Brann The Iconoclast, vol 12 | Page 8

ever since. He was connected in an editorial
capacity with the Galveston News, Houston Post, San Antonio Express
and Waco Daily News. In 1890, during the Hogg-Clark campaign, he
established the ICONOCLAST in Austin, Texas, and made a fight for
Hogg, making his first appearance in the character which has made him
famous. The paper suspended publication and Mr. Brann accepted a
position on the San Antonio Express, which he held until the latter part
of 1894. He came to Waco in 1895 and began editorial writing on the
Waco Daily News. He decided to reestablish the ICONOCLAST and it
has been a great success, reaching a phenomenal circulation, having
readers all over this country. The tragedy of Friday can be traced to the
attack which was made on Baylor University in the ICONOCLAST. It
was in Brann's peculiar style, and attracted considerable attention
throughout the country. Mr. Brann is a native of Southern Illinois.
* * * DAVIS FOLLOWS BRANN.
THE DEATH STRUGGLE AND KINDRED INCIDENTS.
While breaking hearts watched by Mr. Brann's bedside there was a
loving wife, a dutiful son and kind friends sitting by the bedside of

Tom E. Davis. For the first six hours Dr. J. C. J. King, Dr. Curtis and
Dr. Olive endeavored to bring their patient about. He was perfectly
conscious, but was yet suffering from the shock. At midnight he was no
better and a change for the worse was soon noted. The patient would
awake from the effect of opiates, talk with those about him and then
relapse again into slumber. He knew his son and wife, friends who
called and friends who spoke to him, but there was rapid pulse and a
labored breathing that indicated the approach of death. Throughout the
small hours of the new-born day the wife sat by that couch, and with
her sat kind friends. Everything known to science was done to save the
life that fleeting breath told was fast ebbing away. There was not a
continued loss of blood, but with a perforated frame, the creature of
nature could not exist, and it was evident he was fast nearing the end.
The dawn of early morning found the faithful watchers yet at the
bedside, and the rising sun peeped into the room and shed a glow about
the sick room, appearing to light the way for the soul which was soon
to wing its flight to realms beyond. The circle about the couch enlarged,
children of the wounded man gathering about their weeping mother, his
sister and other relatives coming to watch and wait. During the early
hours of the morning and until the forenoon was advanced, friends
paced the lobby of the Pacific hoping every moment for a report that
the patient was better. Each minute passed as an hour, and the hours
seemed as long drawn out days. Each report from the sick room was
"no change."
At noon it became evident that but a short time remained. A. C. Riddle
sat upon one side of the couch and Richard Selman at the other, the
first rubbing the injured portion of the wounded right arm, while the
other moistened the parched lips with constant applications of cold
water. By Mr. Riddle sat the weeping wife, soon to be a widow, and
about the apartment were gathered the children. The last hour of the
citizen was one which will never be forgotten by those who watched
his last moments. Labored was the breathing and every breath was a
gasp and a groan. His children stood by the couch and saw the
pain-racked form, and his wife held his hand and prayed to the God of
all people to spare him to her for a longer time. Prayers were of no
avail and tears did not soothe the pain. He was in agony, and
accompanied with that agony was a desire to say something. He

relapsed into slumber at times and would at intervals awake. His eyes
would roll about the gathered friends and relatives, and an
unintelligible sound would escape. There seemed to be no control of
the tongue except at times he could utter the words, "Wife" and
"Molly." The silence in the sick room was disturbed by the gasp of the
dying man and the weeping of his family.
The hour of 2 o'clock came and the breath was shorter and harder.
Little Nellie, 2 years of age, was brought to the bedside, and looking at
her father in childish innocence smiled, and cried, "Mama, is that my
papa?" Did papa hear those words? It is to be hoped he did. They rung
out loud within the quiet room, the walls caught them and echoed the
music of the child's voice, and probably that music joined the music of
the great