Would-be mail thieves didn’t stand a chance against Stagecoach Mary. The hard-drinking, quick-shooting mail carrier sported two guns and men’s clothing. Bandits beware: In 1890s Montana, would-be mail thieves didn’t stand a chance against Stagecoach Mary.

As the first African American woman to carry mail, she stood out on the trail—and became a Wild West legend. Rumor had it that she’d fended off an angry pack of wolves with her rifle, had “the temperament of a grizzly bear,” and was not above a gunfight. But how much of Stagecoach Mary’s story is myth?

Born Mary Fields in around 1832, Fields was born into slavery, and like many other enslaved people, her exact date of birth is not known. Even the place of her birth is questionable, though historians have pinpointed Hickman County, Tennessee as the most likely location. At the time, enslaved people were treated like pieces of a property; their numbers were recorded in record books, their names were not.

Her story becomes clearer after the end of the Civil War, when she was freed. Many formerly enslaved people headed north to friendlier territory. So did Fields, who seems to have gone up the Mississippi River working on riverboats and acting as a servant and laundress for families along the way. She ended up in Ohio, living a life that was well outside the norm—in a convent.

It’s not clear how Fields discovered the Ursuline Convent of the Sacred Heart in Toledo, Ohio. Some accounts say she accompanied a daughter of the Warner family to the convent. Others say she headed there with a family friend who was a nun.

The religious community, which still exists today, was serene and disciplined. There, Fields worked as a groundskeeper. Her gruff style and penchant for cursing raised eyebrows in the quiet convent. When asked how her journey to Toledo was, she reportedly told one of the nuns that she was ready for “a good cigar and a drink.” Historical records show that the nuns complained about her volatile temper and her “difficult” nature.

According to historian Dee Garceau-Hagen, one nun remembered Fields’ wrath when anyone disturbed her lovingly kept grounds, saying “God help anyone who walked on the lawn after Mary had cut it.” Fields also tussled with the nuns over her wages—behavior that would have shocked white women who expected African Americans to be well behaved and subservient.

Though Fields struggled to adjust to the sheltered life of the convent, she did make a friend: Mother Amadeus Dunne, the convent’s Mother Superior. Known for her fearlessness and charisma, Dunne was called to missionary work by her bishop and headed to Montana where she founded an Ursuline convent there in 1884. There, she assisted Jesuit priests who were starting schools for the Blackfeet Nation. In 1885, Fields got word that the beloved nun was gravely ill, and headed to Montana to help her.

The West suited Fields, who nursed Dunne back to health and began working for her new convent near Cascade, Montana. But though she faithfully served the nuns in the harsh, sparsely populated community, news of her subversive behavior reached the bishop, who raised serious concerns about Fields’ habits of drinking, smoking, shooting guns and wearing men’s clothing. When Fields and the convent’s male janitor pointed guns at one another during an argument, it was the final straw.

Kicked out of the convent, Fields was on her own—and she set about living a life that was shocking by 19th-century standards. She took in laundry and did odd jobs, started businesses and became known for liking hard liquor and gunfights.

This tough reputation ended up paying off. In 1895, she got a contract from the postal service to become a star route carrier—an independent contractor who carried mail using a stagecoach donated by Mother Amadeus. It suited Fields to a tee. As a star carrier, her job was to protect the mail on her route from thieves and bandits and to deliver mail. She was only the second woman in the United States (and the first African American woman) to serve in that role.

“Stagecoach Mary” or “Black Mary,” as she was nicknamed, carried a rifle and a revolver. She met trains with mail, then drove her stagecoach over rocky, rough roads and through snow and inclement weather. And though she intimidated would-be thieves with her height and her tough demeanor, she became beloved by locals, who praised her generosity and her kindness to children.

For eight years, Fields protected and delivered the mail. Eventually age caught up to her and she retired. The community rallied to support her, despite occasional dust-ups with neighbors. Local restaurateurs gave her free meals; saloon regulars chatted with her until bars became forbidden to woman due to a town ordinance. When she died on December 5, 1914, her funeral was one of the largest the town had ever seen.

Because of scant records and the temptation to create Wild West legends out of ordinary people, many facts about Field’s life are still fuzzy. What is clear is that her real-life persona was extraordinary enough to draw plenty of attention on its own. Mary Fields didn’t need to be a myth to stand out from the crowd—but she didn’t seem to mind her outsized reputation.

Although over a quarter of a century has gone by, the bitter memory of the Treaty Oak’s poisoning still lingers in the minds of many Texans. Few recall, however, the dark motives of the man convicted of the crime.

The Treaty Oak is the lone surviving member of the Council Oaks, a grove where folklore holds that Stephen F. Austin met with Comanche and Tonkawa tribes to negotiate the first boundary treaty of Texas. The 600-year-old live oak is a belove Austin landmark. Before the poisoning, its branches spread some 130-feet wide.

John Giedraitis, at that time the arborist for the City of Austin, discovered dead grass under the tree in spring, 1989. After heavy rains caused the poison to penetrate the oak, leaves yellowed and sailed to the ground. Something was terribly wrong. Soon the malevolent cause of the tree’s illness was discovered, a revelation that shocked the Lone Star State.

When news of the poisoning spread throughout Austin, residents were outraged. The tree was a treasured part of the region’s history: Before European-Americans settled the land around it, the tree was revered in Tejas, Apache, and Comanche culture. A plaque beneath the site tells the (unsubstantiated) story of Texas settler Stephen F. Austin negotiating a border treaty with Native Americans on that very spot in the 1830s.

In an attempt to save the dying tree’s life, the city launched a full-blown recovery campaign. The contaminated soil was replaced with fresh dirt and the damaged roots were treated with sugar. A sprinkler system was installed in Treaty Oak Park to provide the tree a steady supply of revitalizing spring water. Other efforts were less practical: a Dallas-based psychic named Sharon Capehart tried healing the tree by transferring energy into it. (In the process, she allegedly discovered that its spirit had once belonged to an ancient Egyptian woman named Alexandria.) Without any supposed psychic gifts or tree expertise to offer, some Austin citizens responded with good vibes.

Texans from far and wide arrived to pay their respects to the dying tree. Around its thick trunk, they left notes and gifts, as well as prayers for the tree’s recovery. The experts were unanimous: none of them believed there was any hope for the Treaty Oak. Billionaire Ross Perot sent Austin a blank check. The city would spend $250,000 in an attempt to save the tree, using radical, desperate methods.

As the public processed the shock and grief, the Austin police worked to nab the perpetrator. On June 29, 1989—a few months after the crime had been committed—they arrested their primary suspect: a 45-year-old local named Paul Stedman Cullen. He was convicted on a second-degree criminal mischief charge nearly a year later. His motive?

Cullen poisoned the tree as part of a mystic ritual. “Prosecutors said he used the herbicide in an occult ritual to kill his love for his counselor at a methadone clinic, protect her from another man, and pay back the state for outdoor work he was forced to do while he was in prison,” The New York Times reported in 1990.

Before pouring the Velpar on the oak’s roots, Cullen had placed objects that belonged to his counselor in a circle around the trunk. He told an acquaintance that every time he passed the tree and saw it dying he would “see his love for the counselor dying.” The jury had the option to sentence him to life in prison, but in the end they settled on a sentence of nine years (which he served a third of) and a $1000 fine.

Witness Cindy Blanco testified that Cullen owned books on witchcraft and that he’d told her he had placed items belonging to the counselor around the oak’s roots before pouring the herbicide. When Cullen drove past the dying tree, Blanco claimed, it was as though he were watching his own unrequited love slowly perishing.

Cullen maintained his innocence and claimed the media was setting him up. His attorney made the case that Cullen had lied to Blanco in an attempt to appear impressive. The defendant faced the stark possibility of a life sentence.

The jury faced a difficult decision. They understood that a man’s life is worth more than any tree, even if the man in question is a criminal. Yet at the same time, the jury acknowledged a serious and disturbing crime had been committed and justice must be served. In May 1990, the jury gave Cullen a nine-year sentence and a fine of $1,000. He would serve only three years.

Perhaps prayers are stronger than black magic. In the end, the Treaty Oak survived. Though now a third of its original size, the oak is going strong and managed to produce acorns in 1997 for the first time since the poisoning. The Treaty Oak outlived Cullen, who passed away in 2001 at the age of only 57.