Maybe it’s alligators’ unflinching stares that’s so loathsome or their cunning patience with prey that strikes deep-rooted fear.
This deadly swamp beast sits in motionless silence waiting an unwary critter to mistake the calm waters for safety. Alligators’ success comes not from trudging forward, but from staying perfectly, even unnaturally still, to know exactly when to strike.
Maybe that’s why when early Bell County settlers found them in creeks and ponds, they hastily dispatched them to the reptilian hereafter. According to Texas Parks and Wildlife Department, alligators can be native in East Bell County along swampy creeks and ponds.
The American alligator (Alligator mississippiensis) name hails from a corruption of the Spanish “el lagarto” or lizard. The current spelling dates back to at least 1699, according to Parks & Wildlife documents.
During the 1904 Bell County Old Settlers Association reunion, Newton Cannon Duncan (1826-1916) recalled a foray into the county with other early settlers. They traveled for three days without food until they came upon a lake. There they fished and feasted on a tasty repast of a frog and young alligator.
Alligators commonly, if not warily, cohabited with humans in those early days. Even the venerable Handbook of Texas says so, indicating that mid-19th century settlers found the blackland prairie abundant with wildlife, eventually hunting buffalo, bear and hogs to extinction and adding “the last alligator was killed in 1908.”
Or was it?
A March 1908 Temple Daily Telegram article reported a live alligator was “caught in the Nolan Creek only a few miles above Belton.”
The Bell County Democrat added more details: “Belton certainly took on the appearance of a tropical town in a tropical country.” Boys suspended a looped copper wire from a pole in Nolan Creek. They were able to snag a gator sleeping on the creek bottom. The boys dragged it to the banks as a crowd gathered to gawk.
Seven months later, a Temple woman on North 19th found what she called “a freak reptile” resembling a gigantic lizard or a young alligator living in nearby Santa Fe water tanks — two and a half feet from nose to tail and covered with a rough scaly hide.
Alligators have continued to pop up in unusual areas, in sleepy places and in occasional mailboxes. Bell County Sheriff Albert Bonds (1881-1927) was surprised in July 1923 when his brother in Beaumont express-shipped him a 3-foot-long baby alligator. Bonds gave it to the city of Belton for its park.
Maybe it’s still there?
As if to prove to themselves they had indeed conquered the primeval lizard in the early 1900s, exhibitors at the early Bell County Fairs featured “stunt alligators” with slides and water pools. A hefty alligator was hoisted on a raised platform and, at the signal, slowly slid down a chute into a water pool while the crowds clapped and cheered at the splash. Such stunts were common in the humid climes of Louisiana and Florida, but in Central Texas such alligator acrobatics attracted huge ticket sales.
In May 2008, passersby were surprised to see a 6-foot, 200-pound critter sunbathing along FM 436 and FM 1123. Two Bell County deputies and two Salado officers roped but failed to capture it after numerous attempts. The on-scene supervisor shot it for safety reasons. May is a typical breeding season for these critters, so a Parks & Wildlife biologist surmised the gator was looking for a swampy love connection.
Texas Department of Transportation workers occasionally happen upon gators along roadways, especially in the areas of Belton and Stillhouse Hollow lakes. Some are illegal pets that were let loose; some are naturally occurring. Texas law allows alligators to be taken on private property April 1 to June 30 and with landowner’s consent, but not with firearms.
Alligators are ingrained into Bell County memory, although those memories, like the aquatic reptile itself, are sunken deeply in unusual places.
Early Alva “E.A.” Limmer Jr. (1920-2008) recalled sweet memories of his growing-up years in Alligator, a tiny farming burg located just a few lizard steps from Bartlett. Inhabitants took the name from the nearby Alligator Creek that meanders for about 21 miles through Bell, Williamson and Milam counties to the San Gabriel River. And, yes, alligators found it to be a cozy spot to nest.
Limmer never saw alligators but he admitted to catching plenty of crawfish and other delicacies in the marshy flats.
As for the town, Alligator wasn’t much of one. A few dozen families settled there in the early 1890s. The community had a store, a school and an obligatory Baptist church with an open-air tabernacle for revivals and church picnics.
The Bartlett newspaper regularly reported the community’s news. In 1907, the Alligator Literary Society held an overflow ice cream supper and raised $29 to support the school.
Another 1907 account described Alligator citizens as “handsome men and pretty women … with open hearts and outstretched hands.”
Limmer composed a brief essay about his community in the 1988 “Story of Bell County,” which he helped to compile. Each fall, men from the community would head to the Milam County lignite mines to fetch a load of coal to heat the school during the winter. Unfortunately, the school’s flimsy stove pipes couldn’t handle the extreme heat, and the school burned in 1926.
The next year, the stalwart citizens of Alligator rebuilt the school, but consolidated it as Althea School No. 11. In 1948, the Alligator-Althea school district merged with the Bartlett Independent School District.
Although into the late 20th century, several descendants of early Alligator settlers remained, memories have dimmed along with alligator sightings.
