My Historical Scam Victim/Survivor Story #77

I’m Frank Norfleet, a rancher from Texas, and my life took a devastating turn in 1919 when I lost my life savings to a stock market fraud in Dallas. At 54 years old, I thought I’d seen it all—buffalo hunts, cattle drives, and the harsh realities of ranching on the open plains—but nothing prepared me for the betrayal of con men who stole $45,000 from me, leaving me $90,000 in debt. This story is about the emotional toll of that betrayal, the shame that followed, and my relentless four-year pursuit to bring those criminals to justice, a journey that defined my legacy as a rancher and lawman who captured over 100 criminals in the early 20th century.

My story begins long before the fraud, rooted in the rugged plains of Texas where I was born in Lampasas County in 1865. I was the son of a Texas Ranger, growing up with little schooling but plenty of hard work, herding cattle and learning the ways of the frontier. By 1894, I had become the foreman at the Spade Ranch in Lamb and Hockley Counties, a role I held for 20 years, managing vast herds across the open range. That year, I rode 115 miles to Colorado City, Texas, a trip I hadn’t made in two and a half years. I hadn’t seen a woman’s face in all that time, and I’d let my beard grow wild, becoming as rough-looking as any cowboy in Texas. I must have looked like a grizzly bear, I thought, chuckling at my own ruggedness.

At a dance in Colorado City, I spotted Eliza Hudgins, a fair young lady who caught my eye immediately. But my appearance didn’t impress her. She wouldn’t even dance with me, I recall, feeling the sting of rejection as she turned away. The night ended in a fight, as dances often did back then, and I didn’t see her again for months. Her memory lingered, drawing me back to town and eventually to Plainview, where her family lived. This time, I shaved, slicked up as best a sunburned, calloused cowhand could, and hoped for a better impression. She smiled at me, I remember, my heart lifting as I pursued her with every ounce of encouragement she gave. We married in her father’s home, and I took her back to the Spade Ranch as my partner, a new top-hand ready to face the rigors of ranch life.

Eliza adapted quickly, becoming as skilled with cattle as many of the men, a true partner in every sense. She was the only woman in four counties, and we rarely saw others, except on the occasional 100-mile ride to a dance. Together, we saved enough to buy 16 sections of land—over 10,000 acres—fencing it mostly by ourselves, post by post, under the blazing Texas sun. I’ll never forget standing at the door of our little dugout, watching the first water flow from our new windmill, a symbol of our hard-won progress. We did this together, I thought, my chest swelling with pride as Eliza stood beside me, her hand in mine.

Our family grew with the birth of our daughter Mary, but tragedy struck when she died at seven from diphtheria, a loss that tore at our hearts. Then came Bob Lee, our son, who drowned at three, leaving us to grieve yet again. Later, after we built a new house with several rooms near Hale Center, our daughter Ruth was born, bringing us a renewed sense of joy. By 1919, our ranch was thriving, and I felt ready to expand, which led me to Dallas—a decision that would change everything.

In November 1919, I traveled to Dallas to sell part of my ranch and buy 10,000 acres from Edgar Dick Slaughter. I checked into the St. George Hotel, a bustling place filled with travelers and businessmen. There, I met a man named Reno Hamlin, who posed as a mule buyer from Fort Worth. He seemed genuine, someone who understood ranch life, and I felt a connection. He’s just like me, I thought, trusting him as we talked about cattle and land. Hamlin introduced me to W.B. Spencer, who claimed to be interested in buying my property, and together they led me to the Adolphus Hotel, a fancy establishment where the fraud began to unfold.

At the Adolphus, I “found” a lost wallet on the floor, containing $240 in cash and a $100,000 bond belonging to a J.B. Stetson, who turned out to be Joe Furey, the ringleader of the con. When I returned the wallet, Furey offered a $100 reward, which I refused, wanting to do the right thing. But then he suggested investing the $100 on the stock market for me. It earned $800 in a day, he claimed, showing me fake paperwork that looked real enough to fool a rancher like me. I was hooked, my mind racing with the possibility of easy money to grow my ranch.

The fraud escalated quickly. Furey, posing as a stockbroker, convinced me I’d made $28,000 in profits. But then E.J. Ward, claiming to be an official from the Dallas stock exchange, said I needed to establish credit to claim the earnings. You’ve got to show you can handle the deal, Ward insisted, his tone urgent. I borrowed $45,000 from my bank and family, handing it over in cash, only to watch the men disappear with my money. Forty-five thousand dollars gone, $90,000 in debt, 54 years old, I repeated to myself, standing alone in Dallas, the betrayal cutting deeper than any financial loss. I felt foolish, ashamed, and angry, knowing I’d been targeted for my trust and rural naivety, a simple rancher out of his depth in the city.

The fraud left me reeling, not just financially but emotionally. I returned to Eliza at our ranch near Hale Center and broke the news, my voice trembling with shame. I’ve lost everything, I admitted, unable to meet her eyes as the weight of my failure settled in. But Eliza, my rock through every hardship, looked at me with fierce determination. Bring them back alive, she said, urging me to seek justice without resorting to violence. Her words lit a fire in me, and I vowed to hunt down the five men—Furey, Hamlin, Spencer, Ward, and Charles Gerber—who had ruined me.

With a revolver and a suitcase of disguises, I set out on a four-year, 30,000-mile journey across the United States, from California to Florida, even to Canada and Cuba. I felt isolated, often posing as a naive hick to gather evidence, reliving the betrayal each time I got close to a con man. In California, I found Ward and Gerber already in jail for another fraud, thanks to my public warnings in the press, which had alerted authorities. In Florida, after a bloody brawl in a saloon, I captured Furey, the ringleader, dragging him back to Fort Worth for trial. I never expected to see you here, Furey said, his face pale with shock as I handed him over to the law. I eventually caught Hamlin in Los Angeles and Spencer in Salt Lake City, bringing my total captures to over 100 criminals by 1935.

The pursuit was grueling, each step a reminder of my loss, but also a testament to my resilience. Later on the FBI honored me with a certificate for my efforts, and I earned the nickname “Little Tiger,” standing at just 5’5” but fierce in my determination. I moved to a farm south of Hale Center in 1926 with Eliza, despite mounting debts, and lived quietly until my death in 1967 at 102. Writing my story in my 1924 book, Norfleet, helped me process the trauma, and I found purpose in helping others avoid my fate, knowing I’d turned my pain into a legacy of justice.

More to this story:

• https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._Frank_Norfleet
• https://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/entries/norfleet-james-franklin
• https://fortworthinc.com/commentary/the-swindled-the-swindlers-and-sweet-revenge-j-frank-norflee/