E.B. Writers of Dallas

By Esther M. Bauer
Special to The Washington Post
Wednesday, August 16, 2000

CHILDRESS, Texas –– If the measure of a man is determined by his fearlessness, honesty and respect, then Texas Ranger Leo Hickman is one tough, honorable hombre.
When a deranged gunman shot Hickman in his eye and back before killing another man and wounding a third, Hickman aimed through the blood spurting from his face and shot the killer, disabling him before he could harm anyone else. That was in 1961, when Hickman was just 33 and a Texas highway patrolman.
The loss of his left eye never slowed Hickman, who, against his wife's admonitions, drove himself home from the hospital. He later became a sharpshooter on the state police pistol team, and in 1971 followed in his uncle's and cousin's footsteps to become a Texas Ranger.
Now, at 72, Sgt. Leo Hickman is still on duty and thinking about retiring next year after 45 years in law enforcement--nearly 30 of them as a Ranger. As far as anyone knows, he's the oldest Texas Ranger ever, and he can still shoot better than most people half his age.
As one of 107 Rangers stationed throughout Texas to assist other agencies in criminal investigations, Hickman is the only Ranger in a northwest corner of Texas that's larger than Connecticut and Rhode Island combined--a region of 26,000 people scattered over eight counties and 6,600 square miles. It's a domain where three-story buildings are considered skyscrapers, prickly pear cactus thrive and withering summers blow the land into fine red dust.
Cattle far outnumber people here, but there's no scarcity of calls for Hickman's assistance. Sometimes it's for cattle rustling or simple thievery. Other times, it's for homicide, arson or public corruption.
Except for vacations and other time off, he has been on call 24 hours a day for the past 30 years.
Hickman's uniform is a Stetson hat, cowboy boots and the bearing he brings to the job. The hat and boots make his height soar over 6 feet 6, and the ever-so-slightly altered gaze of his hazel blue glass eye and the cocked semiautomatic Colt .45 on his hip make him even more imposing.
Sheriffs and other lawmen say Hickman has the look of the Rangers who came before him, a mystical bunch with a 178-year history noted for a fearless pursuit of lawbreakers.
That combination of fact and legend makes his job easier, Hickman said.
That was the case a few years ago, when he helped Donley County Sheriff Jimmy Thompson end a standoff near a nursing home. A man in a nearby house had fired a .44 magnum, and for seven hours Thompson and 10 other officers sought cover behind barricades and squad cars while trying to talk the man into surrendering.
But the gunman gave up to Hickman within 10 minutes of his arrival.
Hickman just walked up to the porch, knocked on the door and identified himself as a Texas Ranger. He still recalls the red-hot-poker sensation of the bullets when he was shot three decades earlier, and said he was "as nervous as hell" when the man stepped onto the porch, the huge handgun aimed at Hickman's gut.
Not given to prayer even at times like that, Hickman said he just talked common sense. "I told him, 'You're scaring the people in that old folks' home.' I told him to go back inside and put the pistol away and come back without it, and he did. I think he was impressed because I was a Texas Ranger."
Because Hickman made it look easy, Sheriff Thompson has been the brunt of ribbing from other officers ever since.
"It's Leo's demeanor," Thompson said. "He's not mean, but when it comes to doing his job, he does it no matter what. He's been in gunfights; you name it: Got his eye shot out, and he keeps on going; but he got the ol' boy that shot him, and that's what counts."
Hickman's tenure as a Ranger has surpassed the once-mandatory retirement age of 65 because of the high regard superiors have for him. Seven years ago, he challenged the age limit by asking to be exempted from the policy of the Texas Department of Public Safety, which oversees the Ranger division. His request led to the elimination of the age cap.
Now, Hickman is 10 years older than the next oldest Ranger. The only Ranger who may have been older on active duty was a character from San Antonio who produced so many birth certificates that no one knew how old he was when he retired in the 1970s.
Top-ranking officers consider Hickman a modern-day counterpart of the Rangers who helped bring law and order to the Old West as well as end the exploits of bank robbers Bonnie and Clyde.
"Leo's integrity and character as he got older has never at all let up," Cmdr. Bruce Casteel said.
Hickman's early 1990s drug investigation of Claude Lane, then a Childress County sheriff and a former high school football hero, was unpopular. But Hickman's only regret is that Lane didn't get more than a three-year federal sentence for selling marijuana. "I think police officers who get caught ought to get three times the penalty that anyone else gets," Hickman said.
The assistance of Rangers like Hickman is as critical in rural Texas today as it was in the past because local agencies--some of them one-person operations--often lack the resources to conduct thorough crime scene investigations with follow-up in forensic labs. Rangers also are an asset when a crime is too politically charged to be investigated by elected sheriffs or appointed police chiefs. And during prison breaks or suspected cattle thefts, the Rangers can bring in helicopters to expand the search.
The last time Hickman had to ride a horse while searching for missing cattle was 15 years ago along the Red River. "A helicopter rides a lot easier and you can see a lot more," Hickman said.
He is renowned for his thoroughness, and although he manages a computer keyboard by pecking out words two fingers at a time, he would rather use a pencil to write his weekly reports, which secretaries then transcribe to a computer data bank.
He has assisted officers as far away as Syracuse, N.Y., where he is somewhat of a legend even though a decade has passed since he helped convict two Texas dishwashers of setting a million-dollar fire at the posh Skaneateles Country Club, west of Syracuse.
"He's still the man I call if I want help in Texas," said Dean Decker, who as chief investigator for the district attorney's office in Syracuse was involved in the case. "He gives the impression of being a soft man, but I wouldn't want him after me. . . ."
Dennis Blythe of the New York State Police violent crime squad remains in awe of the respect local sheriffs and a Texas judge showed Hickman when he walked into their offices. "Everywhere we went, they got up and offered him their chair, but when that judge got up and Leo took his chair, we knew this is a man of distinction. You just don't get that kind of respect in New York."© 2000 The Washington Post Company.