Director Walter Hill’s superior movie The Long Riders (1980) was an accurate depiction of the James gang’s Northfield, Minnesota bank raid, starring Stacy Keach as Frank, and his brother James (looking like William S. Hart) playing Jesse. It’s told in gory, post-Peckinpah fashion, complete with slow-motion gunplay, whizzing bullet sound effects and a twanging Ry Cooder score. It’s a fantastic film and one of the best westerns ever made.
This Day…
The Outlaw was a Lady
Skies are grey over the Silver Pick spread in Northern California today. Conditions are right to remain in my office writing the next western book due. This one will be about female outlaws of the Midwest. Flora Mundis alias Tom King is the lady I’m focusing on. She was one of the most notorious female horse thieves in Oklahoma in 1893 and 1894. Disguised as a man she took rides from field and street and even was rumored to have been romantically involved with Bob Dalton, a bank robber and member of the Wild Bunch Gang. She escaped jail three times before she stood trial for her misdeeds. By that time she was clearly pregnant and no judge would sentence her to serving any real time. She was released on bail and left the Territory. Oklahoma lawman Heck Thomas reported that Tom was eventually shot and killed in a failed bank robbery attempt in Southern Arizona, but no one is really sure what happened to her or her child. What is not debatable is the hold she had over men. Tom was able to seduce her way out of jail and always had men around her. I think it’s because she knew what men wanted from women – starting with how they dress. Tom dressed in cowboy garb, complete with buckskin leggings and a vest. She knew that men don’t care about clothes – hers or their own. All they needed was one pair of boots and a clean shirt to wear to Sunday go-to-meeting church events. She knew that when she had the reins of her horse and wanted to get aggressive with a bad guy that was fine, but she didn’t instigate a fight and then expect the man she was with to defend her honor. I like what one of the outlaws she was involved with said about his relationship with Tom. “You have to love a woman to know her – even then, there’s a lot of guesswork involved.”
Prison Gulls
“Three o’clock.” the gruff speaking guard announces. “Visiting time is over!” Hurried goodbyes are spoken. My father and I step aside to let my mother hug her ailing son. It might be the last time she will be able to do so. Her son, my brother can barely hold his arms and hands still long enough to embrace her. His right leg and head shake as well. He has Parkinson’s disease. His face is bloated, his scalp scarred from the severe beatings he received five years ago at a prison in Texas. A prison guard stomps over to my mother and demands the pair separate. “Time is up!” he reminds us again. We are hurried out a heavy door into an area prison officials refer to as “the gate.” Through the tiny glass we watch Rick shuffle away with the guard to be strip searched. A tragic indignity for him to endure, a tragic indignity for my parents to realize their son must be subjected to. “We’re waiting in the gate,” the prison guard conveyed to a coworker on the other end of the walkie-talkie he breathed in to. My mother is inconsolable. She turns her face away from the heard-hearted guard and sobs into the exterior wall inside the 5 foot by 20 foot enclosure we were locked in when we left the visitation room. The wall her face is buried in is stained with feces and urine from seagulls and cranes that make their home on the roof of the penitentiary. My mother is so distraught over having to leave her sick son behind she doesn’t care about the unsanitary conditions. The image reminded the guard of a funny story and he wasted no time in sharing. “Watch what you touch there, lady,” he chuckles. “Prison gulls are the worst. They’re messy and mean. I’ve seen them eat a wounded pidgeon then crap all over that wall. The pidgeon’s wing was broken and a big gull swooped down and started tearing a hole in the pidgeon’s flesh with its beak. Damn pidgeon was still alive. Can you imagine?” The guard was proud of his story. He seemed to be completely oblivious to how much more it made my mother cry. “Even pidgeons know how short a life is inside here,” he added at the end of his tale. I am two people. My heart is divided against itself. I know the Lord wants me to forgive. I want to. I long to. But it seems impossible after seeing all I have? I am overcome with grief and bitterness. I loathe the mother and daughter who falsely accused my brother of heinous crimes. They have no regret. No remorse. Will I regret when the tables are turned on them or will my heart continue to be divided against itself? Should I tell them about the prison gulls or let them learn it on their own?
This Day
American Icons
I’ll be traveling to the prison to check on my brother again this weekend. I’m going to attempt to video tape my journey and post it on the site next week. Often times I don’t have the words to describe how difficult this ordeal is, was and will always be. My parents will be with me this trip. I’d like to say seeing Rick is easier when they are with me but that would be a lie. My parents are broken people. And so it goes… I wanted to share a bit about Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. They were two people who endured a great deal of heartache. Wish I could learn from their example. Dale Evans and Roy Rogers are such icons of the American West – quintessential cowgirl and cowboy – that sometimes its is difficult to remember that their personas were media creations and not the real thing. Neither of them grew up riding the range. Dale Evans, born Frances Smith, was married as a very young teen-ager, and then left to struggle as a single mother. Roy Rogers, originally Leonard Slye, grew up on a hard-scrabble farm. Talent and the Hollywood machine transformed them into stars. They married after Rogers was left a widower with small children. Tragedy – and the triumph over it – didn’t stop there. Both adoptive and natural parents, they endured the sad loss of three of their children over the years. Rogers and Evans managed to project an image of wholesomeness decade after decade over changing times.
Statistics of an American Icon
According to the Roy Rogers Corporation, the total revenue from the sell of Roy Rogers merchandise for 2010 was $7.4 million dollars
In 2010 the Roy Rogers/Dale Evans official website had more than 107,000 visitors a month
Ebay Auctions lists the Roy Rogers/Dale Evans memorabilia page as one of their most popular sites. More than 8,000 items are bought and sold a month
Roy Rogers and Dale Evans made 81 western for Republic Studios
The Roy Rogers Show was among the top NBC television programs from 1951 to 1957
In 1947 alone Roy Rogers received more than 900,000 fan letters
In 1953 alone 408,000 pairs of Roy Rogers slippers, 900,000 lunch kits, and 1,203,000 jeans and jackets were sold.
Happy Trails, Always.
This Day
Lessons from Dale Evans
Roy Rogers would have been 100 years old Saturday. Several radio stations celebrated the King of Cowboy’s birthday by airing episodes of the popular program he did with his wife Dale Evans. It was fun to hear the western duo ride and sing their way out of various desperate situations. Their faith in God always played an important role in each program but one program in particular moved me to tears. The bad guy in the episode I’m referring to had challenged Roy to a gunfight and the outlaw’s wife paid a visit to Dale to ask her for help. Dale suggested they pray. It was a moving, sincere prayer about surrendering all to God. It was refreshing to hear and the notion of complete surrender just happens to be the subject of the Monday night Bible study I belong to. I was convicted. I surrender nothing to God. I feel like two people many times. One part of me once to serve the Lord and the other part of me doesn’t want to surrender anything having to do with my brother. I want to see the people who caused so much hurt punished and I war against waiting on the Lord to bring that about. This lesson is getting old. The battle will intensify this week because I travel to see Rick. Oh, how I hate seeing the suffering. I want justice, but God wants me to surrender that to Him. I’ll take Dale’s example and pray constantly. Thanks Roy & Dale – you’re positive message continues to resonate in 2011. Thanks for not compromising you beliefs. Help me God to lay this burden down and focus on rewriting Hearts West II.
Horse Thieves and Counterfeiters
Tom King was one of the best horseback riders in Oklahoma in the late 1890s. He was also a horse and jewel thief. Oh, and a woman named Flora Mundis. She is one of the twelve women I’m researching for a book about women outlaws of the Midwest. I’m always amazed when the Old West figures I’m writing about so parallel what I have witnessed in my own life. Before dressing in men’s clothing and robbing ranchers of their horses she worked at her own saloon in West Guthrie and was always adorned in stunning gowns. Men flocked to her side and she reveled in the attention. Doc Jordan was one man that was not charmed by her. All her attempts to gain his affections were a waste and she made him pay for it. Now, here’s the parallel – in mid-1892, Flora swore out a warrant for Doc Jordan’s arrest, charging him with assault with intent to rape. He hadn’t touched her but few people believed the teary-eyed beauty would make up such a story. He tried to tell the citizenry of West Guthrie she was a liar but no one wanted to listen. Rather than turn himself in to the authorities and risk being lynched by a mob who promised to do just that, Doc Jordan left the territory. While he was gone the truth came out and the case was eventually dropped. After that, no man in his right senses would patronize Flora’s place. So she stashed her gorgeous wardrobe, donned cowboy garb, and began stealing horses. There is no record of the extent of her lifting, rebranding, driving, and selling of stock, but during the spring of 1893, she allegedly took horses from field and pasture, off the streets of towns, anywhere, disposing of them across Hell’s Fringe. Floris Mundis aka Tom King was killed in late 1894 trying to rob a bank near Tombstone, Arizona. Lawman Heck Thomas told of the woman’s ultimate demise to a reporter for a Kansas newspaper and added that Flora had accused several men of the same crime she accused Doc Jordan. The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between political parties either – but right through every human heart – Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Ain’t it the truth, Al.
An Excerpt From The Cowboy and the Senorita
“She was feisty, daring, could hold her own against any band of bad guys and looked good enough to leave them dreaming of her at night, and what a voice…”
Cybil Shepherd – Actress
A winter storm blanketed the already saturated Chicago streets with snow. Icy winds blasted through the loose insulation around the windows in Francis Smith’s tiny, one room apartment. She forced a smile at her five-year-old son, Tommy, pulled him to the kitchen table, and served him a meager breakfast. He lapped up every bite happily. Francis pushed her hair off her tired face and choked back a tear. Her skin was pale, making the dark circles under her eyes all the more pronounced. She was tempted to sample her son’s meal, but decided against it. She was hungry. It was 1931 and the country was in the midst of a depression, everyone was hungry. Francis was determined her child would not go without food even if it meant she had to give up a meal or two to make that happen.
After a four-year stay in Tennessee, Francis felt a move to Illinois was necessary. She hoped to advance her singing career in Chicago performing on one of the powerful Chicago stations that reached far and deep into the heartland of America. While in Memphis she had managed to go from singing on a thirty minute request show to hosting a program on the largest station in town. If she could conquer Chicago she’d have it made.
Music spilled out of a radio in the corner of the room – the tunes occasionally interrupted by newscasts announcing the closure of another bank or stories about desperate stock holders jumping out of windows. It was a trying time for everyone. Francis sought to comfort herself with that truth, but it was no use. Tommy finished his meal and entertained himself with a few of his toys. She watched him play as she dressed for work at the Goodyear Company where her duties included filing, taking dictation and answering phones.
Francis made twenty-five dollars a week. More than half of her income went to pay for Tommy’s sitter, the other half went to pay for rent and food. Often times there was precious little in the way of groceries in the cupboards.
However dismal the world was around her, she pressed on, clinging to the dream that she could change their lives for the better.
Francis seized every opportunity to audition as a performer at various clubs around town, but had no luck. Club owners and talent scouts weren’t that impressed with her Memphis accomplishments. She’d been in the city for two years and nothing seemed to be working out as she had hoped. As her weak fingers fastened the buttons on Tommy’s coat she pondered how alone they truly were. She held him close to her and reminded him how much she loved him and always would. Tears were standing in her eyes. Tommy knew something was wrong. He studied his mother’s face, she looked faint.
Francis was very ill. Earlier in the week she had been to see a doctor and the diagnosis was acute malnutrition. She had been warned if she didn’t take care of the condition she could die. “When do I stop beating my head against this wall, Tommy? She asked him rhetorically. The thought of getting on the train to go to work exhausted her. “I came out here to crack Chicago,” she confessed. “But Chicago has cracked me.” She decided right then to wire her parents and ask them for help.
She vowed to herself that once she was well she’d get right back in the game – nothing would deter her for long.
Francis’s parents, Walter and Betty Sue, met their daughter and grandson at the train. It had been a long, hard trip back to Italy, Texas where her mom and dad had decided to return a few years prior. Francis looked miserable. Betty Sue scooped Tommy up with one arm and squeezed her daughter’s neck with the other. Walter was happy to see them come home as well. Francis was unsteady on her feet, dizzy from hunger. Her mother and father took her straight to the hospital. After a two week stay she went to her parent’s home to continue recuperating.
Three months would pass before she would be on her feet again. She spent that time in bed resting. From the upstairs window of the farmhouse she watched her son playing with the animals and enjoying the sunshine. As the healthy glow returned to Francis’s cheeks, so did her desire to continue her singing career. She set her sights on musical comedies and Broadway. To start she settled for a job in radio and Louisville, Kentucky.
With Tommy in tow, Francis made the move and began work at station WHAS as one of their featured singers. She was well paid to sing popular tunes like “Shine On Harvest Moon” and “You Are My Sunshine.”
She had auditioned for the staff position using the stage name of Marion Lee. The program director disapproved of the stage name and quickly renamed her. “Your name is now Dale Evans,” he informed her. Francis was aghast. “That’s a boy’s name!” She fired back. “And what does Evans have to do with me?” He explained that the name Dale was from a silent screen actress he admired and the name Evans just had a nice ring with it. “It will be easy for the announcers to pronounce and impossible to misspell,” he concluded. She couldn’t argue with that. Francis Smith left the director’s office Dale Evans.
Monday through Friday at six thirty in the morning, announcer Joe Pierson would step up to the microphone and introduce Dale and the five-piece band she was singing with. “And now help me welcome Honey and the Flapjacks,” he would say. Dale shared the stage with many aspiring entertainers from that time, musicians who regularly played at the Grand Ole Opry. Some days the halls of the station would be flooded with ambitious performers and their instruments, guitars and fiddles as far as the eye could see, lined the walls leading into the studio. Surrounded by talent and promise, Dale Evans believed she was finally on her way, but her hardships continued.
At the end of another long, hard work day, Dale hurried home to her son. She sighed as she eyed the stairs leading to their third floor apartment. She was tired and they seemed to go on forever. The lady who looked after Tommy stood at the top of the landing waiting for Dale. She looked worried and was wringing her hands. “What’s wrong,” Dale asked? The sitter swallowed her hysteria and told her that Tommy was ill. “He’s been vomiting most of the day,” she explained. “His arms and legs have been hurting him so bad he just screams with pain,” she continued. A horrifying thought pierced Dale’s heart like a dagger. Could Tommy be suffering from polio? Kentucky was experiencing a polio epidemic that had killed or crippled hundreds of children. Dale’s face turned white. “It couldn’t be,” she whispered to herself.
The two women hurried inside the apartment and into Tommy’s room. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he rubbed his arms. Dale rushed her son to the hospital. The doctor’s agreed with Dale’s suspicions and advised that Tommy be tested for polio.
Dale waited outside of the examination room for word about her son’s condition. A spinal tap was ordered and Dale waited for the results in the hospital chapel.
“Lord,” she pleaded, “I’ll do anything…I’ll forget about show business. I’ll read my Bible every day and I’ll pray and be faithful to you. I promise to put you first in my life,” she cried. Waiting for the test results to return was agonizing. When the doctor finally told Dale the news that Tommy did not have polio, she sobbed for joy.
With Tommy safely back at home, life returned to normal. In spite of her best intentions, however, Dale gradually strayed from the bargain she’d made with God. She was fiercely devoted to her son and her career, but it would take another grave experience for her to see that Tommy was entitled to more attention. Dale’s neighbor’s daughter had been playing around a pile of burning leaves when the hem of her dress caught fire. The girl’s mother arrived home from work just in time to see her engulfed in flames. She tried to save her daughter, but it was too late. The child died en route to the hospital. Dale feared something like that happening to Tommy in her absence. After careful consideration, she decided to relocate her family to the place Tommy had been the most happy.
Walter and Betty Sue again welcomed their daughter and grandson home. Tommy was in his element. He thrived on the wide open spaces and the extended family that showered him with affection. Feeling much more secure about her son’s welfare, Dale set out to look for work. She found employment at WFAA radio in Dallas as the lead singer for a band that performed on “The Early Bird” program.
“The Early Bird” show featured a variety of acts from orchestras to comedians, and Dale entertained the live studio audience with renditions of popular tunes like “Mockingbird Hill” and “If I Only Had a Nickel.” Listeners enjoyed her singing and in a short time she had created a following. Her regional popularity was given a boost in August 1938 when she appeared on the cover of Rural Radio magazine. Offers for work poured in. She accepted engagements to sing at posh dinner and country clubs and at hotels with full orchestra. And then a gentlemen came calling…
Robert Butts was a pianist and orchestral arranger who had become interested in Dale when they met in Louisville. He was making his way to the West Coast via Dallas when he phoned and asked if Dale would see him when he was in town. She happily agreed. Robert was immensely talented and Dale shared his musical abilities with the manager of WFAA.
Not long after his arrival, Robert was hired on as a pianist and arranger for the station.
Dale lived in Dallas during the week and traveled to Italy on the weekends to spend time with Tommy, her brother and parents. For a year and a half Dale managed to make time in Dallas and Italy for outings with Robert. In December of 1939 Robert proposed and Dale accepted. The two were married and decided to move to Chicago. She was convinced, given another chance, that she could make her mark there, but this time she gave in to her parent’s request and left Tommy with them.
Chicago wasn’t as cold and unforgiving as Dale remembered it from before. Robert was hired on as a composer-arranger for the NBC radio affiliate. Dale joined the Jay Mills Orchestra and sang jazz numbers for guests at the Edgewater Beach Hotel. She was becoming a recognizable voice in the area and was a much sought after jazz vocalist for many bands. A fact she found comforting once she realized the Jay Mills Orchestra was the wrong job for her.
Night after night Dale would sit off to one side of the stage watching the other vocalist with the Jay Mills group and serenade the dignified clientele with beautiful ballads.
The audience showered the other vocalist with applause that transcended the polite response Dale recorded for her jazz numbers. The high society patrons who frequented the hotel along the lake shore appreciated the effort, but were clearly unsatisfied. So was Dale. When she was offered a chance to audition for Anson Weeks’s popular orchestra, she jumped at the chance. Weeks had played for and recorded with some of the most famous singers of the day. Bing and Bob Crosby, Carl Ravazza and Kay St. Germaine were among the many artists who worked with the Weeks orchestra. Dale was offered the job as Anson Weeks’s lead vocalist and she immediately accepted. She prayed the move would lead her to Broadway.
