The Legend of Ol’ Tar-Tooths Attack at The Old Fort in 1972

This is a powerful classic piece of Texas folklore.

Below is a small Ol’ Tar-Tooth killed in 1972 on The KING RANCH.

The Legend of Ol’ Tar-Tooths Attack at The Old Fort in 1972

The 16 Vaqueros settled in after a hard day, enjoying a simple meal of corn tortillas, ranch beans, and beef tail. The night was vast and silent, until it was shattered by a sound that froze the blood: a haunting scream from a frightened horse.

Two pistols immediately broke the silence. The Vaqueros rushed toward the sound to find a horrible sight: a cow had been dragged down by a pack of ten Ol’ Tar-Tooths. The creatures—a sickening mass of blackened teeth and claws—were tearing at the cow. These were the monsters the Vaqueros had seen once before in Mexico, believed to have been imported by a Cartel from the deep Venezuelan Amazon. More terrifying than their ferocity was their reproductive rate: they were prolific breeders, capable of tripling their population in just three months.

The Vaqueros ended the cow’s suffering, killing the ten creatures, but the danger was far from over. Under the moonlight, a second, larger pack of the monsters scattered the dogs, and then, a synchronized hop brought a mass of fifty creatures down upon one of the Vaqueros and his horse, instantly silencing them in a horrific, ravenous blanket of claws and black teeth.

The Apache Fort

With a sickening realization that they were facing an overwhelming, unnatural threat, the remaining fourteen Vaqueros wheeled their horses and galloped toward the only structure sturdy enough to serve as a fortress: a crumbling Adobe Building built by the Apaches in the 1700s, known simply as “The Old Fort.” This Old Fort was used by Buffalo Skinners.

They barricaded the single massive wooden door just as the swarm arrived.

The fighting was immediate and brutal. For hours, the night became a continuous, screaming hell. At one point, some too off their Old Spanish Spurs off their Boot to kill the creatures on the ground. They used all they had. No time to reload guns at times. The Vaqueros fired their old rifles and pistols through the narrow arrow slits and broken windows. The Ol’ Tar-Tooths were relentless, their size-18-shoe-long bodies constantly leaping and clawing at the thick adobe walls.

Every shot had to count. They were seasoned men, veterans of hard living and border skirmishes, but this was different. This wasn’t a fight with other men; it was a fight against a tide of pure, mindless hunger.

Fear became a suffocating presence in the tiny fort. Juan, the youngest, was shaking so badly he could barely reload, his hands slippery with sweat. Old Tomas, usually stoic, kept whispering prayers in rapid-fire Spanish, his eyes wide and fixed on the floor, terrified of the shadow-crawling monsters. Some called out to The Holy Mother for help. They felt helpless—pinned down, the earth alive with their killers. Every successful shot offered a moment of hope, only to be crushed by the sound of new bodies hitting the wall outside.

They fought until the moon began to wane, and their leather pouches felt tragically light. Their last rounds were loaded, their hearts pounding a desperate rhythm against their ribs. They were ready to sell their lives dearly.

The Dawn Escape

Just when the silence of their depleted ammo felt loudest, they heard a new sound: the rumble of a diesel engine. Yes, in the distance, it was headed their way.

The squeaking of rusty metal parts made a very strange sound of Hope. A glimmer of Hope. Such darkness had been and now the noise was close.

A truck from the King Ranch arrived, its headlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. Ranch hands, alerted by the continuous gunfire, were inside with a monstrous solution: weed sprayers filled with gasoline.

The truck driver drove a wide, circle around the old building, spraying the highly flammable liquid all over everything. But the gasoline was not set ablaze. A Fire would have been devastating to the land. Just Gasoline on the creatures was an agonizing pain and they shit themselves away quickly. As the first light of dawn touched the horizon, the smell of gasoline and the intense skirting squeals of the creatures had finally drove the Ol’ Tar-Tooths back. The whole pack waz retreating. The swarm, still numbering in the hundreds now, began to melt away into the shadows and the scrub brush, fleeing the Gasoline spray.

The Vaqueros wasted no time. They burst from the fortress with their Horses, leaping onto their horses as the exited. There were no words exchanged with the arriving Ranch Hands, no shouts of thanks, and no talk of pay. Only the desperate instinct to survive. They spurred their horses South, leaving a thick cloud of dust behind them as they and their mounts galloped back toward the border, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the horrors of that night. A deadly night. A most memorable night.

But it wasn’t over.

The Vaqueros refused to return to the King Ranch ever again. Their promised pay was later sent down to a remote ranch deep in Mexico where they finally settled on a new Ranch, their silence a testament to the terror they had witnessed.

The legend was born that night, whispered low, softly by cowboys and ranch hands all across South Texas and whenever the Story was told, the teller always ended it the same way: