Game Wardens and Ghosts
Sometimes when I get to work, I feel like I can see him.
He’s sitting on a frontporch bench with his legs crossed; a beat-up hat tucked down low on his forehead. He doesn’t pay much attention to me — just kind of looks off in the distance. I might give him a nod, and I think I’ve seen him nod back a time or two. He never speaks.
More on him later. I oftentimes refer to myself as a “retired” game warden, but really, once a game warden, always a game warden. It doesn’t matter what word you put in front.
I think it’s that way with law enforcement types in general. Some call it “the thin blue line”, I guess, and it’s the notion that law enforcement officers share a special bond whereby they know they have each other’s backs.
I kind of took it for granted at times during my career. If I were to get on the radio and call for help, I knew one of my fellow wardens would come running.
Severity of the situation didn’t matter, although a “hey I’m stuck in the mud can you come pull me out” call for help would’ve been received with considerably more good-natured ridiculing than the late night on a lonely road “I have a truck stopped with a dead deer in the back, and the shooter just took off running into the brush” call.
Game wardens — law enforcement types — see and experience things that most folks don’t.
John Wayne famously said, “Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.” I don’t know if it’s “courage” or “sense of duty” or what, but you definitely have to be wired a little different to sit out in the middle of nowhere for hours on end waiting for some misguided redneck and his buddies to pull up and shoot a deer in front of you.
That’s the easy part, really. Then you have to get that vehicle stopped and “safely” take care of business, not knowing who is in that vehicle or what their intentions may be. Once again — that’s something all law enforcement officers deal with.
Retirement from Texas Parks and Wildlife Department (TPWD) didn’t change much. Game wardens are still a tight-knit bunch, it’s just that the calls now don’t involve outlaws or mud.
Anyway, back to that ol’ boy on the bench and my new job. My office is in what used to be the Atascosa County jail, a beautiful red brick three-story building built around 1915. On the front porch, there is a bench commemorating the Coward family’s contributions and sacrifices to, and for, the people of Atascosa County.
There are three brothers’ names listed — two died in the line of duty. It’s the third one listed that I think about the most: Erastus Athelone Coward (1899-1922) Texas Game Warden 1917-1922.
I’ve searched a few Texas Parks and Wildlife Department resources, and I haven’t been able to find any information on Erastus Coward. It’s been 122 years since he died. Records — if they existed — get lost or destroyed.
Time passes by and people don’t remember. A Dec. 28, 2022, Pleasanton Express article titled “Coward Family Dedication” by Atascosa County Historical Commission Chaiman Martin Gonzales states that Ras “served in the capacity of Texas Game Warden from 1917-1922. He also served as Postmaster of Riviera. Ras was killed in the line of duty when he stopped to help a stranded driver in Premont. Ras Coward rests at the Rutledge Cemetery in Poteet.”
Some days at work, I catch myself wondering what it was like to be Ras back then. I bet it was a lot different and a lot the same, and I’m sure Ras knew all about being scared to death but saddling up anyway.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Jon Brauchle Spent 29 years AS A GAME WARDEN.
