Born in Hartford, Connecticut on October 26, 1860, Frank moved with his family to Osage County, Kansas, about thirty-eight miles southwest of Lawrence, at a place called Rock Springs. His Father, after the Civil War, came home from the army, sold his livery business and went west.
One time cowboy, scout, Indian fighter, trail rider and Deputy United States Marshal, Frank Eaton died at his home in Perkins, Oklahoma, at the age of 98 years, on April 8, 1958. At the time of his death he earned his living as a blacksmith and a deputy sheriff. His stories were colorful, funny, violent, moving, exciting, full of action and always a good yarn. They may also be the last personal experience account, as Mr. Eaton says, "of the old Cherokee Nation when I lived there and of some of the noblest men that ever lived-good and bad. "
In his last years, Pistol Pete could draw his forty-five Colt as fast as he did in the days of his youth when he earned the eleven notches on his gun-five for the murderers of his father and six in the line of duty as U. S. Marshal for Judge Parker, the "hanging judge." At the time of has death, he still carried his gun loaded because, as he said, "I'd rather have a pocket full of rocks than an empty gun."
Pistol Pete told about the "constant struggle between law and crime and the result of crime which in those times was a rope or bullet ... the incidents do not always end as we wish they would, but the end is told and not a fictitious one," and people "can take it or let it alone, as they please."
When Frank (Pistol Pete) Eaton was eight years old, his father, a Vigilante, was shot in cold blood by the Campseys and the Ferbers - former Confederates who called themselves Regulators. Mose Beaman, his father's friend, said to Frank: "My boy, may an old man's curse rest upon you, if you do not try to avenge your father." That was in 1868. The same year Mose taught him to handle a gun, but it was nineteen years before Frank finished his job.
At seventeen, Frank became a Deputy U.S. Marshal under Judge Isaac C. Parker, "the hanging judge" of the U.S. distict court of the western district of Arkansas. Frank then caught up with Jim and Jonce Campsey together. They were both shot as they drew on Frank. Finally Frank tracked down the last murderer in New Mexico.
When Frank was fifteen, he decided he needed to know more about shooting to be sure he could avenge his father's death when the time came. He went down to Fort Gibson in the northeast part of the Indian Territory to see what the Cavalry soldiers could teach him. Although he was still too young to join the Army (if he had wanted to), he outshot everyone at the Fort. The commander of the Fort gave him a badge for his fine marksmanship and said: "I am going to give you a new name. From now on you are Pistol Pete!"
Albuquerque - The End of the Trail
I had stopped in one saloon and was coming out of the second one when I noticed a tall man with a heavy mustache standing by the door. As I started down the street he started right behind me. I turned around and met him.
"Stranger," I said, "you seem to be following me. Is there any information I can give you?"
"Well, yes, there is," said the man, with a Western drawl. "When a young fellow comes into town riding as good an outfit as you have, with a Winchester under his leg and two guns on, when he goes into every dance hall and saloon in town and doesn't take a drink or have anything to do with the girls, he naturally excites a lot of curiosity."
I grinned. "Well," I said, "my name is Frank Eaton, my home is on Sand Creek in Cooweescoowee District in the Cherokee Nation, Indian Territory. I am a rider for the Cattlemen's Association and am in line of duty. Now is there anything more?"
The man smiled. "My name is Pat Garrett," he said, "I am an officer, I have heard of you and am glad to meet you." We shook hands and he said, "Let's go in and drink something."
This was during the time known as "the Lincoln County War," in New Mexico. I knew Pat Garrett as the well-to-do rancher who, at the risk of his own life, had taken the job of sheriff and was trying to establish a semblance of law and order, so that honest men might live in bloody Lincoln County. I had the greatest respect for him.
"I don't drink," I told him, "but I will go in with you."
We walked down the street and went into the next saloon. As we came up to the bar and the bartender came up to wait on us, I had to look only once. This was the end of the trail. My job was almost finished. Before me stood the last man, Wyley Campsey!
Garrett called for a drink and paid for it. Laying his hand on my shoulder he walked out with me.
"Don't lie to me, boy," he said, "I know you are after a man."
"Yes. What's more, I have found him. It's that damned bartender, and I'm going to get him!"
"Wait, son," said Garrett, "he is a bad hombre, he has been in a lot of trouble, and has two of the fastest gunmen in Lincoln County for his bodyguards."
I threw back my head and laughed. "I don't care if he has the whole United States Army for bodyguards. He or I will hear the cook call breakfast in hell. Let's go eat and I will tell you why I am after him."
We went into a restaurant and sat down at an out-of-the-way table in the back. There were no other customers, so we could talk. I told him the story of my father's murder. How I had carried in my heart, all these years, the picture of my father lying in the doorway, a man standing over his body, emptying his gun into my father's lifeless form. How I had fallen on my father's body, screaming, only to be pulled.away, brutally struck with a riding whip and kicked across the room.
Then I told him the words of Mose Beaman. I could almost hear Mose saying, "May an old man's curse be upon you if you do not try to avenge your father. You must never stop until the last man has been accounted for." I told Pat Garrett of the years that followed, of learning how to shoot, of how all the other killers had been brought to justice and how I felt, now that I was face to face with the last man, Wyley Campsey, the bartender in the saloon next door.
I showed Pat Garrett my Deputy United States Marshal badge and commission and my letter from Captain Knipe of the Cattlemen's Association. I told him of the murder and thieving of the gang in the Cherokee Nation and how, with the help of the Lighthorsemen, we had cleaned them out; I told him, too, that Wyley was wanted for the murder of an officer at Vian in the Indian Territory.
As Pat Garrett listened he seemed to be weighing every word. When I had finished he said, "This is something you had better not tackle alone. You know I cannot allow another killing if I can prevent it."
"You can't prevent this one and if you think you can, right now is as good a time to start as you will ever have." I was ready to go for my guns.
"Hold on, son," he said, "you got me wrong. I only meant that you had better let me go in and try to arrest him."
"Oh, no, that man will never submit to arrest. He knows he will hang. Any man would rather die with his gun in his hand."
"You may be right, son, but how are you going to handle this one?"
"Easy enough," I told him, "when you see me ride down and tie my horse in front of that place you go uptown, and come back after the fireworks. It won't be long. I know he is fast but I think I am faster."
"What about the two men, his bodyguards?"
"If they want to take chips in another man's game I guess they will have to play them, that's all. I hope they don't, for they might lose and that would complicate matters for me with the local police."
"Don't worry, son," said Garrett, "there will be no trouble on that score. The thing that worries me is that maybe you have overplayed your hand. Three to one is a hard game and heavy odds."
"I'll risk it and guess we had better be getting busy." We arose from the table, I paid the bill and we went out on the street.
"Well, son, I like your nerve and wish you the best of luck."
"Thank you, sir, you sure are a man." We shook hands and parted.
I went to the livery barn, saddled my pony and paid the bill. Then I mounted and rode down the street to the saloon where I had seen Wyley Campsey. I ground-tied old Bowlegs a little to one side of the door so that if any stray shots came through the door they would not hit him. Working my guns to make sure they were loose in the holsters, I walked through the crowd and stopped at the bar.
"What do you want, kid?" asked Wyley as I stood in front of him.
"I just want you, Wyley." We were about four feet apart with nothing but the bar between us.
Wyley looked at his two guards. They showed a lack of war wisdom for they came to him instead of staying where they were. That move put all of them in a bunch right under my eyes and close to me.
Legend tells that Eaton, one of the fastest gunmen of his day, put five of the 11 notches on his .45 Colt tracking down a group of Confederates who murdered his father. The other six notches were accumulated when "Pistol Pete" was riding as a U.S. Deputy marshal for Judge Parker.
"Want me? What do you mean?" asked Wyley, flanked by his two gunmen.
"Don't you remember me, Wyley?" "I never saw you before!"
"Oh yes, you have! It was the night you killed my father! I am Frank Eaton, remember? Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!"
All three of them went for their guns.
Wyley got his to the top of the bar but went down with two forty-fives through his heart. The guards were lightning on the draw. One of them went down without firing a shot but the other one got me in the leg and again in the left arm, knocking one of my guns out of my hand, before he went down.
There was a wild stampede among the bystanders when the shooting started, but it was finished before any of them got out the door. Looking over the bar to be sure there was no need for further action I started for the door and ran right into Pat Garrett. He had been standing in the door looking in.
"How bad are you hit, son?" he asked.
"Not so bad but what I can ride if you will help me onto my horse."
He helped me into the saddle. "You have lost one of your guns," he said. "Here's another one." He stuck a long gun in my empty holster saying, "After you have ridden a few miles you will see a house off to your right. Go in there and tell them that I sent you. They will dress your wounds and keep you until you are able to go on. They are friends of mine and fine people."
I thanked him and galloped out of town.
From Pistol Pete: Veteran of the Old West
Most of the gun battles that Eaton had were with cattle rustlers and robbers and it‘s not certain whether all of his enemies died of their wounds. As an example, Eaton encountered Bud Wells, a notorious desperado at Webber Falls and was fast enough on the draw to shatter Wells’ shooting hand. Wells was said to be so grateful that he wasn’t killed that he went straight for the rest of his life.
Eaton lived in a world of violence, but one day he fell in love and his girlfriend placed a steel crucifix around his neck. In a gun battle, "Pistol Pete” was shot in the chest, but the bullet hit the cross and he was saved. He later wrote, "I’d rather have the prayers of a good woman in a fight than half a dozen hot guns: she’s talking to Headquarters.”
When he died in 1958, his obituary appeared throughout the country, in the New York Times, Newsweek Magazine, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the San Francisco Chronicle, The Cattleman, The 1959 American People's Encyclopedia Yearbook among others, each listing him as a former Deputy U.S. Marshal. In addition, according to his daughter, Elizabeth Wise of Perkins, OK his family received sympathy letters from as far away as Germany, Canada and Japan and was besieged with visitors at his home for many months following the funeral.
Campfire Stories: Remembrances of a Cowboy Legend by Frank "Pistol Pete" Eaton. In this one volume, Pistol Pete shares some of his experiences in the early west, including his battles with outlaws in Mexico, experiences with "Sooners" in the Cherokee Strip to the fight at Ingalls.
Toughest of Them All by Glenn Shirley. Accounts of some of the good and bad men and women of the Old West who were as tough as a boot. With the likes of Frank "Pistol Pete" Eaton, Temple Houston, Cherokee Bill, Kate Bender, The Marlows, Zip Wyatt, The Doolin Gang, Silon Lewis, Bob Ollinger, Hendry Brown, Nelson Story, and Oliver Wheeler.
