Duane's take
Here's how the official marker tells it, and I'll do my best to do it justice. You're rolling through Llano County now, and the land out here has a way of holding onto its stories — quiet, stubborn, like it's not quite ready to let go. This one's called Baby Head Cemetery, and yeah, that name stops you cold the first time you hear it.
According to local oral tradition, back in the 1850s, a small child was killed by Indians in this area, and the child's remains were left on the mountain nearby. That mountain took the name Babyhead. A local creek carried it too.
The name settled into the landscape and refused to leave. Then came the 1870s, and pioneers put down roots out here and founded a community. They called it Baby Head — what else would they call it?
And that community grew into something real. Numerous homes. Farms.
Businesses. Folks building a life in country that doesn't give anything away easy. Now, the oldest documented grave in this cemetery belongs to a child too — Jodie May McKneely, who died on New Year's Day, 1884.
The very first day of a brand new year. There's something about that detail that just sits heavy and won't move. The community of Baby Head is gone now.
The homes are gone, the farms, the businesses — all of it. But this cemetery remains. Still here.
Still keeping the name. Out here in Llano County, the land remembers what people forget, and sometimes the only monument left is the place where the quiet ones are buried.
What the marker says
According to local oral tradition, the name Babyhead was given to the mountain in this area in the 1850s, when a small child was killed by Indians and its remains left on the mountain. A local creek also carried the name, and a pioneer community founded in the 1870s became known as Baby Head. The oldest documented grave here is that of another child, Jodie May McKneely, who died on New Year's Day 1884. The cemetery is the last physical reminder of the Baby Head community, which once boasted numerous homes, farms, and businesses. (1991)