Langford Peel
By William Gorenfeld and John Gorenfeld
April 5, 2009
The year was in July of 1883 and the editor Woolfork of the Daily Helena Montana Independent was at his desk busily preparing the next edition when a shadowy gentleman entered the small newspaper office and stood silently before him. “Do you not know me?” the stranger finally said, pulling off his hat. The harried editor looked up, saw the weathered and worn face, the blue eyes and lingering half smile, but couldn’t place them.
“My name is Bull—”John Bull, the man you successfully defended fifteen years ago for killing Langford Peel,” said the man. Taking a longer look at the face, the editor discovered it indeed belonged to his old client. —œHis brow had become furrowed, his heavy beard and hair streaked with grey, but in the eye there still shone the same look of desperate courage which had so impressed us years ago when a mere boy he had startled the Territory by meeting in mortal combat and overcoming the most NOTORIOUS DESPARADO OF THE MOUNTAINS.—
In the manner of Jimmy Stewart—™s character of Rance Stoddard, John Bull had become famous as the unskilled man who killed a notorious killer. Unlike the fictional Stoddard, Bull did not become a senator, but immediately became a marked man, first, by Peel—™s friends and then by every two-bit gunfighter seeking to claim the title of Montana Territory—™s most accomplished gunslinger. Unlike Stoddart, Bull bore no guilt but turned to a life of crime.
Out West, where gunfighters often loomed larger than politicians, generals, editors and captains of industry, Langford Peel was, for a time, regarded as one of the deadliest men. As a young journalist in the Nevada Territory, Mark Twain himself crossed paths with Langford Peel. In Twain—™s Roughing It, he described Peel and his fellow gunmen “brave, reckless men [who] traveled with their lives in their hands. To give them their due, they did their killing principally among themselves, and seldom molested peaceable citizens, for they considered it small credit to add to their trophies so cheap a bauble as the death of a man who was ‘not on the shoot,’ as they phrased it. They killed each other on slight provocation, and hoped and expected to be killed themselves–for they held it almost shame to die otherwise than ‘with their boots on,’ as they expressed it.”
No one could remember if Peel had ever been a farmer. But they remembered his murderous aim. Peel, one man wrote, “could fire at the drop of a hat and hit a dollar ten paces away every time.” Behind his kindly face “lurked the mind of a killer.” Remarkably, this killer had begun his career as a heroic soldier. Peel was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1829, and soon immigrated to America. It was said, he was practically raised in the army. Jonathan Lyon, his stepfather, served as a private in the elite First U.S, Dragoons. At age 12, Peel went to learn music at Carlisle Barracks. On September 1, 1845, he enlisted in Stephen Peel’s company stationed at Ft. Atkinson, Iowa Territory. The army promptly made him a bugler.
Peel marched west with Company B to assist General Stephen W. Kearny in his bloodless conquest of Santa Fe in 1846 during the Mexican War. After returning to Fort Leavenworth, Company B was reorganized and, riding big-boned sorrel horses, it escorted the paymaster on his trip to Santa Fe. At the Coon Creeks in what is now Western Kansas, the company had a confrontation with the Comanches at the Coon Creeks. At this battle, bugler Peel claimed to have killed two Comanche Indians. (See Wild West, June 2004: Dragoons vs. Comanches.)
In January 1848, Bugler Peel accompanied General Sterling Price’s Army of the West on its march from Albuquerque into the Mexican State of Chihuahua. At the age of 19, he fought in Battle of Santa Cruz de Rosales on 16 March 1848—”a major battle fought after a treaty was signed with Mexico. During the post-war era he continued to soldier in B Company, re-enlisting in 1850 and rising to the rank of sergeant. In his autobiography, Five Years a Dragoon, First Sergeant Percival Lowe, wrote of serving with Peel, describing him as being “the best specimen of 160 pounds, five feet, nine inches, naturally bright, clear headed and helpful always . . . a perfect horseman, possessing unlimited courage and endurance, he was a man to be relied on and trusted in every emergency.” Lowe, in his book, noted several examples of Sergeant Peel’s intelligence, bravery and marksmanship.
In 1854, Lowe, while posted at Ft. Union in New Mexico Territory, took his discharged. He recommended that Peel be made the new 1st sergeant of B Company. These two men were close friends and Peel, having married a woman from a prominent family in St. Louis, named his son Percival Lowe Peel. Sergeant Peel, however, got into undisclosed trouble with the civilian authorities and, on 20 March 1855, he was discharged from the Army. Like many former soldiers, Peel hung around the post hoping to gain civilian employment by the army. At 24 years of age, he had already participated in a lifetime’s worth of adventure and gained the respect of army officers. For the moment, his future seemed reasonably bright.
While serving with the Army on the frontier, Peel had reportedly killed at least six Indians. These killings seem to have wetted his appetite for violence. Forsaking employment by the army, Peel became a gambler in Leavenworth City and prospered. At this time he acquired the nickname of Farmer Peel along with a reputation for both his generosity for those who were down and out, as well as his “dexterity with a revolver.” No one could remember if Peel had ever been a farmer. But they remembered his murderous aim. Peel, one man wrote, “could fire at the drop of a hat and hit a dollar ten paces away every time.” Behind that face “lurked the mind of a killer.”
Peel drifted west with the army on its Utah Expedition of 1857 and was soon down on his luck in Salt Lake City. Legend has it that Peel gunned down three drunk soldiers who were threatening him. On September 9th that he encountered a fellow gambler named Oliver Rucker. He was one of those people to whom Peel had lent financial support back in Leavenworth City. When Rucker refused to loan Peel some money, the latter attempted to pulverize the former with a chair. Rucker fled the saloon only to later confront Peel in the street. Both men drew their firearms and fired several shots at one another. The ensuing gunfight left both men lying on the ground bleeding from serious wounds. Peel dragged his body close to the prone Rucker, stabbed him with his bowie knife and then cried out, “I’ve got a wife in Leavenworth City, write and tell her I fit to the last minute.” The former Dragoon bugler had suffered three gunshot wounds, but would survive. Rucker was not so fortunate and soon died. The authorities wanted to arrest Peel for murder, but friends whisked Peel out of town before he could be arrested. When he fully recovered from wounds, Peel fled west out to the California mining camps and then drifted to Virginia City in Nevada Territory.
Farmer Peel’s legendary status as a notorious gunslinger proceeded his arrival in Virginia City—”indeed, he had slain six men and when he left town, he would have killed another six. Peel was not a person who looked for trouble, but he would not walk away from a challenge. Quickly recognized as “chief” of the town toughs, he was a marked man and it soon became necessary for him to defend his reputation when Dick Paddock challenged him. Peel accepted the invitation, walked into the street and rapidly shot Paddock twice in the chest. Next it was El Dorado Johnny Dennis—™ turn. Undaunted by the Paddock incident, he dared Peel to a gunfight. A confident El Dorado Johnny, wanting to look his best for what he believed was going to be Farmer Peel’s funeral, visited a barber to have his hair trimmed, be shaved and get his shoes shinned. The natty Dennis walked into a saloon and encountered Peel dealing three-card monte and called him out. In the tradition of the old West the two gunmen faced one another in the middle of the street and drew their pistols. When the white gun smoke cleared it was El Dorado Johnny who made for a fine looking corpse.
The law-abiding citizens of Virginia City breathed a sign of relief when Peel left town. He took young John Bull, his new partner, with him and headed for the mining camps in Montana. It was in Helena on July 23, 1867, that the Bull and Peel had a falling out at Greer—™s Saloon on Main Street. Words were exchanged in a saloon and Peel went for his pistol.
“I’m not heeled,” said Bull as he raised his hands.
Go then, d—”m you and heel yourself,” said Peel, slapping Bull on the face.
—œI go,— replied Bull, —œbut I will come again.—
—œCome fighting—, replied Peel as the boyish Bull left the saloon.
Bull, who thought he stood little chance against a skilled gunman like Peel, returned to his hotel where he wrote some letters to friends giving instructions for the disposition of his property. After cleaning and oiling his six-gun, Johnny Bull went out into the night, looking for Farmer Peel. It was midnight when Bull spied Peel casually walking down the street with his girl friend on his right arm. Bull came out from the shadows and, without warning, fired. Peel immediately reached for his pistol, but the badly frightened woman firmly held his right arm. Before he could jerk his arm loose, Bull fired again and Peel fell. Standing directly over the prone gunfighter, Bull fired a bullet into Peel’s face.
On Peel—™s grave was a plank containing the inscription: —œSacred to the memory of Langford Peel . . . In life beloved by his friends, and respected by his enemies. —˜Vengence is mine, saith the Lord. I have known that my Redeemer liveth.—™ — The rather unique last phrase expressing the wish of friends that Peel—™s killer would soon be shot.
Bull was arrested and charged with murder. Nine jurors believed that that the Peel deserved killing and voted to acquit Bull and he was found not guilty. Friends of Peel immediately swore revenge, and in the way of frontier justice, sought to take the law into their own hands. But John Bull quickly left Helena and hide out in Cheyenne. Soon he moved to New Orleans where he worked in the Custom House. He soon started a business in Chicago, where he married and then headed for Omaha, out to the Black Hills and and out to Denver.
Over the ensuing years other gunslingers fought and died and the exploits of Peel and Bull were forgotten. Farmer Peel, the once feared gunman and gambler, was by 1883 only given passing reference in the pantheon of gunslingers. By 1883, the Peel-Bull gunfight in Helena was forgotten and Bull could come out of hiding. But he was not through with gun fighting.
One night in 1898, Bull walked out on to Howard Street in Spokane with Friskey Barnett. The two had been drinking and got into a fight. Barnett proceeded to empty his pistol into Bull, striking him four times. As the doctor could not remove one of the slugs, he did not expect Bull to survive, but Bull recovered and lived to the ripe age of ninety-three. —œThe man who shot Farmer Peel— died in peace, with his boots off in 1929, in British Columbia.
Farmer Peel—™s killing was never avenged. He died with his boots on and now sleeps peacefully in an unmarked grave in some Helena cemetery.
For further reading on Langford Peel, the authors recommend Robert Dearment—™s Knights of the Green Cloth: The Saga of Frontier Gamblers.
