Garrett
Cox
Pogue Sr.


DR. GARRETT COX POGUE had two quite distinct careers, the first as a peace officer in the west in the 1880s and 1890s and as a chiropractor in Camden and Philadelphia later in life.

Born in Delaware City, Delaware in 1863, his early years were spent in Bridgeton. He went west as a young man and had many adventures bringing law and order to in that part of the country. Garrett Pogue stayed close to his family and returned to visit friends and family in Bridgeton on a number of occasions in the 1880s and 1890s. 

Garrett Pogue enlisted in the Army in the 1890s, and had been promoted to Sergeant by 1893. While serving with the 6th Cavalry in 1893, he and a detachment of soldiers took part in Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show, which was held in Chicago, Illinois adjacent to the grounds of the 1893 Chicago Columbian Exhibition, a World's Fair. 

After being denied space at the Fair, Buffalo Bill acquired an adjacent 15-acre site and set up his show. It opened about two weeks before the Fair and provided an alternative venue of looking back in time, rather than looking forward. It was known as "Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World." It immediately began filling the 18,000-seat arena. 

The show included Indians, soldiers from various countries, Annie Oakley and, of course, Buffalo Bill, himself.

An account of Garrett Pogue's activities while with Buffalo Bill follows: 

"Sergeant Garrett C. Pogue, of troop A, Sixth United States Cavalry, will go back to Fort Niobrara, Neb., to join his regiment. He has been commanding the detachment of Uncle Sam's soldiers that have done such good service at all the performances, and who, as far as skill in horsemanship and exactness in evolutions were concerned, outdid all the rest of the military detachments brought over from Europe even the squad of dashing German uhlans 
and the one of French chasseurs a cheval. To bring his handful of men to such an extraordinary degree of perfection in drill was, of course, no easy matter, and Sergeant Pogue, a fine-looking, well-built man of unusual intelligence and of many years' practical 
experience as a trooper, had besides to look very sharply after his men in everything else.

Now and then, however, it was impossible for him to restrain one or the other of them from breaking out. One of his men, for instance, a typical Tipperary man named Greeney, with a typical enjoyment of and hankering after a fight, got into altercations with some of the foreign soldiers on several occasions. It was on a hot, sultry night, Mr. Greeney having imbibed a trifle too freely, that he ran afoul of some of the French chasseurs. In the twinkling of an eye there was a regular engagement on, the weapons used being sabers. Mr. Greeney stood up like a rock against the three Frenchmen and used his saber with a good deal of science. Finally he knocked the saber out of the hand of his doughtiest adversary, broke it against a tree and then punished his man with his bare hands. Still on another occasion he 
licked the drillmaster of the German uhlans, Richter. With these few exceptions, though, everything proceeded amicably among the four detachments of foreign soldiers. 

Sergeant Pogue was discharged at Fort Myers, Virginia on February 8, 1896 with the rank of sergeant with Company A, 6th Cavalry Regiment and a comment of "excellent" describing his service.

With the nation going to war with Spain, Garrett Pogue enlisted in Company K, First Colorado Volunteers, United States Army in Denver, Colorado on May 1, 1898. He served for almost a year in the Philippines, and was discharged upon his return to the United States after one year of service. He was working as a bookkeeper in Crestone, Colorado when the census was taken in 1900.

After returning east, he worked in Philadelphia. Garrett Pogue married Gertrude Derrickson around 1901. They lived with Gertrude's parents,  Charles and Katherine Derrickson, at 524 Benson Street through at least 1906. The 1909 City Directory and the 1910 Census shows them living with Gertrude's parents, at 116 Dudley Street in East Camden. Garrett Pogue worked as a bookkeeper and clerk in these years. The 1916 Camden City Directory shows Garrett C. Pogue and his wife Gertrude still living at 116 Dudley Street. Two sons had been born, Frederick in 1902 and Garret C. Jr. in 1907. 

At some point while living in the east, Garret Pogue and was struck blind. He received a disability pension in 1902, with Frank S. Jones serving as his attorney. After five years of blindness, Garrett Pogue's sight was restored by a chiropractor. He and his wife were so impressed that they went to school and became practitioners of that discipline. 

By the time the 1917 City Directory was compiled both Garrett and Gertrude Pogue were practicing chiropractors. They were had moved to 107 North 7th Street in Camden and were still at that address as late as the spring of 1938.

In his last years Dr. Pogue kept an office at 400 Broadway. He passed away on September 18, 1940 and was buried at Eglington Cemetery in Clarksboro, New Jersey. He was survived by his wife and sons Frederick and Garrett Jr. Mrs. Pogue and Garrett Jr. made their home at 724 Linden Street in the early 1940s. The family maintained and interest in the North 7th Street address into the 1940s as well.


Philadelphia Inquirer
May 28, 1918

 


Camden Courier-Post * February 14, 1938

Adventurer Once Blind, Near Death, Regains Sight and Is Robust at 75

Dr. Pogue Recalls Years of Fighting Outlaws in Wild West
MARKS BIRTHDAY AT CAMDEN HOME

By GORDON MACKAY

Sightless for five years, wretchedly ill from an agonizing disease, a middle-aged man walked into the office of one of the world's greatest eye specialists in Philadelphia one day 25 years ago.

The patient's visits to Dr. George A. de Schweinitz, oculist to President Wilson and some of the greatest figures in the United States and abroad, had been many. Other noted opthamologists had been visited, too. Each had uttered a death sentence.

"He'll be blind until he dies," said Dr. de Schweinitz, sadly, to the wife who accompanied her husband on this fateful visit, "and besides he won't live six months."

But the death that the patient had dared against road agents, renegades, criminals and bad men, wasn't quite ready to claim Dr. Garrett Cox Pogue as a victim. So, as St. 

Valentine's Day is observed today, Dr. Pogue is observing his seventy-fifth birthday, at his home, 107 North Seventh street.

Peace Officer In West

Dr. Pogue's vision is as clear as in the days of his youth. His health is marred only by a cold that troubles him tormentingly but not seriously. His adventures and experiences are a fortune that money cannot buy, nor time and passing years wither in his memory.

Few men have leaped the five years above the alloted three score years and 10 to know such a life as has been Garrett Pogue's. Born of good Quaker folk he lived by the gun for years, was a peace officer in the Wild West, when it was both wild and woolly. Famed marshals were his buddies, noted outlaws his prey.

Perhaps the most thrilling and dramatic of all his tales of the days that saw him cavalryman, cow-puncher and co-partner of the men who helped to win the West from outlawry and banditry is the tale he tells of "Billy, the Kid."

To the men of seasoned years "Billy, the Kid" needs no introduction. To the youngsters it might be stated that "Billy, the Kid," and the men of his ilk, made the tinhorn bandits of today seem the punks that they are.

"I was riding alone through the desert," said Dr. Pogue, yesterday, 'and I saw the speck of a camp fire down in an arroyo, or valley. I was riding with my rifle over the saddle, my guns in my belt, when I caught the glint of steel in the firelight. "Hands Up!"'

"A man stood down in the arroyo and he said: 'Come down off that hoss with your hands up.' He had a rifle to enforce the command. Now t's no easy matter to slide down 'rom a horse, with your hands in :he air. I did.

" 'Where you going and who are you?' asked this rifleman. Just then I noticed a second man sitting by the fire, and the light glinted on another rifle. 'Pogue's the name,' I told him, 'and I'm riding from Texas to Arizona.' 'My name's Bonney,' the first man said, 'and folks call me "Billy, the Kid."

" 'Billy, the Kid,' an outlaw for whom marshals all over the West were hunting, with 20 rewards on his head. He didn't know that I was a deputy sheriff, I had my badge tucked down.in my shoe.

"I slept that night by the camp-fire, not six feet from Billy, the most feared killer in the whole West. I had breakfast with them in the morning and rode away.

Meets Billy Again

"It was months later, I had turned up in New Mexico. I was a deputy to Marshal Pat Garrett, about whom there are 1000 stories and'legends, all of them true. 'Garrett,' Pat said to me one night, 'I'm told Billy, the Kid is going to visit that Mexican girl he is sweet on over at the ranch.

" 'Get your guns and we'll get Billy.' I took my Winchester and a couple of other guns for my belt. Pat and I rode for the ranch, I was behind a tree with the rifle sticking out, Pat was around behind the corral. Sometime afterward Billy rode up, whistled a couple of times, then rose in his saddle and started to dismount.

"I had a dead bead on his back. I didn't fire a shot. Why? Because I got to thinking about that night by the campfire when we broke bread together and he could have killed me as easy as wink. Something just naturally paralyzed my arm. I waited there, with the hammer of the rifle down, watching Billy to go into the house.

Outlaw Dies On Floor

"In about two minutes it sounded as if all hell broke loose. Guns were popping, but pretty soon there wasn't a sound. I went into the house. There was Billy on the floor, gasping out his last breath. Pat Garrett was on the floor, a couple of wounds in his shoulder, cussing me a blue streak for not throwing a gun on Billy and giving it to him.

"I explained the whole thing to Garrett, and while he cussed a lot he didn't say anything more."

Dr. Pogue's birthright is one strange story also. Born in 1863, his mother was 48 when he was born, his parent dying in childbirth. His father was 54 at the time, two brothers had given up their lives for the Union cause, one at Shiloh, the other at Antietam.

"Science has discovered," said the veteran peace officer to me, "that when a child is born to parents who have passed the meridian of life that the child inherits all the great qualities of his parents.

Of Quaker Origin

"Now I was born in Delaware City, of Quaker parents. Yet I was always a wanderer, always a nomad. My old mammy, who had been born into my family as a slave, told my fortune once. She said that I would visit strange places, see strange sights, but come back to my own native soil to settle down finally.

"I don't know whether that old mammy had second sight, but that is the entire volume of my life history. 

"No stranger fate ever accompanied a youngster than myself on my first trip into the wild, unsettled West. I had gone to Denver, didn't like the place, so pushed on to Colorado Springs. I stood leaning against a tree outside the post-office when three men came riding down the street. They were the biggest men I ever saw in the saddle.

Heard Own Name Spoken

"As they came to where I stood one of them said: 'Have you got those checks, Garrett?' I looked at him and said: 'No, I don't know anything about cheeks.' 'I wasn't talking to you' he growled, in the talk westerners use to strangers who butt into business which your westerner doesn't believe concerns anybody but himself.

" 'By the way, youngster, what is your name?' said the biggest of the riders. 'My name is Garrett Pogue,' I told him. 'Want to go to work?' he asked me. I told him I did. Mind you I'm wearing a gray suit, a stiff hat, tenderfoot written all over me.

" 'All right,' he said, 'walk along with us and we'll get you into the buckboard.' They drove me to the ranch. On the way out one of them said that I would help them capture wild horses, in which the region abounded. When we got to the ranch I saw a young fellow not more than 19, black as an Indian, standing several inches over six feet.

Meets His "Partner"

" 'Sam,' said the fellow called Garrett—Garrett Cadle was his name —'I've brought you a partner.' That night Sam and myself went into town and to a dance hall. While we were there a big bully came through the door and said: 'Every so-and-so is going to drink with me.'

"Few of them paid any attention to him. Then he walked right up to me and said: 'Every so-and-so in the place is going to drink with me and you're going to drink with me first.'

"Sam came up to us, quiet like, pushed me away. 'My friend doesn't drink,' Sam said. The big bruiser, had a naked gun—a gun that wasn't bolstered—stuck in his pants. Sam had one down in his boot. The bully made a move toward his gun, Sam almost shot his arm off.

"Pretty soon the door opened and Sheriff Lem Jackson came into the dance hall. He was told that the big bully tried to draw on a man who didn't have a gun and that satisfied the sheriff.

Sheriff Sends Him Away

"It was the sheriff that finally sent me away from the Cadles. I was in town when Garrett Cadle came riding into the place, sitting on his horse, with a bad wound in his shoulder. Behind him were two men, both armed, riding 50 feet apart.

"I had my rifle trained on them. When they got 50 feet away from me I heard Garrett shout: 'rustlers'. I fired a shot and that second man tumbled from the saddle. "Then the third man came into sight: 'Rustler', shouted Garrett. I let that fellow have it.

"When the fourth man hove in sight, and I was ready to draw a bead on him, Garrett yelled: 'Bill'. Sure enough it was his brother. Bill came up, looked at the two men on as ground, fired bang! bang! Just like that. "Mercy shots", Bill said as he bolstered his gun.

" 'Let Garrett go see the Doctor,' Bill said, 'and you and I will go and see Sam'. We found him dead, with one bullet in the top of his head, another in his back. The Cadles had been attacked by the rustlers. I got Bill's idea of 'mercy shots' when I saw that bullet wound in the top of Sam's head—Sam had been killed while he was lying on the ground.

Gets Horses and Money

"We got to the ranch. Pretty soon Sheriff Lem Jackson came riding. He told me that he knew all about it. It seemed that these rustlers had held up the Union Pacific train, killed the engineer, conductor and train crew and got away with loot that was valued in the hundreds of thousands.

"They then killed a couple of deputy sheriffs and were trying to escape to New Mexico and Texas when they ran across the Cadles who were out after wild horses. The train robbers shot Sam dead, then wounded Garrett.

" 'Better git now, son,' the sheriff told me, "because the gang that was
with these fellows will sure get you if they can." 

I told the sheriff I didn't have horses or money. 

Took Rustlers' Horses

"Take them two rustlers' horses,' he said. 'I know the ranch where they were stolen. I'll give you this receipt, just as good as a bill of sale. You can show it to anybody asks about the animals. Here's $500 which you would have got as a share of the reward offered for them. Git going' into Texas as fast as your pinto will hoof it.' "

"It was good advice, I took it," smiled Pogue, "and when I got there I joined the Texas Rangers and remained with them for years. Then I was a deputy for the Denver and Rio Grande and helped Captain McNulty of the Texas Rangers, Bat Masterson, the grizzled old marshal and the others.

"I was in Canon City, Colo., 50 years ago when they hanged George Withererell to a telegraph pole and brought back a picture of him hanging to the pole, which I still keep."

Camden Courier-Post * February 14, 1938
Photo of the Lynching of George Witherell, December 4, 1888

After this wild and adventurous life, Pogue returned to Philadelphia where he was employed by Samuel T. Bodine of the U. G. I.

Blindness Strikes Him

"It was while I was with that company," continued the chiropractor," that I was stricken blind. For five years—60 months—I got my pay from U. G. I. twice a month. I visited Dr. de Schweinitz. I visited Dr. Webster Fox. I visited every great physician and specialist in Philadelphia—got the same answer— I was hopelessly blind and would die in six months.

"So I decided to try something else as a desperate resort. I went to a man named A. W. Marchand, a chiropractor. Now mark this as a coincidence—he came from Delaware City where I was born myself. I recalled his father as a man in the town we knew as 'Frenchy'.

"Marchand gave me treatments. I regained my sight and my health. I was so impressed that I joined his class in chiropractice, a class of 36, 18 doctors, 18 laymen. I became so interested in the practice that I was graduated from the school. I've been in practice ever since."

And to show that 75 years rested as lightly on his shoulders as a breeze, Dr. Pogue skipped blithely across the room like a two-year-old.


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