Bone Mizell’s bullwhip cracked sharply over the heads of the cattle he’d just rustled. He was in a hurry. He had worked up a powerful thirst just thinking of selling these critters in Arcadia. ‘Git along, you maverick devils!’ he shouted, again flicking his whip. They weren’t mavericks. They were branded cattle, and Bone knew it. Hell, he even knew the owner. He wasn’t about to quibble over such dubious distinctions, however–not when ‘the Thirst’ was upon him.

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Flickering gas lamps were just beginning to illuminate Arcadia’s dusty main street when Bone drove his small herd into the holding pens. This rowdy, raucous old cow town was the county seat for DeSoto County, the hub of Florida’s booming 19th-century cattle industry. Bone knew a couple of shady buyers who’d pay him more than enough to quench even his famous thirst.

With spurs a-jinglin’, Bone headed straight for his favorite haunt, the Arcadia Bar and Grill Saloon. ‘Bone, you wrangling old whanker, where you been?’ one patron shouted, looking for a free drink. ‘How’s for settin’ up a round?’ ‘Sure,’ replied the ever obliging Bone. ‘Got me up a herd of strays over Kississimee way. Just peddled ‘em down at the pens.’

Bone had barely bellied up to the bar, however, when two deputies pushed through the swinging doors and arrested him on the spot for rustling.

The buyers had turned him in, and it was not incidental that the judge had wasted no time in signing Bone’s arrest warrant. He owned the cattle Bone had stolen. Bone knew this when he’d rustled ‘em. He’d recognized the brand from when he’d cowboyed for the judge.

Fact is, Bone was famed throughout the state for his remarkable memory for both cattle and brands. ‘Get Bone,’ was the cry all over Florida when roundup time came. ‘Ol’ Bone, he could tell with one look which calf came from which cow, which brand belonged to which ranch,’ an oldtimer recalled.

‘How you pleadin’ Bone?’ the disgruntled judge asked the sober old cow hunter the next day. Tugging at his wide-brimmed straw hat–which he refused to take off–Bone proceeded to blister the jurist. ‘Now you look-a here Judge, I’ve stole hundreds of cattle and put your mark on ‘em. Jis ’cause I’ve stole a few from you, you go and have me indicted. You jist better get this whole deal nolly-prosseed [dismissed]–pronto.’ The chagrined and chastened judge did just that, and Bone went free. He immediately embarked on a bender with his ill-gotten gains from the judge’s cattle.

There’s no doubt that Bone Mizell was a man for his time. In fact, the entire Mizell family figured prominently in Florida’s early violent history. As soldiers, lawmen, judges, cowboys and rustlers, they survived the Seminole Indian wars, cattle wars, assassinations and deadly feuds. Of them all, Bone became the most famous.

Horse Creek, Fla., was a sparsely settled community when Bone was born there in 1863. He was the eighth of 12 children for Morgan Mizell and Mary Fletcher Tucker. Bone’s daddy much admired the diminutive French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, so he saddled his new son with the fancy name of Morgan Bonaparte Mizell. That’s where the comparison ended, however. Napoleon was just over 5 feet tall; Bone was nearly 6 feet 5.

As he grew, Bone took on the gawky appearance of an Ichabod Crane. Tall, lean and lanky in the saddle, he often let his long legs dangle below the stirrups. His awkwardness was deceptive because Bone could ride his small, Florida-bred horse–called a Marsh Tackie–with the easy grace of a circus rider.

He could just as gracefully flick a fly off a cow’s rump with his 18-foot bullwhip, never raising a hair on the poor dumb beast. Most Florida drovers had this same skill. They used their whips to herd cows on cattle drives. According to legend, it was the loud ‘craack’ of the whips that gave Florida’s drovers their nickname, ‘Cracker cowboys,’ but the term ‘Cracker’ was certainly used earlier.

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