Journal Notes

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

It was a warm September evening in 1886 when the citizens of Muskogee gathered in the center of town to enjoy a concert given by the Muskogee Amateur Italienne Musical Society. Horses and wagons lined the streets. The performers tuned their instruments and greeted crowd members anxious to express their support for them. Excited children chased one another around and families jockeyed for the best positions in front of a crude bandstand. Women huddled together in discussions of their own and comforted the infants with them that were unsettled by the flurry of activity.¹

Before the event had officially begun, the sound of rapid gunfire echoed off the buildings that framed the main thoroughfare. The gunshots grew louder and suddenly a pair of horsemen appeared riding pell-mell toward the congregation. People scattered. Running for cover, they disappeared into businesses and homes. The cries of astonishment and fear from the unassuming townspeople had no effect on the two rides. Black Hoyt, a half-blooded Cherokee Captain Sixkiller had previous dealings with, and a white man named Jess Nicholson gouged the spurs on their boots into the sides of their mounts and charged down the street, shooting their weapons at anything that moved.²

The out of control men were drunk and enjoying the chaos derived by their wild behavior. Captain Sixkiller and the police officers that worked with him, including Charles LeFlore, rushed onto the scene brandishing their own guns. The captain shouted at Black and Nicholson to stop, but the men took their time at it. After a few moments waiting for the two rowdies to do as they were told, the Muskogee police force managed to corner the riders. LeFlore ordered them to throw their pistols down, and Captain Sixkiller informed them they were under arrest. Neither of the men complied.³

A tense hush filled the air as Black and Nicholson considered their options. The captain studied the belligerent looks on their darkly flushed features. “Give us your guns now,” he demanded, “before someone gets hurt.” Black shifted in his saddle and rubbed off the sweat standing on his chin with his right shoulder. His arm was missing from the elbow down, and his shirtsleeve was pinned over the remaining portion of the limb. Black had lost his arm in June 1886, after he was shot by an unknown assailant while at Fort Gibson, Oklahoma. A bullet fractured the lower third of the appendage, and amputation was his only chance of recovery. Black and his father objected at first but, after conferring with a second doctor, realized there was no other option. He recovered quickly from the chloroform, and as soon as he could left the post doctor’s office to avoid any further attempts on his life. With Milo’s help, he learned how to ride and shoot holding the reins of his horse and pistol in the same hand.⁴

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

Captain Sam Sixkiller crossed the timber lined banks of the Arkansas River atop a big, brown roan. The well-traveled trail lay out in front of him looked like an ecru ribbon thrown down across the prairie grass. Riding a few paces behind the lawman was Deputy Bill Drew. Neither man spoke as they traveled. A herd of cattle in the near distance plodded along slowly toward a small stream. A couple of calves held back, bawling for their mothers who had left them a safe distance behind. Upon reaching the stream the cows buried their noses in the water. They paid no attention to the approaching riders as they enjoyed a refreshing drink.¹

Captain Sixkiller pulled back on the reins of his horse, slowing the animal’s pace. He stared thoughtfully considering the proximity of the cattle to the crude camp behind the field of prairie grass reaching into the horizon. Deputy Drew watched the captain, waiting for the officer to proceed. Both men knew the danger inherent in the job they’d set out to do in early January 1886. They were tracking a murderer named Alfred “Alf” Rushing also known as Ed Brown.²

Nine years prior to Captain Sixkiller leaving Muskogee on a cold winter’s day to apprehend Rushing, the elusive rowdy had shot and killed the marshal of Wortham, Texas.³ The Houston and Texas Central Railway ran through the busy cotton farm community of Wortham, attracting nefarious characters like Rushing. Rushing was a cattle rustler and bootlegger who hoped to make a fortune selling liquor and robbing business owners in the farming town. On December 8, 1879, Rushing and two accomplishes had ridden into Wortham and made their way to J.J. Stubb’s general store. All three were armed with shotguns and hell-bent on retrieving a pistol they claimed Stubbs had stolen from them.⁴

It wasn’t the first time Stubbs had been accused of stealing the pistol from Rushing. Although he denied taking the gun, the men continued to come around and harass him for the item. They refused to accept the storeowner’s claim that he knew nothing of it. Rushing finally told him they intended to get $17 for the weapon before he left or there would be “hell to pay.” ⁵

The volatile display Rushing and his cohorts, Harv Scruggs and Frank Carter, made attracted the attention of Wortham’s dutiful and dedicated city marshal, Jackson T. Barfield. According to the newspaper, the Galveston Daily News, “Marshal Barfield quietly walked across the street (from the jail) to the store and asked the men in a friendly manner not to raise a disturbance and to be more quiet.⁶

The marshal was not accused to his face of having taken the pistol, but seemed to be trying to pacify them and apprehend no danger to himself. Turning his back upon them to walk off, he was shot in the back by Alf Rushing with nine buckshot passing through his body and three through the heart.

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

Sheriff John Culp and Constable Rush Meadows of Chick County, Texas, raced their foam-flecked horses into a dense stand of trees leading to the Arbuckle Mountains, several miles north of Muskogee. The seasoned riders guided their mounts around centuries-old pines and oaks, rotting with age, and massive boulders keeping company with the crowded forest.

The lawmen were in pursuit of outlaw Dick Glass. Glass rode hard, maneuvering his horse in and out of downed timbers. An insane rage possessed him, and he could not allow himself to be caught. He dug his heels into his ride and steered the animal toward an embankment. A wind that seemed to blow from the outer spaces of eternity swept his hat off. He didn’t even glance after it.¹

The $1,000 reward for Glass’s captured spurred the officers on.² Glass was a Creek Freedman, half Indian, half black man and one time farmer in the Creek Nation. When the Civil War ended in 1865, all the slaves of Indians became free and equal. Generations of Creek Freedmen had been raised on the land they worked, and they wanted part of it for their own once the battle between the states had concluded. Not only was their request denied, but they were dispossessed because they weren’t Indian. Men like Dick Glass were bitter over the treatment and turned to a life of crime and retaliation.³

In late March 1885, Glass and the gang of miscreants that usually rode with him were run out of the Creek Nation for rustling cattle, stealing horses, and murdering. He reluctantly obliged, taking with him other Creek Freedmen who had partnered with him in his lawless activities.⁴

Glass roamed through the Seminole, Pottawatomie, and Chickasaw Nations to the Texas line before settling a spot seven miles from Muskogee known as the Point. Glass and his gang made their way back to the Point after every criminal act. It was their rendezvous location, and lawmen that came looking for him there and found him never lived long enough to report it. There were no cabins, lean-tos, or barns on the property. Glass and the other desperados slept outdoors, subjected to the various elements.⁵

The life of a renegade was tiring and uncomfortable; it was with this in mind that Glass decided to repent from his devious ways and set a new course. According to the letter he sent to the editors of the Indian Journal newspaper to be posted on the front page, Glass “wished to become a law abiding citizen if the police would not molest him.” The price already on his head made the proposition impossible to accept.⁶

Texas lawmen Culp and Meadows were not swayed by Glass’s promise to reform. They were going to bring him in regardless. They pushed on at a hard and steady gait through the terrain. The men brought their horses to a quick halt once they reached a clearing in the trees at the base of the mountains. Glass was sitting atop his nearly exhausted ride waiting for them. The lawmen approached the scene cautiously. A flash of satisfaction filled the sheriff’s face as he surveyed the area for signs of anyone who might be coming to Glass’s aide. Satisfied that Glass had simply given up, Culp ordered the outlaw to throw up his hands.⁷ Glass had no intention of obliging. His hand streaked down toward the holster on his thigh. Sheriff Culp and Constable Meadows beat him to the draw and Glass was pitched off his horse.⁸

Once the smoke had cleared, the lawmen holstered their weapons and dismounted. They exchanged a congratulatory glance as they slowly approached the criminal lying in a heap on the ground. Glass was of average height and weight with a scar across the side of his neck, running from his ear down to his chest. It was a burn of some kind over which the skin had grown back red instead of black. It was a distinctive marking, one that made it easy to recognize him in any situation. Glass also had a scar on one hand, made by a bullet that had passed through it when he was in one of his shooting scrapes. Any fleeting doubt the lawmen might have had that the body lying motionless on the ground was anyone other than Glass was removed.⁹

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

A springboard wagon topped a ridge surrounded by a grove of ancient juniper trees seven miles outside Muskogee. The wagon was weighted down with several heavy crates and made little sound. The contents inside the crates slouched as the vehicle slogged through the rain-soaked turf. The soft ground muffled the hardworking wheels and the horse’s hooves. Solomon Coppell, an unshaved man dressed in a dirty, fawn-tan suit with a long-tailed coat, drove the wagon over a crude trail cut deep in mud and dirt. His roving button eyes scanned the scene in front of him, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Just beyond Solomon’s line of sight, tucked behind a thicket of brush, Captain Sam Sixkiller sat on his horse watching him.¹ Sweat rolled down the lawman’s face as the sun in late spring of 1883, riding up into a leaden sky, empty and cloudless, and touched the captain with a sticky heat. Solomon was uncomfortable too. He pulled off the flat-brimmed $50 hat on his head and backhanded a bead of perspiration off his hairline. He then put his hat back on as he continued along his way. The captain waited for just the right moment and then in one fast, flawless movement spurred his horse onto the trail directly in front of Solomon’s team.

A stunned Solomon quickly jerked back on the reins of the animals and brought the skittish horses to a stop. “Hold it, Coppell!” Captain Sixkiller announced in a sober, stern voice. “You’re under arrest.” Solomon glanced at the cargo he was hauling and back to the captain. The lawman was alone and the bootlegger was confident he could survive a confrontation with his wagon load intact. Solomon stared at the captain for a moment shaking his head. “I got a tip you were bringing booze into the Nation,” the captain informed him. Solomon didn’t reply and showed no signs of cooperating “Surrender, Coppell,” Captain Sixkiller warned him again. “Throw your guns out in the road.” The captain was empty-handed, his leg gun still resting in a holster on his thigh. Coppell made a grab for the shotgun on the wagon seat.² The captain’s hand whipped forward in a short, small arc. There was no strain. He saw Coppell’s face, distorted and desperate. His gun kicked back against his wrist. One shot. He saw Coppell’s body jerk. Captain Sixkiller’s gun exploded before it cleared his coat. He saw the flame of the shot lick through the fabric and curl to form a smoldering ring. Coppell swayed and fell into the trace chains and wagon tongue. The team reared and snorted and pawed at the air. The captain calmed the horses and kept them from running away.³

Most Muskogee residences agreed that Captain Sixkiller was an effective policeman, quick to enforce the laws regarding the buying and selling of alcohol. Some thought the rules should be relaxed. Cherokee Indian business owners believed they should have the right to purchase liquor to be sold to white railroad workers and settlers passing through. Indian leaders maintained such measures would lead to an increase in violence on the Nation and insisted that troublemakers who peddled whiskey were to be stopped.⁴

Although Captain Sixkiller was never accused of being too harsh on those who violated the law, there were Indians like former chief of the Cherokee Nation, Lewis Downing and Indian agents like John B. Jones who thought that the United States marshal and his deputies went too far in upholding the law. “Some deputy marshals make forcible arrests,” Chief Downing told Indian agent Jones in a letter, “without regard to circumstances or the facts of the case, and without any of the forms of law.”⁵ Smugglers occasionally planted whiskey on innocent people making their way across the Nation. If they were stopped by Captain Sixkiller or his deputies and alcohol was found in their possession they were arrested and taken immediately to Fort Smith, Arkansas, to be prosecuted. Chief Downing strenuously objected to the captain’s rush to judgment and believed in those instances such individuals should be given the benefit of the doubt.⁶

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

A hot sun beat down on the busy residents of Muskogee, Oklahoma, in June 1880. A heavy veil of humidity, like a stifling blanket hung over the town as well.¹ The primitive railroad stop was slowly coming into its own. More than five hundred people called the area home, among them were employees of the Missouri-Pacific Railroad. The workers gathered by the score and milled about the hamlet of lean-tos, tents and cabins. Gamblers had pitched their canvas dwellings in prime spots, and crowds flocked around their tables. Quarrels flared up between slick poker dealers and inexperienced card players. Soiled doves prowled around the gaming tents and curious male bystanders like panthers. They enticed men looking for a fight to their crude dens then stripped them of any funds they had not lost in a crooked card game. Unsuspecting shoppers and their families roamed in and out of the heated arguments that made it into the street. They gawked warily at the chaos while on their way to and from various stores.²

City officials watched the scene play out in disgust. Bootleg alcohol was usually sold to the railroad crews and the houses of ill repute, and the clientele had a hard time controlling the amount they consumed. More often than not customers who frequented bawdy houses and who drank to excess were prone to violence.³ They terrorized the neighborhood surrounding the brothels, recklessly firing their guns at women and children and brawling with townsmen who challenged them to put away their weapons.⁴

In spite of repeat warnings from law enforcement officers like Colonel J.Q. Tuffts, a United States Agent for the Union Indian Agency in Muskogee, to the madams who ran the brothels to shut their businesses down voluntarily, no efforts had been made by them. Brothels were considered a necessary evil; a portion of the income spent at such houses supported public services such as the police department.⁵ Agent Tuffts didn’t care about that. He considered the bordellos a hangout for criminals and delinquents from all over the area. When Agent Tuffts made Sheriff Sixkiller captain of the Indian police in early February 1880, he made ridding Muskogee of such houses a priority for Sam’s administration.⁶ Anxious to prove himself in Muskogee since leaving office under a cloud of turmoil in Tahlequah, Sixkiller was eager to accept the job and the challenge.⁷

Captain Sixkiller and seven deputies, representing the full force of the police force, marched through the streets of Muskogee to a house in the red light district occupied by the most sought after working women in town. A sign in front of the structure read Hotel de Adams.⁸ Captain Sixkiller and his men stopped short of the building and studied their next move carefully. A couple of cattle punchers tromped out of the enterprising establishment and headed off in the opposite direction of the lawmen unaware anything out of the ordinary was about to happen. Laughter wafted out through the open windows of the building. Captain Sixkiller motioned for deputies on his left and right to cover the back of the business. When he thought the men had time to get into place he moved up the dusty path to the front door with the other lawmen.⁹

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

Willis Pettit a tall, well-built black man sunk his spurs into his horse’s backend and the animal, already moving at a fast pace, quickened his stride. The anxious rider chanced a glance over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. In the landscape he left behind there was no sign of any other rider. A flash of relief passed over his face.

Sheriff Sam Sixkiller was in pursuit of Willis and had anticipated the route the fleeing criminal would take and was waiting for him at a ford in the Illinois River several miles outside of Tahlequah. The sheriff’s horse carried him over the rocks in the shallow section of water then dropped his head into the liquid and eagerly drank. Sam swung himself crossways in the saddle, lifted the canteen hanging off the horn, opened the container and took a long swig. He carefully scanned the scenery around him as he hopped off his horse and plunged his canteen into the water to refill it. The sound of a fast approaching horse made him pause for a moment. The sheriff returned the canteen to his saddle then lifted his rifle out of a holster. Turning slowly toward the sound, he leveled his gun in the direction of the oncoming steed.

Willis and his ride emerged from the thicket that flanked the river on both sides and followed the incline to the water’s edge. The horse spooked and reared back when it came up on Sheriff Sixkiller, and Willis was thrown in the process. Before he could get to his feet, he was staring down the barrel of the sheriff’s gun. He raised his hands in surrender, cursing his luck in the process.

On May 15, 1876, Sheriff Sixkiller arrested Willis Pettit for “assault with intent to kill Emanuel Spencer with a pistol.” It was the first of many arrests for Willis in the Cherokee Nation during Sam’s time in office. Willis, a former slave, aligned himself with other ex-slaves who believed they were entitled to land given to the Five Civilized Tribes. Their belief was based on the fact that slaves owned by the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creeks, and Seminoles who were freed after the Civil War should be granted a part of the territory for their own exclusive use. Not every tribe agreed with the idea, and conflict sparked controversy, and at times, violence.

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

I took part in the Tucson Book Festival this past weekend and in many respects it was a sweet experience. I spent time with old friends and talked about writing, old western movies, and Seinfeld episodes. I met readers who were great fans of the western genre and were happy to share their thoughts about their favorite western authors from Dorothy Johnson to Johnny Boggs. I also met a few celebrated authors behaving badly. I was initially excited to make their acquaintance and found myself wanting to be within earshot of their tales about the books they’ve written and the literary giants they frequently come in contact. As the evening progressed and one insulting remark after another was made about the struggling western authors they’ve had the displeasure to be around or read I found myself less enamored of the big shots and more and more ashamed that I held them in high regard at all.

Why is it that I’m so quick with adulation for the banal, yet so begrudging with respect for the truly consequential? I should have been satisfied to spend an evening with those writers who had a true love of the Old West rather than a couple who had a true love for themselves and westerns were merely a footnote. Very poorly done, Chris, very poorly done.

You know, all I can figure that so many of us feel so anonymous, so powerless, and so insignificant that we howl and yelp at the mere hint of notoriety, like dogs watching the moon rise in the night sky. Hey, forget the guy who is setting at a booth all day peddling his western books to passersby and his wife who is working the register, when is that guy that’s been in numerous documentaries and has been working on the same western novel for six years going to get here?”

Will the doctor with the cure for cancer please sit the down, here comes the multi-award winning author who has penned yet another book about Wyatt Earp.

Look…in the penumbra between absolute obscurity and worldwide renown there exists a shadow region filled with a seething horde of pan flashers, dime store magicians and Holiday Inn cover bands hoping for a big slice of adulation quiche. And while most of us are content to rubberneck the carnage on the side of the road, too many people are desperately striving to actually be the car wreck, and I’m not sure we should feel compelled to recognize them. I know I’m going to work on that.

There’s a great line from the movie Harvey that played over and over again in my head this weekend. Elwood P. Dowd, Jimmy Stewart’s character in the film, explains his philosophy of life in the following way: “In this world, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant.” Not only am I going to surround myself with writers who behave in such a manner I’m going to demand that behavior in myself.

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

The sweeping prairie lay quietly under the heat of a brassy sun as a lone wagon topped a grassy knoll that afforded an arresting view from every direction. Redbird Sixkiller drove the team of two horses pulling the vehicle toward the town of Tahlequah, Oklahoma Territory, in the near distance. His four-year-old son, Sam, sat beside him captivated by the sights and listening intently to the stories he told him about his ancestors and the origin of the Sixkiller family name. Redbird shared with Sam a tale about one of their fearless relatives. The ancestor was engaged in battle against the Creek Indians and had killed six braves and then himself before allowing another band of hostile Creek Indians that surrounded him to attack. The Cherokee Indian warriors who witnessed the daring act referred to the warrior as Sixkiller.¹

Conversation between father and son died down as they rode into Tahlequah. Thousands of Cherokee Indians from the eastern and western portions of the state had descended upon the location to attend a convention that promised to unite the two factions. Since being removed from the Native homes, divided and sent to live at opposite ends of the territory, the Cherokee people were battling among themselves.² The central theme of the convention was “one body politic under the style and title of the Cherokee Nation.”³ Redbird and Sam attended the ambitious meeting in September 1846 along with more than two thousand other Indians.⁴ Redbird wanted his son to see the efforts being made to resolve the violent conflict that had erupted between the groups. The factions did not agree on the concessions that should be made to the United States government over the land. The Cherokees in the east were opposed to leaving their homeland no matter what the government promised in exchange. Those in the west were in favor of the removal of the Cherokee to Oklahoma Territory, the funds and improved provisions that accompanied the move.⁵ Redbird was in favor of the Cherokee people coming together as one. He felt the prosperity and welfare of the Indian Nation and his family depended upon an undivided front.

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

Although his exploits on the job were as courageous as Wild Bill Hickok or Wyatt Earp, the name of Sam Sixkiller is scarcely recognized today. The criminal class that invaded the Indian Nation in the region now known as Oklahoma from 1870 to 1886 had to contend with an Indian police force known as the Lighthorsemen, of which Sam Sixkiller was a member. His ability to fearlessly handle horse thieves, bootleggers, murderers, and rapists that perpetrated such illegal acts on Indian land earned him the respect of his people and fellow officers.

As High Sheriff in Tahlequah, the capitol of the Cherokee Nation, Sixkiller apprehended white lawbreakers selling rot-gut whiskey to Indians and squared off against hostile mixed-bloods like “Badman Dick Glass.” Glass had a reputation that rivaled Jesse James; some said he was even more ruthless. The sheriff wasn’t intimidated by the outlaw and did what was needed to bring him in. Sam Sixkiller not only arrested outlaws and placed them in jail, but also served as the warden of the very facility that housed the lawbreakers.

From Tahlequah, Sixkiller moved on to Muskogee, in present-day Oklahoma where he was promoted to Captain of the Lighthorsemen and helped to bring peace to the volatile area. When the railroads sliced through the landscape, Captain Sixkiller was named a special agent to the rail lines, thwarting attempted robberies and staying off whiskey peddlers hoping to transport their goods across the region. Isaac Parker, the famous 12^th Judicial Circuit Judge that held court at Fort Smith, Arkansas from 1868 to 1898, was so impressed with Captain Sixkiller’s tenacity and dedication to law and order he recommended the officer be given a commission as a United States Deputy Marshal. These additional responsibilities further exposed the lawman to some of society’s most dangerous characters.

A legal altercation between Sixkiller and a pair of violent repeat offenders named Richard Vann and Alf Cunningham sparked a vendetta that led to the lawman’s death. Off duty and unarmed, Sixkiller was ambushed and killed by the criminals on Christmas Eve in 1886.

The death of Captain Sixkiller exposed a serious void in the federal law as it pertained to those who murdered Native American U.S. Deputy Marshals. There was nothing on the books that made it a federal offense to kill an Indian officer. Although legislation to correct this heinous oversight eventually passed, it came too late to affect the cowards that robbed Sixkiller of his life.

Sam Sixkiller died a martyr to the cause of law and order. His story is not only about his life and untimely demise, but also about the everyday life of a frontier lawman and the duties he performed, from the mundane to the perilous.

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Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

Lawman Sam Sixkiller led his horse through a belt of sparse timber along the Illinois River in Southeast Oklahoma. He was a stocky, dark-skinned, heavy-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed, droopy mustache, and small dark eyes that were flatly calculating.¹ They shifted purposely from the streams of sunlight off a growth of blackberry bushes to the rocky path dancing before him. Apart from the sound of his roan’s hooves slowly moving through the sweet-gum shrubs and short grass, there was a mingling of a trio of agitated voices wafting through the warm air.²

Sam urged his ride into a clearing where three half-blooded Cherokee-Seminole Indians sat playing dice.³ In between rolls of the die the men drank from an amber-colored bottle they eagerly shared with each other. Scattered beside the men were four empty bottles of liquor. The drunken Indians barely noticed Sam slowly inching his horse into their crude camp.

The men were undisturbed by Sam’s presence and continued with their game. They argued over whose turn it was, nearly coming to blows over which player went next. Sam watched them toss the dice on a thick blanket. At first glance, the blanket appeared to be draped over a log. The closer he got to the action the more it became clear the make-shift table was actually the body of a fourth Indian. A stream of dried blood had trickled out from under the covering and pooled around a stand of butterfly weeds.

Sam scrutinized the scene more carefully and spotted a massive knife within reach of the Indian closest to him. Sam casually pushed his jacket over the six-shooter strapped on his side, revealing not only the weapon, but the slightly tarnished badge that showed he was a member of the Cherokee Nation police force. One by one the men turned and looked at the lawman. For a breathless instant Sam watched the knife, expecting one of the Indians to snap it up. Without saying a word the three got to their feet, wavering a bit as they did so. Sam pulled his gun out of his holster and leveled it at the men as he lifted his five feet eight inch frame off his horse. He motioned for the men to back away from the body, and they reluctantly complied. Disgusted, Sam walked over to one of the bottles and kicked it hard. It spun into a nearby rock and broke. What little booze was left inside it spilled out and quickly soaked into the dry land.

Sam made his way to the motionless man on the ground and, using the toe of his boot, rolled him out from under the blanket. The man was dead. There was a deep cut across his throat, and his limbs were stiff.

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