The Enfield Gang Massacre #1: A Bank Robber’s Nursery Rhyme

“Everything’s bigger in Texas.” 

The sentiment applies to everything from cowboy hats, to BBQ plates, and servings of iced tea. But in the same breath, it speaks to the egos and magnitude of stories, often moving from recollection to epic in a manner of moments. The double-edge phrase might be the best way to encapsulate the inherent struggle the lone star state finds itself in. Equal parts messy reality and mythologized history, Texas finds itself at the crossroads of the Wild West’s representation in media. Works set in or around the local are no different, almost dragged in like the black hole that is the second largest state in the union, and That Texas Blood, a book by two non-Texans, is no exception. 

The Enfield Gang Massacre #1 – written by Chris Condon, drawn, colored, and lettered by Jacob Phillips, with color assists from Pip Martin – returns to Ambrose County, the fictional region at the heart of That Texas Blood, to tell a story about the county’s growing pains in 1875. The Enfield Gang Massacre focuses on a titular event, once teased in the backmatter of That Texas Blood #7, in which a gang of bank robbers led by Montgomery Enfield are being hunted by a Texas Ranger. In Texas Blood fashion, the book also features a strong frame for the narrative; a traveling Wild West sideshow displaying the bodies of the massacred Enfield Gang. 

From the first page, nothing is more evident than the creative duo’s interest in the intersection of flawed reality and mythic reverence. Condon’s use of a narrative frame, makes this evident immediately, as the evocation of a Wild West show feels like the southern equivalent of Homer invoking the muses at the beginning of The Odyssey. It’s a clear signal that the story unfolding is one closer to myth than accurate account, and some flair is to be expected. The book then shifts into a straightforward western yarn, following Enfield and his gang as they rob a bank for the umpteenth time. Condon infuses a charming, playful tone to this robbery as Enfield jokes with the teller as they offer the criminal a job. 

From there, the issue follows Enfield’s reservations about continuing the outlaw path, offering a somber look toward the future as Ambrose Country becomes a little less wild. Condon’s script lingers in these moments, allowing for a rapid connection between Enfield and the reader. The outlaw has issues with his spouse and refuses to revelry in the cash with his posse, showing through character beats how weary he’s become. It’s two simple beats that exemplify Condon’s grounded, emotional storytelling that thrives in rich dialogue and poignant silences. 

Phillips is the perfect partner for this project, as his art and coloring sculpt the emotion from the script into something beyond compelling. While the setting and costuming have changed, Phillips brings the Texas Blood magic to the issue through the expressive linework and strong silhouettes. The artist’s ability to render complex facial expressions, here under a variety of pitch-perfect mustaches is a massive boon to the title. There’s a nuisance to every panel that taps into that introspection of myth and reality. 

The violence and action beats are blocked like something out of a classic Hollywood Western, while the quieter moments feel more real, as the facade of outlaw and lawman is abandoned. But to Phillip’s credit, these moments bleed into one another, and an image of violence goes from staged to visceral, while quiet contemplation becomes grand and sweeping. The perfect example of this comes at the midpoint of the issue, after Enfield’s partner, Amy questions where he’s disappeared to. The next page establishes the scene with a tiny Enfield all alone, striking a match.

The panel following shows Enfield lighting a cigarillo and was used as promotional material by Phillips on Twitter. In the full context of the moment, that establishing panel is such an arresting image, full of grandeur overshadowing the soft sound of a flicking match, that one can but stop and soak in the page. The composition of it speaks to the speck that Enfield is in comparison to Texas, and how little impact the man can make on the landscape. It’s the reality of history clashing with the overwhelming wave of fables incoming, as the tiny spec of a man on the page will then become an equal subject in the next panel. 

That visual language of the page is a great representation of the subtle difference employed in the book’s layouts. Phillips primarily works in three rows of panels per page, which gives the sense of widescreen images, a format that speaks to the cinematic nature of the Western genre. Whether it’s just two characters sharing a drink in a saloon, a close-up of a man lighting his cigarillo, or a vicious shoot-out, that use of composition gives epic quality to the images on the page. 

Much of the arresting power that The Enfield Gang Massacre channels is thanks to the coloring. Phillips bucks the traditional washed-out, sepia tones that have become the hallmark of the Western. There’s a bit of that quality in the opening, as the Wild West Show of 1906 in Oklahoma is adjacent to Texas both temporally and spatially. The shift from those paler purplish-grays to the rich turquoise of the sky is an instantaneous reminder that this is not a matter of record, but something more legendary. 

The hues for the 1875 section deliver a rich, atmospheric tone that captures a sweeping sense of beauty for this version of Texas. Everything pops, especially the visceral reds of blood and the changes in the vast skies. The scene referenced above, with Enfield lighting the match, might just be the most jaw-dropping use of color in a book overflowing with gorgeous hues. Everything from the blue fading to pink in the distance in the establishing panel, from the light of the match adding a sense of warmth to Enfield’s face and then the shadows cast by the setting sun on Enfield in the next. 

These seem like such small moments to get hung up on, but make the case for Phillips as one of the best colorists working today. To make these quick, intimate panels pop the way they do, and then couch them in another 25 pages of other stunning hues, is a daunting task that comes off as a bit like a mythological instance as well. To borrow the reference of Condon invoking the Muse for the opening dialogue, here Phillips is invoking a muse to capture the mythic feeling of wistful yearning and quickdraw action in every stroke of color within the issue. 

Elsewhere in the issue, the violence is just as rich of a texture for the palette. A panel of someone firing shots into two targets is created through a striking orange background reminiscent of a muzzle flash and the use of silhouette, giving a spectral appearance to the shooter and the spilled blood. Phillips then uses background coloring to create a smooth but cinematic flow in these action sequences. On the page where the antagonist, a Texas Ranger resigned to hunting down the Enfield Gang, comes to find the outlaw, coloring guides the eye from panel to panel. 

It starts with the Ranger’s hand on the swinging doors, bits of black and yellow-orange indicating the bustling life inside the saloon. That leads to the black and yellow of the Ranger’s star badge, which then leads to a solid yellow background while the Ranger cocks his six-shooter. That progression feels natural thanks to the coloring bridging the images and giving a sense of clarity to the key motions that lead to a standoff. 

A vital element of the issue, and by extension both the series and the flagship That Texas Blood is the backmatter. For this book, it’s an article that articulates the core thematic tension of the story. Written from a more modern perspective (the entry is dated July of 1996), the writing focuses on the conflicting nature of historical records and local folklore surrounding the Enfield Gang Massacre. Condon uses this to interject a sense of unreliability to the sequential story unfolding in the book, creating a compelling bookend to the opening pageantry from the Wild West show. If the opening of the book is mythological Texas incarnate, then the backmatter is its diametrically opposed force of historical accuracy.