another special session if it could be avoided without jeopardizing the rights and interests of the public, but the demand was growing imperative. To a delegation of operators who called on me on October 28 to plead for a special session, I

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said that I wanted to sleep on it, but I promised to make up my mind about what to do very soon. The next day more oilmen came to urge a special session. Former governor Hobby and General Wolters also paid me a visit. I told them that I wanted to await further developments before making a final decision. ‘‘If the emergency warrants,’’ I assured them, ‘‘I shall not hesitate to assemble the Legislature to deal with it.’’ Later, James A. Elkins of Houston and J. Edgar Pew of Dallas, accompanied by Robert Hardwicke of Fort Worth, called on me as members of a committee of producers. Following that visit, I issued a call for the lawmakers to convene on the following day. On such short notice, only forty House members and ten senators registered present when called to order, so both houses adjourned. It was Tuesday—general election day—before the House mustered a quorum and got down to business. The House Oil and Gas Committee approved a marketdemand bill with a provision exempting pumping wells from prorationing and allowing a maximum production of 40 barrels a day. The Senate closed shop for the election, but on the following day, sitting as a committee of the whole, it voted a favorable report on the market-demand bill. Simultaneously, the House began floor consideration of an identical measure. On Thursday, one week after convening, both houses passed the bill with minor variations. A conference committee adjusted the differences, and the Legislature adopted the conference report Saturday night, sending the new market-demand act to my office for signing. Then the Legislature adjourned sine die. The Legislature had once again demonstrated its belief that Texas had the right to control the production of its oil. It was within those rights that I had employed the militia to enforce control as a last resort.1 When I signed the new law, I declared that from then on, no oil and gas would be taken without the consent of the state through its authorized agents. I congratulated the Legislature on its cooperation in that and every session I had called. They had done a wonderful piece of work. Another who earned the state’s thanks was attorney James A. Elkins of Houston. Working behind the scenes on behalf of the committee of producers, he gave the government and the lawmakers invaluable counsel in the framing of an effective market-demand bill and a new tax of half of 1 percent on sales of natural gas at the well.2 The great martial law imbroglio came to an anticlimactic end in midNovember, when the United States Supreme Court refused to consider a routine appeal from the three-judge federal court order, because the law under which the proration order was issued was no longer in effect. I then withdrew the few remaining troops from East Texas. The curtain fell quietly on martial

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law on December 21, 1932, sixteen months after the sensational beginning of the drama. Meanwhile, the last notable social event in the executive mansion during my administration occurred on December 17. The event was the wedding of my youngest daughter, Norma, to Cleo G. Miller of Corsicana, the district attorney of Navarro County. She was the third daughter of a Texas governor to be married in the historic Texas White House. The other two were Rosalie Ireland, daughter of Governor John Ireland, and Grace Lanham, daughter of Governor S. W. Lanham. The first mansion bride was Mrs. George Sampson, niece of Governor E. J. Davis, during Reconstruction days. In 1928, Helen Paxton, sister of Mrs. Dan Moody, was married in the Governor’s Mansion to Weaver Moore of Houston, later a state senator. My daughter and Mr. Miller were married on a Saturday afternoon. The Rev. H. C. Garrison, pastor of Central Christian Church of Austin, read the ritual. My granddaughters Mildred and Jean Hedrick were junior bridesmaids. My daughter’s wedding dress was a white crepe Elizabeth she had worn at my inaugural ball. I gave the bride in marriage. Jim Ferguson started one more fight with me before I went out of office. He filed a suit in late November, seeking to freeze state highway construction funds until he could have a say in their spending. District Judge J. D. Moore of Austin granted him a temporary injunction, restraining the Highway Commission from awarding any construction contracts until the further order of the court. The writ was issued on the eve of a commission meeting at which approximately $4 million of contracts were to be awarded. This move seriously threatened the state’s ability to benefit from a $7 million emergency federal aid appropriation, made conditional on the state’s matching the federal money dollar for dollar and completing the work by June 30, 1933. Attorney General James Allred carried the case to the Court of Civil Appeals, and that tribunal dissolved the temporary injunction. Then Ferguson appealed to the State Supreme Court, which refused to enjoin the Highway Commission from letting contracts. Ferguson went back to the appeals court, seeking a stay order. That court ruled adversely at 8 p.m. on December 8. Ten minutes later the commission awarded the $4 million of construction contracts. This fait accompli left the case somewhat moot, but it went to trial on its merits three days later. Judge Carl Runge, sitting for Judge Moore while the latter was ill, directed a verdict in favor of the Highway Commission. Ferguson’s appeal was resting quietly in the Court of Civil Appeals at Austin in January when his wife was inaugurated. By then, there was no point in pursuing it further. As the new House of Representatives began the process of organizing for the new session, Jim Ferguson took an intense, active interest in the election 220

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of the House Speaker. He knew from hard experience how helpful a friendly speaker could be, and how much damage a hostile one could inflict. F. O. Fuller, the Speaker in 1917, had spearheaded the movement for the special session that resulted in Jim’s impeachment. My good friend A. P. Johnson of Carrizo Springs claimed nearly 100 pledges for his candidacy for Speaker among the House members of the previous Legislature. Unhappily for Johnson, the legislative casualties of the Depression sentiment for throwing out incumbents were as heavy as those in other 1932 elections; 94 of the 150 representatives in Ferguson’s incoming Legislature were new members, probably an unprecedented percentage. As the legislators arrived in Austin in advance of the January regular session, they were corralled and brought to Jim Ferguson’s sanctum for a talkingto. What he said to them only they knew, but when the House ballots were counted in the Speaker’s race, Jim’s candidate, Coke Stevenson, had 82 votes to Johnson’s 68. In my final message to the Legislature, I recommended changes in the election laws to safeguard the ballot box against fraud and to permit voting in any box only by those honestly entitled to vote there. As one specific means of curbing fraud, I suggested adoption of the automatic voting machine. I believed it would be immensely beneficial to the state and to the people to lengthen all twoyear terms of state, county, and district offices to four years to spare the people the turmoil and expense of biennial elections. The offices themselves would be spared the ills of neglect and the chaos of frequently changing administrations. I advocated a drastic curtailment of government expenditures to meet the appalling decline in revenues, and pleaded for a fairer and more uniform system of taxation. My concluding wish and prayer was that the new Legislature would have the power and the wisdom to hasten the return of better times. My hope was that the government of Texas would preserve its stability and that all the people of this great state would soon emerge from the shadows of the Depression and into the sunshine of prosperity and happiness. I had one parting joust with Ferguson during the first week of the new Legislature, which was the last week of my administration. The terms of three regents of the University of Texas expired in January. I sent to the Senate for confirmation nominations for the three places. Ferguson contended that his wife should have the prerogative of naming the three regents, and the Senate did not act on confirmation until after she took office. She made her nominations, and the Senate approved two of them. The third regent was one of my nominees. As the time for the change of administrations neared, there was increasing speculation in capital circles as to whether I would attend the inaugural cere221

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mony and perform the traditional rite of turning the office over to my successor. One published forecast had me resigning several days before my term ended, to avoid participating in Ma’s induction. I would not discuss my intentions on that point, or my plan for the future. There was much talk of my organizing a new oil company with the aim of building up another giant industry like the Humble Company. Confidants of mine told the press that I had been offered executive positions by more than one large oil company, but they did not think I was interested in any salaried job. The legislative inaugural committee, preparing the program for the ceremonies, asked me if I would take part. I replied that since a member of the Senate had told the press that I would not participate in the inauguration, they could take that as my answer. This statement was read into the House Journal. Following this incident I issued a brief statement that I did not care to take part in the ‘‘inauguration of a governor whose election was made possible by illegal votes’’ and ‘‘whose husband will be the governor in fact.’’ During the closing days of my term, highway commissioners W. R. Ely and D. K. Martin decided to resign, although Ely had a holdover term of two years and Martin six years. They agreed to resign because they had been an issue in the campaign and were willing to leave if it would keep the Highway Commission out of politics. Also, Martin had no desire to serve on the Highway Commission under a Ferguson administration. During the August runoff, Judge Ely had a physical run-in with Harry Tom King, an attorney and Ferguson’s West Texas manager. In a sidewalk conversation in Abilene, where both resided, the highway chairman challenged the truth of statements he said King had made in political speeches. King heard his remark and went for him, slapping him in the face. Ely swung back savagely at the larger man, lost his footing and fell. As he came up fighting, onlookers separated the combatants. King went to the police station and said he wished to plead guilty to fighting. As time for Mrs. Ferguson’s inauguration neared, Judge Ely told the press he and Martin would resign from the Highway Commission. Martin asked Reagan Houston of San Antonio, his friend and an ardent supporter of mine, to go with him to inform me of his resignation. When they entered my office, I greeted Houston warmly and then I turned to Martin and said, ‘‘You rascal, you! Look at this stack of letters and telegrams. I’ve had an equal number of telephone calls, or more, and they all tell me not to accept your resignation or Ely’s from the Highway Commission.’’ Before Martin could say anything, I went on: ‘‘What’s more, I’m not going to accept them. I appointed you on the commission and I’m not going to let you quit, not when you’ll be needed worse than ever.’’ 222

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I reminded Martin that he had encouraged me to make the last race for governor. I told him that I did what I thought was my duty, and I’d do it again in the same circumstances. I had sat at my desk, my post of duty, when I knew my house was burning up. I wouldn’t have left my desk had I known that by so doing I could have saved my house. ‘‘I’m not going to let you leave your post of duty.’’ ‘‘Cease firing, Governor; I’ll stay on,’’ Martin replied. ‘‘Of course you’ll stay,’’ I said, ‘‘and so will Judge Ely.’’ I got Martin to call Ely by long-distance telephone and had him come to Austin that night. The next morning, I had breakfast at the executive mansion with Ely, Dan Moody, Cone Johnson, and Tom Love. Afterward, Ely went to the highway department, sat down across the table from Martin with a casual greeting, and for about half an hour signed vouchers without saying a word. Finally, he looked up solemnly at his colleague and broke the silence. ‘‘You’re right; we can’t quit now.’’ On the morning of inauguration day, Adjutant General Bill Sterling, Captain Frank Hamer, and other Ranger officers resigned. In his letter of resignation, the Adjutant General said that he disliked violating precedent in not remaining to take part in the inaugural ceremonies, but he felt that it would be dishonorable for the military department to take part in the inauguration. Bill Sterling had personal charge of the investigation of illegal voting in the second primary. That experience had provided him first-hand knowledge that Mrs. Ferguson’s election resulted from ‘‘fraud and gross violation of the purity of the ballot box.’’ Bill Sterling explained that he had taught sportsmanship to the youth of Texas for many years. ‘‘No one is more ready to congratulate a worthy and successful opponent than I,’’ he wrote, ‘‘but, for the reasons mentioned, I cannot contact our successful but unworthy opponents at any point.’’ His letter expressed my sentiments exactly.3 Shortly before noon, as I was about to leave, the adjutant general came in from his office around the corridor. ‘‘Governor,’’ he said, ‘‘if you like, I’ll have a car come around to the side entrance for you, to avoid publicity.’’ I put my arm around the younger man’s shoulders and said, ‘‘No, thanks, Bill. I came in the front door and I’m going out the front door.’’ 4 The noon hour of the inauguration was nearing. I was shaking hands with friends and state officials and employees, preparatory to leaving, when a tiredlooking woman came to the office and asked to see me. ‘‘I’ve ridden all night and this morning from Lubbock,’’ she said, ‘‘to ask you to let my boy out of the penitentiary.’’ She told me about the case and showed me the recommendations for clemency. After I made a quick check, I was convinced that the plea was meritorious. 223

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Governor Miriam Ferguson with her husband, Jim Ferguson (standing to the right), and Ernest O. Thompson, Texas railroad commissioner (to the left), 1933. CAH, DI02360.

I granted the young man a parole. That was my last official act as governor of Texas. The look of gratitude in that fine old mother’s eyes was about as good a send-off as any ex-governor could want. The spacious chamber of the House of Representatives was jam-packed, mostly with the Ferguson faithful, hungry after six lean years for another feast of power and jobs in the state government. The din of the multitude’s voices, laughter, and band music reverberated throughout the Capitol as I walked quietly and proudly out the granite portals to my waiting car. I sank into the back seat and said to my combination chauffeur and house man, ‘‘Let’s go home, Alex.’’ That was at 11:55 a.m. Tuesday. For about thirty minutes, Texas was without a governor. At 12:40 p.m., Mrs. Ferguson moved into the executive office that she had left in 1927 under a scourge of Moody votes. Our state servants had refused to prepare the post-inaugural lunch that the outgoing governor traditionally left at the mansion for his successor. So the Ferguson family went to its old home in Austin to eat. That evening, I sat in my favorite easy chair in the big living room of my bay224

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shore home, looking out over the waters I love so well, and relaxed as a private citizen from the cares of six years of public service. But I was not yet entirely free. Reporters soon found me there. Not minding their intrusion, I laughed and joked with them as in the good old days. They observed that I was as ruddycheeked and robust as ever, the picture of health. They asked, of course, how it felt to be back in private life. ‘‘It’s a great relief,’’ I told them. ‘‘I’m mighty glad to get back home. The fellow who wrote that song about ‘Home, Sweet Home’ really knew what he was talking about. It’s good to get back here among my friends and neighbors.’’ I explained that after two years as governor, I realized more keenly than ever before in my life that it is friendship that counts. I told the reporters that I was proud of the friends I made as governor and that I was proud of the enemies I had made. ‘‘I’m proud to have had the privilege of serving the people of Texas.’’ ‘‘Well, Governor,’’ a reporter asked, ‘‘what are your plans for the future?’’ ‘‘The immediate future? If the weather clears up,’’ I replied, ‘‘I think I’ll do a little fishing.’’ ‘‘And after that?’’ ‘‘Oh, I’m going to rest a while here at home,’’ I said, ‘‘and then I’m going back to work and earn a living.’’ The reporters asked what I considered the most important achievements of my career in public service. I replied that a list of most-important achievements would have to include getting a system of hard-surfaced roads well on the way and conservation of the state’s natural resources, particularly oil, water, and soil. There had been much publicity about oil prorationing, but the soil conservation act that my administration championed, which provided for the use of idle county road equipment for farm terracing, was of comparable significance. I mentioned other accomplishments. ‘‘In fact,’’ I concluded, ‘‘except for the state highway bond issue and the separate oil and gas commission, my administration saw the realization of practically every important measure it espoused, and several others besides.’’ I was pleased that my old friend Jake Wolters concurred in this opinion. After I left office, Jake circulated a letter stating that ‘‘when an impartial historian writes the history of the administration of Governor Ross Sterling, he will record that this administration saved the valuable natural resources of oil, and probably natural gas, to generations yet unborn.’’

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Out of a job for the first time in my adult life, I had not rested long on the bay when the itch returned to get back into the harness. John Carpenter and Tom Love had asked me to come to Dallas and head an insurance company. ‘‘I haven’t lost anything in Dallas,’’ I replied. ‘‘The only way I know to come back is in the oil business.’’ That led me to Houston to see what I could turn up. In Houston, I met with Underwood Nazro, who offered to let me have twenty-five acres in the Hull oil field for a one-half interest in the profits. I thought the lease had some good possibilities, but I needed some capital on which to operate. I returned home that evening and reported this news to my wife at the dinner table. I told her that I wished we could form a company so we could sell stock and raise the capital we needed. ‘‘Maybe we can,’’ Maud replied. The next day, she went to Houston and called our son Walter and attorney Cleaves into conference. ‘‘What do we have to do to start an oil company?’’ she asked them. They told her the first step was to get a charter from the state. ‘‘How much will that cost?’’ ‘‘Somewhere around one hundred dollars,’’ said Cleaves. ‘‘All right; you get up whatever papers are necessary,’’ Maud instructed, ‘‘and I’ll furnish the money. I’ve got a one-hundred-dollar Liberty bond left. I’ll cash it.’’ They had to give the organization a name in the charter application. Maud liked ‘‘Miramar,’’ the name of the old Nelms place that had occupied the site of our bayshore home before we built there, so Miramar it was. The charter

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filing fee and incidental expenses came to a total of only $67. She had $33 left for working capital. By the time she got the charter, I told her that I had another good lease prospect, if I just had a company. ‘‘All right,’’ she laughed, ‘‘I’ll let you use mine.’’ The next step was getting a drilling rig on the Hull lease to sink a well. That was where my wealth of old friends in the oil business paid off. Arthur Fondren, a brother of Walter, who had got his start with me in the Humble Company, had an idle rig at Conroe. He let me have it for a $1000 interest in my company. I got my old friend Joe Hughes to haul the rig to Hull for another piece of the new company. Everything we needed, we gave stock in the company for it. Some expenses, however, required cash, especially to pay the wages for the drilling crew, who had to have money to live on. There again my friends came through. It was no trouble to sell stock for needed funds. I would get letters from friends saying that they would send me $500 or $1000. One friend wrote that his money was being placed in my hands ‘‘with the feeling that it is safe, and I’m for you win, lose or draw.’’ We had such investments from all over Texas. A Virginia insurance man whom I had met only once learned of our company and mailed me a check for $3000. Our first well was spudded in on a part of the Hull field in Liberty County where there had been no drilling. Besides seeking to prove up new territory, I had the idea of probing for deeper sand than had yet been explored. I felt one of my old-time hunches about that well, and it turned out to be a good one. The test blew in a 2500-barrel producer. I drilled more wells there and got more production. At times, as many as five rigs were going simultaneously.1 For a time, Miramar was allowed to run a total of 1700 barrels daily from all its Hull wells, which was a small fraction of their capacity. Later, under authority of the proration law that the Legislature had enacted during my administration, the Railroad Commission cut my entire Hull allowable to 250 barrels. That blow liked to have got us. At the time, we had a number of rigs going at different places, and with this terrible cut we had to pull in. The Miramar Company was by then a going concern, however, and I was an oil producer again. I branched out into the West Columbia area in Brazoria County, where I had made the Humble Company’s great strike back in 1919. I got a lease on some land that had been a part of Governor James Stephen Hogg’s old farm and brought in a good well and a gasser. Another lease on the Phillips land near West Columbia, covering 242 acres, cost $24,000. The Texas Company bought a half interest in that lease. Again, I drilled beyond the known pay sands, and again I struck pay dirt. When the well came in, I recalled a comment that an old business associate made when he

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began drilling the Phillips lease. The veteran oilman said, ‘‘What’s the matter with R.S.? He won’t get his drilling expense back out of it.’’ I’m sure we have taken $2 million out of the Phillips lease for us and the Texas Company, and before that lease is through I expect to make several times that much. The Texas Company has thirty-odd producing wells on the West Columbia property and doubtless will drill more. They were all drilled down to the fifth-deepest sand. The plan was to move up to the fourth sand when that one was drained, then to the third, second, and first. Within two or three years, Miramar grew into a million-dollar enterprise. Then we changed its name to Sterling Oil and Refining Company. By then, we had moved the company offices from the cramped quarters where Miramar had been launched to spacious accommodations on another floor of the 21-story building that I had built and that still retained my name. From Hull and West Columbia our operations were extended to Jackson County, where we have drilled approximately fifty paying wells. We also have operated in Chambers, Hidalgo, Colorado, Victoria, and Lavaca counties, with varying degrees of success. We are holding in reserve a 300-acre tract in the Sour Lake area, which I think is good oil land. I had one of my hunches about another tract in Brazoria County, not many miles from West Columbia, known as Old Ocean. I made a deal with Roy McDonald for a lease on it, subject to good title. The land comprised numerous small pieces, requiring the examination of many titles. All the preliminaries were completed and everything was ready for the consummation of the lease. As a final precaution, my lawyer telephoned the abstractor to make sure that no new instruments had been filed affecting the property since the completion of the abstract. The abstractor had bad news for him. He reported that judgments for $94,000 had been rendered against the land. This was a terrible disappointment, especially after all the trouble we had working the deal up. I felt that a fortune was slipping through my fingers, but with my limited resources I could not afford to pay a $94,000 judgment plus the cost of the lease and the cost of drilling on the uncertain chances of an oil well. It was out of the question, so with extreme reluctance, I gave up the lease. Then along came Jim Abercrombie, who had drilled many wells for the Humble Company. Jim, too, recognized the promise of Old Ocean, and his oil partnership, Harrison and Abercrombie, could afford to take the risk. Not more than a year later, they drilled a well and it made oil history. Sometime during the 1940s, Dan Harrison sold his half interest in the Old Ocean field for $28 million. A few years later, Abercrombie sold his for a reported $58 million.2 That wasn’t my worst break in the oil business. Before I became governor, I had once visited the site of Old Fort St. Louis, which the French explorer La228

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Salle had built near Lavaca Bay in present Jackson County in 1685. The fort site was on the ranch of a man named Keeran. I had visited in Keeran’s home, and he showed me a tank he had built over a water well to catch the gas that was escaping from it. The tank filled with gas and blew up, fragments showering a wide area of pastureland. I said to myself, ‘‘Right here is an oil field.’’ I broached the subject of leasing the land for oil, but nothing came of it. The hunch stuck in my mind, and a few years later, when as governor I was thinking ahead to the time when I might return to the oil business, I asked my son Walter to find out whether I could get a lease on the Keeran ranch. My son investigated and learned that Humble and other companies had leased the entire ranch. After establishing my own oil company in 1933, I thought of that land in Jackson County again. I found that a large tract adjoining the Keeran ranch was available for lease, so I went to San Antonio and made a deal with the owner, a Mrs. West. I agreed to pay her $12,000 for a lease on her land, subject to approval of title. My lawyer examined the title and reported that it was defective. The ranch had never been fenced, and there was danger that the boundaries could not be legally confirmed. My attorney would not approve the title unless and until it was cleared by a lawsuit. The owner’s lawyer would not consent to a lawsuit, so the deal was called off. Not long afterward, the Magnolia Oil Company picked up that lease on the West ranch.3 The first test hit the jackpot. Now the company has several hundred wells in the field and is taking out about 20,000 barrels of oil daily under a low proration allowable. There are five different pay sands in that field. Magnolia’s engineers have estimated the potential yield at 300 million barrels of oil. Mrs. West is so rich now it’s pitiful. I have heard she was getting about $40,000 a month in royalties from that land. Isn’t that awful, to be burdened with so much money in your old age. I have the consolation of having brought in a nice little field on a lease near Old Fort St. Louis and not far from the Keeran and West ranches. I felt that I was getting back on my feet when I asked the Republic National Bank of Dallas for a loan of several hundred thousand dollars for expansion, saying I could put up adequate security. Fred Florence, the bank president, told me to go ahead and draw on his bank for our needs. I got about half a million dollars without any security. I now have an arrangement for financing operations with a New York company. They have offered to let me have $2.5 million for fifteen years without our paying any money back unless it is earned. As my oil company grew, I shifted more and more of the work and responsibility to the broad shoulders of my son Walter. I had to carry the whole load during World War II while Walter served in the Army Air Forces. Then, back 229

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Former Texas governors Ross Sterling and Pat Neff (on the left) and Jim Ferguson and William P. Hobby (on the right), with newly elected governor W. Lee O’Daniel at O’Daniel’s inauguration, 1939. CAH, DI02366.

home again, Walter doffed his captain’s uniform and pitched in as president of the company.4 I assumed the position of chairman of the board. Walter returned just in the nick of time, for I suffered a severe attack of pneumonia, which left me weak for a good while. On top of that, I fell and hurt my foot, and as an aftermath of the pneumonia, I had a spell of indigestion. Thereafter, I assumed more of the prerogative of a chairman of the board to take it easy and act in an advisory and consultative capacity, though keeping my hand on the helm. I fell into the habit of spending the first half of the day at the office and the other half at Bay Ridge. There, serene in my confidence in Walter’s ability to take care of the oil business, I enjoy to the full the life of a country squire. Wearing my khaki working regalia, I love to prowl about my gardens, pecan orchard, fields, and barns. My pride and joy on the farm is the breeding of prizewinning Duroc-Jersey hogs. Top Row was the grand champion boar in Illinois before I brought him to Texas. Another Illinois champion was Madame Queen, who mated with Top Row at the Bay Ridge farm. May West was another one of my aristocratic pork230

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ers. I have raised blooded swine since 1928. I have made a hobby of giving registered hogs to friends and community groups in the rural sections. Many a herd has been developed throughout Texas from those gift boars and sows. In the winter, I kill some of the culls and give pork, sausage, and delicious homecured hams and bacon to my friends. After the financial crash, I converted my hobby into a business. When I gave my hogs away, people didn’t seem to think much of them. Ever since I began selling them at good round prices, everybody wants them. A lover of good livestock ever since boyhood on the old Chambers County farm across the bay, I enthuse more over a new litter of pigs than over a new oil well that might produce more wealth in a day than the pigs ever will. For the success of my hog business, I give a good deal of credit to my livestock superintendent, R. O. McFarlings. Mac had been superintendent of the state prison system’s livestock department when I met him. Prison manager Lee Simmons had praised his work so highly that I offered him a better job. McFarlings tells people that I got him out of the pen. In 1943 T. C. Richardson, associate editor of Farm and Ranch magazine, visited me at Bay Ridge. He was greatly impressed by my herd of twenty-seven registered brood sows and all their progeny. At that time, I had more than 400 head of hogs. Richardson was amazed to find a large, lush field of Ranger rustproof oats. I had introduced them on the Gulf Coast for hog grazing in the winter and typically realized a crop of forty to fifty bushels of grain at harvest time. ‘‘The bayshore at La Porte,’’ Mr. Richardson wrote in his magazine, ‘‘was among the last places I would expect to find a crop of oats ready for the combine . . . But there it was.’’ The experiment in oats proved so successful that I called my friend Buck Flanagan, manager of the Central State Prison farm at Sugar Land, and told him about it. ‘‘Buck,’’ I said, ‘‘you ought to raise some of these rust-proof oats on your farm. You could produce twice as much feed that way as you are growing in corn.’’ Impressed, Flanagan asked the State Board of Control for authority to buy some seed, but the board said no. The seed cost too much. I went to work on the Board of Control and a year later it consented to buy 500 bushels of the seed I had raised at Bay Ridge. Flanagan planted them in the rich Brazoria river bottom soil, and they made a bumper crop, about fifty bushels of oats to the acre. In addition, they produced enough Ranger oat seed to supply all the other state farms. By 1945, the traffic in and about Houston was appallingly worse than it had been twenty years before, when Maud and I built our home at Bay Ridge. The twenty-five-mile drive into the city in the morning and back to the bay in the 231

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afternoon was becoming increasingly slow and trying on our nerves. I was seventy years old, and besides, with the children and grandchildren scattered over Texas, living in the great bayshore house had become rather lonely, so Maud and I decided to move to Houston. We bought a beautiful home, shaded by pines and oaks in the Tall Timbers section of the city’s most charming residential district, River Oaks. I basically gave away my livestock to a man for the price of $31,000. I hated to leave the sea view, the tangy salt breeze, and the farm charms of Bay Ridge. Bidding farewell to the happy hogs, the contented cows, the luxuriant vegetables, the friendly pecan trees, and the billowing oat fields was like saying good-bye forever to old companions, but Maud and I burned our bridges behind us. We gave the Bay Ridge mansion to the Optimist Club of Houston as a home for underprivileged boys. The Optimists renamed it Boy Harbor. In recognition of this gift, the Sons of the American Revolution awarded its 1946 annual medal to me jointly with Dr. John T. Moore, my old friend of Galveston days, as Houston’s ‘‘Citizens of the Year.’’

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Looking back on my life and career, I can say that I am satisfied with what I see. Of course, I have scars in my heart from stabs of political and business battles, but the wounds themselves have healed. I don’t hate anybody, but I like some folks better than I like others. Glancing back along the road of time, I find some of the men most responsible for my hurts dead and in their graves, some fallen into obscurity by the wayside, a few repentant. Now in my early seventies, I usually spend a few hours a day at my office and the rest of the day puttering about the spacious wooded grounds of my home. During the evenings, I like to sit in my easy chair in the restful sun parlor, talking with Maud, and with my friends, children, and grandchildren. I also enjoy the radio, especially when night baseball games are broadcast. My wife, who is about as energetic as ever, usually sits near me, knitting or sewing. Maud and I often play our old favorite game of dominoes, just as we have been doing for forty-odd years. She perkily challenges my statements or recollections when she thinks they are incorrect, and we argue good-naturedly with each other, just as we have been doing for forty-odd years. No wife has ever been more devoted to her husband or solicitous of his welfare than Maud Sterling, and no man was ever more attached to his wife than I. Occasionally, during the wet winter season or the hottest weeks of summer, Maud and I have faithful old Alex drive us out to the high, dry Arizona climate for a visit on the ranch of our daughter, Mrs. Winston Wheeler, and her husband, located near Tucson. Early in 1948 I had a long visit there with John D. Rockefeller, Jr. We talked over the old times when I was dealing with his Standard Oil Company of New Jersey. I have thoroughly enjoyed the fruits of my financial recovery, but most of all I relish my wealth of friends. I never go anywhere without running across 233

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them. I sometimes think I have more friends than anyone else in Texas. Every once in a while, I meet some one of the many men I gave a start in life or started on the road to fortune, and he reassures me of their gratitude. Many of the men to whom I gave jobs with the Humble Company are still there, doing well. They are my warm friends; so are their children and their grandchildren. I believe Ross Junior’s untimely death as a youth created a softer spot in my heart for boys and young men than I might have had otherwise. Ever since my boy’s death, I have been partial to them. Maud and I were the guests of honor at a luncheon at Camp Ross Sterling, Jr., on the Fourth of July, 1948, commemorating the twenty-fifth anniversary of our gift of the bayshore boys’ recreation center to the YMCA as a memorial to our son. We had a great time, chatting with the boys and reminiscing with the older folk about the past half-century, but the references to Ross Junior saddened us. Twenty-five years! He would have been a middle-aged man in his forties by now. What a partnership team our sons Ross Junior and Walter might have been, carrying on the oil business. Not long ago, I happened to board the same elevator in the Sterling building in which a son of my old friend Judge Gill was a passenger. We got off on the same floor and fell to reminiscing. I joked about the hard bargain Judge Gill had driven, as attorney for the owners of the Goose Creek peninsula, in selling the oil property to me for $730,000. Young Gill, now a man in his forties, recalled a banquet I had given the Humble Boy Scouts in the Humble Company’s private dining room. ‘‘It was one of those long summer days,’’ Gill said. ‘‘Through the western windows we could see the sun setting, and it was a gorgeous sight. You pointed at it and said to us boys, ‘You know, that sun looks just as pretty coming up in the morning as it does going down over there now.’ You remember that?’’ I replied that it wasn’t a bad thought, but I’d almost forgotten it. ‘‘I hadn’t,’’ said Gill. ‘‘We caught the point, and it stuck with me. If you want to get ahead in this world and enjoy the best things of life you’d better get out of bed early in the morning and get going.’’ That has been my working philosophy of life, and it has been the key to my success in nearly every undertaking. I’ve tried to live whatever I was doing. My aim has been to get ahead by hitting two or three licks while the other fellow was hitting one, and in order to do that you have to start early and work late. If you work hard enough you can get there. One of the hardest things to do is to keep on when you know you’re right, in the face of mass criticism. For instance, many people thought I was committing a terrible crime in enforcing the first proration law. Now, the law is well established and recognized by everyone as necessary. The people would think it a crime to violate it or for the state government to fail to enforce it. 234

The View from the Western Slope

Many oilmen and others come to my office on business or otherwise, and seldom a day passes when someone doesn’t say, ‘‘Governor, you were far ahead of us in those turbulent days of martial law, or we were far behind you. Your action saved the natural gas in West Texas from being wasted, and putting the National Guard in East Texas was the salvation of Texas and other oil-producing states. It conserved the oil and saved thousands of people their birthright.’’ C. C. McDonald of Wichita Falls was a field marshal of Fergusonism, one of Jim’s inner circle of managers and advisers. McDonald came to me in about 1943 and said, ‘‘Governor, I’d like to shake your hand and tell you how I regret all the mean things I said about you and did to you. I wish you would do something that would afford me an occasion to get out and demonstrate to the people of Texas that I’m sorry. You were right and I was wrong.’’ I believe that the very words ‘‘martial law’’ cost me several times as many votes as the number of Mrs. Ferguson’s official majority over me. The words ‘‘martial law’’ brought up particularly bad memories to the old-timers, suggesting the bayonet rule of Reconstruction days. For all that, I would have felt many times worse over being defeated, if it had been an honest election. Watching the world from the western slope of life, I take a normal interest in politics, interpreting events through the revealing binoculars of my own political experience. Since the drab January day in 1933 when I stepped out of the governor’s office, I have had no desire to reenter active politics as a candidate or otherwise, except to give my personal support to candidates I have favored. I have no regrets. If I had it all to do over again, I’d do just as I did before. I think I am much richer for my public service, richer in knowledge, richer in the consciousness of having done something for my state, richer in friends, and richer in appreciation of those who deserve to be appreciated. There are people in public service that are not worth hanging. The redeeming thing about it all is that there are a great many more good people than there are bad, and there are many who are pretty bad yet have some good in them.

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Governor Sterling suffered a stroke on September 18, 1948. When the cerebral thrombosis struck Mr. Sterling, he was visiting his daughter and son-in-law, the Wyatt Hedricks, on their ranch near Fort Worth. He was taken to a hospital there, paralyzed and semiconscious. For six months, he lay helpless, in a shadowy twilight zone between life and death. There, as in every other crisis during their half-century together, Mrs. Sterling stayed with him, comforting and sustaining him. She attended him day and night, taking only an occasional trip home when it was necessary. Her zealous vigil was not cheered by any ray of hope of his eventual recovery. From the first, it was certain that the end was only a matter of time: days, weeks, or maybe a few months. But the long, sorrowful, ordeal enabled Mrs. Sterling to prepare herself, courageously and philosophically, for the inevitable. And so on March 25, 1949, a month and three days after his seventy-fourth birthday, the tired gray eyes closed and the soul of Ross Sterling took its leave. Two days later, on a bright Sunday afternoon, his mortal remains were laid to rest in the bluebonnet-covered family lot in Houston’s sylvan Glenwood Cemetery, beside the grave of Ross Sterling, Jr. After twenty-five years, Big Ross and Little Ross were together again. With a fourth-grade education, gained in a one-room backwoods school, Ross Sterling founded and developed to maturity the nation’s greatest oilproducing company.1 He gained an immense fortune, lost it, and over the rubble, beginning at the advanced age of fifty-eight, he built up another multimillion dollar business. He lifted Texas out of the mud by hard-surfacing its primary highways and thousands of miles of secondary roads. As governor of Texas, he reached the political heights that only thirty persons had achieved before him. 236

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Maud and Ross Sterling. CAH, DI02350.

He established oil proration on a sound, permanent footing and pioneered the real conservation of the state’s natural resources: petroleum, natural gas, soil, water, forests, and wild game. Ross Sterling steered the ship of state through the storms of the Depression, extricating the government from dire financial straits through economies, taxes on nonessentials, various emergency relief measures, and a self-supporting (for the first time in history) state prison system. In his home city of Houston, he had presided over the Port Commission during the most crucial period of its development. As chairman of Hermann Hospital’s board of trustees, he had made a major contribution to the building of a great institution, which became the nucleus of the Texas Medical Center. In many other ways, Ross Sterling had helped make Houston the metropolis of the Southwest. He had given the Young Men’s Christian Association a splendid summer camp on Trinity Bay, and he had given his bayshore mansion to the underprivileged boys as their home. Wasn’t all this worth having lived and worked and fought for?

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1. Ed Kilman to Naylor Publishing Company, April 2, 1949, and Ed Kilman to Bobbs-Merrill Company, April 13, 1949, Box 8, Ed Kilman Papers, Houston Metropolitan Research Center, Houston Public Library (hereafter cited as HMRC); ‘‘Edward Wolf Kilman,’’ The New Handbook of Texas (Texas State Historical Association, 1996) 1096; ‘‘Ed Kilman,’’ Biographical Files, Center for American History, University of Texas (hereafter cited as CAH). 2. Ed Kilman to Bobbs-Merrill Company, April 13, 1949, Box 8, Kilman Papers, HMRC. 3. Ed Kilman to Ross S. Sterling, July 26, 1947, Box 8, Kilman Papers, HMRC; Ed Kilman, ‘‘Post Obitum,’’ in the manuscript biography of Ross Sterling in the Sterling Papers, CAH. 4. Ibid. 5. Ed Kilman to Governor and Mrs. R. S. Sterling, March 22, 1949, Box 8, Kilman Papers, HMRC; Kilman, ‘‘Sterling—Texan: The Life Story of Ross Sterling,’’ MSS in Sterling Papers, CAH. 6. Naylor Publishing, explaining that it had lost money on a book it published in 1946 about the Fergusons, told Kilman that his book carried ‘‘too much financial risk.’’ Naylor Publishing to Ed Kilman, April 8, 1949, and Ed Kilman to BobbsMerrill Company, April 13, 1949, Box 8, Kilman Papers, HMRC; Don Carleton interview with Alice Kilman, Houston, Texas, ca. 1978. 7. Don Carleton interview with Walter Sterling, Houston, Texas, March 2, 1978. 8. ‘‘Kilman,’’ Handbook of Texas, 1096.

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notes to pages 9 –25 Chapter One

1. The name ‘‘Graydon’’ was chosen in honor of Ross Sterling’s nephew Graydon Elton Barrow, who was the son of Ross’s sister, Cora Barrow. Founded by Ross Sterling’s father, the Graydon community was located three miles south of Anahuac in Chambers County. In 1919, the Graydon post office was closed, and in 1938 the community school was consolidated with the Anahuac school system. Almost no traces of the community were evident by the mid-1970s. ‘‘Graydon,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 296–297. 2. The 1900 Galveston hurricane is considered to be the worst natural disaster to strike the United States. The standard death toll estimate has long been stated as 6000, but there is a consensus among students of the event that fatalities far exceeded that number. ‘‘Galveston Hurricane of 1900,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 64–65. Chapter Two

1. Isaac Herbert Kempner was a prominent and politically influential Galveston businessman whose family developed the Imperial Sugar Company in Sugar Land, Texas. ‘‘Isaac Herbert Kempner,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 1059. 2. The discovery well at the Spindletop oil field south of Beaumont in eastern Jefferson County was drilled on January 10, 1901. This discovery marked the birth of the modern era in the history of the petroleum industry. ‘‘Spindletop Oilfield,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 29. 3. The Great Western Oil Company made the major oil discovery at Sour Lake in 1902. ‘‘Sour Lake Oilfield,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 5, 1151. 4. C. E. Barrett’s well came in during the summer of 1904, but the Barrett well, along with others in the field, was plagued by natural gas blowouts. The first true oil gusher in the Humble field was struck by D. R. Beatty in January 1905. By the end of that same year, Humble was the largest producing field in Texas. ‘‘Humble, Texas’’ and ‘‘Humble Oilfield,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 780–781. 5. A native of Denmark, Niels Esperson was one of the developers of the Humble field. After his death in 1922, his wife, Mellie, became a major developer of property in downtown Houston. 6. Armstrong was George Washington Armstrong, a native of Fort Worth who was active during this period as a banker and oil operator in Southeast Texas. Handbook of Texas, Vol. 1, 243. Chapter Three

1. Humble received its state charter on February 16, 1911. Henrietta M. Larson and Kenneth Wiggins Porter, History of Humble Oil and Refining Company: A Study in Industrial Growth (New York, 1959) p. 30. 240

Notes to pages 25–35

2. Fincher was cashier of Sterling’s Humble State Bank; Hale had been a rig builder and stockholder in Sterling’s Humble bank; Warrener was formerly with the Sun Oil Company; Goddard had been a drilling contractor. They agreed to organize in January 1911. G. Clint Wood has been characterized as ‘‘a shrewd lease buyer and expert production man’’ who contributed considerably to the early success of the Humble Oil Company. He sold his stock and left the company in 1912. Larson and Porter, History of Humble Oil and Refining Company, pp. 29 and 37. 3. After twenty-two years service as a founding director and vice president for Humble, Walter William Fondren (1877–1939) retired in 1933. His wife, Ella, established the Fondren Foundation in 1949, with significant beneficiaries including Southern Methodist University, Rice University, Houston’s Methodist Hospital, and the YMCA. ‘‘Walter William Fondren,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, p. 1067. 4. After serving as president of Humble for eleven years, William Stamps Farish (1881–1942) became chairman of the board of the Standard Oil Company of New Jersey in 1933 and then president in 1937. A founder of the American Petroleum Institute, Farish was serving on the National Petroleum Industry War Council when he died suddenly in 1942. ‘‘William Stamps Farish,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 950–951. Robert E. Lee Blaffer died in 1942. A native of Beaumont, Texas, Harry Carothers Wiess (1887–1948) was a graduate of Princeton University and later served as a Princeton trustee. Wiess also was a patron of Rice University. ‘‘Harry C. Wiess,’’ Biographical Files, CAH. 5. According to Larson and Porter in their official history of Humble Oil, Ardmore lost the leases in Oklahoma because of problems caused by ‘‘the confusion in Indian titles.’’ Larson and Porter, History of Humble Oil and Refining Company, p. 32. 6. Florence M. Sterling (1871–1940), who became treasurer of Humble Oil in 1915 and secretary in 1916, was an active participant in the management of the company until her retirement in 1925. In addition to her career as a business executive, Florence Sterling was an influential leader of the women’s suffrage movement in Texas as well as an activist in civic affairs in Houston. ‘‘Florence M. Sterling,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 91. 7. Apparently, the partners agreed to the general nature of the consolidation sometime in January 1917. In addition to those of the Humble Oil Company, major properties and assets contributed to the new enterprise included those of the Blaffer and Farish partnership in their entirety; many of the properties owned by Wiess’s Paraffine and Reliance companies; all of the properties owned by Sterling’s and Wiess’s Ardmore Oil Company, and the Globe Refining Company owned by Blaffer, Farish, and Wiess. Larson and Porter, History of Humble Oil and Refining Company, 50. 8. Jesse H. Jones (1874–1956), Houston banker, newspaper publisher, developer, and powerful head of the federal Reconstruction Finance Corporation during 241

notes to pages 40 –53

the New Deal, was not an oilman and considered the oil business to be too risky. Nevertheless, his official biographer asserts that Jones did not sell his stock because of the risk but because he decided to liquidate some of his investments before moving to Washington, D.C. to become head of the American Red Cross during World War I. Townes took his place on the Humble board of directors. Bascom Timmons, Jesse H. Jones: The Man and the Statesman (New York, 1956) 96; Larson and Porter, History of Humble Oil and Refining Company, 58. Chapter Four

1. Frank Andrews (1864–1936) was a prominent Houston attorney who organized the law firm of Andrews, Kelly, Kurth, and Campbell in 1895. According to Larson and Porter, Andrews also was Standard of New Jersey’s Texas attorney, which would mean that he served as special counsel to the Humble group at the same time he was advising Standard. Thirty years after the event, Sterling’s memory may have confused the role Andrews played in the negotiations. In chapter 6 of this book, Sterling identifies Andrews as Jersey’s Texas lawyer. Biographical Files, CAH; Larson and Porter, 74. 2. George Jones was Jersey’s treasurer. Sterling’s story about persuading Jersey to accept 50 percent ownership in Humble is an entertaining anecdote that says much about his propensity to horse trade, but the reality was that Jersey’s board knew that all they had to do was purchase a few shares of Humble stock on the open market and they would have their majority control. Jersey proceeded to do just that with a purchase of five shares. C. O. Swain, one of Jersey’s attorneys, has been quoted as saying that the five shares were acquired ‘‘in order that there should be no question about control.’’ Because of Texas legal regulations governing the activities of foreign corporations, Jersey’s Humble stock was held in the name of its chairman, Walter Teagle. Larson and Porter, 75. 3. Prior to his work at Goose Creek, Thomas Hayden Hamilton had directed construction on a section of the BMT subway in New York. Larson and Porter, 198. Chapter Five

1. Under prorationing, each operator in a field produces only a stipulated proportion (called the ‘‘allowable’’) of the oil his wells are capable of producing. In the case of compulsory prorationing, the allowable is set by order of a regulatory agency, which applies the allowable to individual wells or to total acreage. The regulatory agency in Texas was the Texas Railroad Commission. Unlike prorationing, unitization in Texas has always been on a voluntary basis. Don Carleton, A Breed So Rare: The Life and Times of J. R. Parten, Liberal Texas Oil Man, 1896–1992 (Austin, 1998) 56. 2. Humble purchased John S. ‘‘Uncle Johnnie’’ Bonner’s oil company in 1919, and Bonner was elected to the Humble board of directors three years later. He retired 242

Notes to pages 53–60

in 1933. According to Larson and Porter, Bonner was ‘‘a one man public relations department’’ who was in charge of the sales division. He replaced Malcolm Monroe as sales manager. Monroe became manager of the division in charge of bulk distribution of gasoline, kerosene, and motor oils. Larson and Porter, 227. 3. Sterling fails to note that he was appointed a member of the first Harris County Houston Ship Channel Navigation District Commission in 1916, six years prior to the appointment he discusses here. His fellow commissioners were Charles Dillingham, who was chairman, and Camille Pillot. Sterling became chairman of the commission a few months after his initial appointment when Dillingham resigned due to ill health. The Harris County Ship Channel Commission merged with the Houston city navigation board in 1922 to create a new navigation district. It is his appointment to this new navigation board that Sterling discusses. Marilyn McAdams Sibley, The Port of Houston: A History (Austin, 1968) 138, 156. 4. George Hermann (1843–1914) was a Houston lumber mill operator and oilman who made a fortune operating in the Humble field. After his death, his estate was willed to the City of Houston for the construction and maintenance of a charity hospital. ‘‘George Henry Hermann,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 570. 5. Ross Sterling incorporated the Dayton–Goose Creek Railway Corporation on July 24, 1917, with $25,000 in capital. The first board of directors included Sterling, William Farish, Edgar Townes, Walter Fondren, and Florence Sterling. The line was so profitable that it paid for itself in eight years. The railway continues to operate. ‘‘Dayton–Goose Creek Railway,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 545. 6. A native of Mississippi who moved to Groveton, Texas, in 1880 and then to Houston in 1905, James Marion West (1871–1941) accumulated a vast fortune from profits earned in the lumber, oil, banking, real estate, and publishing businesses. ‘‘James Marion West,’’ Biographical Files, CAH. 7. Designed by Houston architect Alfred C. Finn, Sterling’s three-story mansion was completed in 1925 at an estimated cost of $1.4 million. The rear of the mansion was modeled after the South Portico of the White House in Washington, D.C. The mansion had 21,000 square feet of usable space, with nine bedrooms, eleven baths, four half-baths, seven fireplaces, and a sun roof. The lower-level dining area could accommodate 300 guests. The ground level included another dining area, library, parlor, office, breakfast room, pantry, and main kitchen. The rear portico, 1000 square feet in size, faced a beach nearly 600 feet wide. The entire mansion was built to withstand the strongest hurricanes imaginable with a ten-foot-deep foundation and a concrete exterior. ‘‘Texas White House Seems Impervious to Age.’’ Houston Chronicle, January 1, 1980. Chapter Six

1. A native of Denton County, Texas, Ray Lofton Dudley (1891–1957) had worked as editor of the Houston Post in 1918. After working for Sterling at the Dispatch, he left to devote full time to his oil industry publishing business, which included the 243

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Gulf Publishing Company. Gulf Publishing became the world’s largest specialized publisher of oil-related news and information. Dudley eventually became a prominent civic leader in Houston. He also owned and operated a large ranch at Rio Frio near the town of Uvalde, Texas. ‘‘Ray Dudley,’’ Biographical Files, CAH; ‘‘Ray Lofton Dudley,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 716. 2. Marcellus Elliot Foster (1870–1942) was in the newspaper business in Houston for more than fifty years and wrote a popular news column, ‘‘Our City,’’ for most of those years under the pseudonym ‘‘Mefo.’’ He founded the Houston Chronicle in 1901. Foster later worked as the editor of the Houston Press (1927–1937), and he published four books that featured his personal observations and his poetry. He stopped writing his news column in 1941. ‘‘Marcellus Elliot Foster,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 1133–1134. Chapter Seven

1. After working as head of the Texas Company’s Houston sales division, Malcolm J. Monroe became sales manager for Humble on January 1, 1918. Monroe later became head of bulk products distribution, where he was teamed with his brother, Dan. The Monroe brothers were credited with greatly increasing Humble’s gasoline sales during the 1920s. Larson and Porter, 229. 2. A native of Fort Bend County, Texas, Dolph Briscoe, Sr. (1890–1954) became nationally known as an innovator in and leader of the cattle ranching industry. He served two terms as the youngest president in the history of the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association and was a director of the Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas. He acquired several ranches during and after the Depression. His son, Dolph Briscoe, Jr., served as governor of Texas (1973–1979). ‘‘Dolph Briscoe,’’ Biographical Files, CAH. 3. The Governor’s Room still exists at the Catarina ranch headquarters, but the room was renamed the Speaker’s Room after U.S. House Speaker Sam Rayburn used the quarters during a fishing expedition to the ranch, which is now owned by Dolph Briscoe, Jr. Don Carleton interview with Dolph Briscoe, Jr., January 27, 2005, Uvalde, Texas. Chapter Eight

1. Louis Wiltz Kemp (1881–1956) was an engineer with the Texas Company who during the 1930s and 1940s was a leader in the movement to preserve Texas history. Kemp is credited with saving the Texas State Cemetery in Austin, and he played a leading role in the effort to raise funds for construction of the San Jacinto Monument and Museum. His extensive collection of Texana is housed in the Barker Texas History Collection at the University of Texas Center for American History. ‘‘Louis Wiltz Kemp,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 1057. 2. James Stephen Hogg defeated George W. Clark in the governor’s race of 1896, 244

Notes to pages 80–107

state legislator and prohibitionist Cone Johnson ran unsuccessfully against antiprohibitionist Joseph Bailey in 1908 to be a delegate to the Democratic National Convention, and William P. Hobby defeated the recently impeached James Ferguson in the extremely bitter 1918 governor’s race. ‘‘Cone Johnson,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 953; Seth Shepard McKay, Texas Politics, 1906–1944 (Lubbock, 1952) 77–82. 3. By the time of his appointment to the Highway Commission, Cone Johnson (1860–1933) was at the end of a lengthy period of public service, which included terms as a state representative and state senator and three years as an official in the administration of President Woodrow Wilson. Attorney and judge Walter Raleigh Ely (1879–1978) served on the Highway Commission from 1927 until 1935. He returned to private law practice in Abilene, where he died two months before his hundredth birthday. ‘‘Cone Johnson’’ and ‘‘Walter Raleigh Ely,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 952–953, and Vol. 2, 858–859. 4. As dean, Gibb Gilchrist (1887–1972) was credited with making Texas A&M’s school of engineering among the best in the country. Gilchrist served as president of Texas A&M from 1944 until 1948, when he became the first chancellor of the newly established Texas A&M College System. He retired in 1953. ‘‘Gibb Gilchrist,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 158–159. Chapter Nine

1. The Gulf Freeway (now a section of Interstate 45) was Houston’s first freeway. The first section opened in September 1948. The original version of the freeway was completed through to Galveston by 1952. Houston Post, August 2, 1952. 2. Attorney Thomas Bell Love (1870–1948) was one of the leading figures in the Texas Democratic Party during the first three decades of the twentieth century. His public service included Speaker of the Texas House of Representatives (1907–1908), commissioner of the Texas Department of Insurance and Banking (1907–1910), assistant secretary of the Treasury under President Woodrow Wilson (1917–1919), and Texas state senator (1927–1931). ‘‘Thomas Bell Love,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 4, 306. Chapter Ten

1. A native of South Carolina, Barry Miller (1864–1933) moved to Dallas in 1882. He was elected to the Texas Senate in 1899 and served four terms. A close associate and campaign manager of U.S. Senator Charles A. Culberson, Miller also served in the Texas House of Representatives (1916–1922) and was lieutenant governor of Texas from 1924 until 1930. His political career ended with his defeat in the 1930 governor’s race. As lieutenant governor, Miller worked closely and was friendly with the Fergusons, which, along with Miller’s anti-Sterling speeches, did not endear him to Ross Sterling. Norman Brown, Hood, Bonnet, and Little Brown Jug: 245

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Texas Politics, 1921–1928 (College Station, 1984) 97, 111, 292, 458; ‘‘Barry Miller,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 4, 735–736. 2. Andrew John Swenson (1863–1953) was a member of the famous Swenson family that developed the SMS Ranches. A native of Sweden, he was manager of the Swenson Land and Cattle Company from 1922 until 1948. Swenson founded the Texas Cowboy Reunion at Stamford, Texas, in 1930. A popular and influential figure in his region of Texas, Swenson’s ringing endorsement would have meant much to Sterling. ‘‘Andrew John Swenson,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 173–174. 3. Journalist and newspaper publisher Eugene Alexander Howe (1886–1952) founded the Amarillo Globe in 1924. He soon merged the Globe with the Amarillo Daily News to form the Globe-News. He eventually entered the radio and television broadcasting business and purchased newspapers in other towns in West Texas, including Lubbock, Dalhart, Memphis, and Shamrock. Howe was a flamboyant promoter who attracted national attention with his antics. A noted outdoorsman and conservationist, he was instrumental in the establishment of a wildlife management area in Hemphill County east of the Canadian River. Ill with cancer, he killed himself in 1952. ‘‘Eugene Alexander Howe,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 751–752. 4. Harry Benge Crozier (1891–1970) was a noted Texas journalist for a period of nearly sixty years. His newspaper employers included the San Antonio Express, the Galveston News, the Fort Worth Record, and the Dallas News. He also worked as a public relations consultant for a number of Texas political campaigns, including those of Senator Tom Connally and Governor Coke Stevenson. He served as executive director of the Texas Employment Commission from 1945 until 1953. ‘‘Harry Benge Crozier,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 426. 5. A graduate of the University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston, Dr. Neil Dugald Buie (1879–1948) founded the Buie Clinic in Marlin in 1910. The clinic and its associated sanitarium bath house became nationally known as a health resort. Buie also was a rancher in Falls County, Texas. He was a member of the State Board of Medical Examiners at the time of his death. ‘‘N. D. Buie,’’ Biographical Files, CAH. 6. A native of North Carolina who moved to Brownsville, Texas, in 1909, Oscar Cromwell Dancy (1879–1971) served as county judge from 1921 until 1971 (he was out of office 1932–1934). His forty-eight years as county judge is a state record for that position. Although his aggressive road-paving policy earned him the nickname ‘‘Concrete,’’ Dancy never owned or drove an automobile. ‘‘Oscar Cromwell Dancy,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 500. 7. Edward Musgrove Dealey (1892–1969), better known as Ted Dealey, was the son of George Bannerman Dealey, one of the founders of the Dallas Morning News. After attending Harvard, Ted Dealey returned to Dallas in 1915 and began his career as a reporter for the News. In 1928, after working as an editorial writer and editor of the newspaper’s Sunday magazine, Dealey became a member of the Belo 246

Notes to pages 125–127

Board of Directors. By the time of the 1932 gubernatorial campaign, Dealey was vice president of the newspaper. He would eventually become president (1940) and publisher and chairman of the board (1960). He became publisher emeritus in 1968. Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 547–548. Chapter Twelve

1. John Louis Darrouzett, chief legal counsel in Texas for the Santa Fe Railroad, was an influential legislative lobbyist for the railroads. A town in Lipscomb County, Texas, that served as a station for the Santa Fe was named in his honor. ‘‘Darrouzett, Texas,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 513. 2. One student of the 1932 general election campaign has suggested that Butte may have been pressured by his own party to withdraw because of a belief that another Republican candidate might draw a large number of votes from Ferguson’s supporters. Butte’s campaign against Miriam Ferguson in 1924 had been virulently bitter, and it was thought that Ferguson voters who were potential Republican voters could not forgive Butte’s attacks on the Fergusons. McKay, 215. 3. The genial Talbot’s campaign theme had been ‘‘Buy It Made in Texas.’’ On the campaign trail he wore only clothing and shoes made in Texas, hence his gift to Sterling of Texas-made shoes. McKay, 216. 4. John Nance Garner (1868–1967) was campaigning especially hard in 1930 for a Democratic majority in the U.S. House of Representatives because he was in line for the position of Speaker if his party elected a majority of the members. He subsequently became Speaker in 1931 and vice president in 1933. Bascom Timmons, Garner of Texas: A Personal History (New York, 1948) 134; ‘‘John Nance Garner,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 95. 5. San Antonio native Harry McLeary Wurzbach (1874–1931) served as county judge of Guadalupe County, Texas, before his first election to Congress in 1920 as the only Republican member of the Texas delegation. Wurzbach was the leader of an insurgent faction in the Texas Republican Party that engaged in a long and unsuccessful fight against the dominant faction led by the state’s national committeman R. B. Creager. Wurzbach was reelected in 1930 but died exactly one year later. Brown, 397–400; ‘‘Harry McLeary Wurzbach,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 1095. 6. Edgar E. Witt (1876–1965) was an attorney from Waco, Texas, when he was elected to the State Legislature in 1914. While serving in the military during World War I, Witt was elected to the Texas Senate. In 1930 he was elected lieutenant governor of Texas. He was reelected in 1932. After an unsuccessful bid for governor in 1934, Witt served as chairman of the special Mexican Claims Commission (1935– 1938) and chairman of the United States Mexican Claims Commission (1943– 1947). President Truman appointed him chief commissioner of the Indian Claims Commission in 1947. He remained in that position until 1960. ‘‘Edgar E. Witt,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 1030. 247

notes to pages 128–136

7. Here Sterling neglects to give due credit to Colonel Talbot’s influence with his ‘‘buy Texas products’’ platform in the recent campaign. 8. Texas lumber tycoon John Henry Kirby (1860–1940) was born on a farm near Peach Tree Village, Tyler County, Texas. In 1889, after practicing law for four years in Woodville, Texas, Kirby moved to Houston, where he resided for the rest of his life. At the peak of his power, Kirby’s lumber company controlled more than 300,000 acres of East Texas pinelands and operated thirteen sawmills. He was forced into bankruptcy in 1933. Convinced that Franklin D. Roosevelt was a dangerous socialist, Kirby founded the Southern Committee to Uphold the Constitution. A vigorous opponent of labor unions, he spent the remainder of his public life as a leader of the anti–New Deal movement. ‘‘John Henry Kirby,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 1124–1125. 9. Jane Legette Yelvington McCallum (1877–1957) was a leader of the prohibition and woman suffrage movement in Texas. After suffrage was achieved, McCallum concentrated her considerable political talent and energy on political reform. She was active in the Texas League of Women Voters and the Women’s Joint Legislative Council. McCallum was an active supporter of Dan Moody, who appointed her Texas Secretary of State in 1927. After her service in that same position for Ross Sterling, she continued to be a political, social, and civic activist engaged in a wide variety of causes. It is probable that Florence Sterling, a women’s rights activist of some prominence, played a role in her brother’s decision to reappoint McCallum. ‘‘Jane Legette Yelvington McCallum,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 4, 369–370. 10. William Warren ‘‘Bill’’ Sterling (1891–1960) was born near Belton, Texas, but grew up in Beaumont. His father, to whom Sterling refers in this anecdote about the mules, was Edward Sterling. After two years attendance at Texas A&M, Bill Sterling worked as a ranch hand on ranches near Falfurrias and in Hidalgo County. In 1915 and 1916, he was a scout for the U.S. Cavalry in Hidalgo and Cameron counties. During World War I he served as a second lieutenant in the Ninth Texas Infantry. After the war he worked as a deputy sheriff and justice of the peace in Webb County. Governor Moody appointed Sterling a captain in the Texas Rangers in 1927. As a Ranger during the Moody administration, Sterling specialized in bringing law and order to oil boomtowns such as Borger and Pettus. ‘‘William Warren Sterling,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 92. Chapter Thirteen

1. Actually, the Moodys revived the custom of leaving a prepared meal for the incoming governor. Governor James Ferguson had abandoned the custom after his impeachment in 1917. News clipping from the Dallas News, January 21, 1931, ‘‘Ross Sterling,’’ Biographical File, CAH.

248

Notes to pages 145–157 Chapter Fourteen

1. Dad Joiner discovered the enormous East Texas field when he struck pay sand with his wildcat well in southern Rusk County on October 3, 1930. The field was eventually determined to be thirty-seven miles long and three to ten miles wide with approximately 100,000 productive acres covering most of five counties. It was the greatest single pool of oil ever discovered in the continental United States. Larson and Porter, 448. 2. In 1919, the Texas Legislature granted the Texas Railroad Commission the authority to prevent the waste of natural resources. The only proration orders issued by the commission during the 1920s (for the Yates field in West Texas) had been voluntary. The commission did not issue its first mandatory and statewide production control order until August 27, 1930, two months before the Joiner discovery. That order was in response to accusations made by the major companies that independent oil operators were engaging in massively wasteful practices that were destroying productive oil fields. The commission’s August order limited statewide production to 750,000 barrels daily. The order also required producers to follow certain conservation practices. This first mandatory order created a serious dispute within the industry over prorationing even before the discovery of the East Texas field. Several independents rejected the commission’s authority and obtained court injunctions allowing them to continue production without restriction. As a result of these legal attacks, many oil producers at the time the East Texas field was discovered were ignoring the commission’s prorationing order. Carleton, 57–58. 3. Ernest Othmer Thompson (1892–1966) served as a railroad commissioner from 1932 until 1965. He was an unsuccessful candidate for governor in 1938 and 1940. As the dominant member of the Railroad Commission for more than three decades, Thompson played a critical role in establishing the commission’s influence and power in the field of oil and gas production regulation. Because he attained the rank of lieutenant colonel during World War I, Thompson was known throughout his public career as ‘‘Colonel.’’ James A. Clark, Three Stars for the Colonel: A Biography of Ernest O. Thompson (New York, 1954). Chapter Fifteen

1. Despite the largesse that it created for many, the East Texas field was not good news for the oil industry in general and the major oil companies in particular. The oil gushing from its many wells flooded a market already stagnating from the worldwide economic depression. The price of oil had dropped steadily since the mid 1920s, from $1.88 per barrel in 1926 to $1.10 per barrel in October 1930, a drop greater than the decline in the general wholesale commodities price level. The discovery of the East Texas oil field quickly turned this price decline into a dizzy free fall. While industrial growth had stopped and even declined, the 249

note to page 157

supply of oil suddenly and dramatically increased. As a result, by the end of 1931 the price of East Texas crude fell to an incredible 10 cents per barrel. Carleton, 55–56. 2. Sterling’s explanation of the motives behind pro- and anti-prorationists is incomplete. Those in favor of prorationing stressed that it prevented waste and ensured the equitable withdrawal of oil in all fields, especially in East Texas. An oil field could be permanently damaged and much of the recoverable oil lost if drilling was conducted without regard for geological factors such as bottom hole gas pressure. It was gas pressure that drove East Texas crude out of the ground. Careless production practices could exhaust the field’s gas prematurely, resulting in the loss of millions of barrels of oil with no way to recover it. In addition, because oil is usually found in a pool extending beneath the property of several different individuals, the uncontrolled, flush pumping of the pool by one individual could literally drain the oil from beneath everyone else’s land. Naturally, the major companies who were creating oil reserves opposed anyone who wanted to produce oil from leases adjacent to their reserve fields. Such production could drain their field or exhaust its generating gas. By midsummer of 1931 the 19 largest oil companies in East Texas produced only 36 percent of its total output, while the 600 smallest operators produced nearly 50 percent of its total output. As one student of the field has charged, ‘‘the independents . . . were pumping away, draining oil from other leases and winning the race to drain the field.’’ Proration supporters therefore argued for unitization or acreage prorationing in East Texas. They declared that each landowner was entitled to recover only that portion of the oil in the pool that underlay his land. Acreage prorationing, it was argued, would establish an equitable allocation and eliminate the independents’ production advantage. While opponents of prorationing often ignored or downplayed the conservation argument, they confronted head-on the argument that one’s flush production might drain the oil from a neighbor’s lease. They argued that it was impossible to determine with any precision how much of the oil in a pool actually lay beneath one piece of land. They also denounced as a threat to personal liberty any plan that prevented a landowner from exploiting his land to the fullest. Antiprorationists claimed that the ancient English common law concept known as the ‘‘rule of capture’’ entitled a property owner to produce as much oil as he could from beneath his property whenever he wanted. The argument was that oil was like fugitive wildlife; if a deer or game bird from one property moved over to another, the owner of the latter had the right under this concept to hunt and kill the animal as long as it was on the hunter’s property. If a neighbor wanted to preserve the oil that was beneath his own land, then he needed to pump it out. To deny one the right to do whatever one wanted to do with oil under the surface of one’s own land was, independent geologist A. D. Lloyd declared, ‘‘naked confiscation of private property.’’

250

Notes to pages 163–164

The independents opposed to controls argued that major oil companies, bolstered by other sources of revenue, could afford to keep much of their oil in the ground. The majors also needed to maintain reserves to keep all units of their huge systems (pipelines, refineries, and filling stations) operating on a predictable and consistent production schedule. The small independents, however, often faced bankruptcy if they were not allowed to produce and sell their oil as quickly as possible. The most effective charge the antiprorationists used was that prorationing was just another name for legal price fixing. Limiting production obviously restricted supply and raised prices. Most proration advocates (especially the majors) tended to downplay that side of the argument because of the antitrust and price-fixing implications. Nevertheless, as it became clear that allowables based only on conservation factors could not cut production to levels low enough to restore higher prices, advocates for controls argued for market-demand prorationing, which limited production to whatever level met the current demand for oil. Carleton, 56–57. 3. A native of Kansas, Harry Sinclair earned a fortune from discoveries in Oklahoma in the early 1900s. After World War I, he organized Sinclair Oil as a fully integrated oil company. He was convicted and imprisoned for nearly seven months in the early 1930s for his role in the Teapot Dome scandal during the presidential administration of Warren G. Harding. Although Sinclair had little if anything to do with the antiprorationing faction in the Texas Legislature, his name was invoked during the debate because of his notoriety at the time. Prorationing supporters wanted to associate the opposition with an unpopular figure in the oil industry. Daniel Yergin, The Prize: The Epic Quest for Oil, Money, and Power (New York, 1991), 213–215. 4. A few days earlier, Governor ‘‘Alfalfa Bill’’ Murray of Oklahoma declared martial law in his state’s oil fields and shut down Oklahoma’s oil production. He called on Sterling to do the same. Larson and Porter, 459. 5. A native of Fayette County, Texas, Jacob Franklin Wolters (1871–1935) practiced law in his home county and represented it in the State Legislature (1897–1898) until he moved to Houston in 1905. A leader of the antiprohibitionist movement, Wolters was defeated by prohibitionist candidate Morris Sheppard in the 1912 election for the U.S. Senate. Wolters was a veteran of the Spanish-American War and World War I. He attained the rank of brigadier general of the Texas National Guard in 1918. A National Guard training facility established in 1925 in Palo Pinto County was named Camp Wolters in his honor. After World War I, Wolters became an attorney for the Texas Company, eventually becoming its general counsel. He was the author of Dawson’s Men and the Meir Expedition (1927) and Martial Law and Its Administration (1930). ‘‘Jacob Franklin Wolters,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 1037.

251

notes to pages 1 74 –1 82 Chapter Sixteen

1. A native of Madisonville, Texas, Jubal Richard Parten (1896–1992) was a national leader of the independent oilmen opposed to government regulation of the oil business. Parten, founder of Woodley Petroleum, was president of the Independent Petroleum Association of Texas when he attended the meeting in Dallas that Sterling discusses. Parten would later serve as a regent of the University of Texas (1935–1941). During World War II, as director of the Transportation Division of the Petroleum Administration for War, Parten supervised planning and construction of the Big and Little Inch pipelines that transported East Texas oil to the east coast to fuel Allied operations in western Europe. He also served as chief of staff of the U.S. delegation to the Allied War Reparations Commission during its meetings in Moscow in 1945. Parten was an influential adviser to and fundraiser for a number of Democratic political candidates, including James V. Allred, E. O. Thompson, Homer Rainey, Sam Rayburn, and Ralph Yarborough. Carleton, A Breed So Rare: The Life of J. R. Parten, Liberal Texas Oil Man, 1896– 1992 (Austin, 1998). 2. A native of Houston, Joseph Chappell Hutcheson, Jr. (1879–1973) began the practice of law in 1900 with his father’s law firm, Hutcheson, Campbell, and Hutcheson. In 1917 he was elected mayor of Houston. President Woodrow Wilson appointed him U.S. district judge for the Southern District of Texas in 1918. President Herbert Hoover appointed him to the Fifth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals in 1931, the position he held during the hearings Sterling discusses. Hutcheson later served as chief judge for the Fifth Circuit from 1948 until 1959. Hutcheson has the distinction of never having a major ruling overturned on appeal. ‘‘Joseph Chappell Hutcheson, Jr.’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 803. 3. Carl Lewis Estes (1896–1967) was a journalist and newspaper publisher who worked for newspapers in several towns in North and East Texas in the early days of his career. Estes founded the Tyler Telegraph in 1930. As publisher of the Tyler newspaper, Estes became deeply embroiled in the controversies stemming from the East Texas oil field crisis and served as the first president of the East Texas Land and Royalty Owners Association. He later acquired and operated several newspapers in East Texas. A tireless promoter of his region, Estes was the founder of the Tyler Rose Festival. ‘‘Carl Lewis Estes,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 898. Chapter Seventeen

1. The bank to which Sterling refers may have been the Public National Bank and Trust Company, which was one of two banks that Jones and his fellow Houston bankers ‘‘saved’’ in October 1931 by orchestrating their purchase by outside investors. The other bank rescued in this manner was Sterling’s Houston National.

252

Notes to pages 183–210

Jones acquired the Public National Bank and merged it with his National Bank of Commerce. Timmons, Jesse Jones, 156–160. 2. Jesse H. Jones was the actual buyer of the Post-Dispatch, but he bought it in Josey’s name. Former Texas governor William Pettus Hobby (1878–1964) acquired the Houston Post from Jones in 1939 on extremely favorable financial terms. (In 1931 Hobby married Oveta Culp, who later served as commander of the Women’s Army Corps during World War II and Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare during the presidential administration of Dwight Eisenhower.) At the time of his death in Houston in 1964, William Hobby was chairman of the board of the Houston Post Company, which included KPRC radio and KPRC television. Timmons, Jesse Jones, 160; ‘‘William Pettus Hobby,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 640. Chapter Nineteen

1. A native of Waco, Rentfro Banton Creager (1877–1950) opened a law practice in Brownsville after his graduation from the University of Texas law school in 1900. Early in his career, Creager became one of the leaders of the Republican Party in Texas. He was appointed collector of customs at Brownsville by Republican presidents Theodore Roosevelt and William H. Taft. He ran an unsuccessful campaign in 1916 as the Republican candidate for governor. In 1923 Creager became the Texas member of the Republican National Committee. A friend of Presidents Warren G. Harding, Calvin Coolidge, and Herbert Hoover and Senator Robert Taft, Creager dominated the Texas Republican Party until his death in 1950. ‘‘Rentfro Banton Creager,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 397. Chapter Twenty

1. Archer Parr (1860–1942) was the longtime political boss, or patron, of Duval County in South Texas. He was elected to the Texas Senate in 1914. Parr was convicted of tax evasion in 1933 and was defeated for reelection the following year. After Parr’s death, his son, George B. Parr, assumed control of his father’s political empire, which he continued to run until he committed suicide in 1975. ‘‘Archer Parr,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 5, 69–70. 2. The Texas Legislature passed a law in 1902 requiring citizens who were otherwise eligible to vote to pay a fee, or poll tax, before they could be issued a voter’s certificate. An integral part of the legal structure designed to disenfranchise African Americans (the Jim Crow laws), the poll tax remained in effect until 1964, when passage of the Twenty-Fourth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution abolished the tax in federal elections. The poll tax for state elections was eliminated by court order in 1966. ‘‘Election Laws,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 814–815. 3. The Texas Legislature passed the White Primary Law in 1923, making it illegal

253

notes to pages 213–219

for African Americans to vote in the primary elections of the Democratic Party. After the U.S. Supreme Court declared the law unconstitutional in the case of Nixon v. Herndon in 1927, the Texas Legislature passed a new law giving the executive committee of each state party authority to decide who could vote in its primary. The Democratic Party’s executive committee promptly passed a resolution banning black voters from the primary. On May 2, 1932, the Supreme Court declared that this ban also was a violation of the Fourteenth Amendment. At its state convention in Lubbock in September 1932, the Texas Democratic Party passed a new resolution banning blacks from voting in its primary. The runoff election between Sterling and Ferguson, however, was held in August, when there was no law in place prohibiting blacks from voting in the primary. The black votes for Ferguson, therefore, were legal, despite Sterling’s claim. ‘‘White Primary,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 940–941. 4. Final certified returns verified that the total vote cast in more than 100 counties had exceeded the number of poll-tax receipts, in some cases by significant amounts; most, but not all, were counties Ferguson had carried. McKay, 239. 5. Orville Bullington (1882–1956) was a prominent attorney and businessman in Wichita Falls, Texas. Bullington was one of the builders of the Republican Party in Texas and served as a delegate to eight Republican national conventions. In 1932, the obvious beneficiary of the anti-Ferguson faction in the Democratic Party, he received more votes than any other Republican candidate up to that time. Governor Lee O’Daniel appointed Bullington to the University of Texas Board of Regents in 1941. As a regent, Bullington played a leading role in the dismissal of university president Dr. Homer P. Rainey in 1944. ‘‘Orville Bullington,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 1, 822–823. Chapter Twenty-One

1. The Legislature passed the market-demand bill on November 12, 1932, but by a surprisingly close vote. The new law gave the Railroad Commission the authority to set allowables based not only on physical waste factors but also on oil in excess of ‘‘reasonable demand.’’ Although this was a major shift in legislative policy, it was not a reversal of antitrust policy and it did not alter the rule of capture by allowing forced unitization. Although antiprorationists were disappointed by the passage of the new law, they were able to defeat the much loathed compulsory unitization. Their arguments convinced the Legislature that marketdemand prorationing left control of the oil fields to an elected state agency, while unitization would place the oil fields in the hands of the majors, who, of necessity, would be the unit operators. This argument scared many of the legislators who feared that unitization might allow the major companies to starve out the independents with restrictive allowables. The defeat of unitization was a major victory for the antiproration forces. To this day, compulsory unitization is illegal in Texas, although voluntary unitization is widespread. 254

Notes to pages 219–228

2. A native of Huntsville, Texas, James Anderson Elkins (1879–1972) moved to Houston in 1917 after serving as county judge of Walker County (1903–1905). From then on he was known as Judge Elkins. He joined with William Vinson to form the Vinson, Elkins law firm, which became one of the largest law firms in the nation. In 1924 Elkins organized the Guaranty Trust Company, which later became the First City National Bank, by the 1970s the largest bank in Houston. Elkins was legal counsel to a number of corporations, including Pure Oil. By 1932 he was well on his way to becoming one of the most effective business lobbyists working the State Legislature and a powerful behind-the-scenes force in Texas politics. ‘‘James Anderson Elkins,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 2, 825. 3. As a result of Bill Sterling’s and his Texas Ranger colleagues’ open support for Ross Sterling against Ma Ferguson in the election, Ferguson fired every man on the Ranger force when she became governor in January 1933. Under Ferguson leadership, the Legislature slashed the Ranger budget drastically and reduced the size of the force. Replacements were ill-trained Ferguson political patronage appointments. When Jimmy Allred became governor in 1935, he persuaded the Legislature to create the Texas Department of Public Safety, which included the Highway Patrol and the Rangers. An independent commission was established to manage the new department and to remove it from politics. The creation of the DPS in 1935 marks the beginning of a professional state police force in Texas with hiring based on merit rather than political connections. ‘‘Texas Rangers,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 6, 393–395. 4. After his resignation from the Rangers, Bill Sterling managed the Driscoll ranches in South Texas and later became a ranch appraiser. He served as a colonel in the Eighth Service Command during World War II. He published his memoir, Trails and Trials of a Texas Ranger, in 1959. Bill Sterling is buried in Seaside Memorial Park, Corpus Christi. ‘‘William Warren Sterling,’’ Handbook of Texas, 92. Chapter Twenty-Two

1. Sterling’s strike was in the new Hull field in eastern Liberty County. The old Hull field nearby had been discovered in 1918, but it played out in the late 1920s or early 1930s. ‘‘Hull Oilfield,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 3, 779. 2. A native of Huntsville, Texas, James Smither Abercrombie (1891–1975) entered the oil business as a roustabout (an unskilled worker on drilling rigs) in the Goose Creek field, where he met Sterling. He eventually became a field superintendent for Crown Petroleum and later drilled his own wells, starting out in the Burkburnett oil field in 1918. In 1920 Abercrombie teamed with Harry Cameron to acquire the Cameron Iron Works in Houston. In 1929 he joined with Dan Harrison to organize the Harrison and Abercrombie oil company, which was the enterprise that drilled the Old Ocean field in 1934. Abercrombie sold his company and his share of Old Ocean to Magnolia Oil Company in 1946. In his final 255

notes to pages 229 –236

years Abercrombie was active as a philanthropist. He played a key role in helping to establish the Texas Children’s Hospital in Houston and the Texas Heart Institute. ‘‘James Smither Abercrombie,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 1, 5–6. 3. Galveston businessman John Sealy organized the Magnolia Petroleum Company in 1911. Magnolia was the product of the consolidation of several small companies operating in the Corsicana oil fields. In 1925 Magnolia became a subsidiary of Standard Oil of New York, which eventually became the Mobil Oil Company. Magnolia’s main offices were in Dallas, in the Magnolia Building, topped by its distinctive red flying horse sign, which became a downtown Dallas landmark. The company lost its individual identity in 1959 when Mobil imposed its own name on its various brands. ‘‘Magnolia Petroleum Company,’’ Handbook of Texas, Vol. 4, 462. 4. Ross Sterling’s son Walter (1902–1983) sold Sterling Oil and Gas to the Tenneco Corporation in 1950. He retained investments in various oil properties until his death. An active supporter of the University of Texas, Governor Dolph Briscoe, Jr. appointed him to a six-year term on the university’s Board of Regents in 1975. ‘‘Walter Sterling,’’ Biographical File, CAH. Epilogue

1. Sterling’s pride and joy, the Humble Oil and Refining Company, eventually lost its identity as a separate brand in the Standard of New Jersey corporate family. The Humble name disappeared when Jersey decided to consolidate its various brands into one: Exxon.

256

Index

n

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations. Anderson, Preston, 148 Andrews, Frank, 40, 60, 129, 242n1 (Ch. 4) antitrust laws, 44, 45, 63 Appomattox, 6 Ardmore Oil Company, 27–28, 241n5, 241n7 Armstrong, George W., 21, 214–215, 240n6 Arnold, I. B., 200 Arrow Refinery, 179 Arterbury, Mrs. Roy L., 101 Arterbury, Roy L., 101, 197, 200, 209 Ashburn, Sam, 108 Atkinson, Norman, 114 Austin, viii–ix, 88, 121, 122–123, 140, 142, 144, 166–167, 168 Austin, Stephen F., 7, 168 Austin American, 138 Austin Company, 91–92 Austin Statesman, 82 Averill, Dean, 137 Axson, Stockton, 114

Abercrombie, James S., 17, 32, 33, 228, 255–256n2 Abilene, 108, 222, 245n3 Abilene Reporter, 108 Acheson, Alex, 184 Adams, Homer B., 129 Adams, Mrs. Alex, 113 African Americans, 253n2 (Ch. 20), 253–254n3 Alamo, 113 Alex (driver of R. S.), 155, 224, 233 Alexander, Ernest, 99, 107 Allen, O. K., 166–167 Allred, James V., 130, 136, 220, 252n1 (Ch. 16), 255n3 Amarillo, 77, 95, 109, 120, 155 Amarillo Daily News, 246n3 Amarillo Globe, 246n3 Amarillo Globe-News, 109, 246n3 Amarillo News, 117 American Maid Flour Mills, 58 American Party, 216 American Petroleum Institute, 176, 241n4 American Road Company, 77 Anahuac, vii, 6, 7, 9, 10 Anderson, Arthur M., 118 Anderson, James, 50, 51 Anderson, M. D., viii, 73

Bailey, George, 61, 63, 67, 79, 112–113 Bailey, Joe Jr., 177 Bailey, Joseph, 244–245n2 (Ch. 8) Baker, Harry, 109, 113

257

ross sterling, texan Baker, Hines, 50, 53 Baker, Rex, 50, 53 Baldwin, Frank, 189 Bales, Big Boy, 32 Ball, Tom, 114, 131 Bandeen, D. A., 181 banking business, 21–22, 26, 55–56, 58, 101 Barrett, C. E., 240n4 Barrow, Cora Sterling, 11, 12, 122, 240n1 (Ch. 1) Barrow, Graydon Elton, 240n1 (Ch. 1) Bateman, Ed, 61 Batson, 18, 20, 21, 27, 53 Bay Ridge, 57, 144, 185, 230, 231, 232 Baylor University, 155 Baytown, 43, 51, 55; refinery in, 41, 43, 43, 45, 59 Beatty, D. R., 240n4 Beaumont, 9, 15, 26, 30, 37; newspapers in, 18, 47, 64; Sterling campaigns in, 114–115 Beaumont, Willard Averill, 37 Beaumont Enterprise, 64 Beaumont Evening Journal, 64 Beaumont Exporters, 152 Beck, J. W. E. H., 140, 181, 192 Beck, Walter, 191 Bedford, A. C., 41, 45 Bennett, Mills, 36 Bentley, Max, 108 Berkeley, Benjamin Franklin, 150, 151 Bexar County, 99, 113, 181 Blackburn, George P., 107 Blaffer, Robert E. Lee, vii, 26–27, 29, 34, 35, 39, 49–50, 51, 59, 60, 241nn4,7 Blair, Johnny, 83 Blalock, Myron T., 102, 159, 195, 199 Blessington, Bert, 79 Board of Control. See State Board of Control Board of Mineral Development, 172 Bonner, John S., 50, 53, 242–243n2 (Ch. 5) Bonner Oil Company, 53 Brandt, Gus, 55 Briscoe, Andrew, vii Briscoe, Dolph Jr., vii–ix, 3, 4, 244n2 (Ch. 7), 256n4 258

Briscoe, Dolph Sr., vii–ix, 3, 71–76, 244n2 (Ch. 7) Brook-Lee Oil Company, 174, 179 Brooks, B. E., 23 Brooks, Ben, 149 Brooks, Samuel Palmer, 155 Broussard, J. E., 115 Brown, Benny, 36 Brown, Bernie, 50 Brownsville, 195, 246n6, 253n1 (Ch. 19) Brownwood, 107–108, 198 Brownwood Bulletin, 107–108 Bryan, King, 6 Bryan, Luke, 6 Bryan, Mary Jane. See Sterling, Mary Jane Bryant, Bruce, 130 Bryant, Randolph, 174, 178 Buckner, Murrell, 140 Buffalo Bayou, 43, 54 Buhler, Martha, 114 Buie, Neil D., 112–113, 246n5 Bullington, Orville, 214, 215, 216, 254n5 Bureau of Good Roads, 81 Burleson, Albert Sidney, 195 Butte, George C., 67–68, 126, 247n2 Cage, D. S., 53 Caldwell, C. M., 130 California gold rush, 5, 15 Cameron, Harry, 255n2 (Ch. 22) Cameron Iron Works, 255n2 Campbell, Tom, 111 Camp Ross Sterling, Jr., 234 Camp Wolters, 251n5 Carlton, Lobe, 35, 40, 49–50 Carney, Hugh, 104 Carpenter, Frank, 18, 26 Carpenter, John, 226 Carrizo Springs, viii, 73 Carter, Amon, 189, 195, 202, 216 Carter, Samuel F., 30 Caster, W. Frank, 173 Catarina, ix, 3, 73, 76 cattle business. See ranching Central State Prison Farm, 231 Chambers, C. M., 113

Index Crown Petroleum, 255n2 (Ch. 22) Crozier, Harry Benge, 110, 246n4 Culberson, Charles A., 245n1 Cullen, H. R., 157 Culp, Oveta, 253n2 (Ch. 18) Cummins, R. J., 53 Cureton, C. M., 135, 209, 211, 212–213 Custard, H. C., 107 Cyr, Paul, 167, 168

Chambers County, 7, 10, 11, 12, 14, 57, 58, 71, 137, 161, 228, 231, 240n1 (Ch. 1) Chestnutt, Joe, 114 child welfare, 154, 156 Childress, W. A., 55 Chupadera Ranch, viii, 73–76, 93, 140 cigarette tax, 150–151, 155, 156 Civil War, 6, 114, 129, 192. See also Confederate Army Clarity, Frank E., 73 Clark, George C., 244–245n2 (Ch. 8) Clayton, W. L., 162 Cleaves, W. M., 94, 226 Cleburne, 106, 107, 129 Cleveland, Grover, 214 Clopton, J. C., 140 Coke, Richard, 136 Collett, J. D., 153 Collins, Carr, 155 Colquitt, Oscar, 25 Comanche Company, 37 Confederate Army, 6; reunion of soldiers in, 106; veteran of, 111 Connally, Tom, 95, 112, 246n4 conservation: of oil, see oil industry: and conservation; of soil, 156, 225, 237; of other natural resources, 225, 237 Cook, Charles B., 140 Cooke, Clay, 213 Coolidge, Calvin, 253n1 (Ch. 19) Coon, Dick, 47 Corpus Christi, 92, 113, 126, 177 Corpus Christi Caller-Times, 113 Corsicana, 26, 192, 256n3 Corwin, Arthur, 39 cotton industry, 147, 162, 165–170, 216– 217 Cotton States Conference, 166 Court of Civil Appeals, 212, 220 Crane, M. M., 206, 210, 211 Cranfill, Tom, 159 Cravens, N. A., 115 Creager, Rentfro (Rene) B., 202, 203, 247n5, 253n1 (Ch. 19) Cruce, Lee, 27 Crim, Malcolm, 158 Crossland, Henry, 69, 103

Dallas, 5, 110–111, 117, 174–175, 226, 252n1 (Ch. 16), 256n3 Dallas Dispatch, 109, 110 Dallas Morning News, 246n7 Dallas News, 110, 115, 201, 216, 246n4 Dallas Times-Herald, 184 Dancy, Oscar C., 113, 246n6 Daniel, Alfred P., 69 Darrouzett, John L., 125, 189, 247n1 Davidson, Lynch, 45, 66, 79, 98, 105, 204 Davis, Edmund J., 216, 220 Davis, Frank C., 113 Davis, Jefferson, 6 Davis, Vic, 102, 103, 104, 109 Dayton, 20–21, 26, 42, 55–57, 131–132 Dayton-Goose Creek Railroad, 56, 57, 243n5 Dealey, George Bannerman, 246n7 Dealey, Ted, 110, 115, 116, 246–247n7 Dean, W. L., 101 Democratic Party, 94, 109, 184, 244– 245n2 (Ch. 8), 245n2, 247n4, 252n1 (Ch. 16), 253–254n3; and opposition to Fergusonism, 213–216; and opposition to President Hoover, 191; and the 1924 Texas governor’s race, 66–67; platform of, in the 1930 Texas governor’s race, 138 Denton Chronicle, 106 Denton County, 106, 243n1 Depression. See Great Depression DeWolfe, Homer, 148 Dillingham, Charles, 243n3 Dimmit County, 73, 108 Dixie Refining Company, 37 Dodd, George B., 115 Dorsett, A. H., 113 259

ross sterling, texan Double Bayou, 6–13, 16, 57, 97, 125 Dougherty, Pat, 96, 131, 149, 153 Douglas, W. L., 27 Drought, Harry P., 113 Dudley, Ray Lofton, 60–65, 69–70, 164, 243–244n1 (Ch. 6) Duncan, C. D., 91, 92 Duval, J. C., 206 East Texas Chamber of Commerce, 176, 186 East Texas Land and Royalty Owners Association, 252n3 East Texas oil fields crisis, 145–147, 157– 159, 163–164, 171–177, 179, 187, 193–194, 202, 218–220, 235, 249nn1,2 (Ch. 14), 249–250n1, 250n2, 252n3 Edwards, R. J., 106 Edwards, T. Arthur, 162 Eighteenth Amendment, 189–191. See also prohibition Eisenhower, Dwight, 253n2 (Ch. 18) Elkins, James A., 219, 255n2 (Ch. 21) Ely, Walter, 80, 81, 89, 108, 140, 222, 223, 245n3 Esperson, Mellie, 240n5 Esperson, Niels, 21, 240n5 Estes, Carl L., 96, 153, 179, 197, 252n3 Exxon, vii, 256n1 Farish, William S., 38, 241n4, 243n5; and Humble Oil, vii, 26–27, 29, 34, 35, 37– 39, 44, 45, 47, 49, 51, 60, 136, 145, 157, 241n7 Farm and Ranch, 231 Farrar, Roy M., 53, 74 Fechet, General, 74 Federal Farm Board, 162, 165 Federal Home Loan Act, 208–209 Federal Land Bank, 162 Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas, 244n2 (Ch. 7) feed business, 15–21, 26, 55–56, 192 Ferguson, A. M., 200 Ferguson, James E., 82, 83, 84, 89, 130, 148, 169, 182, 191, 224, 230, 235, 253– 254n3; impeachment of, 64, 66, 192,

202, 221, 244–245n2, 248n1; and the 1924 governor’s race, 66, 67, 77; and the 1926 governor’s race, 78–80; and the 1930 governor’s race, 91, 93, 94, 96–97, 105, 108–112, 117–122, 126; and the 1932 governor’s race, 186, 187, 189, 193–196, 199–201, 203–205, 210–212, 214–216; during Sterling’s term as governor, 153, 164, 172, 220 Ferguson, Miriam ‘‘Ma,’’ 66, 224; as governor, 148, 220, 221, 222, 255n3; and the 1924 governor’s race, 66–68, 77, 126, 247n2; and the 1926 governor’s race, 78–80; and the 1930 governor’s race, 95, 105, 109, 110, 113, 116–117, 119– 124; and the 1932 governor’s race, viii, 186–189, 191, 193, 196–199, 201, 203, 204–212, 216, 223, 253–254n3 Ferguson Forum, 89, 126, 191 Fergusonism, 66, 67, 78, 79, 80, 84, 95, 116, 117, 119, 120, 122, 123, 124, 148, 191, 192, 195, 200, 202, 207, 235 Fincher, Joe W., 25, 30, 101, 241n2 Finn, Alfred C., 241n7 First City National Bank, 255n2 (Ch. 21) First National Bank of Houston, 129, 183 Flanagan, Buck, 231 Florence, Fred, 181, 229 Fondren, Arthur, 227 Fondren, Ella, 241n3 Fondren, Walter W., 241n3, 243n5; and Humble Oil, vii, 24, 26, 29, 30, 32, 35, 47, 49, 60, 136 Fort Bend County, 15, 71, 244n2 (Ch. 7) Fort Sam Houston, 64 Fort Worth, 5, 105, 107, 108–109, 198 Fort Worth and Denver Railway, 73 Fort Worth Record, 246n4 Fort Worth Star-Telegram, 138, 195, 216 Foster, Marcellus E., 67, 79, 166, 185, 244n2 (Ch. 6) Fuchs, P. A., 156 Fuller, E. O., 221 Gage, Frederich H., 1 Gage, Maud Abbie. See Sterling, Maud Gailliard, John, 31 260

Index Great American Life Insurance Company, 184 Great Depression, viii–ix, 75–76, 191, 221; effects of, on Sterling’s fortune, 128, 130, 182–183; as a factor in Sterling’s failed reelection bid in 1932, 188, 216; Sterling’s struggles with, as governor, 129–130, 138, 142, 143, 149, 155, 158, 171, 180–182, 199–201, 237 Great Western Oil Company, 240n3 Green, Hugh, 139 Gregg County, 164, 207, 210 Griffenhagen, E. O., 182 Groce, Thomas J., 17 Guaranty Trust Company, 255n2 (Ch. 21) Gulf Coast Good Roads Association, 90, 95, 194–195 Gulf Coast Independent Producers Association, 34 Gulf Coast Lines, 57 Gulf Freeway, 245n1 (Ch. 9) Gulf Oil Company, 30, 31, 33, 36, 43, 44, 68 Gulf Publishing Company, 243–244n1 (Ch. 6)

Galveston, 2, 7–8, 14, 17, 20; and the hurricane of 1900, 11–13, 125, 240n2; Sterling campaigns in, 121, 122, 124–125 Galveston, Houston and Henderson Railroad, 6 Galveston Bay, 7–10, 54, 57, 58, 101, 131, 137, 142 Galveston National Bank, 17 Galveston News, 14, 246n4 Game, Fish, and Oyster Commission, 140 Garner, John Nance, 76, 126, 127, 155, 193, 202, 215, 247n3 Garrison, H. C., 220 gasoline tax, 83–84, 87, 90, 106, 149, 183, 189, 199 Gatewood, Boyd, 79 Georgetown, 97, 121 Gerron, Elwood, 84 Gilbert, Harvey, 15 Gilchrist, Gibb, 84–85, 140, 245n4 Gill, Richard, 113 Gill, Waltus H., 31–32, 35, 234 Gladewater Journal, 193, 194, 217 Globe Refining Company, 27, 241n7 Goddard, Charles B., 24, 25, 35, 49–50, 241n2 Goodman, J. L., 148 Goose Creek, 42, 43, 51, 55, 56, 58, 100, 185; oil field, 31, 32, 36, 37, 56, 234, 255n2 (Ch. 22); refinery, 41 Gossett, M. H., 162 Governor’s Mansion, viii, ix, 3, 137, 138, 139, 141 governor’s race of 1930: general election, 126–127; first primary campaign and election, 90–116; runoff campaign and election, 117–123; state convention, 124–126 governor’s race of 1932: first primary campaign and election, 186–196, 197; runoff campaign and election, 196–205; Sterling contests results of, 205–207, 208–213; state convention, 207–208 Grafius, Lelis, 197 Graves, Harry, 206 Graydon, 9, 240n1

Hale, M. C., 24, 25, 241n2 Hamer, Frank, 223 Hamilton, Thomas Hayden, 42, 242n3 Hamilton, V. B., 184 Hamman, George, 24 Hankamer, Earl, 115 Hanrahan, R. V., 51 Hardin County, 15, 17, 18, 19, 47 Harding, Warren G., 251n3, 253n1 (Ch. 19) Hardison, T., 17 Hardwicke, Robert, 219 Harrington, H. H., 84 Harris County, 53, 80, 101, 210 Harris County Houston Ship Channel Navigation District Committee, 243n3 Harrison, Dan, 228, 255n2 (Ch. 22) Harrison, Hubert, 181 Harrison and Abercrombie Oil Company, 228, 255n2 (Ch. 22) Hart, C. J., 124 Haupt, Charlie, 41 261

ross sterling, texan Hawkins, George, 27 Hearst, William Randolph, 62, 63 Hedrick, Jean, 220 Hedrick, Mildred, 220 Hedrick, Mrs. Wyatt (Sterling’s daughter), 107, 135, 236 Hedrick, Wyatt, 236 Hermann, George, 55, 243n4 Hermann Hospital, 55, 237 highway bonds. See road bond plan Hill, Paul, 158 Hill, Tom, 199 Hilliard, L. G., 102 Hines, Harry, 191 Hinton, A. P., 121 HMRC. See Houston Metropolitan Research Center Hobby, William P., viii, 65, 70, 73, 74, 94, 152, 219, 230, 253n2 (Ch. 18); as friend, supporter, and unofficial campaign manager for Sterling, 99, 107, 125, 127, 129, 140; as governor who succeeded Jim Ferguson, 64, 193, 216, 244–245n2 (Ch. 8); as president of the Post-Dispatch, 64–65, 66–67, 79, 183 Hogg, James Stephen, 102, 108, 136, 215, 227, 244–245n2 (Ch. 8) Hogg, Tom E., 215 Hogg, Will C., viii Holbrook, T. J., 125, 189 Holcombe, Oscar, 98 Hollard, R. H., 209 Holman, Eugene, 44 Hooks, Charles H., 21 Hoopes, J. W., 162 Hoover, Herbert, 94, 109, 145, 146, 168, 180, 181, 191–192, 214, 216, 252n2, 253n1 (Ch. 19) Hopkins, Welly K., 206 Horn, P. W., 134 Houston, 5, 17, 93, 142, 143; banking situation in, 182–183; baseball in, 107, 152; first commercial broadcasting station in, 69–70; and the 1930 governor’s race, 95, 105, 114, 129; as headquarters of Humble Oil, 37, 49, 50; Sterling moves to, and early days in, 19–20, 22,

23, 26, 43; traffic in, 231–232. See also Port of Houston Houston, Reagan, 99, 113, 222 Houston, Sam, viii, 58, 100, 101, 117, 125, 133, 136, 168 Houston Buffs, 152 Houston Chronicle, 67, 70, 79, 90, 95, 111, 185, 244n6 (Ch. 2) Houston Club, 43 Houston Dispatch, 60–66, 69, 243n1. See also Houston Post-Dispatch Houston Gargoyle, 185 Houston Harbor Board, 111 Houston Metropolitan Research Center, 3 Houston National Bank, 58, 92, 101, 182–183, 252n1 (Ch. 17) Houston Port Commission, 124, 131, 237 Houston Post, viii, 20, 60–67, 69, 78, 183, 204, 243n1, 253n2 (Ch. 18); and Ed Kilman, 1, 2, 3. See also Houston Post-Dispatch Houston Post-Dispatch, 63–70, 87–88, 107, 108, 112, 124, 128, 161, 183, 192, 253n2 (Ch. 18); opposition of, to Fergusonism, 78–80, 84 Houston Press, 79, 166, 185, 244n6 (Ch. 6) Houston Printing Company, 161 Houston Rotary Club, 58 Houston Salesmanship Club, 142 Houston Ship Channel, 45 Howard, George, 35 Howe, Eugene A., 109, 246n3 Howe and Wise, 56 Howell, Hilton, 99, 111 Howsley, Andrew, 152, 153 Hubbard, R. M., 149 Huggins, W. C., 90, 95, 125, 185, 191, 194, 201 Hughes, Howard Jr., 68–69 Hughes, Howard Sr., 19–20, 68 Hughes, Joe, 17, 227 Hughes, Maury, 212 Hughes Tool Company, 68 Hugh Roy Cullen: A Story of American Opportunity, 2 Hug-the-Coast Highway, 194–195 Hull oil field, 226–228 262

Index Jones, George, 40–41, 46–48, 242n2 (Ch. 2) Jones, Jesse H., viii, 69, 112, 114, 143, 241–242n8; as chairman of the Reconstruction Finance Corporation, 182, 252–253n1 (Ch. 17); as a developer, 29, 31, 73; endorsement of Sterling’s candidacy by, 111; as a newspaper publisher, 70, 79, 95, 253n2 (Ch. 18) Jones, John, 99 Jones, Walter, 37 Josey, J. E., 36, 183, 253n2 (Ch. 18) J. P. Morgan and Company, 45 Jurecka, Eva Rose, 113 Justin, W. L., 134

Humble, 18–25, 101, 109, 185, 214 Humble Building, 49, 50, 60, 61, 68 Humble Oil and Refining Company, vii, viii, 68, 69–70, 71, 124, 129, 136, 151, 157, 161, 172, 183, 185, 194, 201, 222, 227, 229, 234; beginnings of, 23–25, 34, 101, 240n1 (Ch. 3), 240n4; and crisis in east Texas, 145, 146; headquarters of, 30–31, 49, 50; individuals enriched by, 76, 109, 159; as a personality company, 50–51; rapid expansion of, 36–37; retirement of Sterling from, 59–60; and Standard Oil, 36–48, 256n1 Humble Pipe Line Company, 51, 59 Humble State Bank, 241n2 Hunt, Seth, 41 Hunter, J. C., 195 Hunter, Tom, 184, 189, 196–197, 198 hunting, 73–76 Huntsville, 100, 101 Hutcheson, Joseph C. Jr., 177–179, 252n2 Hutcheson, Palmer, 179

Kamp, Charles E., 199 Keeling, W. A., 44–45 Kemp, Louis, 77, 86, 140, 244n1 (Ch. 8) Kempner, Isaac H., 15, 240n1 (Ch. 2) Kerr, A. E., 56, 92, 99 Kilgore, 158, 172, 176, 206 Kilman, Alice, 2 Kilman, Ed, 1–4, 87–88, 92, 104, 106, 107, 109, 140, 239n6 King, Harry Tom, 222 King Ranch, 140 King’s Highway, 97 Kinsolving, Grady, 113 Kirby, Harper, 29 Kirby, John Henry, 129, 248n8 Klein, Myke, 144 Kobusch, George, 28, 31 Kokernot, Herbert Lee, 155 Kopecky, Joseph, 131 KPRC (‘‘Kotton Port Rail Center’’) radio, 69–70, 100–101, 102, 253n2 (Ch. 18) Krause, Alma, 144 KTRH radio, 70 Ku Klux Klan, 66, 67, 77, 78, 95

Imperial Sugar Company, 240n1 (Ch. 2) Independent Petroleum Association of Texas/Independent Producers Association, 64, 252n1 (Ch. 16) Interstate Commerce Commission, 57 Ireland, John, 220 Ireland, Rosalie, 220 Jackson, Johnnie, 11, 13 Jackson, Thomas ‘‘Stonewall,’’ 117 Jackson County, 228, 229 Japhet, Dan, 47–48 Jefferson County, 115, 240n2 (Ch. 2) Jester, Beauford, 192 Jester, C. L., 192 Jim Crow laws, 253n2 (Ch. 20) Johnson, A. P., 160, 221 Johnson, Albert Sidney, 120, 199 Johnson, Cone, 223, 244–245n2 (Ch. 8), 245n3; as an advisor to Sterling, 125; as an orator, 97, 101, 105, 115; and the State Highway Commission, 80–82, 86, 89 Johnston, Rienzi M., 62, 78, 79

Lamont, Robert, 176 Lamont, Thomas, 45–46 Landon, Alfred, 145 Lane, Jack, 137 Lanham, Grace, 220 Lanham, S. W., 220 263

ross sterling, texan McDonald, Roy, 228 McDonald, Thomas H., 81 McDougald, J. R., 147, 151 McFarlings, R. O., 231 McGregor, T. H., 83, 148, 169 McKenzie, B. W., 106 McKinney, A. T., 101 McKinney, W. E., 163 McKinney Courier, 106 McKinnon, Eldred, 140 Mercedes News Tribune, 93 Mexico/Mexicans, 7, 97 Meyer, Joseph F., 55 Meyer, Joseph F. Jr., 183 Miller, Barry, 94–95, 107–109, 113, 245n1 (Ch. 10) Miller, Cleo G., 220 Miller, Roy, 151 Minor, Fred, 154, 199 Miramar Oil Company, 226–228. See also Sterling Oil and Refining Company Missouri Pacific Lines, 73 Mobil Oil Company, 256n3 Monroe, Dan, 50, 244n1 (Ch. 7) Monroe, Malcolm, 50, 53, 71, 76, 242– 243n2, 244n1 (Ch. 7) Monteith, Walter, 152 Moody, Dan, 73, 78, 108, 137, 147, 174, 193, 223, 248n1; as an advisor to Sterling, MacGregor, H. F., 55 140, 188; as attorney general, 77–78, Maes, Charlie, 61, 63 119; as governor, 80–84, 89–91, 131, Magnolia Petroleum Company, 33, 37, 200; and the 1926 governor’s race, 78– 229, 255n2 (Ch. 22), 256n3 80, 224; and the 1930 governor’s race, Mann, Elias, 191 93, 94, 96, 98, 109–110, 116, 117–118, Marlin, 112, 113, 121 122–123, 124, 125, 135–136, 187; and the martial law, 163–166, 172–174, 176–179, 1932 governor’s race, 189, 195, 196, 197, 184–186, 193–195, 210, 216, 218, 220, 199, 202, 207, 208, 215–216 235, 251n4 Moody, Dan Jr., 136 Martin, D. K., 75, 113, 124, 140, 154, 222– Moody, Mildred, 108, 220, 248n1 223 Moore, J. D., 220 Martin, Joe, 140 Moore, John T., 232 Maverick, Maury, 181 Moore, Weaver, 220 Mayfield, Earle, 93–96, 111–112 McCallum, Jane Y., 131, 154, 211, 215, 248n9 Morgan’s Point, 57, 122 Morrow, Wright, 189 McCorkle, Sam, 205, 209 Murphy, Charles, 202 McCrary, Max, 213 Murphy, Ed, 84, 152 McDonald, C. C., 235 Murray, ‘‘Alfalfa Bill,’’ 145, 177, 251n4 McDonald, J. E., 166, 167 La Porte, 15, 100, 124, 142, 231 LaSalle, René-Robert Cavelier, 228–229 League of Anti-Ferguson Democrats, 214, 215 Lee, Robert E., 6, 117 Lee, Rose Mary, 114 Lee, T. P., 55 Leeman, Ray, 181, 182 legislature. See Texas Legislature Leslie, S. F., 107 Levy, Adrian F., 122 Levy, Louis, 17 Levy, L. W., 137 Lewis, John L., 206 Lewis, Judd M., 61, 63 Liberty, 5–6, 9, 13, 20, 114 Liberty County, 6, 196, 227 Link, J. W., 23 livestock: cattle, see ranching; hogs, 230–231 Long, Huey, 162, 166–169 Longview, 104, 176 Love, Thomas B., 93, 94, 116, 125, 171, 198, 223, 226, 245n2 Lubbock, 109, 120, 207, 223, 246n3 Lull, H. M., 73 Lynn, Moore, 194

264

Index Parr, George B., 253n1 (Ch. 20) Parten, Jubal R., 3, 174–175, 175, 252n1 (Ch. 16) Patrick, Jim, 23–24 Paxton, George L., 108 Paxton, Helen, 220 Peden, E. A., 53 Peden Iron and Steel Company, 30 Peggy, Ed, 35 Penn, R. R., 145 Pennington, Harry, 161 Perkins, Tom, 106 Pethybridge, R. L., 107 Petsch, Alfred, 96, 160, 187, 206 Pew, J. Edgar, 219 Phares, L. G., 152 Pickett, E. G., 114 Pillot, Camille, 243n3 Pipe Line Act, 34 Pipkin, Steve, 27 Polk County, 93–94 Pollard, Tom, 160 Pool, Adrian, 140 Pope, Elmer, 148, 209 Port of Houston, 53–55 Powell oil field, 51–52 Pratt, Wallace, 44, 50, 51 Prince, Al, 93 Proctor, Frederick, 34, 36 prohibition, 95, 101, 108–109, 125, 149, 189–191, 196, 198, 216, 248n9, 251n5 prorationing. See oil industry: and prorationing Public Works Administration (PWA), 181 Purl, George, 171

National Bank of Commerce, 183, 252– 253n1 (Ch. 18) National Guard. See Texas National Guard National Petroleum Industry War Council, 241n4 Navigation Board, 53–55 Nazro, Underwood, 30, 36, 44, 226 Neal, Margie, 102 Neff, Pat, 84, 97, 98, 136, 140, 154, 155, 173, 230 New Deal, 88, 158, 170, 181, 248n8 Nickels, Luther, 211 Nixon, S. Maston, 113 Nixon v. Herndon, 253–254n3 Norman, the Rev. McKinley, 120 North Texas Oil and Gas Association, 157 O’Daniel, W. Lee ‘‘Pappy,’’ 254n5 Oil, Gas, and Natural Resources Conservation Committee, 152 oil industry, 15, 21, 252n1 (Ch. 16), 255n2 (Ch. 22); and conservation, 152, 155, 160, 225; and drilling technology, 29, 32; and the establishment of a separate oil and gas commission, 147, 154, 155, 156, 225; in Humble, 18, 20, 23; importance of Humble Oil to, 50–52; and the oil production tax, 145, 149; and prorationing, 145–147, 153, 157– 165, 166, 172–177, 186, 189, 194, 218–219, 225, 234, 237, 242n1 (Ch. 5), 250– 251n2, 254n1; and refinery technology, 43; Ross Sterling’s role in, 23–35, 53, 101, 222, 226–230. See also specific oil companies Oil States Advisory Committee, 145, 147 Oil States Compact Commission, 152 O’Keefe, Pat, 184 Old Ocean oil field, 32, 255n2 (Ch. 22) Optimist Club of Houston, 232

radio, 68–70. See also KPRC radio Railroad Commission. See Texas Railroad Commission railroads, 54, 56–57. See also names of specific railroads Rainey, Homer, 252n1 (Ch. 16), 254n5 Ramsey, Ben, 148 ranching, 71–73, 76, 244n2 (Ch. 7) Ranger (town in Texas), 37, 45, 47, 51 Rawlings, Frank, 163 Rayburn, Sam, 244n3, 252n1 (Ch. 16)

Page, Paul D., 174 Palestine, 115–116, 195 panic of 1907, 21 Paraffine Oil Company, 27, 241n7 Parr, Archer, 205, 253n1 (Ch. 20) 265

ross sterling, texan Reconstruction, 78, 210, 216, 220, 235 Reconstruction Finance Corporation, 182, 241–242n8 Reliance Oil Company, 27, 241n7 Republican Party, 67, 68, 94, 114, 125, 126, 193, 253n1 (Ch. 19), 254n5; blamed for Depression, 158, 168; Texas, factionalism within, 214, 247n5 Republic National Bank of Dallas, 229 RFC. See Reconstruction Finance Corporation rice farming, 20–21 Rice Institute, 114 Rice University, 241n3 Richardson, T. C., 231 Riddle, J. I., 106 Ring, Mrs. H. F., 114 River Oaks (subdivision of Houston), 1, 232 road bond plan (Sterling’s), 87–91, 101, 102, 108, 189, 192; defeat of, 153–154, 156, 225; passed in the Senate, 148–149; opponents of, 95, 104, 105, 106, 109; supporters of, 88, 94, 98, 104, 131 Roberdeau, Ethel, 139 Robertson, Felix, 66, 67 Robertson, W. F., 209, 211–212, 213 Robertson Insurance Law, 201 Rockefeller, John D. Jr., 38, 40, 233 Rogers, Dale, 60–61 Rogers, Will, 138 Roosevelt, Franklin D., 88, 114, 158, 181, 182, 193, 203, 214, 215, 216, 248n8 Roosevelt, Theodore, 253n1 (Ch. 19) Ross, Champ, 24–25 Ross, Sul, 6 Roundtree, J. A., 89 Rowell, Tom D. Jr., 104 Roxana Petroleum Company, 51 Rubiola, Jake, 113 Runge, Carl, 220 Sabine River, 171, 195 Safford, H. R., 73 Sampson, Mrs. George, 220 San Angelo, 72, 108, 192 San Antonio, 99, 113, 121, 126–127, 155, 203

San Antonio Express, 246n4 San Jacinto, Battle of, 6, 77, 117; battlefield today, 70, 152, 244n1 (Ch. 8) San Jacinto Bay, 37, 42–43 San Jacinto River, 43, 54 Santa Anna, Antonio Lopez de, 7 Santa Fe Railroad, 56 Saratoga, 18, 20, 21, 53 sawmill and lumber business, 21, 56 Schreiner ranch, 140–141 Schuhmacher, Henry, 114, 131 Schuhsler, A. J., 197 Scott, John T., 129, 131, 183 Scott, Thad, 60 Scott, W. R., 57 Scripps-Howard newspaper chain, 79 Sealy, John, 256n3 Seligman, Arthur, 145 Sells, Cato, 189, 214 Shaw, James, 188 Shearer, Gordon, 156 Sheldon, Jim, 20 Sheppard, Morris, 215, 251n5 Sherer, Norman, 115 Short, J. H., 10 Short, Mrs. J. H., 10 Short, Zilla, 132 Silliman, W. B., 72–73 Simmons, Lee, 200, 231 Sinclair, Harry, 162, 251n3 Sinclair Oil, 251n3 Small, Clint, 95, 105, 108, 109, 116, 117, 119, 148, 152, 184, 187–188, 199 Smith, Alfred E., 94, 114, 192, 214 Smith, Clyde, 115 Smith, Lon, 146, 154, 155 Smith, P. F., 174 Smith Company, 164, 210 Smith’s Point, 9, 10 Sons of the American Revolution, 232 Sour Lake, 15–21, 16, 23, 27, 29–30, 56, 228, 240n3; bank in, 45 Sour Lake Feed Store, 17, 18, 20, 26 Sour Lake Grain Company, 18 Southern Committee to Uphold the Constitution, 248n8 Southern Methodist University, 241n3 266

Index Southern Pacific News, 14 Southern Pacific Railroad, 26, 36, 56, 57, 73 Southern Pipe Line Company, 36, 51 South Texas Commercial National Bank, 161 Spanish-American War, 251n5 Speer, Ocie, 211 Spindletop, 15, 26, 27, 37, 64, 240n2 (Ch. 2) Staiti, Henry T., 34, 157 Standard Oil Company, 25, 107, 146: of Louisiana, 51; of New Jersey, 38–41, 51, 56, 59, 60, 241n4, 242n1 (Ch. 2); of New York, 256n3 Standard Trust, 38 Starnes, Ray, 164 State Bankers Association, 162 State Board of Control, 83, 84, 130, 140, 148, 231 State Board of Medical Examiners, 246n5 State Confederate Home, 90 State Court of Criminal Appeals, 206 State Democratic Convention, 124–126, 207–208 State Democratic Executive Committee, 94, 96, 120–121, 189, 191, 201, 210, 212 State Highway Department, 111, 152 State Highway Patrol, 152, 156 state income tax, 172 State Prison Board, 114 State Relief Commission, 181 State Teachers Colleges, 97, 131 State University Permanent Fund, 156 Sterling, A. A. (brother of R. S.), 135 Sterling, Ben (brother of R. S.), 42 Sterling, Benjamin F. (father of R. S.), 5–13, 15, 17, 114, 135, 192, 240n1 (Ch. 1) Sterling, Bob (uncle of R. S.), 5 Sterling, Bryan (brother of R. S.), 7, 10, 17 Sterling, Cora (sister of R. S.). See Barrow, Cora Sterling Sterling, Edward (no relation to R. S.), 248n10 Sterling, Florence M. (sister of R. S.), 30, 49, 135, 137, 241n6, 243n5, 248n9 Sterling, Frank (brother of R. S.), 7, 35, 49, 60, 120, 159–160

Sterling, Frank (uncle of R. S.), 5 Sterling, James (uncle of R. S.), 5 Sterling, Jim (brother of R. S.), 11, 12, 26, 42, 135 Sterling, John (brother of R. S.), 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 20, 122, 135 Sterling, John (uncle of R. S.), 5 Sterling, Margaret (aunt of R. S.), 5 Sterling, Mary Jane (mother of R. S.), 6–7, 114 Sterling, Maud (wife of R. S.), viii, 2, 15, 18, 129, 141, 231–232, 234, 236; during the Galveston hurricane, 11–12, 125; helps Sterling start a new oil company, 226–227; as a hostess, 3, 111, 142; meets and marries Sterling, 10–11; role of, in Sterling’s political career, 94, 122, 132, 134, 136, 187, 188, 192–193, 195–196, 198; as Sterling’s close companion and supporter, 185, 199, 233, 236 Sterling, Norma (daughter of R. S.), 26, 132, 134, 142, 220 Sterling, Quincy (uncle of R. S.), 5 Sterling, Ross S.: accomplishments of, 156, 189, 236–237; appointment of, to Texas State Highway Commission, 80– 95; as a banker, 21–22, 55–56; bayshore home of, 57, 58, 144, 158, 185, 224–225, 226, 230, 232, 237, 243n7; biography of, writing and publishing, 1–4; birth and early life of, 5–8; campaigns of, for governor, 90–127, 188–202; contesting of 1932 election results by, 205–207, 208–213; death of, 1, 236; and the death of Little Ross, 69, 234, 236; decision of, to move back to Houston, 232; demeanor of, 140; and the East Texas oil fields crisis, 145–147, 157–159, 163– 164, 171–177, 179, 187, 193–194, 202, 218–220, 235, 249nn1,2 (Ch. 14), 249– 250n1, 250n2, 252n3; as a feed store owner, 15–21, 55–56; financial crisis of, 182–183; founding of Humble Oil by, 23–35; founding of Sterling Oil by, 226–230; as governor of Texas, viii, 137–225; health of, 199–200, 230; as a hunter, 73–76; inauguration of, as

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ross sterling, texan governor, 132–137; as a newspaperman, 60–70; passion of, for hog raising, 230–231; passion of, for sailing, 58; philanthropy and civic involvement of, 58; philosophy of, 8; racial views of, 3–4; and the radio business, 68– 70; as a rancher, 71–73, 76; retirement of, from Humble Oil, 59–60; as a rice farmer, 20–21; road bond plan of, 87– 91; semi-retirement of, from business, 230; and Standard Oil, 36–48; views of, on alcohol, 95; views of, regarding the death penalty, 140; views of, regarding education, 98; views of, regarding women, 126; wife of, 10–11, 141, 185, 199, 233 Sterling, Ross Jr. or ‘‘Little Ross’’ (son of R. S.), 58; premature death of, 68–69, 234, 236 Sterling, Sam (brother of R. S.), 7 Sterling, Walter (son of R. S.), 92, 94, 102, 107, 135, 142, 226; birth and early life of, 11, 18, 21; and his father’s biography, 2–4; hunting with his father, 74–75; sailing with his father, 58; as a student at U.T., 51, 104 Sterling, William (grandfather of R. S.), 5, 129 Sterling, William (uncle of R. S.), 5 Sterling, William W. (Adjutant General under R. S.—no relation), 131–132, 139, 140, 144, 164, 193, 201–202, 207, 208, 223, 248n10, 255n3 Sterling and Ridley’s Saddlery and Cabinet Shop, 6 Sterling Building, 128 Sterling Oil and Refining Company, 228, 256n4. See also Miramar Oil Company Sterling Plan. See road bond plan Stevenson, Coke, 148, 221, 246n4 Steves, Albert Jr., 99, 113 stock market crash, 92–93, 128. See also Great Depression Storey, Cecil, 110 Strauss, William, 99, 107, 114, 117, 125, 140, 154

Strickland, Jeff, 184 Strong, J. D., 102 Stuart, Robert A., 199, 202 Sturrock, A. E., 115 suffrage, women’s, 241n6, 248n9 Sugar Land, 231, 240n1 (Ch. 2) Suman, John, 44, 50, 51 Sun Oil Company, 33, 241n2 Supreme Court. See Texas State Supreme Court; U.S. Supreme Court Swain, C. O., 241n2 (Ch. 2) Swenson, Andrew J., 108, 246n2 Swenson Land and Cattle Company, 246n2 Taft, Robert, 253n1 (Ch. 19) Taft, William H., 253n1 (Ch. 19) Taggard, Felice, 114 Talbot, William, 126, 247n3, 248n7 Teagle, Walter, 38–41, 39, 242n2 (Ch. 2) Teapot Dome Scandal, 251n3 Teer, Claude, 130, 140 Temple, 15, 83 Templeton, E. G., 144 Tennant, Roy I., 83–84, 148 Tenneco Corporation, 256n4 Terrell, C. V., 146, 154, 155, 218 Texarkana, 104, 202 Texas A&M College, 85, 131, 135, 245n4, 248n10 Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association, 244n2 (Ch. 7) Texas Association of County Judges and Commissioners, 77, 88, 102 Texas Children’s Hospital, 255–256n2 Texas Christian University, 58, 108, 129 Texas City, 45, 51 Texas County, 33, 43, 51, 68, 71, 90, 187, 227–228, 244n1 (Ch. 7), 251n5 Texas Cowboy Reunion, 246n2 Texas Department of Insurance and Banking, 245n2 Texas Department of Public Safety, 255n3 Texas Election Bureau, 123, 204 Texas Employment Commission, 246n4 Texas Gulf Sulphur Company, 151 Texas Heart Institute, 255–256n2

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Index Texas Highway and Municipal Contractors Association, 77 Texas House of Representatives. See Texas Legislature Texas League of Women Voters, 248n9 Texas Legislature, 134, 137–138, 155, 247n6, 255n2 (Ch. 21); accomplishments of, during Sterling’s term, 156; and a child welfare bill, 154; and the cigarette tax, 150–151; and a cotton acreage reduction bill, 147, 162, 166–170; defeat of incumbents in, in 1932, 188, 221; and Depression-era relief measures, 130– 131, 199, 201, 208–209; and a gasoline tax, 81, 183; and a government inefficiency bill, 182; and highway rights-ofway, 85; investigation of the Highway Department by, 84; Oil and Gas committee of, 158; and oil prorationing, 159, 160, 161–163, 218–219, 227, 249n2; and out-of-state shareholder bill, 45; and the Pipe Line Act, 34–35; and the poll tax, 253–254n2 (Ch. 20); and reduction of state salaries, 171; and regulation of motor carriers, 142; and the riverbed bill, 171–172; and the road bond plan, 89–91, 106, 125, 183; and a separate oil and gas commission, 147, 154; Sterling’s testimony to, regarding business dealings, 160–161 Texas Medical Center, 55, 237 Texas National Guard, 164, 174, 187, 218, 235, 251n5, 252n1 (Ch. 16) Texas Railroad Commission, 56, 154; Sterling’s appointment of Ernest Thompson to, 155; and oil prorationing, 146–147, 158–159, 163, 165, 172–174, 176, 179, 218, 227, 242n1 (Ch. 5), 249n2, 254n1 Texas Rangers, 131, 164, 201–202, 206, 213, 218, 223, 248n10, 255n3 Texas revolution of 1836, 7 Texas Senate. See Texas Legislature Texas State Cemetery, 244n1 (Ch. 8) Texas State Highway Commission, 115, 129–130, 148, 149, 220, 222, 245n3; advocates the road bond issue, 131;

Sterling’s chairmanship of, vii, 80–95, 101, 124 Texas State Supreme Court, 94, 135, 206, 207, 209, 211–214, 220 Texas Tax Assessors Association, 88 Texas Technological College, 134 13 Ranch, 73 Thomas, Cullen F., 121 Thompson, Ernest O., 155, 224, 249n3 Thompson, Joseph S., 112 Thompson, R. A., 80, 84 Tillotson, Leonard, 91, 92 Timpson, Paul, 55 tobacco industry. See cigarette tax Tobin, Charles M., 99, 113 Townes, Edgar E., 34, 35, 39–40, 48, 49–50, 52, 53, 136, 241–242n8, 243n5 Townes, John C., 52, 52 Townsend, Murphy, 99 Transportation Division of the Petroleum Association of Texas, 252n1 (Ch. 16) Trinity River, 5, 6, 9 Truman, Harry, 247n6 Tyler, 96, 101, 105, 115, 163, 165, 193–194, 218 Tyler County, 5, 129, 248n8 Tyler Telegraph, 252n3 Union National Bank of Houston, 74 United Mine Workers, 206 United Press Bureau, 156 University of Texas at Austin, 3, 4, 51, 67, 104, 131, 136, 221, 252n1 (Ch. 16), 253n1 (Ch. 19), 254n5, 256n4 University of Texas Medical Branch, 246n5 Upshur County, 164, 210 U.S. Bureau of Public Roads, 89 U.S. Good Roads Association, 89 U.S. Senate, 95 U.S. Supreme Court, 38, 218, 219, 253– 254n3 Uvalde, 71, 76 Valley Oil Corporation, 157 Valls, John A., 210–211 Vicksburg, siege of, 6 Vinson, William, 255n2 (Ch. 21)

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ross sterling, texan Waco, 99, 111–112, 127, 128, 188–189 Waggener, Leslie, 131 Wagstaff, R. M., 160 Waits, E. M., 108 Wakefield, Pat, 131 Wakefield, Paul, 99, 107, 139, 154 Wallisville, 9, 10 Walthall, R. B., 84 War Production Board, 37–38 Wardlaw, Louis J., 89 Warrener, S. K., 25, 241n2 Washburn, Harry, 80 Waters-Pierce Oil Company, 25, 41, 44, 53 Watson, J. L., 62, 65–66 Watson, Roy, 62–64, 65 Weardon, Joseph, 114 Webb County, 108, 210–211 Weems, Wharton, 62 Weiss, Sam, 107 Wells, E. H., 145 West, F. B., 29–30 West, James M., 56–57, 75–76, 142, 183, 243n6 West Columbia, 37, 47, 51, 227, 228 West ranch, 229 Wetzel, Nat, 113 Wheeler, Harvey, 103, 109 Wheeler, Mrs. Winston (daughter of R. S.), 135, 233 Wheeler, Winston, 233 Whiddon, Henry, 200–201 White, Rollie, 131 White Primary Law, 253–254n3 Whitney, Richard, 45, 46 Wichita Falls, 5, 37, 51, 119, 198 Wiess, Harry C., 28, 136, 241nn4,7; as an officer of Humble Oil Company, 26–27, 33–34, 35, 39, 42, 49–50, 53, 60 Wiginton, Mark, 131 Wilbarger, J. L., 15–16 Wilbur, Ray Lyman, 176 Wilcox, D. W., 97 Williams, R. R. ‘‘Uncle Bob,’’ 111 Williamson, W. A., 152 Wilson, Cooke, 27, 35 Wilson, Woodrow, 136, 195, 214, 245n3, 252n2

Witt, Edgar E., 127, 136, 184, 247n6 Wolters, Jacob F., 90, 150–151, 215, 219, 225, 251n5; and the East Texas oil fields crisis, 164–165, 172, 174, 177, 179, 187; as a friend and adviser to Sterling, 93, 99–100, 101, 109–110, 125, 140 Women’s Christian Temperance Union, 196 Women’s Joint Legislative Council, 248n9 women’s suffrage. See suffrage, women’s Wood, C. B., 24, 31–32 Wood, G. Clint, 23–24, 25, 26, 241n2 Woodley Petroleum, 252n1 (Ch. 16) Woodring, Harry, 145, 146 Woodruff, Grady, 160 Woods, Gene Sterling, 102 Woods Store, 102 Woodul, Walter, 131, 140, 147, 148, 152, 171 Woodward, Garland, 120 Woodward, Walter, 148, 215; as an orator, 118, 119, 120, 121, 163, 189, 199; and prorationing, 147, 160, 163; as a trusted advisor to Sterling, 117, 125, 140, 172, 205 Works Progress Administration, 181 World War I, 37, 38, 53, 241–242n8, 247n6, 248n10, 249n3, 251n5 World War II, 177, 229, 252n1 (Ch. 16), 253n2 (Ch. 18), 255n4 WPA. See Works Progress Administration Wrather, J. D., 179 Wright, Harry, 19, 47 Wright, Theron, 2 Wurzbach, Harry, 126–127, 203, 247n5 Yarborough, Ralph, 252n1 (Ch. 16) Yates, Paul, 79, 107 YMCA, 58, 234, 237, 241n3 Young, James, 95, 105 Young, M. Frank, 131 Yuletide hunt, 73–75 0–9 Ranch, 72 Ziegler, Jessie, 139, 140, 142, 154, 156, 187 Zindler, Adeline, 113

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