In every good western, whether it’s a book or a film, the bad guy more often than not get’s what’s coming to him in the end. That’s what makes westerns so attractive to me and hundreds of thousands of others. There’s something satisfying about a bully getting humiliated, a thief getting tossed in jail and a murderer being gunned down. I can’t help but think that’s part of what motivated inventor Samuel Colt to patent the revolving-camber pistol. Colt had a rough childhood. His mother died young from tuberculosis, he lost a sister to the same disease, and two of his other siblings committed suicide. At the age of eleven Colt was forced to work for a farmer who treated him cruelly. As soon as he was old enough he ran away. He went to work as a sailor and spent long hours staring at the ship’s wheel. He used this principle to invent a gun that could shoot multiple bullets without reloading. He excelled at both invention and marketing and today would be considered a compulsive workaholic. He struggled with a way to produce his guns cheaply but was forced to find a method of mass production after he received and order from the U.S. government in 1847 for 1,000 revolvers. By the time he died of exhaustion at age forty-seven, Samuel Colt had produced more than 400,000 Colt .45 revolvers. At his funeral in 1862 it was said of the Colt .45 he invented: “God created man, but Sam Colt [the Colt .45] made them all equal.” In 1873 the Colt SAA sold for $17.50. The complete kit with a holster and some ammunition could be covered by a $20 gold piece. The $20 Double Eagle of 1873 contained 0.9675 ounces of pure gold. Today an ounce of gold is about $1,090 and a new Colt SAA can be special ordered from Colt’s custom shop for about $1,500. It is fair to say that the invention of the Colt revolver changed the course of American history. It aided the westward expansion of America and the simplicity and effectiveness of the Colt revolver design is evidenced in the fact that they are still made and used today, both in the armed forces and in the private sector. Many have called the Colt repeating pistol the finest gun ever made. It was referred to as “law and order in six-finger doses.”

Ask any little girl what she wants to be when she grows up. Chances are she won’t say president or astronaut. Chances are she’ll say “Supermodel.” What does it say about our culture when Einstein’s original draft of the theory of relativity fetches less at auction than what a flat-line electroencephalograph Giacometti statue gets to stroll down a runway? And for goodness sake, isn’t it about time we passed an absolute edict forbidding these women from uttering the words “Modeling is hard work.” I think it would have been a thrill to have been Sacagawea. What a life she had. She was the young Shoshone Indian woman who served as Lewis and Clark’s translator on their 1803 expedition to explore the uncharted western regions of America. She made the entire journey to the Pacific, and the return trip, with a newborn baby on her back; many believe that without her aid, the journey, commissioned by President Thomas Jefferson, would have ended in failure. Some accounts say she died in 1812 at age twenty-five of putrid fever, while others believe she died in 1884 on an Indian Reservation in Wyoming. The child she carried in a papoose was Jean-Baptiste Charbonneau, nicknamed Pompy, meaning first-born, who eventually attended St. Louis Academy with tuition paid by Clark. Pompy later met Prince Wilhelm of Germany while on a natural history expedition and traveled back to Europe with him, where Pompy learned to speak four different languages. But by the time he was twenty-four Pompy was back in North America living as a mountain man. When the Gold Rush of ‘49 started, he got caught up in the fever and died from too much time wading through cold rivers panning for gold. His cause of death was bronchitis at age sixty-one, and his portrait is the only one of a child on any U.S. coin. What supermodel can boast a legacy like that?

I live vicariously through the tales of the men and women of the Old West. From the research I’ve done many of the families that came over the plains cared deeply about one another and would sacrifice anything for the happiness of their loved ones. And then there’s the family I was born into. Whether or not these individuals married into the family or were brought about by the natural process of things, the majority of them have one thing in common and that’s to hurt. Making a family member bleed and watch them writhe in pain over their actions is a sport to them. I begin my Monday on the battle field of this family trying to deal with another crippling shot fired by a person whose idea of love is more akin to the actions of a character from a horror film who wants to wipe out everyone in their sight than someone who insists their behavior is motivated out of goodness or what’s best. If I couldn’t lose myself in the Old West today I’d want to hurl myself into a trash compactor. It’s seems only fitting that I’d be writing today about a man who knew how to stand up for his family but who had no regard for any other human life, Jesse James. James is perhaps the most beloved murderer in American history. He and his gang shot bank clerks in cold blood, killed passersby who looked the wrong way, and derailed trains and robbed the passengers as they lay injured. But none of that mattered. To many alive at the time James was a post-Civil War hero, satisfying the thirst of many defeated Confederates to get in a few last shots after the war. James, a handsome bearded man with blue eyes and a narrow face, was fashioned as a modern-day Robin Hood, though later historians were at a loss to find any evidence of charitableness. As a Confederate guerrilla and later as a bank robber, James came close to a violent death several times. But as long as he had his own guns, he always seemed to survive. During the war he was badly wounded in the leg and his horse was shot out from under him. Just after the war federal soldiers shot James in the lung and left him for dead. He lay on the ground for two days until a farmer aided him. When he was ambushed robbing the Northfield, Minnesota, bank in 1876, three of his gang were killed, three were shot and captured, and only Jesse and his brother, Frank escaped. His luck ended in 1882, after a local sheriff got 21-year-old Robert Ford, a less notorious outlaw, to join James’s gang to try to capture him. Ford and his brother easily joined up and were staying with James and his wife in St. Joseph, Missouri, that April, planning their next bank robbery. Early on the morning of April 3, James, who had just come inside from feeding the horses, took off his jacket and, because he trusted his friends, his gun belt. He had climbed up on a chair to pull some cobwebs from a picture when he heard the cock of a pistol. As he turned unarmed, Robert Ford shot James in the head with a .44-caliber pistol that James had given him as a present. James’s body was put in a $260 casket-paid for by the sheriff who had recruited Ford-and sent by train the few miles to his hometown of Kearney, in Clay County, Missouri. His open casket at the Kearney Hotel drew thousands, jamming the small town with their horses, and even passengers from the trains that made unscheduled stops on their way through. A collection to benefit James’s wife and two children gathered lass than $10, but that was only the beginning. Personal effects of the house were sold for about $250. The owner of the house, a St. Joseph city councilman who thought he had rented it to Thomas Howard (an alias of James’s) sold bloody floor splinters for 25 cents apiece. A year later James’s mother opened her home to visitors, also for a quarter. Of the more than twenty movies made about Jesse James, the first was financed by his descendants in 1920. Meanwhile, Robert Ford was pardoned by the governor, Ford toured Eastern cities reenacting the shooting, but the show was booed in the Midwest. Later, in a mining camp in Colorado, Ford was shot in the neck and killed by a man with a sawed-off shotgun seeking revenge for the death of Jesse James.

When news hit the airwaves about my late brother back in 2005, the reporters got everything wrong. They weren’t interested in making corrections either. Bad reporters have been around for centuries. There are very few Woodward and Bernstein style journalists. Newspapers and television news report rumors, facts are not important. Some of the worst reporters in the world work at KMBC-TV in Kansas City, Missouri. Wild Bill Hickok battled with Missouri reporters too, but he was able to convince them to make the necessary corrections. Amid widespread reports that he had been shot to death at Fort Dodge, Kansas, in 1873, quick-draw lawman Wild Bill Hickok wrote this letter to the St. Louis Missouri-Democrat: “Wishing to correct an error in your paper of the 12th, I will state that no Texan has, nor ever will ‘corral William.’ I wish you to correct your statement, on account of my people. -P.S. I have brought your paper in preference to all other since 1857.” Stories about James Butler Hickok were legendary in his own time. As a deputy U.S. marshal over much of the Plains territory, Hickok developed such a reputation as a fast shooter that other men would follow him around looking for a showdown. Hickok, a tall, a broad-shoulder man who carried two pistols in his vest and a pair of .36-caliber Colt revolvers around his waist, took to walking down the middle of the street and avoiding open windows. The former Union spy even sat in the barber’s chair with his shotgun in his lap. Still, Hickok relished his dangerous job. In fact, some say he used his deputy’s badge simply as a license to get involved in gunfights. He once advised, “Young man, never run away from a gun. Bullets can travel faster than you can. Besides, if you’re going to be hit, you had better get it in the front than in the back. It looks better.” As the frontier grew more settled and hired their own lawmen, Hickok was called on less and less. He performed in some of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West stage shows, but mainly he wandered the West in search of some action. In 1876, Hickok was in Deadwood Gulch, where gold had been discovered in the Black Hills of the Dakota Territory. He had gotten married that March and hoped to strike enough gold to settle down. But meanwhile Hickok pursued his passion for gambling. On August 2, Hickok walked into the Number 10 Saloon just after noon to join a poker game. He always sat at the table with his back to the wall. But this time when he asked one player to get up and give him that stool, the other players just laughed it off, and Hickok finally took a seat that faced the front door but didn’t give him a full view of the barroom. At about 3 p.m. Jack McCall entered the saloon and walked to the end of the bar behind Hickok. Hickok had played against McCall the day before, and had even given him money for dinner after McCall went broke, so the former deputy continued to concentrate on his cards. Suddenly, McCall pulled a pistol, fired and a bullet struck Hickok in the back of his head, exited through his right cheek, and then lodged in the wrist of the card player across from him. Hickok, killed instantly, fell off his stool and slumped on his side on the floor. McCall, who said later he shot Hickok for killing his brother, ran out of the saloon and jumped on a horse. But he was caught when the saddle fell over, and he later hanged. Hickok, meanwhile, left part of his legend on the poker table. The cards he was holding – a pair of aces and a pair of eights – are known as the “dead man’s hand.”