𝗦𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗪𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗻 “𝗦. 𝗪.” 𝗙𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗼𝗻
𝗟𝗮𝘄𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝘀𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗛𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝗹𝗱 𝗙𝗿𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗲𝗿

In the long, wind-swept years before Oklahoma was a state, when the Osage Hills were still rough with hideouts and whiskey trails, one name carried weight from Pawhuska to Tulsa, from Cleveland to the railroad lines cutting across the prairie — Stringer Weston Fenton.

Born in 1865 in Virginia, Stringer Weston “S.W.” Fenton came of age when the frontier still tested a man daily. By the time Oklahoma Territory opened and settlers poured in, Fenton had found his calling. He would spend the better part of twenty-six years wearing a badge — sometimes as a Deputy U.S. Marshal in Indian Territory, sometimes as an Osage County deputy sheriff, sometimes as a railroad detective for the M.K.&T., and later as City Marshal and Chief of Police in Cleveland, Oklahoma.

He was not a man given to boasting. Those who knew him said it was nearly impossible to get him to talk about his fights. Yet the record — scattered through old newspapers and railroad reports — tells the story plainly.

𝗔 𝗟𝗮𝘄𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝗧𝗲𝗿𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆

Fenton rode in the days when a warrant might be read over a dead man and when a posse sometimes rode for days through the Osage Nation without sight of a telegraph wire. He carried two guns like most seasoned officers of the era. One might come from the belt and fire from the hip. The other, drawn from beneath the arm, would bark from chest level. Fenton has stated that no experienced lawman carried six loaded chambers — there was always one empty beneath the hammer.

Fenton would later say that a man who knew he was right “always had a shade on the man who knew he was wrong.” He believed in that edge — and he relied on his accuracy.

During his long service, he hunted horse thieves, train robbers, bank bandits, and whiskey peddlers. He was credited with breaking up elements of the Henry Starr gang and had crossed paths with outlaws tied to the Dalton and Diamond D outfits. He was wounded more than once. He had horses shot from beneath him. He had been fired upon from ambush. Still, he kept riding.

In May 1906, he was elected City Marshal of Cleveland, Oklahoma. He and his wife, Nellie Rice-Fenton — whom he married in Pawnee on February 1, 1905 — made their home there. Nellie, born in Missouri in 1881, was by all accounts steady and supportive through the long absences and dangers that came with frontier law work. Their life in Cleveland was built between gun smoke and civic duty.

𝗥𝗮𝗶𝗱𝘀, 𝗥𝗮𝗶𝗹𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗱𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗚𝘂𝗻 𝗦𝗺𝗼𝗸𝗲

In August 1911, Fenton and Deputy Brannon raided a notorious roadhouse near Tulsa. Deputies covered the windows while they entered from separate doors. Inside, Tobe Thompson attempted to flee and pulled a gun on Brannon. Brannon grabbed his arm just in time. Fenton rushed to assist. The roadhouses, they declared afterward, “must go.” It was typical of Fenton’s work — direct, forceful, without flourishing.

But October 1911 would bring a case that sealed his name in Oklahoma outlaw history.

On a dark night west of Okesa, masked bandits flagged down or jumped aboard the southbound M.K.&T. passenger train, known as the Katy. They forced the crew to divide the train and drove off the mail and baggage cars. The robbers rifled through the mail, seized what cash they could, and vanished into the broken hills of Osage County.

Sheriff Horace Freas organized the pursuit. Among the deputies riding hard into the canyons were Dick Wallace, Bob Fenton, Stringer’s own brother — and Stringer Fenton.

The trail led deep into one of the wildest stretches of the Osage Nation — a region made for hiding men who preferred darkness to daylight. For days the posse pushed forward. Finally, near Big Canyon, they surrounded a barn where one of the suspects had taken refuge.

Inside the hayloft lay Elmer J. McCurdy — a drifter, a would-be train robber, who already wanted to in Kansas. Armed with a shotgun and revolver, he chose not to surrender.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗘𝗹𝗺𝗲𝗿 𝗠𝗰𝗖𝘂𝗿𝗱𝘆

Before dawn broke fully over the hills, McCurdy opened fire from the loft. Buckshot splintered wood and showered dust down upon the officers below. The posse took cover behind railroad ties stacked near the barn. Fenton, watching the cracks in the siding, fired carefully where he saw movement. The exchange lasted more than an hour.

Several times Fenton heard McCurdy curse and cry out — bullets were finding their mark. Still, the bandit kept firing. Finally, Fenton saw hay shift through a narrow opening. He steadied himself and fired. Silence soon followed.

The officers waited. No more shots came from the loft. A rancher assisting the posse was sent up first. He returned holding McCurdy’s shotgun aloft, its stock smeared with blood. When Fenton climbed into the loft, he found McCurdy lying on the hay, revolver still in his grasp, shot beneath the chest and wounded in multiple places.

Thus ended the man later called “the Bandit Who Wouldn’t Give Up.”

𝗟𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗥𝗲𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻

Fenton continued his career after McCurdy. In January 1915, as Chief of Police in Cleveland, he interrupted a pool hall robbery and single-handedly shot down a masked bandit, even after being wounded through the leg. He fought on from the ground, rearmed himself, and finished the fight.

In time, the long years of gun smoke gave way to quieter streets. Nellie passed away in 1921 in Riverside, California. By 1930, Fenton himself was living in Los Angeles. His hair had turned snow white, but his aim — and his memory — remained sharp.

In a 1926 interview in California, he reflected on the days when he had ridden as a Deputy Sheriff and Deputy U.S. Marshal across Oklahoma Territory. He spoke of the ambushes, the long pursuits, the bank and train robbers who would kill as casually as swatting a fly. He had killed ten desperadoes, wounded many more, and captured hundreds alive. He said he had never fired without provocation and never shot until the other man had started the trouble.

Among the guns he kept were weapons taken from outlaws — including McCurdy’s shotgun — each one a relic of sudden violence and narrow survival.

Stringer Weston Fenton died on April 1, 1936, in California. But the years that defined him were those spent riding the hills of Oklahoma and Osage County.

And when he looked back on that era, he summed it up in words only a frontier lawman could understand — remembering the days when “𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘺’𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘒𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘴 𝘊𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘚𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘩, 𝘈𝘳𝘬𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘴.”

👉 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀: “𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱, 𝗕𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗢𝘀𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗛𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘀: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗝𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘁 𝗢𝘂𝘁𝗹𝗮𝘄 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆”. … See MoreSee Less