Did Brownsville Ever Have a Theater Called “El Tiro”?
A downtown name remembered, disputed, and finally placed.
Bronsbil Estación – Reborn
The corner of Eleventh and Washington Streets, across from the Stegman building, has carried more history than it shows today.
Most longtime residents remember the México Theater, which screened Spanish-language films and hosted Noche de Aficionados, an amateur program that drew steady crowds. Fewer recall that the same corner was once occupied by the Dreamland Theatre, built in 1913 and later adapted to changing audiences and times. The Victoria Theatre on East Fourteenth and Harrison offered a similar amateur program, while the México was managed by the David J. Young family.
When Young reopened the Dreamland as the México in 1939, Spanish-language cinema was firmly established along the border. The theater prospered quietly, becoming part of the ordinary downtown rhythm.
Yet another name has lingered in local memory.
Some residents have referred to the México Theater as “El Tiro.” Extensive searches of surviving newspaper archives and public photographic collections have never produced a marquee or advertisement bearing that name.
The absence of such material, however, does not settle the matter.
Rogelio Agrasánchez of Harlingen, Texas, a local historian who holds the world’s largest private collection of Mexican motion-picture memorabilia, confirmed the name’s use and produced a Spanish-language advertisement identifying the theater as El Tiro. The advertisement has not yet resurfaced in public collections.
In a town where records are incomplete and memory often fills the gaps, that confirmation is sufficient. The name existed.
Another explanation survives in local memory.
Eugene Fernandez, a local historian from a pioneer family and the current Cameron County Historical Commissioner, recalled a separate incident associated with the Dreamland Theatre during its early years. According to Fernandez, the name El Tiro was not taken from the screen but from gunfire heard outside the building itself.
In his account, a husband confronted a man leaving the Dreamland with his wife. A scuffle followed, and the man fled east along Eleventh Street toward Elizabeth. The husband drew a pistol and fired as the man ran, emptying his weapon without striking him. Several bullets struck the exterior wall of the theater and were later marked by police as evidence.
Patrons inside the theater heard the shots. From that incident, Fernandez said, the building acquired the nickname El Tiro.
Incidents like this were not uncommon in downtown Brownsville during the period, and the sound of gunfire—whether striking a wall or echoing down the street—was not easily forgotten. What mattered was not always the number of shots fired, but where they were heard.
The Dreamland would hear them again.
William Crafts was a former policeman whose service record had drawn unfavorable attention. He had struck men with the butt of his revolver and discharged his weapon while on duty, incidents that led to complaints and his dismissal from the force. He was later reinstated.
By 1917, saloons across Texas were steadily disappearing as local option laws, tightening ordinances, and a growing reform movement reshaped public life. Crafts was operating a saloon of his own, a business already facing uncertain prospects.
He had also made an enemy.
Juan Sánchez, known in Brownsville and Matamoros as El Marrano, was a gambler with an established reputation on both sides of the river. Bonifacio González, another former lawman and an associate of Crafts, completed a triangle that would soon close.
The encounter occurred at approximately 9:30 p.m. on Sunday, June 4, 1917, on the north sidewalk of the Dreamland Theatre.
Sánchez was walking west on Eleventh Street wearing a light-colored Palm Beach suit. His pistol was drawn and pointed downward. When he turned and saw Crafts and González approaching from the northwest corner of Eleventh and Washington, he spoke first.
“No me tires, amigo.”
He then raised his weapon and fired.
Crafts was struck once through the heart. Sánchez fired three additional shots, striking González before he could return fire. Crafts, mortally wounded, managed to draw his revolver and fire four shots before collapsing six feet from the gutter. One bullet grazed González’s hip, passed through the rear of David Young’s automobile, and lodged in the back seat.
Despite his injuries, González walked halfway to the police station at City Hall, one block away, before being assisted by officers. He was placed on a cot and died ten minutes later from a wound that severed an artery in his neck.
Inside the theater, men, women, and children heard the gunfire. Panic did not follow. Several composed patrons urged calm and prevented a rush toward the exits. Jim McDavitt, moving from the front entrance toward the rear, witnessed the shooting as it occurred.
Little was said publicly about the cause of the feud. It was reported only that Crafts and Sánchez had narrowly avoided a duel two weeks earlier and had quarreled again that afternoon. A woman standing near Sánchez suffered powder burns when the shooting began and escaped injury only by moving clear as Crafts fired his final shots.
Other dramas have played out on the streets and inside the buildings of downtown Brownsville. Some were recorded. Others were remembered only in passing. In cases like this, the past does not disappear. It remains where it happened, waiting to be noticed again.
Editor’s note:
This essay is presented as a narrative history grounded in archival research and firsthand recollection rather than as a comprehensive scholarly survey.
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