by Wesley Harris
There was a saying during my years in law enforcement: “You can’t outrun Motorola.” No matter how fast a suspect drives, the police radio is always faster. Officers ahead know you are coming before you arrive.
Today, even that old saying has become outdated. Modern law enforcement has moved far beyond two-way radios. Automated license plate readers can capture a vehicle’s tag, determine the direction it is traveling, and instantly alert officers dozens—or even hundreds—of miles away.
A fugitive may think he has outrun the police with a several-hour head start, but technology has often already documented where he has been and where he is headed.
The strategy of getting information to authorities ahead of a fleeing suspect is much older than most people realize. By the 1850s, telegraph wires stretched across North Louisiana, allowing nearly instantaneous communication between communities. Long before patrol cars carried radios—or computers and license plate readers—officers and citizens relied on the telegraph to send descriptions of wanted men ahead, warning towns down the line a fugitive might arrive soon.
One of the best examples occurred in July 1884, only months after Ruston was founded.
On July 15, 1884, a horse belonging to Mr. Rhodes disappeared near Gum Swamp, about six miles from Bastrop in Morehouse Parish. In the 1880s, stealing a horse was not simply taking transportation. A horse represented a family’s livelihood, making horse theft one of the most serious property crimes of the era.
Rhodes quickly gathered several men and began tracking the thief. According to newspaper accounts, the trail was so fresh they experienced little difficulty following it westward. The pursuing party remained in the saddle almost continuously, stopping only long enough to feed their exhausted horses. Even two of the suspect’s own uncles—J. W. Ray and another relative from the Cadeville community—joined the chase, determined to see their erring nephew brought to justice.
By about 9 o’clock on the morning of July 16, the weary posse rode into Choudrant. Rather than immediately continuing the chase, they made what proved to be the most important stop of the pursuit—the telegraph office.
Wasting no time, the operator wired a description of both the stolen horse and the suspect, Pharris Witchen, to communities along the Vicksburg, Shreveport & Pacific Railroad. Then the posse paused to eat breakfast and rest their horses while awaiting word.
They did not have to wait long.
Soon, the rhythmic click-clack of the telegraph sounder broke the silence.
The message was brief but decisive: the suspect had been arrested in Ruston.
The riders immediately mounted, using pieces of wooden shingles as makeshift riding whips to urge their tired horses the eight miles to Ruston.
The arrest itself reflected how different law enforcement looked during Ruston’s earliest days.
The town was only a few months old and law enforcement was rather unorganized, which helps explain why what appear to have been ordinary citizens—not police officers—were responsible for Witchen’s capture.
One of those men was Arthur Thomas Lott, usually known as “A.T.”, who was serving as Ruston’s telegraph operator. Lott had worked as a telegraph operator in Lincoln Parish before Ruston existed. He possibly had worked at Vienna, located on the “Wire Road” across north Louisiana, which maintained a telegraph office for decades before the railroad came through the area.
Assisting Lott was Joseph M. Goff, a 33-year old who grew up near Simsboro and worked as a real estate broker.
After receiving Witchen’s description over the wire, Lott and Goff spotted him inside a Ruston saloon, calmly sitting at a table playing cards.
Yes, Ruston had saloons in its early days before alcohol in any form was voted out.
Goff quietly stationed himself at the back door while Lott walked directly to the unsuspecting fugitive.
His command was simple, likely given with revolver in hand.
“Let me see if you can throw up both hands quick!”
Witchen did exactly that, surrendering without resistance.
The arresting men soon discovered Witchen had already sold the stolen horse. Apparently believing he had escaped the pursuit, he had even signed his real name to the bill of sale before settling down to enjoy himself around town. The newspaper dryly observed, “This is not his first effort at horse stealing.”
The Choudrant correspondent praised Lott and Goff for their “prompt and effectual action,” saying they deserved to be remembered for bringing the fugitive into custody.
History did remember one of them.
A. T. Lott later became the man responsible for enforcing the law in Ruston. First appointed a temporary police officer at $50 per month, he was sworn in as chief on June 10, 1897. He served the growing town until his death from a sudden illness in November.
The story illustrates that while technology evolves, good police work often follows the same principles.
In 1884, information traveled faster than a horse because of the telegraph. Today it travels even faster through radios, computers, and automated license plate readers. Once the word gets out, a fleeing suspect finds it increasingly difficult to stay ahead.
Pharris Witchen learned that lesson the hard way. More than a century before officers warned you couldn’t outrun a Motorola radio, he discovered you couldn’t outrun the telegraph.
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