Bass Reeves’ Deputy Pulled the Trigger at Point Blank — The CLICK Changed History Forever 

October 3rd, 1889, 11:47 p.m. Deputy Marshall James Crawford’s hand was shaking as he wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip. $10,000. That was the price the Dalton gang put on Bass Reeves head. And Crawford, Bass’s deputy for 3 years, the man Bass called brother, had taken the contract. The plan was simple.

 Wait until Bass turned his back. One shot to the head. Collect the money. Disappear into Indian territory. Crawford raised the gun. Bass’s back was turned, vulnerable, writing the day’s report at his desk in the small Fort Smith office. Crawford aimed. His finger found the trigger. He pulled. Click. Nothing. The room went silent. Bass turned around slowly.

looked Crawford dead in the eyes and said six words that would become legend. I’ve been waiting for your choice. What nobody knew, what history books won’t tell you, is that Bass Reeves had known about the hit for 3 weeks. And what he did in those three weeks didn’t just save his life, it changed the rules of trust in the Wild West forever.

 To understand what happened that October night, you need to understand who Deputy James Crawford was and why he hated working for Bass Reeves. Crawford was 28 years old, white from Tennessee. He’d come to Indian territory in 1866 looking to make a name for himself as a law man. But when Judge Isaac Parker assigned him to work under Bass Reeves, Crawford felt humiliated.

 work under a black marshall in 1889 America. That was unthinkable to men like Crawford. Didn’t matter that Bass Reeves was the most successful US marshal in the territory. Didn’t matter that Bass had arrested more criminals than any 10 white marshals combined. To Crawford, it was an insult. But Crawford needed the job, needed the money.

 So he took the assignment and swallowed his pride. For three years, Crawford rode with Bass, learned from him, watched Bass track outlaws across impossible terrain, watched him outsmart men who thought they were untouchable, watched him bring in criminals that other marshals couldn’t catch. And every day, Crawford’s resentment grew.

 Not because Bass treated him badly. Bass treated Crawford like a partner, trusted him, taught him, even saved his life once in Creek Nation when a gang of horse thieves ambushed them. But Crawford couldn’t get past one thing. He was working for a black man. And in Crawford’s world, that was backwards, wrong, unnatural.

 So when the Dalton gang reached out to Crawford with an offer, he listened. September 12th, 1889. 3 weeks before the shooting, Crawford was having a drink at a saloon in Fort Smith when a man approached him. Thin face, cold eyes, a member of the Dalton gangs network. Deputy Crawford, the man said quietly, sliding into the seat next to him.

 I represent some folks who have a problem, and we think you can help us solve it. Crawford should have walked away right then. Should have reported the contact. Should have told Bass. But he didn’t. What kind of problem? Crawford asked. Bass Reeves. He’s arrested six of our boys in the last year. Cost us over $50,000 in lost operations. We want him gone.

 Gone? Dead? The man said flatly. and we’re willing to pay $10,000 to the man who makes it happen.” Crawford stared into his whiskey glass. “$10,000? That was more money than he’d make in 10 years as a deputy marshal. That was enough to buy land, start a business, live comfortable for the rest of his life.” “Why me?” Crawford asked.

 The man smiled. “Because you’re his deputy. You work with him every day. You know his routines. You can get close. One bullet back of the head. Make it look like an outlaw got the drop on him. Nobody would question it. Crawford was silent for a long moment. Then he asked the question that would seal his fate.

 When do you want it done? Within the month, the man said. We’ll pay you $5,000 upfront, the rest when it’s done. Crawford made his decision. I’m in. What Crawford didn’t know, what he couldn’t have known, was that someone had been watching that entire conversation. A bartender named Marcus, a black man who’d worked in Fort Smith for 15 years, a man who had connections, a man who owed Bass Reeves his life after Bass arrested the men who’d burned his family’s home.

 Marcus waited until Crawford left. Then he walked straight to Bass Reeves house and told him everything. Bass Reeves sat in his kitchen that night, listening to Marcus repeat every word of the conversation. Most men in Bass’s position would have panicked, would have confronted Crawford immediately, would have had him arrested or simply killed.

But Bass Reeves wasn’t most men. “You sure it was Crawford?” Bass asked. “Positive,” Marcus said. I heard him agree to it. Said he’d do it within the month. Bass was quiet for a long time. His wife, Nelly, put her hand on his shoulder. Bass, you need to arrest him now before he gets the chance. But Bass shook his head. No.

 If I arrest him now, the Dalton gang just finds another deputy, another weak man who can be bought, and I spend the rest of mycareer wondering who I can trust. So, what are you going to do?” Nelly asked. Bass’s eyes went cold. That look Nelly had seen before. The look that meant Bass was thinking three moves ahead. “I’m going to let him try,” Bas said quietly.

 “And I’m going to teach every law man and outlaw in this territory a lesson they’ll never forget.” “Over the next three days, Bass formulated his plan. He didn’t need to sabotage Crawford’s gun. He just needed to sabotage the ammunition. Bass called in a favor from a gunsmith named Victor in Little Rock. The same man who’d helped with covert operations before.

 “I need you to make me six dummy cartridges.” Bas said, “They need to look perfect, feel perfect, weigh the same as real bullets, but when someone pulls the trigger, nothing.” Victor raised an eyebrow. “You want fake ammunition? I want you to drain the gunpowder from real Colt 45 cartridges and reseal them, Bass explained.

 From the outside, they look loaded, primers intact, casings perfect, but no powder inside. When the firing pin strikes, click, Victor finished. Just a dead primer with nothing to ignite. Exactly, Bass said. Can you do it? Victor studied Bass’s face, saw the cold certainty there. This is about that deputy of yours, isn’t it? Bass didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

 I can do it, Victor said. Give me two days. Victor delivered the dummy cartridges on September 14th. Six rounds that looked absolutely normal. Bass examined them carefully. The brass casings were identical to standard ammunition. The primers looked untouched. The weight was perfect. I drained the powder through the primer pocket, then resealed it, Victor explained.

 Nobody can tell the difference unless they pull one apart. Even then, they’d have to look close. Bass nodded. Good work, Bass. Victor said carefully. Whatever you’re planning, you sure about this? I’m sure, his voice was ice. I’ve been three steps ahead this whole time. I’ll be three steps ahead when it ends. Now Bass just had to wait for the right moment.

 The moment when Crawford would load his gun and make his move. And when that moment came, Bass would execute the swap. The plan was simple. Judge Parker had implemented a strict rule in the Fort Smith Marshall’s office. No loaded weapons inside. Too many accidents. Too many deputies getting nervous and drawing on each other during arguments.

So every deputy, including Crawford, hung their gun belt on the coat rack by the door. When entering the office, the guns stayed there, unloaded while they did paperwork. Bass would wait for Crawford to step out to use the outhouse to check on his horse. Anything that gave Bass 60 seconds alone with Crawford’s gun belt.

 Then Bass would swap Crawford’s six live rounds with Victor’s six dummy rounds. Crawford would never notice. The cartridges looked identical. And when Crawford loaded his gun that night, planning to kill Bass, he’d be loading a weapon that couldn’t fire. Bass kept Victor’s dummy rounds in his pocket for three weeks, waiting, watching, patient as death.

Second, Bass needed to create the opportunity for Crawford to make his move. He needed Crawford to feel comfortable, safe, certain he could succeed. For the next two weeks, Bass acted completely normal, trusted Crawford, worked with him, even turned his back on him multiple times, giving Crawford chances to strike if he wanted.

But Bass knew Crawford would wait for the perfect moment. A moment when they were alone, when there were no witnesses, when Crawford could claim it was an outlaw who’d killed Bass. Bass was patient because patience is what separates good lawmen from legends. October 3rd, 1889, 11:30 p.m.

 Bass and Crawford had just returned from serving warrants in Creek Nation. It had been a long day. They were tired. As they walked into the Fort Smith Marshall’s office, both men followed Judge Parker’s standing rule. They unstrapped their gun belts and hung them on the coat rack by the door. No loaded weapons in the office. Ever. Crawford’s Colt 45 hung on the third hook.

 Six rounds visible in the cylinder. He always kept it loaded when he rode. Always. I’m going to write up the report before I forget the details, Bass said, sitting at his desk. Long day. Crawford nodded. I need to check on my horse. think he picked up a stone in his shoe on the ride back. “I’ll be right back.

” “Take your time,” Bas said, not looking up from his papers. Crawford walked out, leaving his gun belt hanging on the rack. The moment the door closed, Bass moved. He stood, walked calmly to the coat rack, and pulled Crawford’s revolver from its holster. His hands were steady, no hesitation. He’d been waiting 3 weeks for this moment.

 Bass opened the cylinder. Six brass cartridges gleamed in the lamplight. He ejected all six rounds into his left palm, then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out Victor’s six dummy rounds. One by one, Bass loaded the dummy cartridges into Crawford’s gun. They slid in perfectly. Lookedidentical. Felt identical.

 The real bullets went into Bass’s pocket. Bass closed the cylinder, returned the gun to its holster, and hung the belt back on the coat rack, exactly where Crawford had left it. Then Bass walked back to his desk and sat down, picked up his pen, continued writing as if nothing had happened. The entire swap took 45 seconds.

 2 minutes later, Crawford walked back in. “Horse is fine, just my imagination.” Bass didn’t look up. Good to hear. Crawford glanced at his gun belt on the rack. Everything looked normal, exactly as he’d lift it. Actually, Crawford said, his voice carefully casual. I’ll stick around. Help you with the paperwork. This was it. Bass knew it. Crawford had decided.

Tonight was the night. Appreciate it, Bass said, his back still to Crawford. Crawford’s heart was pounding now. His mouth was dry. He walked slowly to the coat rack, took down his gun belt, and strapped it on. The weight felt right. The gun felt right. Everything felt right. He checked the cylinder. Six rounds just as he left them.

 He didn’t pull one out to examine it. Why would he? They were his bullets. He loaded them himself that morning. Crawford holstered the weapon, took three deep breaths, steadied himself. This was it. $10,000, a new life. All he had to do was pull the trigger. Bass’s back was turned, vulnerable, focused on the paperwork, the perfect target.

 Crawford’s hand moved to his holster, his fingers wrapped around the grip of his Colt 45. He drew it slowly, quietly. He raised the gun, aimed at the back of Bass’s head, three feet away, pointblank range, impossible to miss. Crawford’s finger tightened on the trigger. He took a breath and pulled. Click. The sound echoed in the silent office like a church bell. Crawford’s eyes went wide.

He pulled the trigger again. Click again. Click. Bass turned around in his chair slowly. His face was calm. His eyes were cold. “I’ve been waiting for your choice,” Bas said quietly. Crawford stumbled backward, dropping the gun. His face went white. “How How did you know?” Bass finished.

 “I’ve known for three weeks, James. Known since the night you met with the Dalton gang’s man at the saloon. known since you agreed to kill me for money. Crawford’s legs gave out. He sank to his knees. Bass, I I can explain. Explain what? Bass’s voice was harder now. Explain how you took money to murder your partner.

 Explain how you were going to shoot me in the back and collect your blood money. Tears were streaming down Crawford’s face now. I’m sorry, God. Bass, I’m sorry. The money. I needed the money. Bass stood, walked to where Crawford knelt on the floor, looked down at the man who’d tried to kill him.

 You know what the sad part is, James? I trusted you. Saved your life, treated you like a brother, and you were willing to put a bullet in my head because some outlaws offered you money. Please, please don’t kill me. Crawford picked up Crawford’s gun from the floor, examined it. I’m not going to kill you, James.

 You know why? Because I’m not like you. I don’t solve problems by shooting people in the back. He pulled out a pair of iron shackles. Stand up. Crawford stood on shaking legs. Deputy Marshall James Crawford, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder and accepting bribes from known criminals. You have the right to remain silent, but I suggest you use this time to think about the choices you made.

” Bass locked the shackles on Crawford’s wrists. “But before I take you to Judge Parker, I want you to understand something.” Crawford looked up, tears still streaming down his face. “I let you try,” Bas said. “I let you aim that gun at my head. I let you pull that trigger because I needed you to make a choice. And you chose money over honor.

Chose greed over loyalty. Chose to become exactly what you always claimed to hate, a criminal. Bass walked to the door, opened it. Now everyone’s going to know. Every law man in this territory, every outlaw, every deputy who thinks about betraying his partner, they’re all going to hear the story of the man who tried to kill Bass Reeves and how it ended.

 And they’re going to think real hard before they make the same choice you did. The trial of Deputy James Crawford lasted three days. Judge Isaac Parker presided. The courtroom was packed. law men, outlaws on trial for other crimes, towns people, everyone wanted to see the deputy who’d tried to kill Bass Reeves. The evidence was overwhelming.

 Marcus, the bartender, testified about the conversation he’d overheard. The gunsmith, Victor, explained how Bass had sabotaged Crawford’s weapon, and Bass himself took the stand and explained exactly what had happened. “Why didn’t you arrest him immediately?” the prosecutor asked. Bass’s answer was simple. Because I needed to know, needed to know if he’d really go through with it.

 If he’d really try to kill me, and I needed everyone else to know what happens when you choose money over honor. Crawford’s lawyer tried to argue entrapment. Triedto claim Bass had set Crawford up, but Judge Parker wasn’t having it. Deputy Crawford made a choice, Parker said in his verdict.

 He chose to accept money from criminals. Chose to plan the murder of his partner. Chose to pull that trigger. The fact that Marshall Reeves outsmarted him doesn’t make Crawford any less guilty. It just makes Marshall Reeves a better law man. Crawford was sentenced to 15 years in federal prison. As he was led away in chains, Crawford turned to Bass one last time.

 I really am sorry. Bass looked at him with no emotion. I know you are, but sorry doesn’t change what you did. Sorry doesn’t give me back the trust you broke. You made your choice, James. Now you live with it. The story of Bass Reeves and James Crawford spread through Indian territory like wildfire. Within a week, every outlaw, every law man, every deputy knew what had happened.

 They knew that Bass Reeves had known about the hit for three weeks, that he’d sabotaged the gun, that he’d let Crawford try to kill him just to prove a point. And the point was clear. You don’t betray Bass Reeves. But more than that, the story became a lesson about trust and integrity in a lawless land.

 White deputies who’d resented working under a black marshall suddenly understood that Bass Reeves wasn’t just their boss. He was the best law man in the territory, and he’d proven it not with violence, but with intelligence. Outlaws who’d thought about trying to turn Bass’s partners against him, realized it was feudal. Bass was always three moves ahead, always watching, always thinking.

 And other black law men, the few who existed in that era, took inspiration from Bass’s example. He’d been betrayed by a white deputy, could have killed him in revenge, but instead chose to let justice run its course, chose to prove that honor and integrity weren’t about color, they were about character. Bass Reeves lived for another 20 years after that October night.

 He arrested hundreds more criminals. He became a legend. And when he died in 1910, he was remembered not just as a great law man, but as a man who changed what law enforcement could be. But that night in 1889, when that gun clicked instead of fired, when Bass turned around and said, “I’ve been waiting for your choice,” that became the moment that defined Bass Reeves legacy.

 Because it wasn’t about surviving a betrayal. It was about being so damn smart, so prepared, so far ahead of everyone else that betrayal became impossible. James Crawford spent 15 years in prison thinking about that click, thinking about how Bass had known all along, thinking about how he’d been outplayed by the man he’d underestimated because of the color of his skin.

 When Crawford was released in 1904, he moved to California, changed his name, worked as a ranch hand, and whenever someone asked about his past, about his time as a deputy marshal, Crawford would get quiet and say, “I learned the hard way that the smartest man in the room isn’t always the one you expect.

” Today, Bass Reeves is finally getting the recognition he deserves. movies, TV shows, books. People are learning about the black marshall who arrested 3,000 criminals and who never stopped proving that courage, intelligence, and integrity matter more than anything else. But the story of James Crawford’s betrayal remains one of the most powerful chapters in Bass Reeves legend because it shows something most people forget.

 Real power isn’t about physical strength. It’s not about who draws fastest or shoots straightest. Real power is about knowing what’s coming before it happens. About staying calm when everyone else panics. About turning your enemy’s plan against them so completely that they never see it coming. That click, that single hollow click, wasn’t just a mechanical failure.

It was Bass Reeves proving that intelligence is deadlier than any bullet. It was Bass Reeves showing the world that a black marshall in a racist system could outsmart anyone who underestimated him. And it was Bass Reeves teaching a lesson that echoes through history. Trust is earned. Betrayal has consequences and justice always finds a way.

 So the next time someone tells you one person can’t make a difference, remember Bass Reeves. Remember the deputy who tried to shoot him in the back. Remember that clink. Remember those six words, “I’ve been waiting for your choice.” Because that’s not just law enforcement. That’s legendary. If Bass Reeves’ story of intelligence, courage, and unshakable integrity inspired you, hit that subscribe button.

 We’re uncovering the untold legends of the Wild West and black history every single day. Drop a comment. Would you have trusted Crawford after learning about the hit, or would you have arrested him immediately? Share this with someone who needs to hear about the marshall who turned betrayal into a masterclass in justice.

 Turn on notifications because next week we’re telling the story of how Bass Reeves walked into a saloon full of 12 outlawsand walked out with every single one in chains. Bass Reeves didn’t just wear a badge. He redefined what it means to be a hero.