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Four
generations
of
Nichols
relatives
gather
in the
1920’s,
nearly
60 years
after
patriarch
William
Rowland
Nichols
(killed
by
Indians
in 1859)
settled
in Kerr
County
with his
wife,
Miranda
Jane
Harrison.
The clan
has been
a
fixture
on and
around
Goat
Creek
Road
ever
since.
Shown
here
are, in
front,
siblings,
Doyle
and Vera
Belle
Nichols,
children
of
Rowland
and Mary
Elizabeth
Byas
Nichols.
From
left are
also Eva
Nichols,
“Fannie”
Goodwin
Nichols,
“Grannie”
Elizabeth
Thompson
Prestidge,
Vera
Byas
Nichols,
Anne
Wesley
Prestidge
Nichols,
Rowland
Virgil
Nichols,
John
Lafayette
Nichols,
Anne
Wesley
Prestidge
Nichols,
John
Allen
and
Elizabeth
Nichols
Allen. |
EDITOR’S NOTE
— This is the
32nd of a series
of articles on
local families
to mark Kerr
County’s
sesquicentennial.
By Irene Van
Winkle
West Kerr
Current
William Rowland
Nichols was a
pioneer county
official who was
killed in 1859
only three years
after settling
in Kerr County,
but the family
proliferated
nonetheless.
Nichols
Cemetery,
originally a
family plot, is
now the final
resting place
for scores of
early settlers
and their
descendants in
West Kerr
County. It is
located east of
Ingram and is an
historic site.
Today, there are
still a number
of the clan
still alive and
well in the Hill
Country, and
Doyle Nichols
(who turns 89 in
October) is
certainly one of
the most
well-known.
The family tree
is complex, and
tied to numerous
old clans,
including a
connection to
Robert Hunt, for
which the town
of Hunt was
named by his
friend, Alvie
Joy.
On his
grandmother’s
side, Doyle is
also tied to
heroes at the
Alamo. His
knowledge is
extensive, and
other various
sources cite the
story of how the
Nichols family
came to the Lone
Star State,
particularly,
Billie Nichols
Bennett.
Bennett’s
Internet link to
the story is
found on
Shirley’s Webb’s
web site
address:http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com/~nichols1836/
Bennett notes
that her
ancestor, James
Wilson (Jim)
Nichols
(1820-1891),
wrote a journal,
published as
“Now You Hear My
Horn,” in which
he recounted
that the Nichols
family came to
America from
England, as well
as his service
in the Texas
Rangers under
Captain Jack
Hays, with the
Frontier
Battalion and
the Minute Men.
In florid
language, James
also described
his part during
the Mexican War,
against Indians,
how he was near
(if not at) the
battle of the
Alamo, as well
as mustered with
other members of
his family with
Caldwell’s
Ranger Company
in Gonzalez,
serving “as
privates or
spies.”
James’ great
grandfather,
Solomon R.
Nichols, raised
a company during
the
Revolutionary
War, in which he
died. Solomon
had four sons,
of whom David
was the
youngest.
While in Henry
County,
Virginia, in
1793, David
married Clarry,
or Clarey,
Rowland (born
1774). Between
1794 and 1805,
their offspring
were born:
Frances, George
Washington
(James’ father),
David Nichols
Jr., James
Nichols and the
youngest,
(Doyle’s
great-grandfather)
William Rowland
(1805-1859), who
was born in
Tennessee.
That clan moved
to Pond Spring
in Franklin
County, Tenn.,
now the town of
Winchester. G.W.
married Mary Ann
Walker and had
four sons:
Solomon Grundy,
Thomas R., John
W. and James.
G.W. commanded a
company in the
Indian War of
1812-13, and was
crippled in the
Battle of
Horseshoe Bend.
He enlisted in
1815 and was at
the Battle of
New Orleans when
James’ brother,
Thomas, was born
on that same
day, Jan. 8.
Following James’
birth, David and
George
Washington moved
to Madison
County, where
they lived for
five years. The
same group moved
again, floating
down to the
mouth of the
Tennessee River
on a home-made
flatboat. From
there, they
launched down
the Mississippi
River and
floated to
Memphis, “where
there was only
one store,”
Bennett said.
Wending over to
High Point, they
camped through
the winter,
using driftwood
for fuel. By
then, James was
nine, and in the
spring, the
family came to
Grande Lake, and
he remembered
floating timber
himself to New
Orleans to sell,
where he visited
his father’s
cousin, Terry
Nichols.
By 1836, the
Nichols tribe
had sold out
from Arkansas
(where they
moved in 1829),
bound for San
Antonio. On the
way, James’
father met and
befriended the
Johnson Day
family, with
whom they
crossed the
Sabine River
into Texas on
Dec. 16.
While in
Arkansas,
William Rowland
married Miranda
Jane Harrison
(1805-1865),
whose father’s
first name is
unknown, but
whose mother’s
name is listed
as Lucretia
Barnes. In Bob
Bennett’s book
on Kerr County,
she was listed
as Miranda Jane
Barnes, and
Bennett
speculated that
either she had
married before,
or had been
somehow been
recorded using
her mother’s
maiden name in
error.
They moved to
Texas following
brother George
Washington, and
then proceeded
to Kerr County
in 1856. William
and Miranda had
five known
children: John
Lafayette
(1848-1930) who
is Doyle’s
grandfather,
Elizabeth
(1840-1865), Eva
“Rosetta”
(1857-1930), W.
R. Jr.
(1859-1923), and
George.
William Rowland
Sr.’s dramatic
death was
recorded as an
Indian attack.
He was county
commissioner at
the time; his
grandson,
Rowland Nichols
(Doyle’s
father), also
was Kerr County
Clerk in 1955,
died while in
office, and his
wife, Mary Byas,
fulfilled his
unexpired term.
There is a
description of
the fatal
incident, but
Doyle claims an
omission, saying
said that the
sheriff sat with
the body through
the night until
the recovery
party arrived.
It happened,
Doyle said, near
where Indian
Creek and the
Guadalupe River
meet, about a
mile from their
homestead.
The following
appears in Bob
Bennett’s “Kerr
County
1856-1956,”
quoted from the
book “Texas
Indian Fighters”
by Texas Ranger
A. J. Sowell
(who was with
James Wilson
Nichols in
Caldwell’s
Ranger Company):
“In 1859 there
lived five miles
above Kerrville
a settler named
Rowland Nichols.
One evening, he
went out about a
mile from home
to kill a
turkey. When he
failed to come
back at night
the family
became alarmed
and the
neighbors were
notified. Daniel
Adolphus Rees,
first county
clerk of Kerr
County, was one
of those who
responded, but
nothing could be
done until
morning. In
company with
others, Rees
followed the
trail of the
missing man up a
draw to a point
about one mile
from his home.
Here the trail
turned abruptly
in another
direction and
the plain trail
of numerous
Indian tracks
told the tale.
Nearly a mile
from this point
the body of
Nichols was
found against a
tree.
“Nichols had
halted there and
got the tree
between himself
and the Indians.
The tracks
showed that the
pursued man had
circled around
the tree
repeatedly; the
bark was raked
from the tree
all around where
he had held to
it with both
hands in a vain
endeavor to keep
the trunk
between himself
and his foes.
The settler had
one arrow in the
breast and one
arrow and one
bullet wound in
the body. The
bullet and arrow
had first struck
the left arm
about halfway
between the
elbow and
shoulder and
then penetrated
the body not
more than a
half-inch apart.
“Going back to
the spot where
the Indians sign
was first
discovered, it
was evident that
here was where
the settler had
received the
arrow in his
breast from
ambush. The
prints of his
knees were in
the sandy soil
where he had
come down to
either fire his
rifle, or from
the shock of his
wound. If from
the latter, he
dropped his gun
without firing,
but recovered
and ran to the
spot where the
body was found.
His gun was
discovered after
a search,
covered up in
the sand where
the Indians had
left it. The gun
was still
loaded.”
William Rowland
was the first
person buried at
Nichols
Cemetery, and
wife Miranda was
laid by him soon
thereafter,
followed by many
more family
members.
Once grown,
their son John
“Lafayette”
married Wesley
Anne “Annie”
Prestidge
(1862-1954).
Doyle said he
stayed a
bachelor “till
Grandma roped
him” when she
was 20 and he
was 35 years
old.
This union
yielded seven
children: four
boys — Rowland
Virgil (Doyle’s
father), Edward
Milton (who died
in 1918 during a
flu epidemic),
George, (who
died very
young), Airs and
three girls,
Elizabeth, Eula
and Pearl.
The original
Nichols property
grew from their
settlement.
First was a
section they got
in a land grant,
and then another
that they
bought.
Eventually, the
ranch spread
across 1,790
acres all the
way west to
Ingram and
across from the
Guadalupe River
north up to Goat
Creek. Only a
small fraction
remains in
family ownership
now.
They first lived
in a small log
cabin, located
off River View
Road (just east
of the family
cemetery), on
land now
occupied by
Linda Coffee.
There was a well
there that Doyle
remembers: “I
pulled many
buckets of water
from that well.”
Nearby, a few
acres belong to
Doyle’s son
Roger Rowland, a
retired
aerospace
engineer, and
next to it, to
descendants of
Doyle’s deceased
daughter, Billie
Jean Claflin.
Lafayette was a
rancher, Doyle
said, who
traveled widely,
even working in
a circus while
living in Mexico
for 15 years.
Doyle, who was
born in 1917,
remembered him.
“He was sure I’d
be a cowboy. He
used to teach me
to make plaits,
how to make a
rose knot at the
end of a roping
rope.”
When Lafayette
retired, Grandma
Annie ran the
ranch. “She used
to hitch up her
buggy, jump in
and ride down to
the flats to see
what the boys
were doing,”
Doyle said.
He recalled
other relatives
like Uncle
William Rowland
II, who was a
referee in the
Oklahoma land
rush, Doyle
said.
“He’d hop on his
horse and go to
visit his
brother in
Arizona, ‘when a
trip was a
trip.’ He was
always bringing
back artifacts
like pottery and
ostrich eggs.”
Doyle was born
near the VA
Hospital at the
home of his
aunt, Mabel
Claire Byas, who
married Robert
F. Hunt. His
mother had nine
siblings. Her
grandmother,
Mary Ann, was
the daughter of
Andrew Kent, who
died at the
Alamo.
Growing up with
an independent
streak, Doyle
learned to drive
when he was six
years old. By
nine, Doyle was
coming to town
by himself,
picking up twine
and baling wire.
“There were two
speeds — stop,
and wide open,”
Doyle said. “I
went everywhere;
I thought I was
grown. The first
time my mother
saw me, she said
she thought the
car was coming
in without a
driver.”
He finally got
his license when
he was a
teenager. “I got
it at the
courthouse from
the county
clerk. I just
paid 50 cents,
and no insurance
needed.” In
those days,
Highway 27 used
to meander along
the river and
Guadalupe Street
was a highway.
He still smokes
cigars, a habit
that began about
the same time as
his driving.
“I watched Tom
Moore many times
rolling
cigarettes with
one hand,” Doyle
said. He himself
experimented,
even smoking
cedar. His
mother caught
him once, and
paddled his
rear, Doyle
said, but the
result was
unexpected.
“I had a penny
box of matches
in my pants.
Mother grabbed
me, turned me
over her knee,
and suddenly,
smoke came up
out of my pants.
The matches went
off, and Mom set
me on fire. She
was a real
character.”
The family was a
“lively bunch,”
Doyle said. “We
had a lot of
fun, not a lot
of toys. My
grandfather’s
brother, on Byas
side (Riley),
once got a
hardshell
turtle, and
stuck out his
tongue while
playing with it.
The turtle
grabbed it and
he had to cut
the head off the
turtle because
it wouldn’t let
the tongue go.”
By 1930, the
family moved to
Kerrville. Doyle
was friends
while at Tivy
High School with
the late Kerr
County Judge
Julius
Neunhoffer.
Growing up, he
took on many
jobs, including
as an usher at
the Arcadia.
In 1939, Doyle
married Billie
Ross Gilstrap,
and they lived
all over the
U.S. and spent
six years in
Germany.
His fascination
with flying
later led to his
serving as a
fighter pilot in
the Air Force.
Later, Doyle
took a course in
criminal
intelligence. On
graduation, he
was sent
temporarily to
the Pentagon,
while separated
from the USAF.
By then, all
investigative
branches were
combined into
one unit.
He worked as a
criminal
investigator for
15 years, later
forming his own
company. “I saw
a lot of dead
bodies on base,”
Doyle said,
including a
suicide of a
desk sergeant,
and a bird
colonel who had
been passed up
for a promotion.
Nowadays, Doyle
still stays busy
with some
enterprises. He
owns the
property once
called the Java
Pump Cafe on
Water Street,
which now is La
Cucaracha.
Recently, on a
short tour
around his
family’s various
landmarks, he
recalled old
haunts, and a
high place he
called Doyle’s
Peak north of
Goat Creek Road,
where he said he
spent many quiet
times, “watching
the world go
by.”
Other snippets
involved his
father and
Nichols
Cemetery.
Rowland, he
said, was a
perennial “body
sitter,” at
people’s homes
where bodies of
the deceased
were laid out
for visitations.
“It was a
tradition back
then,” Doyle
said. “One of my
jobs was to go
around and tell
the neighbors
who had died.”
Looking from the
main cemetery
road, at the far
right corner of
Nichols Cemetery
is a potter’s
field, with many
forgotten souls
buried there.
Behind it to the
west is Nichols
Hollow.
Doyle said there
had been a trail
from his house
to his
grandmothers’
house through
Nichols Hollow,
a sight which
triggered a
peculiar
incident.
“Dad and I were
driving by the
cemetery one
time and saw a
couple of guys
who had brought
a body to be
buried. They
forgot to bring
some ropes,
though, so they
asked us if we
had any. All we
had with us were
our calf ropes,
so that’s what
they used to
lower the
coffins into the
graves. I don’t
even know who
they were or who
they buried.”
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