One hundred and thirty years ago today, citizens in Charleston, Arizona were up in arms over the shooting death of W.P. Schneider. Schneider was the chief engineer of the Corbin Mill. He was well-liked and considered an honorable man, but not great at poker. A miner and card-shark named Michael O’Rourke ended Schneider’s life prematurely. O’Rourke had been working around the Tucson area when news of a great silver strike in the Tombstone bluffs reached the town. O’Rourke and hundreds of others headed for the silver boom in quest of fortune. There, O’Rourke labored as a miner for four dollars a day in the excavations of the Tough Nut and Lucky Cuss among others. O’Rourke began visiting the gambling halls and became a tinhorn gambler. Because of his habit of betting heavily when he held a no more than a deuce as his hole-card, he earned his everlasting pseudonym: Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce. Sometime in 1880, he pulled up stakes and crossed the San Pedro River into Charleston, an untamed boom town where the day-to-day routine consisted of gambling, visiting “houses of ill fame,” fighting, swearing and drinking. The Deuce made no specific impression upon the denizens of Charleston—that is, not until Friday, January 14, 1881. That day, Quinn’s Saloon was crammed with miners and cattlemen and with soldiers from nearby Fort Huachuca, when W. P. Schneider, the chief engineer of the Corbin Mill, decided to cash in, after losing a fortune in an all night poker game. As he left the table he made a disdainful remark about the winner cheating, directing his attention to Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce. One word led to another. Both men went for their pistols. When the smoke cleared, Schneider lay sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from a hole in his chest. The event would provide newspaper fodder, and it would stamp Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce as something more than a tinhorn gambler. Irate miners, most of them employees of the late Schneider, began drinking and talking about a lynching. As a result of their wheedling, a wrathful crowd, led by a man named Johnny Ringo, gathered at Quinn’s Saloon. Someone brought a rope. Men with six-shooters felt satisfied that they could overwhelm the local police force, which consisted of only one man, George McKelvey. On the other hand, McKelvey, with visions of an angry mob stringing up the hapless gambler to the nearest cottonwood, was too good a lawman to knuckle under to a bunch of drunks. He hitched up a team of mules to a springboard, loaded Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce into the vehicle, and galloped for the distant mountains of Tombstone, the mob in pursuit. Although McKelvey utilized the whip vigorously, the mob gained on him. About two miles outside Tombstone, the mob pulled into rifle range. Bullets whizzed around McKelvey and the Deuce all the way into the silver camp. By the time they reached  Jack McCann’s Last Chance Saloon, the exhausted mules collapsed. McKelvey, with the Deuce in tow, crashed through the batwing doors of the nearby Oriental Saloon, where none other than Wyatt Earp, the famed Tombstone lawman and gunman, was playing poker. McKelvey yelled that an angry lynch mob of two hundred was on his heels. “Take the prisoner to Jim Vogan’s bowling alley,” Wyatt told his two brothers, Morg and James Earp. “If they get past me, give him a gun and turn him loose.” The angry mob surged up to the Vogan’s adobe bowling alley with its high walls. Wyatt Earp, cradling a scatter gun, stepped in front of the men. They stopped in their tracks. “Drag him out!” someone yelled, anxious for the Deuce’s blood. “Don’t make any fool plays, boys,” Wyatt replied coolly. “The price you’ll have to pay won’t be worth that tinhorn inside.” “Earp can’t stop us all!” a man urged from the rear ranks. Wyatt cocked both hammers of his shotgun. The wide bores made an impression on the men in the front ranks. Two barrels of buckshot would cut quite a swath through the tightly packed mob. According to Tombstone legend, Earp turned away the maddened lynch mob while Marshal Ben Sippy, Virgil Earp and Johnny Behan loaded Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce into another springboard. There was no one quite like Wyatt Earp.

Juan Soto and outlaw known as “The Human Wildcat” hated the Americans who were slowly establishing law and order in California. He terrified settlers in the southern portion of the state during the 1870s. He got away with his crimes because few witnesses were every left alive and those that were allowed to live were too scared to say anything. But all it takes is one brave soul to stop the bad guys. On January 10, 1871, Soto and his gang planned and executed a crime they believed would demonstrate the depth of their resentment toward the determined westward settlers they referred to as “piggish gringos.” A Sunol store clerk, known throughout the tiny village in Alameda County as Otto Ludovici, tidied the shelves and swept the floor of the business after a long day’s work. The store owner’s wife, Mrs. Thomas Scott, and her three children were assisting in the routine of closing the business by refilling candy jars, folding bolts of fabric, an restacking blankets. Otto weaved past his helpers, walked over to the door and locked it. As he turned the key a large rock shattered the front window. The door suddenly flew open and Juan Soto and several of his rough associates stepped inside. Mrs. Scott gathered her terrified children close to her. Otto slowly backed away from the bandits unsure of what to do next. “I’m afraid we’re closed now,” the petrified clerk stammered. “We’ll open again in the morning. “Soto laughed a little at how frightened the man appeared. I don’t plan to buy anything, senor…today or tomorrow,” the desperado said coldly. “But take…that I will do.” Otto cast a glance at a rifle on the counter next to him, but before he could make a move Soto pulled out his six-gun and shot the clerk in the chest. The man fell to the floor in a heap. Mrs. Scott hurried her children out of the room and down the hall and quickly disappeared with them into a storage area. A sly smile of content spread across Soto’s face as he watched them flee. While his outlaw group looted the store, Soto cocked his gun and fired several volleys in the direction of the place where Mrs. Soto and her brood was hiding. Their screams filled the air, and they could be heard crying. Soto then reloaded his weapon and assisted the bandits in looting the store. The crooks were so preoccupied with the robbery they did not notice Mrs. Scott run out of the back door with her youngsters in tow. Mrs. Scott served to be a fearless witness against the bandit. Soto was hunted down and shot to death. A witness can make all the difference in the world. Two witnesses have come forward for my brother over the last month. When the time is right, what they’ll testify to will be as life altering as the bullet that took down Soto.

We may not like to admit it, but America has always been a violent country. I spend my days writing about the violent actions of people in the Old West. Brutal men and women like Juan Soto, Tom Bell, Kate Bender and Belle Starr. The frontier was definitely a violent place – but nowadays we’ve gone off the Richter scale. I’m referring of course to the shooting that took place this weekend in Tucson, Arizona. It seems that violence has turned the American dream into an Imax version of The Sopranos. Look out over the landscape and what do you see? You see a demented Toontown, filled with carloads of gun-wielding maniacs exploding innocent bystanders like cantaloupes at a backwoods turkey shoot. You see a twisted bizarro-land gone crazy on a lethal cocktail made with equal parts of instant gratification, self-righteous anger, and notions of entitlement. But as I mentioned, America has always been subject to violence from such individuals. The difference now is the bad guys are no longer riding into town on their horses and shooting at the law, they arrive via Taxi with semi-automatic weapons and gun down innocent children. It was tragic behavior then and it’s tragic behavior now.

The research I’m doing on a book about women outlaws of the Midwest led me to a lady named Laura Ellen Reno. Laura’s brothers were members of the notorious Reno Gang. She was quite a character. According to historical records, Ellen was famous throughout the West for her beauty. She loved danger and adventure, was an expert horseman, and unerring shot, and as quick with her gun as any man. She worshipped her brothers, whom she aided in more than one of their criminal undertakings, shielding them from justice when hard pressed, and swearing to avenge them when they were hung. I like her. Not the criminal part of her personality, but the devotion to her brothers. On that level she wasn’t any different from some of the other famous people of the Old West who stood up for their brothers – Wyatt Earp, Bill Tilghman, Bat Masterson, just to name a few. There’s something very noble in that in my estimation. Naturally, my thoughts ran to my own brothers and how I want to avenge Rick. It’s become a preoccupation with me and it’s not healthy. I’m hurt and want to know the why. But hurt leads to bitterness, bitterness to anger, travel too far down that road and the way is lost. I think that’s what Laura Reno finally learned when she was burying her brothers. She never got over the hurt though. Her family said that on her deathbed she was crying because she felt she had let her brothers down by not protecting them from the “son’s of bitches who lied to make a case against them.” I feel your pain, Laura. On this day in 1874, gunman Chunk Colbert was feeling pain as well. He tried to bushwack Clay Allison after a horse race in the Indian Territory. After the two reportedly raced their horses and had dinner, Colbert had picked a fight with Allison. The two men entered the Clifton House, an inn located in Colfax County, New Mexico, where they sat down for dinner. Colbert had allegedly already killed six men and had quarreled with Allison several years earlier. Some say that nine years earlier, Allison had killed Colbert’s uncle in a gunfight. Whether that claim is fact or legend is unknown. What is known is that at some point during dinner Colbert attempted to raise his gun to shoot Allison, but the barrel hit the table as he raised it. Allison fired once, hitting Colbert in the head, killing him. Asked later why he accepted a dinner invitation from a man who would likely try to kill him, Allison replied, “Because I didn’t want to send a man to hell on an empty stomach”.

The spectacular poster for the new True Grit movie features a tagline that reads, “Punishment comes one way or another.” It’s a great movie by the way, and I couldn’t appreciate the sentiment behind the tagline more. It’s a sentiment that only has meaning in a specific time period, however. If this were the Old West I’d embrace the notion and just like Mattie Ross, set about to avenge my lost family member. It’s been four days since I’ve heard from the prison. I don’t know if my brother is in the infirmary there or has passed on. If they needed more money for his care they wouldn’t hesitate to phone, but they’re slow to inform family of the welfare of a loved one beyond that. So I wait and imagine myself on a western ride to make sure punishment comes one way or another. Farmers in Nebraska must have felt the same frustration on this day in 1891. A confused election situation in the state led the Young Farmer’s Alliance to try to prevent the governor’s clerk from taking office. The Alliance conducted a fully armed session of the legislature, which recessed when a sheriff’s posse appeared. But the plight of the farmers in Nebraska remained desperate: drought and falling crop prices have left the state’s farmers overwhelmed by debts. The Populist Party and William Jennings Bryan will be among the offspring of this crisis. Minus the drought and falling crop prices, my plight seems just as desperate on certain days – this being one of them. I’ve got press releases to write for the Elizabeth Custer book, chapters to complete for the revised version of Hearts West and Outlaw Tales of California. I better get to it – daylight is burning.

New Year – same dogged determination to do what’s necessary for my brother. I have been working feverishly on the book about the matter. Next year’s release date is contingent on many factors – none of which I am at liberty to expand upon now. All in good time. As the Roman philosopher, Seneca once said, “Time discovers truth.” Of course I think Groucho Marx said it best when he said, “Time flies like the wind; fruit flies like bananas.” This quote has nothing at all to do with the situation, I just thought it was amusing. I’ll be busy this week working on chapter 3 of the Sam Sixkiller book, chapter 12 of the revised Outlaw book, and researching mail order brides to add to the revised Hearts West tome. I’m going to pour myself into my work. I enjoy writing and it helps somewhat to take my mind off the situation with Rick. No day would be complete without a walk through Old West history and news of what happened on this day 100 years ago. On January 3, 1913, female rancher Josie Bassett poisoned her husband, Nig Wells, with strychnine in Lynwood, Wyoming. She was trying to sober him up after a 4 day toot by unknowingly serving him coffe in the wolf bait cup. Josie and her sister “Queen” Ann Bassett were best known for their love affairs and associations with well known outlaws, particularly Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch.

It’s been an eventful 24 hours. I received the first printed pages of the Elizabeth Custer book from my editor and had to redo numerous endnotes because sections of the various chapters had been moved from one to the other. Revisions and corrections had to be turned back into Globe early this morning. I want so much for this book about Libbie Custer to be accurate. The new information contained in this tome is fascinating and I’m sure will be challenged by someone. Seems like everyone has an opinion about history. Voltaire claimed that history is “Fables agreed upon.” Matthew Arnold wrote that history is “A vast Mississippi of falsehood.” And Henry Ford claimed that “History is more or less bunk.” Maybe they’re right. History is certainly a debatable subject. No matter how precise I try to be with the books I’ve written there has always been someone out there who thinks the history they know is 100% right and what I know is 100% wrong. When the Roy Rogers/Dale Evans book was released a few years ago, a gentlemen sought me out at a signing to let me know that I had their story all wrong. The man informed me that Roy had a younger brother that was a troublemaker. He claimed Roy’s brother was doing time in a prison in Illinois and that the true story of Roy Rogers couldn‘t be told without bringing that matter to the public‘s attention. I tried to tell the enthusiastic critic that Roy Rogers didn’t have a brother, only sisters. The man cursed me and told me I was a poor researcher. I did double check my facts with Roy’s son, Dusty after the incident and Dusty assured me that Roy did not have a brother. I fully expect to get the same kind of treatment with the Elizabeth Custer book. After writing twenty-three books about various historical matters you’d think I’d be used to it, but I’m not. There have always been critics and some of their remarks are quite memorable. For example, Thomas Babington Marcaulay wrote, “The more I read Socrates, the less I wonder they poisoned him.” George Jean Nathan called author J.M. Barrie’s work, “The triumph of sugar over diabetes.” Mark Twain called Edgar Allan Poe’s prose “Unreadable – like Jane Austen’s.” He then added, “No, there’s a difference. I could read his prose on a salary, but not Jane’s.” I’m not comparing any of my work to that of Socrates, Barrie, Poe, or Austen. I’m simply noting that authors much better than myself have been skewered. So when I recall a review I received that read, “This is an author worth watching – not reading, just watching,” I’m comforted by the fact that I’m not the first writer to take a hit and I won’t be the last.

It’s that time of year when one reviews what has taken place over the last 12 months and vows to make changes. It got me wondering if people in the Old West celebrated New Years. Outside of the usual revelry that took place at a saloon I couldn’t find many references to particular parties being held west of the Mississippi. Asians in the West traditionally celebrated the Chinese New Year with a parade, fireworks and gifts. In Rock Springs, Wyoming, China Town residents had a thirty-foot-long silk dragon with a huge head, red and green eyes and a forked tongue. Between thirty and forty men carried the dragon by placing it over their heads as they paraded through town, stopping before each Chinese business and bowing several times. At the Coney Island Saloon in El Paso, Texas in 1908, the celebration the patron’s were having got way out of control 10 minutes after the new year was rung in. Frequent saloon guests and shifty characters, Mannie Clements and Elmer Webb had had their heads together most of the evening planning some sort of wrong doing. The two men were joined by a third shortly after midnight and an argument ensued shortly thereafter. Mannie was shot in the head and killed during the conversation by persons unknown. Authorities speculated that the shooting may have been in connection with a racket to import Chinese into the United States. I don’t have any examples of settlers making resolutions for a new year, but I’m sure they must have. The tradition of the New Year’s Resolutions goes all the way back to 153 B.C. Janus, a mythical king of early Rome was placed at the head of the calendar. In keeping with tradition I’ve made a few resolutions. I want to write more, take on more private investigative work, and pursue a degree in communications. Most importantly, I’m going to fight harder for my brother. With God’s help marvels will be done in 2011 with the bad hand he was dealt. I wish I could resolve to free myself from the hurtful people that have haunted my life for so many years, but don’t know how to make that happen. In our lives, we meet all kinds of people. Some we never think about again. Some, we wonder what happened to them. There are some that we wonder if they ever think about us. And then there are some we wish we never had to think about again. But we do.

I wrote a children’s book a few years ago entitled Cowboy True’s Christmas Adventure.  The proceeds from the sales of the book have gone to benefit the Prison Fellowship Ministry.  I like to share five review copies with readers at this time of the year. If you’d like a free copy of the holiday title drop me a line and I’ll send it out as soon as possible. Merry Christmas!