He May Live Poor, but He Gives Rich

Sam Horrell’s childhood was spent in a little log shack, cutting firewood with a crosscut saw and poaching wild meat for the dinner table.

Now he’s master of all he surveys as the unofficial governor of “Sammyville,” an imagined city that’s actually little more than a jumble of beat-up trailers, rusted tin homes and even a house of straw about six miles from Elgin, the nearest real town.

Although it may not hold a place on modern maps, the 100-acre property boasts legendary status in the wilds of the Blue Mountains. Don’t go there, some residents warn newcomers; Sammy doesn’t like strangers, and you might never come back.

Although Horrell’s perpetually strapped-on six-shooter may scare away some visitors, his wide smile more often welcomes them in. His money -- much of it buried underground in coffee cans -- has helped build a church and feed the hungry.

It’s all led to a small measure of fame for Horrell, 73. Reporters ignore the warnings and chase him for interviews. He’s even inspired a B-rated movie.

“I don’t know why some are scared of me. The sheriff department, city police -- they all know I always got my gun and if they need somebody, I’m here to help,” Horrell said.

That’s been Vicki Weaver’s perception as well. “Sam’s always had this reputation as being kind of ornery or whatnot, but when you know him, he’s a wonderful man and would give you the shirt off his back,” said Weaver, Elgin’s city clerk. “I don’t know how that reputation got started.”

Some blame Horrell’s ancestors.

*

In a region where blood runs deep, Horrell’s ancestors in the late 1800s were gunmen and accused rustlers in Texas, accounting for half of the historic Horrell-Higgins feud, which started over cattle thefts. They also lived for a time in New Mexico, where the clan engaged in a bloody battle known as “the Horrell War.”

Many of the brothers died in the fighting. A few of the surviving ones -- including Sam’s grandfather, John Horrell -- brought the family’s outlaw spirit to Oregon.

“When Pa was a kid, he wanted to ride with Jesse James’ gang,” Horrell said, although Jesse James was dead and his brother, Frank James, was pushing 60. “But they wouldn’t let Pa ride with them. Said he was too young.”

His father grew up, got married and, in 1930, Sam was born. He was one of three sons.

The family’s only income came from firewood, which they sold for about $6 a month. The earnings were enough to buy coffee, sugar and salt. Nearly everything else came from the land.

The living might have been easier in town, but that didn’t fit his father’s reclusive nature, Horrell said. “He was a loner and that was the way he wanted it. Weren’t nobody living above us, nobody around,” he said.

As soon as Horrell was old enough, he took a job with the local lumber mill. He used the money to buy property, picking up land at tax auctions and foreclosures. “I only ever had one debt at a time. Whenever any property come up and I had enough saved up for a payment, I’d buy it,” he said.

His first purchase was 20 acres for $21, on what is now the corner of Sammyville. There, he built the family a new home.

“That rumor has always been around: If you go out to Sammyville, you don’t come back. Don’t go out to the Horrell place. Not sure how it got started,” he said.

Locals would be wiser to be wary of Horrell’s shrewd business sense, Union County Sheriff Stephen Oliver said. “He’s probably got 29 rentals in Elgin alone, not counting the ones in Sammyville,” he said. “I know he’s got more money than anyone around there, but I’ve seen him and his wife [Annabelle] driving around to pick up beer cans and bottles for the deposit.”

Much of that money is hidden in coffee cans, buried under rich mountain soil. “Have I ever lost one? Well, I tell people if they can find them, I’ll split with them.”

The money isn’t left to rot, however. Sam and Annabelle, 76, are charter members of the Elgin Historical Society, underlining their support with a hefty donation. They ran the Elgin Food Bank for years, Oliver said. Horrell donated time, labor and money to lay the foundation for the local Seventh-day Adventist church, where he and Annabelle are members. Annabelle Horrell helps senior citizens with taxes.

Horrell has maintained his thrifty-living ways, most often wearing beat-up overalls and a ragged jacket. His cleft palate and eternally loose dentures can make it tough for visitors to understand every word. But Horrell’s most distinctive feature hangs on his hip -- a long-barreled six-shot Ruger pistol.

*

Shooting practice started young. He was at the Elgin Opera House watching his first movie when the excitement got the best of him, according to local lore. He pulled out the gun, yelled a warning to John Wayne and shot the image of an actor sneaking up behind the hero.

Today, the entrance to Horrell’s kingdom is marked with a kelly green sign reading “SAMMYViLLE.” Horrell’s own home is known as the village chapel, a move that Oliver claims allowed Horrell to avoid residential building codes. The house, like the town, is modest at best. A plywood ceiling tops the living room. The walls are decorated with clippings of newspaper articles that mention Sam or Annabelle. The furniture is worn, and a dog named Rusty emits a low growl whenever a truck drives by.

Rentals in Sammyville top out at $300, said Annabelle Horrell, and that gets a three-bedroom home of sorts. Prices drop depending on the rental -- a beat-up trailer or a home made of tin or straw may go for less.

Residents regularly stop by Horrell’s house to drop off rent money or ask permission to throw a mattress on his burn pile. Piles of rusted metal and rows of old cars fill the spaces between homes.

His stepson Bruce Stephens, 55, lives in Salt Lake City much of the year. But every winter, he moves back to the straw house he built at Sammyville and helps Sam and Annabelle with chores.

It’s no surprise that the setting inspired a movie, also named “Sammyville.” The 1999 low-budget flick never made it to most screens, but Horrell didn’t mind. He simply enjoyed the attention while it lasted.

After the movie’s limited run, some residents wandered up to the village for a look. Reporters from newspapers around the nation began calling. But with the notoriety, the mystique of Sammyville may be fading.

“There isn’t as much interest as there used to be,” Oliver said. “We’re still out there a lot for domestic violence calls, and sometimes somebody just wants to go out there to meet Sam, so we’ll take them out and introduce them. But it’s pretty tame these days.”

And that’s just the way Horrell likes it -- he doesn’t want visitors or potential renters scared away.