A deadly train robbery scheme forced this old West lawman from Fort Worth to Oklahoma

Hardin D. Gunnels was what they used to call a “hard case,” the kind of Western lawman who lived by his own code and occasionally strayed over the line. But he got results, and that was generally good enough for the people of Fort Worth.

He was known as “Hard” Gunnels, which may have been short for “Howard,” or perhaps “Harvey” or “Harry,” all of which appear in contemporary reports of his activities. Regardless of the name on his birth certificate, he was a “hard” man.

Gunnels was the second of six children born in Illinois in 1858 to John and Nancy Gunnels. The family came to Texas sometime before 1870 and settled in Dallas. Ten years later they were living in Fort Worth, and Hard knew he didn’t want to be a farmer like his father. He was a sociable fellow who became a Mason and a Democrat, which is how he came to be acquainted with Fort Worth’s J.C. Richardson.

By 1890, the 32-year-old Gunnels was working as a deputy under Sheriff Richardson. Deputy sheriff was not a glamorous life. Spending countless hours in the saddle, riding with posses, serving warrants, attending court, conducting bankruptcy sales on the courthouse steps — these were the things deputies did routinely. The job was not remunerative and there was no job security. Every time a new sheriff was elected, he was free to hire his own men, which might or might not include his predecessor’s deputies.

Still, Gunnels had found his calling, lawman.

In 1894, he was one of the first Fort Worth officers on the murder scene of lost soul Maggie Twemey after her body was discovered stuffed in an outhouse. Subsequently, he was shocked when his father was charged as one of her murderers. In his jury trial “Jack Gunnels” was found not guilty, but the sensational crime was not soon forgotten, nor that the Gunnels family was deeply involved.

Train robberies were nearly routine at this time, and Deputy Gunnels spent a lot of hours chasing robbers across the countryside. Sometimes the posse caught up with them; more often they got away. Being part of a successful posse could earn a man a share of the reward money put up by the railroad, which was just a pittance compared to what the robbers took while the lawmen chasing them lived in the saddle for days or even weeks.

In 1892, Gunnels was rehired as a deputy when E.A. Euless was elected Tarrant County sheriff. When Euless left office four years later Gunnels jumped over to the police department, tapped by Marshal William Rea to be assistant chief.

Did he prevent or plan a train robbery?

Gunnels made headlines on July 21, 1898, when he was one of the officers who prevented the robbery of a Santa Fe train just north of Fort Worth, though two trainmen died in the holdup attempt. His heroic part in the story fell apart, however, when one of the robbers named Gunnels as an accomplice. It had been Gunnels’ scheme to catch the robbers in the act, run them off, and claim the reward money. Three months later Gunnels was arrested and charged with conspiracy, a shocking development for an assistant police chief. Friends posted his $2,500 bond, and he resigned from the force on Aug. 8, 1898.

One of the robbers, Jim Garlington, was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang. Gunnels turned state’s evidence and testified at his trial, identifying him as one of the robbers. Gunnels himself was never indicted, and in 1901 all charges against him were dismissed by the county attorney for “insufficiency of evidence.” By that time, Gunnels had packed up his family and left Fort Worth, never to return.

He moved to Chickasha, Indian Territory (Oklahoma), where he opened a hotel and restaurant. But law enforcement was in his blood, so in 1901 he donned a badge again as “assistant city marshal” of Chickasha. It is not known how much of his past he revealed, but it didn’t hurt that he was a strong party man supported by the Democratic Club. No one seems to have asked any awkward questions about the newest member of the Chickasha police force. Two years later, he ran for city marshal with the endorsement of the town’s newspaper and was easily elected.

He left office at the end of his two-year term to work for the Pioneer Telephone Co. of Oklahoma City, a well-paying job in an up-and-coming business, plus he didn’t have to worry about being shot at. But law enforcement and his Chickasha home pulled him back, so he came back to run for constable in Oklahoma’s 13th district. No surprise, he was easily elected. He was more than 10 years removed from Fort Worth by this time.

Around the time of World War I, he detoured into the private sector to work as a “special policeman” (aka, private security). He returned to the Chickasha Police Department as city jailer before moving up the ladder in 1918 to desk sergeant. Then he ran for “township constable” and, naturally, won. He was 61 years old at this point and found it increasingly hard to perform his duties. He was laid up in bed for five weeks in the summer of 1919 but returned to the job that fall.

Lawman for life

Gunnels could not afford to retire even if he had wanted to. (A career in law enforcement did not come with a pension or retirement benefits.) Fortunately, his professional and Masonic connections came through, and in 1921 he was hired as a “special enforcement officer” for the Oklahoma Highway Department. His duties kept him behind a desk overseeing the state’s new “license and registration” requirements for all drivers.

He was back in the hunt for the District 13 constable’s job in July 1922 – running unopposed in the Democratic primary – when he died at home following a lengthy illness. He was 64 years old, and if he hadn’t died before the general election, he would have been easily elected. The people of Oklahoma and Grady County in particular mourned his passing. He was a law enforcement icon in the state’s history.

Hardin Gunnels is a good example of how a man could get law enforcement in his blood and not find happiness doing anything else. Wearing a badge was all he knew. He is also a good example of how in the old days a man with a scandal hanging over his head in one community could move across the state line and reinvent himself as a model citizen, respected by one and all. He is buried in Oklahoma, among the people who loved him.

Sadly, no pictures of Hard Gunnels are known to exist.

Author-historian Richard Selcer is a Fort Worth native and proud graduate of Paschal High and TCU.