Mysteries of Warren County, Indiana: The Redwood Bandits

The Redwood Bandits are cloaked in the mysterious past of Warren County, Indiana.

The Redwood Bandits, Notorious Horse Thieves

Of Warren County, Indiana

Illustration Modified from Little Pets

(Chicago: Belford, Clarke & Co., Circa 1887)

In 1926, the Indiana Magazine of History published “Tri-County Historical Itinerary”—transcripts of talks that J. Wesley Whickcar (occasionally spelled Whicker) presented at intervals throughout a tour of historical sites in Warren County and neighboring counties in Indiana. At Kate’s Pond, Whickcar presented this information:

“The farmhouse that you see a few rods southeast of here [by Kate’s Pond] at the last turn in the road and off to the right is situated on a farm of one hundred and twenty acres including a portion of this lake. That house was the home of Dan Claflin who married one of the High girls, a sister to George High. Claflin and his wife were connected with the Redwood Bandits. They were married at Redwood Point in this county and they began housekeeping on the forty acres of land where the town of Pence now stands. This forty acres of land, out on the open prairie, and far removed from any other residence, became one of the most frequented places for both counterfeiters and horse thieves during the time that they flourished in Warren County. George High was finally captured at Redwood Point by Sant Grey [John Sanford Gray], the founder of the Horse Thief Detective Association, and the members of the Horse Thief Detective Association of both Warren and Fountain counties. Dan Claflin was shot through the hip, while George High made his escape. Dan Claflin and his wife and his sister-in-law, Iva High, who afterwards lived in Attica and owned an interest in this farm, and other members of the High family were convicted and sent to the penitentiary. At the expiration of their term, they bought this tract of one hundred and twenty acres of land, and both Dan Claflin and his wife died in that farmhouse.”

Ten years earlier, Whickcar had given a more detailed account of the Redwood Bandits in his book entitled Sketches of the Wabash Valley:

“Among the first settlers of Warren county were certain brothers by the name of High, who came from Pennsylvania and were thrifty, industrious people. … The Highs came into Warren county between 1826 and 1830, took up their claims from the government and became well acquainted with all the government lands on the prairies north of Redwood so their homes soon became the centers for the home-seekers who came into Warren county from the East. … Isaac High’s oldest son was George High. … Soon among the many settlers who had learned of the hospitality of the Highs there came many persons from the East and the South, who were criminals running away from the law of the eastern and southern states. George High became acquainted with many of those persons. Some of them as they came thru would steal horses in Ohio, Kentucky and other states and bring them into the Redwood neighborhood. Soon George High and his brothers and sisters became not only interested in protecting these horse thieves but George became the leader of an organized band of horse thieves and counterfeiters. They would bring their horses to near Portland, and cross the river in the neighborhood of Hanging Rock at the mouth of Redwood. Redwood was bordered by a dense thicket from where it empties into the Wabash river to the prairie, and if a horse once got across the river into the brush of Redwood the High organization was able to so secrete him that he would never be found. This organization grew until it had ramifications in almost every state in the East and South. Some of their members were on almost every boat that went down the Ohio or Mississippi rivers. They had a rendezvous on the Salt Fork of the Vermilion river and one at Bogus Island in what is known as the Gifford swamps in Jasper county. All the horses were first brought to Redwood Point. Some of them were taken from there to the Salt Fork of Vermilion and some were taken to Bogus Island. If they were taken to the Salt Fork of the Vermilion river they were then taken to Iowa, Kansas and Nebraska and sold; if taken to Bogus Island they were taken to Chicago, Wisconsin or Michigan and disposed of. All of the organization carried and dealt in counterfeit money. … Finally Sant Gray, of near Wesley, in Montgomery County, organized the Horse Thief Detective Association whose object and aim was to break up the horse thieves and counterfeiters of Redwood. He kept steadily at work until he had organizations all over Fountain, Warren and Montgomery counties. … They arrested George High, tied him on a horse and started to Williamsport with him. When they came to the steep bluff near the Sulphur Springs below Williamsport, George High, by some ruse, managed to get free from his bonds, leaped off his horse down the embankment where a confederate had his splendid stallion, Truxon, waiting for him, and mounting his horse he started west. The members of the association followed and the chase was a thrilling one. Out past his headquarters at Redwood High [he] went but did not stop there. Heading straight for the state line he soon crossed it. Undaunted his pursuers followed and clear across the state of Illinois the chase continued, with scarcely a stop for rest. When High reached the Mississippi river he was five hours ahead of his pursuers and Truxon was still so strong that his master did not hesitate to attempt to swim him across the great river. He was seen to enter the river near Nauvoo, Ill., but nobody knows whether he ever reacht [reached] the opposite shore. This was the last ever seen or heard of George High. … The detective who was pursuing [Dan Claflin] shot him thru the hips. Some of the High family were sent to state’s prison. Claflin and one of the High girls moved to Attica and afterwards Claflin moved on to a farm near Independence where he lived for many years. … [Claflin and his wife] made their home on the prairies where the town of Pence now stands [and later moved to the area of Kate’s Pond]. This organization of counterfeiters and horse thieves was a great menace in Fountain, Warren and Montgomery counties for many years. … Some of the best fortunes now enjoyed in Fountain and Warren counties had their foundation in this organization of outlaws.”

Beth High Rasmussen has added numerous details to Whickcar’s account, including Abraham Lincoln’s efforts to clear George High and the speculation that High was secretly hanged; her lengthy account can be viewed here: http://www.ingenweb.org/inwarren/Redwood_Gang.html.

Family Histories of Montgomery County, Indiana (Paducah: Turner, 1988) reports, “‘Captain’ Gray as he was known organized the Wabash Valley Detective Association in the [1840s]. This was a unit of the National Horse Thieves Detective Association, a vigilante group of men sworn to put a stop to horse thievery … . Capt. Gray was in charge … of the capture of the famous Redwood gang. In gratitude, the national Horse Thieves Detective Association erected a monument over his grave in Wesley Cemetery.”

In 1996, my father told me that John Edgerton had found a badge that had belonged to a member of Pine Village, Indiana’s Horse Thief Detective Assocation (HTDA). The governor commissioned these associations for towns throughout Indiana. Members were authorized to carry guns. My father remembered an HTDA contingent marching in Pine Village parades. By the 1920s, the HTDA’s reputation suffered when several chapters became associated with the KKK. According to HistoricIndianapolis.com, “By 1933, Indiana lawmakers had repealed all laws that gave the HTDA [law] enforcement powers. All such groups had dissolved by 1957, after horse thievery ‘had ceased to be a major problem.’” Not until the 1970s were the HTDA chapters officially abolished, when outdated laws were expunged from the books.

Badge of a Branch of the Horse Thief Detective Association

Rustic Prints 6 (Last Installment in This Series)

What is not to love about this rustic print? It glows within the mat as if filled with its own light. The blue sky and white clouds are true to a summer’s day. A pleasant cottage with a white fence is barely discernible beneath the branches of the welcoming tree. A man walks a large fluffy dog by the trunk. Farmers load bundles of wheat, also known as sheaves, onto a wagon pulled by three horses. A rooster and a chicken, like Geoffrey Chaucer’s Chanticleer and Pertelote (in “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale”), wait happily, knowing they will find grains of wheat when the nearby shock is knocked apart.

Framed Rustic Print of Horses, Wheat, and Chickens

When I exhibited my farm steam engine at the Will County Threshermen’s Association show in Illinois in the 1990s, I enjoyed loading bundles of wheat in the late afternoon. Tired from the hard work of a hot day, I somehow managed to find a burst of energy when fellow exhibitors and I walked the short distance to the field. With a pitchfork, my friends and I lifted the bundles higher and higher until the wagons were stacked to the sky with sheaves of golden wheat. We could nearly always count on the sunset to be spectacular, with reddish orange rays slanting between the bundle wagons. Don’t get me wrong! It was a workout, and my muscles screamed afterwards. The joy was in doing honest and collaborative work as it had been done in my grandparents’ and parents’ days. The banter was ever friendly; the camaraderie, always memorable.

In helping to load bundles in Will County, I learned that a shock must be broken apart before the bundles can be lifted. Shocks of wheat are carefully piled groups of bundles, with at least one fanned out across the top to help shed the rain. For most of the time that wheat was threshed—that is, before wheat was harvested by means of the agricultural implement called a “combine”—standard wisdom held that wheat should “cure” in shocks or stacks for a few weeks before being threshed. Should it rain during the curing process, much of the rain would be shunted aside by the bundles carefully spread across the tops of the shocks.

After being propped together for many days, the wheat bundles are commingled enough to make lifting one of them a challenge. By the simple expedient of easy movements with a pitchfork, the shock is loosened in such a way that the bundles become disentangled, ready for loading. In this rustic print, the man wearing suspenders is standing over a shock that has been knocked apart. His actions remind me of those jubilant evenings in Will County!

I began this series by admitting that I am a sucker for old-time illustrations that can be described as “rustic prints.” With a farming scene as spectacular as this one, I am confident that my passion for such prints can be understood by everyone.

Rustic Prints 4

To the back of this rustic print my father, Joseph Rhode, taped a quotation he typed on a slip of paper and illustrated with colored pencils: “I tell you that the great cities rest upon these broad and fertile prairies. Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring up again as if by magic. But destroy our farms and the grass will grow in the streets of every city in the country.” The words are those of William Jennings Bryan, a populist who lost his bids for President of the United States three times. My generation remembers Bryan as a character in the movie (and play) Inherit the Wind (1960). The quotation that my father chose as a caption for the rural scene is from Bryan’s famous “Cross of Gold” speech.

Farm Horses and Wagon in Green Frame

The print depicts a team of horses pulling a wagon along a road beside a river in spectacular scenery reminiscent of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The young couple in front of the house and stone wall includes the man wearing the straw hat while driving the team and the woman feeding the chickens while drying the laundry. The trees are as fluffy as the clouds of the prismatic day. A lilac bush is in full bloom. The illustration exudes peace, contentment, and love.

My father “Joe” loved farming with horses, all of them spoiled pets. When he was a boy, he happily harnessed Togo and Maud on his grandfather’s farm. Later, when he had a farm of his own, my father proudly drove Queen and Babe. Shire horses assisted many of his farming tasks until about the time my brother was born. At that time, he felt that he must modernize by using gasoline tractors exclusively, and he reluctantly sold his last horses. It must have broken his heart to do so.

Togo, Maud, and Joseph C. Rhode in April 1930

Photo by Mrs. Allen

When my father passed away at a ripe old age, I discovered in his desk drawers numerous pamphlets, brochures, and books on horses. Joe grew up with the family tradition of Dan Patch, arguably the first sports celebrity in the U.S. (His mother’s uncle invented a shoe that helped the young sulky horse become a champion and go on to fame and fortune.) I have the impression that my father liked horses even more than he liked dogs, and he always had a loving dog around!

Queen, Babe, and Joseph C. Rhode in March 1942

Whenever I look upon this rustic print, I think of my father and of my upbringing on his farm. It was in the flat lands of Indiana, not the mountains, but the farm held charms that I distinctly remember to this day. Often, I return to the farm in my dreams.  

Good Morning, Springboro! The Giant Sycamore

Springboro, Ohio, is two hundred years old. This blog installment is the first of six that will feature my original watercolor paintings depicting scenes in the vicinity of Springboro. If you would like to purchase one of the paintings, send me a message through my website at roberttrhode.org or via Facebook. The art measures 5″ by 7″ and consists of Cotman Water Colours by Winsor & Newton on acid-free Montval watercolor paper.

Giant Sycamore Near Springboro, Ohio

Original Watercolor Painting by Robert T. Rhode

 

Not far from the charming downtown is a gigantic sycamore tree. My mother always urged me to create a painting of a sycamore, and I have finally gotten around to honoring her request that was made so many years ago. The patterns and colors of the bark fascinated my mother, and she loved the curves of the heavy limbs.

One day, I had parked to appreciate the majesty of the giant sycamore, and, from across the street, a resident called to me, “That tree is over two hundred years old.” Imagine that! A tree older than Springboro itself! A tree that was already growing in that location before the Quakers had come to build blacksmith shops, houses, and mills to form a community! The resident said he had lived nearby for fifty years and that, when he first moved to that location, he had conversed with a woman who was approaching a century; the woman had told him that her father had said that the tree was standing there when he was a boy.

I wonder what the tree could tell us if it could talk. In a way, it does talk: that is, it expresses itself through the artistic arcs of its branches and the dappled canopy of its leaves. The immense trunk amazes me! Despite the colossal size of the sycamore, the tree comforts me. Even though I am a writer, an explanation of what I just wrote will not be easily conveyed. Something in the softly varied tones of the bark, in the leaves spread like broad hands, and in the steadfast posture of the tree lends a feeling of security. The sycamore is parental. It gathers its happy children beneath its branches.

The township has provided a table or two for picnics in the shade of the mammoth tree, and, when driving past, I have noted people enjoying lunch beneath the towering sycamore.

Creeks are favorite spots for sycamores to become established, and (Sure enough!) Clear Creek runs its sparkling course just behind the picnic area.

The patriarchal sycamore may well have been growing near Clear Creek during the American Revolution. Miami or Shawnee people may have camped beneath it. The tree could easily have been standing there when Ohio became a state in 1803 and was almost certainly in place when the War of 1812 began. Thinking of how many sunrises this living tree has witnessed dwarfs my imagination. It has stood serenely in one spot for so many days, while I have darted hither and yon in my hectic life. By comparison to the tree, I am a firefly flashing across the landscape for relatively few summer nights.

Peace is the message of the sycamore, which yet celebrates the rolling seasons. The tree stands as a tranquil philosopher—as nature itself, proving day by day a good way to live.