agent who had worked for White wrote that he was “as God-
fearing as the mighty defenders of the Alamo,” adding, “He was an
impressive sight in his large, suede Stetson, and a plumb-line
running from head to heel would touch every part of the rear of
his body. He had a majestic tread, as soft and silent as a cat. He
talked like he looked and shot—right on target. He commanded
the utmost in respect and scared the daylights out of young
Easterners like me who looked upon him with a mixed feeling of
reverence and fear, albeit if one looked intently enough into his
steel-gray eyes he could see a kindly and understanding gleam.”
White had joined the Bureau of Investigation in 1917. He had
wanted to enlist in the army, to fight in World War I, but he had
been barred because of a recent surgery. Becoming a special agent
was his way of serving his country, he said. But that was only part
of it. Truth was, he knew that the tribe of old frontier lawmen to
which he belonged was vanishing. Though he wasn’t yet forty, he
was in danger of becoming a relic in a Wild West traveling show,
living but dead.