Journal Notes

You’re cordially invited to attend the Cowboy Lunch Series at the Autry Museum in Los Angeles on May 18, 2016 for a special tribute to actor/director John Wayne.

The Cowboy Lunch Series brings together western filmmakers and stars with Autry Museum members and other fans of the genre. Order lunch at Autry’s Crossroads Café and join actors, producers, stunt coordinators, makeup artists, writers, and other surprise guests. Hollywood producer, Rob Word hosts “A Word on Westerns” a group discussion based on the particular theme or film of the month.

The theme for the May Cowboy Lunch Series is a Salute to Wayne. John Wayne’s son actor Patrick Wayne will be in attendance to discuss his father’s work. New York Times Bestselling author Chris Enss will also be on hand to talk about her book Entertaining Women: Actresses, Singers, and Dancers of the Old West. She’ll share stories about women entertainers on the wild frontier and how they inspired some of the actresses who starred opposite John Wayne.

The event is free to the public. Cost of lunch is not included.

For more information visit http://theautry.org or call 323.667.2000.

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Soldier, Sister, Scout, Spy:

Women Soldiers and Patriots of the Western Frontier.

A slim shadow darted toward the old church at the ruined fortress of Goliad. The smell of smoke stained the night air as the figure picked a careful path through the rubble inside the fortress walls. Moonlight starkly displayed the damage caused by the retreating forces of Colonel James Fannin’s command. Hundreds of Fannin’s men now lay on the hard ground, prisoners of General Jose de Urrea, one of Supreme Commandant General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s best commanders.

Pausing in a dark corner, Francita Alavez gazed toward the southwest gate and the dull gleam of a cannon positioned to fire on anyone who might attempt a rescue of the Americans. She shivered in the warm night as the knowledge of their fate bowed her shoulders. She knew what the captives did not. They believed they would be returned to the United States as prisoners of war. Francita had seen the order sent by Santa Anna to execute all of them.

As she had at Copano Bay almost the moment she arrived in Texas, Francita vowed to save as many as she could. On the eve of Palm Sunday, March 27, 1836, she slipped into the church and began the task.

“She had heard many tales of the bad, bold, immoral Texans, but like all good souls loath to think ill of others, scarcely believed they could be as bad as painted,” recounted the Pioneer Press in 1920. The article went on to outline what was then known about the woman who came to be called the “Angel of Goliad.” Little more is known today about the young woman who worked against a dictator’s orders at the risk of her own life.

According to a written recollection of schoolteacher Elena Zamora O’Shea, who learned about Francita years later through a family connection, Francita—or Panchita, as she was sometimes called—had been orphaned when young. A well-to-do family near San Luis Potosoi in Mexico raised the girl. O’Shea said that Francita was a sort of “better-class servant, of good blood and from a fine family.”

O’Shea went on to describe Francita as a “pretty, attractive, loving girl chafing at her position in this family and longing to be free and to have a fling at life.” Succumbing to the charms of the dashing Captain Telesforo Alavez, whom she knew to be married, Francita, “throwing all restraint aside went off with him to Texas in the campaign.”

Francita’s first encounter with the cruelties of war came at Copano. Mexican troops had just captured about seventy-five to eighty men after they had disembarked at the port. The Americans had come with William P. Miller from Nashville, Tennessee, to aid in the fight for liberty in Texas, then a part of Mexico. They were captured without arms and taken back to Copano.

To learn more about Francita Alavez and other such patriots read

Soldier, Sister, Scout, Spy:

Women Patriots and Soldiers on the Western Frontier.

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Soldier, Sister, Scout, Spy:

Women Soldiers and Patriots of the Western Frontier

Among the exhibits on display at P. T. Barnum’s American Theatre in New York City during the summer of 1864 was an actress and patriot of the Union Army named Pauline Cushman. Billed as the “Spy of Cumberland,” the celebrated thespian was dressed in the complete uniform of an infantry man including sabre, a crimson, silk sash and a forage cap. Her hair under the cap was disheveled, shoulder-length and curly. She sported a mustache, thin, but unmistakable above her upper lip and below the lip was a dark tuft of hair. The makeup and over all look was so convincing that unless otherwise notified ticket buyers had no idea the man was really a woman.

Pauline Cushman appeared on stage in the lecture room at P. T. Barnum’s American Theatre from June 6, 1864 to July 9, 1864. She offered a patriotic presentation to more than twenty thousand people in a single month. According to the advertisement issued by P. T. Barnam about Pauline’s engagement “she was the modern American model of the renowned ‘Joan of Arc.’ ”

“Miss Pauline Cushman, the Union scout and spy, who under orders from General Rosecrans, passed through enemy lines and accomplished such wonders for the Army of the Cumberland while she was engaged in the secret service of the United States,” the July 6, 1864 edition of the Charleston Mercury read. “Every father and mother who have a son in the Union Army; every child who has learned to love its country and call on heaven to bless its present struggle and preserve its nationality, will rejoice at this opportunity of listening to “thoughts that breath and words that burn,” as they fall from the lips of this high-souled, gallant girl, who, in her determination to serve her country, risked her inestimable precious life, and was rescued from a Rebel prison, where by order of the notorious General Bragg, she lay wounded and languishing with sickness, UNDER SENTENCE OF DEATH!”

“Those who would avoid the crowd should bear in mind that the most pleasant time to hear this heroic lady recount, in her fervid language, her adventure, is at ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, on which the lecture room is thrown open without any extra charge. The public’s obedient servant, P. T. Barnum.”

To learn more about Pauline Cushman and other courageous women in the

Old West

Soldier, Sister, Scout, Spy:  Women Soldiers and Patriots of the Western Frontier.

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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

To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read

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.

To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read

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

To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read

Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

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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

To learn more about the life and times of Sam Sixkiller read

Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

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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

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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.