Miller hired on as a deputy to Sheriff George A. ‘Bud’ Frazer, who did not question his new assistant’s antecedents. In west Texas around the turn of the century, asking about a man’s background was both discourteous and hazardous.

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For a while, Miller’s conduct was exemplary. He neither smoked nor drank, a rarity in that hard-bitten land, and was a regular member of the church congregation. He quickly became a familiar figure in Pecos, making his rounds clad in his inevitable black broadcloth coat, black boots and black Stetson. The nickname ‘Deacon Jim’ was a natural.

In 1891, Miller married Sallie Clements. Her brother Little Mannen came to town with her, and Miller began to use him as a deputy. As cattle rustling and horse theft increased up and down the Pecos Valley, Miller spent more time away from town in pursuit of the thieves. The trouble was, he never caught any, and the ranchers gathered to plan some way to stop their losses. Sheriff Frazer’s brother-in-law, Barney Riggs, suggested that maybe a first step would be to fire Miller, whom he rightly suspected of being involved in the rustling.

Miller laughed off the accusation, members of his church supported him, and the town took sides. The wonder is that Miller did not immediately reply to the accusation with gunpowder. Perhaps he did not because his lawman’s job was such a wonderful cover for his part-time rustling business. Or possibly he was reluctant to challenge Riggs, who was something of a hard case himself. Sentenced to life in Yuma after he had killed a rival for a woman’s favors, Riggs had been pardoned in 1887–he had killed two convicts who attacked the warden during an escape attempt.

Frazer, without proof of Miller’s dishonesty, kept him on. A few weeks later, Miller killed a Mexican prisoner who was ‘trying to escape.’ Riggs alleged that Miller had murdered the man because he knew where Deacon Jim had hidden a pair of stolen mules. Sure enough, on instructions supplied by Riggs, Frazer found the mules–and immediately fired Miller.

In the summer of 1892, Miller opposed Frazer in an election for sheriff and was defeated. Miller managed to win the office of city marshal, however, and began to surround himself with gunmen, some of them relatives, including Little Mannen Clements and one of the Hardin clan. Animosity festered in Pecos, and the boil finally came to a head in May 1893, while Frazer was away. The criminal element simply took over Pecos, and law-abiding citizens feared to leave their homes.

Somebody sent a telegram to Frazer, who immediately caught a train for home. Miller arranged an ambush on the station platform, but a citizen overheard the plan and sent a wire to warn Frazer. When Frazer got off the train flanked by Texas Rangers, the trap fizzled. So, unfortunately, did the case against Miller, Clements and Hardin, who promptly resumed their swaggering ways in Pecos.

Miller, now out of a job as marshal, opened a hotel, and the Pecos ulcer began to fester again. Con Gibson, who had warned Frazer, was murdered in New Mexico by a man apparently working for Miller, but Frazer could do nothing. Finally, one morning in 1894, Frazer took matters into his own hands.

Passing Miller in front of his hotel, Frazer roared: ‘Jim, you’re a thief and a murderer! Here’s one for Con Gibson!’ He drew his six-gun and opened fire, drilling one bullet into the front of Miller’s customary black coat and a second into the gunman’s right arm. Miller drew left-handed and returned fire, but his slugs went wild. Frazer emptied his revolver into the middle of that black coat, and Miller finally went down in the street. Frazer had put three rounds into a space you could cover with a coffee cup, right over Deacon Jim’s heart. And then his friends learned why he wore the black broadcloth coat in every kind of weather–underneath it, Miller wore a steel plate that had caught and turned Frazer’s bullets. Miller was badly bruised, but very much alive and panting for revenge. ‘I’m going to kill Bud Frazer,’ he promised, ‘if I have to crawl 20 miles on my knees to do it.’ While Miller nursed his battered body and his grudge, the town polarized. Many leading citizens, pillars of the church, supported Miller because of his sanctimonious Sunday behavior and his recent ‘conversion’ at a revival meeting.

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