As it must to all men, Death came last week to Wilford B. Smith, editor and publisher of the once-famed Pitchfork and a mighty man in North Texas.
Prodigiously built (he was six feet four), prodigiously dressed (in black suit, broad black hat and flowing black Windsor tie), a prodigious writer, talker, fighter and drinker, Pitchfork Smith worshipped at the shrine of one man and one man only: William Cowper Brann (the Iconoclast). Once, on Brann's birthday, his disciple got drunk, visited his grave at Waco, and sat there all night communing with the soul of his friend, for every drink he...
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