Journal Notes

A well known western figure I’ve long since wanted to write about was Geronimo. Growing up at Fort Huachuca I heard a lot about Geronimo and always admired him for so enthusiastically fighting back against the bad guys. He fought with a woman warrior I wrote about in the book She Wore A Yellow Ribbon. She didn’t live long standing up to a government that lied. But I guess she’d rather be a dead hero than a live coward. Geronimo waged war for twenty-five years against both U.S. and Spanish armies to protect his tribal lands. Born with the name Goyathlay, he had a violent life from the beginning with the death of his father during a war, followed by the murder of his first wife, three children, and mother during a raid by Spanish soldiers. “St. Jerome!” is what the Spanish settlers yelled when they saw Geronimo preparing to attack, asking for help of the patron saint of translators, for some reason. Some linguists believe that is how “Geronimo,” the derivative of Jerome, became a name synonymous with a wild assault. He and a band of thirty-eight remained the very last to elude U.S. troops, until he finally surrendered in 1886 and was sent to a reservation. Toward the end of his life he embraced his celebrity status and appeared at country fairs to sign autographs and even rode in President Teddy Roosevelt’s inaugural parade. He died of pneumonia in 1909 at seventy-nine. His grave was allegedly robbed by members of Yale’s Skull & Bones Society, and Geronimo’s skull is used today in initiation rituals of the secret club to which both Presidents George W. and George H. W. Bush once belonged.

The following story is a Cherokee Indian tale about fair play and takes place in the Blue Ridge country of what is now western North Carolina. Playing by the rules a big part of “how to play the game,” both on and off the field. I wanted to include this tale today in honor of Cherokee frontier lawman Sam Sixkiller and the book that is set to be released about this incredible men. And now, The Boy Who Went to the Sky. There was once upon a time a boy who was a fine ball player of his village of the Cherokee nation. He could catch well, run swiftly to the goal, and almost never did he lose a game for his side. And one season it was decided that his village should play a ball game with the village of the Cherokees on the other side of the Ridge. So the two teams met not far from Pilot Knob, and the game began. This boy was anxious, just as a boy of today would be, to help win the game for his village, and for a while the game seemed to be going against him. Time and time again the players from the Indian village on the other side of the Ridge ran and made goals. This made the boy discouraged, and it also made him forget his honor. His village must make the goal, he thought, so he did a thing which was forbidden in the rules of ball playing. He picked up the ball in his hand and tried to throw it to the goal. The Indians kicked the ball. It was not considered fair to touch it with their hands. He thought that no one had seen him, and he was successful. The ball went straight to the goal, but it did not stop there. He boys and girls and the braves who sat in a wide circle on the grassy field to watch the game saw a strange thing. Bounding away from the goal, the ball went up into the air. Following the ball went the boy who had forgotten the rules of the game. His feet left the ball field. He seemed to be leaping up towards the sky to try and bring back the ball, but neither he nor the ball stopped. Up, up, higher and farther through the blue air they went until the ball was out of sight, and then the boy could no longer be seen. It was magic which had happened, and the people rubbed their eyes with their wonder, and then they silently went home to their villages. It seemed to them to have been a lesson, for the boy’s wrong play had been seen, not only by the Great Spirit of the Cherokee People, but by some of the ball players. They knew why the boy had been taken away from his friends. The was the ancient days before the Moon had appeared in the sky, but that night a strange thing happened. Sitting late beside their campfires the braves of all the villages of the Cherokee country saw a huge, round ball of silver rise in the sky and then hang there, lighting the forest trees with its wonderful, pale light. And on the surface of this ball of silver could be seen the face of the boy who had not played fair in the ball game. It was the ball which had been taken from the ball field up to the sky, and fastened there. In its light could be seen the boy had been taken from the earth with it. The Moon had some to the heavens, a ball taken from the game field. Sometimes it was seen that the Moon was smaller. It was sometimes eclipsed. Everybody was amazed at an eclipse of the Moon, for the night would suddenly darken and the tribes would gather and fire guns and beat a drum. The eclipse came about because of a great Frog, who tried to swallow the Moon, and the drum frightened him away. But the oddest thing about the Moon was its way of waxing and waning. From night to night it would become so large that the Indians could see the face of the Boy-in-the-Moon, and then it would be nothing but a silver thread in the sky above the pine tree. This happened, the Boy-in-the Moon told them, to remind ball players never to cheat. When the Moon looked small and pale it was because someone had handled a ball unfairly. So it came about in the Cherokee country that they played ball after that only in the full of the moon. Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman is currently available through Amazon.com. Register to win a free copy of the book by sending an email to www.chrisenss.com

All the Tombstone luminaries were dwarfed by the presence of the Earp family. Less than two years after their arrival to the town referred to as “too tough to die,” Virgil Earp was ambushed by the cowboys and was left crippled for life. The same cowardly group that shot Virgil then shot Morgan. At 10:50 p.m. on March 18, 1882, Morgan was playing pool at Bob Hatch’s Billiard Parlor. Wyatt watched as his bother chalked his cue. Suddenly, from a crowd of men standing behind a back door, two rifle shots blasted into the room. The first barely missed Wyatt, but it crushed Morgan’s spine. He died before midnight. Three men were seen running from the pool hall – an unidentified Indian, a lawman named Frank Stillwell, and Pete Spence. Wyatt wanted blood. If they were my brother’s I would have wanted the same. On the morning of March 22, a portion of the Earp posse including Wyatt, his brother Warren, Doc Holliday, Sherman McMaster and Turkey Creek Johnson rode into Spence’s woodcutting camp in the South Pass in the Dragoon Mountains, looking for Spence. Unknown to the Earp posse, Pete Spence was in jail, but at the wood camp, the Earp posse found Florentino “Indian Charlie” Cruz. The Arizona Weekly Star had previously identified “Florentino Saiz as “the 1878 murderer of two U.S. Marshals”, and Earp strongly suspected he was one of those involved in the shooting death of his brother Morgan. According to witnesses in the wood camp, as the Earp posse arrived, Cruz ran and the Earp posse chased him, firing several shots, then a final shot. Earp told his biographer Stuart Lake that he got Cruz to confess to being the lookout, and that he identified Stilwell, Hank Swilling, Curly Bill and Johnny Ringo as Morgan’s killers. After the confession, Wyatt Earp shot Cruz, telling Lake that he had given Cruz a pistol, and told him to draw. The coroner’s inquest identified him as Florentino Cruz. Dr. George Goodfellow testified that he found that Cruz had a minor wound to his arm, a wound in his thigh, a serious wound in his groin and pelvis, and a shot in the side of his head. The coroner thought either of the last two shots would have been fatal. Rumor has it that before Cruz got what was coming to him he insisted that he had done what he had to do and should be allowed to have some peace now. I was recently informed that the cowards who took my brother’s life were asking for the same thing. If Cruz wanted peace he shouldn’t have been involved in a murder. If the cowards who took my brother wanted peace they shouldn’t have falsely accused him of a crime and they shouldn’t post obscene things about a dead man on their blog. They should prepare themselves for the fate that awaits all cowards – unrest, to be haunted. A coward will die many times before their actual demise. No one knew that better than the cowboys Earp tracked to their death.

For more information:
Laurie Kenney
203/458-4555
laurie.kenney@globepequot.com

SAM SIXKILLER: Cherokee Frontier Lawman

A riveting biography of a little-known Native-American who shaped history—and a story complete with shootouts, romance, intrigue, and a little politics.

Sam Sixkiller was one of the most accomplished lawmen in 1880s Oklahoma Territory, and, in many ways, he was a typical law-enforcement official: minding the peace and gunslinging in the still-wild West. What set Sam Sixkiller apart was his Cherokee heritage. Sixkiller’s sworn duty was to uphold the law but he also took it upon himself to protect the traditional way of life of the Cherokee. Sixkiller’s temper, actions, and convictions earned him more than a few enemies, and in 1886 he was assassinated in an ambush. TwoDot, an imprint of Globe Pequot Press, is proud to announce the June 12, 2012, release of Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman, by Howard Kazanjian and Chris Enss, a new biography that takes a sweeping, cinematic look at the short, tragic life of of Sam Sixkiller and his days policing the streets of the Wild West.

Howard Kazanjian is an award-winning producer and entertainment executive who has been producing feature films and television programs for more than twenty-five years. While vice president of production for Lucasfilm Ltd., he produced two of the highest grossing films of all time: Raiders of the Lost Ark and Star Wars: Return of the Jedi. He also managed production of another top-ten box-office hit, The Empire Strikes Back. Some of his other notable credits include The Rookies, Demolition Man, and the two-hour pilot and first season of J.A.G.

Chris Enss is an award-winning screen writer who has written for television, short subject films, live performances, and for the movies, and is the co-author (with JoAnn Chartier) of Love Untamed: True Romances Stories of the Old West, Gilded Girls: Women Entertainers of the Old West, and She Wore A Yellow Ribbon: Women Patriots and Soldiers of the Old West and The Cowboy and the Senorita and Happy Trails (with Howard Kazanjian). Her most recent books include Buffalo Gals: Women of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and How the West was Worn.

Sam Sixkiller: Cherokee Frontier Lawman
by Howard Kazanjian & Chris Enss
ISBN 978-0-7627-6075-6 • TwoDot • $14.95 • Paperback • 176 pages • 6 x 9 • June 12, 2012

I’m been working on a couple of western books this morning and humming a Stephen Foster tune. Many people don’t know who Foster was and I thought I’d make him the subject of the journal entry today. He was no great composer, but Stephen Foster had a way with sentimental words and catchy melodies that had kept his songs popular for more than a century. There is something pleasantly wholesome and irresistibly old-fashioned about songs like “Jennie with the Light Brown Hair” and “Oh! Suzanna.” Two have been adopted by states, “My Old Kentucky Home” and Florida’s “Old Folks at Home.” (Swanee River) What is ironic is that the composer of such unabashed sentimentality – born on the fiftieth birthday of the nation – ended up so miserably. Forster, who grew up singing but had very little musical training near Pittsburgh, was successful almost from his first published songs in 1848. He earned more than $1,000 a year in royalties and married in 1850. But he always spent more than he made and the marriage was unhappy. He wrote fewer songs each year until he left his wife and daughter in 1860 and moved to New York City. There, desperate for cash, he churned out 105 songs – more than half of his entire work – in the last three and a half years of his life. Most were soon forgotten, and his previously lucrative publishing arrangement deteriorated to the point that Foster was selling songs outright for a quick $25. The composer, who drank heavily and suffered symptoms of tuberculosis, grew bitter and lonely as he lived in a series of rooming houses. On January 10, 1864, bedridden with fever, Foster got up to wash himself. Apparently as he stood over the washbasin he fell, shattering the porcelain bowl, which cut his neck deeply. He was found by a chambermaid delivering towels later that day. George Cooper, one of his few friends, was summoned to hear Foster whisper, “I’m done for,” and plead for a drink. Foster was taken to the city-run Bellevue Hospital, where he died, alone and unrecognized, three days later. The hospital, which had registered the 37-year-old composer as Stephen Fosters, put his body in a morgue for unknown corpses until Cooper retrieved it. Unlike nearly all that he wrote in his final years. Foster’s last song, which he penned just a few days before he died, joined his earlier classics: Beautiful dream, wake unto me. Starlight and dew-drops are waiting for thee. Sounds of the rude world heard in the day. Lull’d by the moonlight have all pass’d away.

Seven years ago my brother phoned pleading for help. He had been beaten and suffered numerous other abuses to vile to mention or allow myself to think on again. He was crying and I was devastated. I promised I would do everything I could to save him. I promised. I did try everything but I still lost him. I miss him terribly. I’ve kept a journal about my experiences with the federal prison system; the pain involved when someone you love is falsely accused of a crime, how deep the wounds from such an ordeal cuts, and how sure I am that only God can bring me through to the other side. The majority of emails I receive through my website at www.chrisenss.com are encouraging. I have received several from my brother’s ex-wife’s family where they wish me dead and worse. The new western fiction I’m writing is in part, a response to those hate filled, profanity laced, emails. Writing for me has always been cathartic, but writing a western is liberating. This is the first chapter of the book.

Laura Reno slowly descended into a cold, dark cellar. A few crudely cut boards lined the dirt walls, and sections of rusted chicken wire was wound tightly around the packed earth, keeping it in place. The floor was dirt too; soft, moist and pliable – the right density for digging a deep grave. The spurs on the boots of the deputy marshal in front of Laura, the deputy in back of her, and those belonging to Samuel Timmons, the sheriff of Anaconda, Montana, clanged as they tromped down the creaking wooden steps. Laura, a handsome woman in her early thirties, tight-featured and tight-haired, was uneasy about where she was being led but she was damn sure not going to let the lawmen know it.
It wasn’t until she was well into the clammy, unpleasant room and a lit lantern was hung on a nail overhead that she could clearly see there was something leaning against the wall. A large, soiled, tan canvas was draped over a tall, thick form. Blood had oozed through the canvas leaving a faint impression of the outline of a torso. The smell emanating from whomever or whoever was under the canvas was overwhelming. The sheriff watched Laura, waiting for her to react. He thought maybe she’d take a handkerchief from her drawstring bag to hold over her nose in order to withstand the pungent odor. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Miss Reno,” Sheriff Timmons began, almost grinning. “I thought you might be able to identify these no-good, bunko steerers that had been hanging around the fine town of Anaconda the past week. I had a pretty good idea who they were when they were described, but I wanted to know what you thought. The sheriff was so anxious for her to identify the bodies under the canvas he could hardly contain himself. He tapped his finger excitedly on his belt buckle, waiting for her to respond.
Laura watched the sheriff tap his belt like an enthusiastic dog wagging his tail. She didn’t utter a word. She hated lawmen – this one in particular, and her eyes said it all. Sheriff Timmons nodded to his deputies, and in one quick move they dragged the canvas forward revealing what lay beneath.
The corpses of two men bloated and ghastly were exposed. In a flash, blood drained from Laura’s face. Ever so imperceptibly she slid her hand over her stomach to keep from getting sick. “Don’t these boys look like your brothers Daniel and Everett?” Sheriff Timmons asked with a sardonic glance at Laura. She was fighting hard to keep her composure. The men were indeed her brothers. Although their eyes were dead and their features were waxy she still recognized them. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away before anyone could see. “You’re a brave man,” Laura said sarcastically, her voice breaking off a bit.
The sheriff wasn’t amused by her comment. His eyes were fixed angrily on hers. The tension in the musty, enclosed space was palpable. “This is only two of your brothers’ carcasses,” he snapped. “I want the three other brothers.” Laura studied her deceased siblings’ disfigured faces, trying desperately to remember what they once looked like. “I want all the Reno boys,” he added. She choked down sobs threatening to break free. “Good luck,” she finally told the sheriff.
Sheriff Timmons’ face twisted with insane rage and he reached for his gun. He hit her hard over the head with the barrel of the weapon, and she collapsed on the floor in a heap.

John Reno urged his horse from under a canvas of shade trees that covered a hillside, thirty plus miles east of Virginia City, Montana. The bright sunlight made the rider squint as he scanned the countryside that unrolled before him. The magnificent sky was dabbed with streaks of pink and orange. John was a big man in his mid-30s with frosty blue eyes, graying hair, and a bristly, full mustache. He had an air of grave and resolute authority. In the near distance he could see the Devolle Western Railroad tracks uncoil around rocky bluffs and over grassy slopes. Somewhere, far away, was the sound of a train fast approaching. The train whistle blew and a frosty grin touched John’s lips.
From another hill vantage point, opposite from where John sat waiting, was his brother Frank. The sandy-haired, twenty-four-year-old had deep-set, dark eyes in a rough-carved face. Slim rider’s legs carried a horseman’s torso with his main weight concentrated in the heavy chest, back, and arm muscles. His hands were worn scarred and competent looking. When he heard the train whistle sound, he hurried to a section of railroad track couched between groves of oak trees. Two men, William Sparks and Charles ‘California’ Nelse stood over the section of track, carefully placing explosives on the wooden ties. Frank’s fast approaching horse prompted them to abandon their nefarious task and remove their guns from the comfort of their holsters. Frank raised his right hand high as he came on the pair. “It’s me,” he announced. “Where do things stand?” he asked. “We’re set,” California assured Frank. Hard inquisitiveness left his face and he smiled. “Good,” he offered as he turned his horse around and hurried away from the scene. After one last check to make sure the charges were set and the blasting caps were in place, William and California jumped on their horses and followed after Frank. The sound of the train grew closer.
John studied the train as it traveled on its way. That frosty grin touched his mouth again. He cradled a shotgun in his arms. For a moment everything was calm, tranquil. A covey of quail took off near the place where Frank, California, and William sat patiently waiting atop their rides. In the charged quite the four men took off in full gallop in the direction of the train. Their expressions were stony and inscrutable. Suddenly a rapid series of sequential explosions irrupted, destroying the track the train was on and the track hundreds of yards before it.
The high pitched scream of steel on steel echoed over the terrain. Sparks flew from the wheels of the engine and three cars behind it. The rest of the railcars were blown to bits. Debris rained from the sky, littering the picturesque setting, smoke hung over the twisted wreck. Pieces of lumber and metal smoldered. It looked like hell.
John and Frank, William and California arrived at the derailed and disheveled train with their guns drawn. A bewildered and shaken engineer and mechanic emerged from the engine of the train and were greeted by four forty-five pistols. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the engineer managed to ask as he dropped to his knees. The internal injuries from the blast were more evident than he realized when he stepped off the vehicle. “Thought we’d take the money in the express car,” Frank proudly told him. “Robbing the Devolle Western Railroad,” the engineer responded, glancing back at the damaged car in question. “Never heard of such a thing,” he added. “Yeah,” John snapped back menacingly, “we just came up with the idea.”
John kept his gun leveled at the engineer and the fireman while Frank, William, and California climbed onto the charred platform of the express car. Three oblong, iron boxes sat undisturbed in the rubble. California pried the lids open that fit on top of the safes with a crowbar he was carrying with him. Frank and William quickly inspected the contents then stuffed five canvas bags with thousands of dollars in gold and government bonds. Once the treasures were secured on their mounts, the men rode off.
Still shaken by the sudden, magnificent blast and disoriented by the audacity of the crime, no one dared stop the outlaws from getting away.

Night had settled on Miles City, Montana. Through the darkness a horse and rider moved slowly toward the soft, glimmering lights of the busy cattle town toward the railroad. A five car train waited on the track in front of the depot. The rider dismounted when he reached the last car and tied his horse to the ornate railing on the stairs leading to the caboose. The elaborate lettering scrawled tastefully above the entrance to the car read D.G. Devolle Western Railroad. The rider studied the name for a moment then knocked on the car door. He entered before being invited inside.
The interior of the car was Victorian elegance. Green velvet furnishing with gold brads and tassels was carefully stationed throughout the room. Medieval porcelain figurines rested on mahogany tables next to silver trays filled with pheasant, sweet potatoes, and pastries. A woman’s voice from a connecting room called out gruffly, “Take off your hat.” The man begrudgingly complied with her request. “Did you bring good news, Mister Stanley?” the woman asked as she entered the room.
Lotta ‘Lottie’ Devolle was a large, round woman with dull, thinning, red hair, and a cluster of freckles that ran across her upturned nose. An upholstered crutch was tucked under her left arm and she relied heavily on it to move about. Her clothes were stunning. Any physical deficiency was nearly overshadowed by her stunning wardrobe. At least that was Lottie’s intent. She wore a handsome, maroon colored gown accentuated with diamond and emerald jewelry, and she carried a point-lace, needlework fan.
Myles Stanley’s blue eyes followed Lottie as she made her way to a table where a bottle of wine and two gold embossed goblets sat. Stanley was a well-built man with thick, dark hair. He carried himself as if he were born of royalty- shoulders back, chest out. He was charming and all too aware of it.
“The news, Mister Stanley,” Lottie reminded him as she poured a drink for each of them. “The Reno Gang robbed your train,” he finally told her. “They took the money to pay off the politicians for the advancement of the Devolle Railroad and the pay you set aside for the workers. Unperturbed, Lottie poured herself and Stanley another drink. “Ambitious,” she announced as she turned herself around and made her way toward him, carrying his drink. “I thought you’d be more upset,” he told her, taking the wine she offered. “I’m selective about when I show it,” Lottie responded, settling down in one of the chairs. She extended her hand toward the divan next to her and Stanley sat down. “I learned that a long time ago when I inherited this rail line from my father. Then, of course, D.G. Devolle was simply a stage and freight line.”
Stanley watched her position her crutch between the chair and the folds of her gown. He seemed to drift in a channel of thought from which it was difficult to withdraw. “I saw you perform at a theatre once in San Francisco,” he offered, apropos of nothing. “Back when I had both legs,” she announced matter-of-factly. Stanley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of what to say next. He lowered his eyes a little, embarrassed to look at her. This didn’t escape Lottie’s attention. “There will be no pity for me, Mister Stanley,” she chastised him. “I won’t have it. This railroad is all that matters to me. I want the rail line, the land it runs on, and all the possibilities that come with that land.” Stanley nodded, took a sip of his wine and set it aside. He was ready to talk business.
Stanley removed a map from his nicely tailored suit pocket and spread it out on the table between him and Lottie. “With a few exceptions,” he said referring to the map, “every plot of land needed between here and Seattle, Washington has been…. How would you say it? Acquired?” Lottie studied the map and frowned. “And the exceptions?” she asked. Stanley removed a cigar from his pocket and smelled it. “That’s why you have me,” he told her, as he struck a match to the tip of the cigar. Lottie breathed in the sweet aroma of the stogie and gave Stanley an approving smile. “I want all the money back that was stolen,” she said. “I agree,” he replied, nodding. “Kill all the Renos if you have to,” Lottie added, gently laying her hand on top of his. A brief, awkward silence hung in the air. Stanley slowly pulled his hand away and refolded the map. “I agree,” he told Lottie, tucking the map inside his suit pocket. Trying to hide that she was a little offended by his disinterest, she took a big gulp of her drink and set it aside. “I’m glad you agree, Mister Stanley,” she said with a bit of a sarcastic edge. “Try to remember, however, when two people in business always agree, one of them is unnecessary.”
It was a backhanded threat, but a threat none the less and Stanley knew it. He also knew that Lottie had the money and the power to make good on any threat made. Rising, he picked up his hat and headed for the door. “Good night, Mister Stanley,” Lottie called out as he exited. Stanley walked out into the dark without saying a word.

The intense heat of midday in the open land next to Swan River, seven miles outside the town of Pioneer, Montana, had passed and evenings’ shadows lengthened rapidly toward the east. A herd of sheep moved slowly out from the shade of tangled underbrush to feed in the open. The two shaggy, snarling dogs, which were lying close on either side of a rough, poorly-clad herder, trotted out to take up their post in a vigil which now seemed necessary. The herder himself moved out from his position as well. Three horsemen fast approaching a small ranch house in the middle distance aroused the herder’s suspicion. His perfect peace had been broken. Very few visitors ever rode out to the Reno homestead; it was well to be prepared.
The herder watched as the riders had almost reached their destination and stopped at an empty corral between a log cabin and a barn. One of the riders dismounted and sauntered toward a wagon, filled with crates, trunks, and baskets. It was apparent there was a move in progress, but there was no sight of anyone around apart from the three riders. The herder kept a close eye on the rider inspecting the items in the back of the wagon. After a few moments the curious rider entered the cabin. The herder smiled to himself as if he knew what awaited the rider on the other side of the cabin door. He made a clicking sound with his tongue and the dogs obediently flanked the sheep on either side and drove the animals in the direction of the herder. The herder led the way down the hill into a valley with the sheep in tow.
Myles Stanley peered inside the cabin cautiously. A crate set on a bare table, excelsior spilled out the sides of the crates, dishes had been stacked inside the crate and there were a few more waiting to be packed. Stanley stepped inside the seemingly empty home to have a look around. Apart from a photograph resting on a crude shelf and a few dishes, everything had been cleared out. He picked up the picture and studied it. It was of Laura Reno surrounded by her five brothers. Everyone in the shot was beaming, but none more so than Laura. Her expression was one of delight and pride.
Sensing he was no longer alone in the cabin, Stanley returned the photograph to the shelf and slowly turned around. Laura Reno stood in the doorway of the bedroom, a rifle leveled at the intruder. Stanley raised his hand and Laura took a step out of the shadows into a stream of light spilling into one of the dusty windows. Her face was pale, but her expression was resolute. “I’m with the bank,” Stanley offered quickly. “I don’t have a gun.” Laura wasn’t interested. She cocked the hammer back on the weapon and aimed. Yellowing bruises on her right eye and cheek were clearly visible. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man,” Stanley coolly inquired. “I would,” Laura responded sincerely. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” he told her, his hands still raised. “I came out to look at the property so I can give an accurate description of the place for the auction.” “You’re not helping yourself much,” she said, the gun still pointed at his head. “Surely you know that’s what happens to property that’s been foreclosed on, Miss Reno,” Stanley explained. “You are Laura Reno?”
Laura slowly lowered the gun but Stanley kept his hands up, uncertain of what she’d do. “I just have a few more things to take care of, and I’ll be out of here,” she finally offered. Stanley relaxed and when she put the rifle down he lowered his arms. “I don’t remember seeing you before,” Laura said, as she gently placed the dishes into the crate. “What happened to Mr. Parker?” “He retired,” Stanley told her. “My name is Myles Stanley.” He extended his hand to her, but she ignored him. “The sheep rancher on the hill, is he part of your outfit?” Stanley probed. “He’s with the March homestead, a day’s ride from here,” she snapped back. “I just sold him the livestock I had left.” Stanley stared out the open front door. He was feeling a little embarrassed but knew it would pass quick enough. “I know this must be a difficult time,” he said in his best sympathetic voice. Laura wasn’t swayed by the act. “Concerned you won’t find a buyer to take the note off your hands?” she asked with a slight edge. “Not at all,” Stanley responded confidently. “Too bad your brothers aren’t here to help,” he said, referring to the picture on the shelf. Laura walked over to the picture and picked it up. She stared at it thoughtfully and then asked, “Do you know my brothers?” “I know of them,” Stanley confessed. “How long has it been since you’ve seen them? I only ask because the place looks like you’ve been the only one running it for a while. Buyers will want to know what’s in store for them.”
Laura ignored the question. She was suspicious of Stanley but didn’t much care what he was after at this point. She just wanted out. After she finished the last bit of packing, she hammered the lid down on the top of the crate and slipped the photograph into her drawstring bag. “I’ll leave you alone so you can continue your evaluation in peace,” she told Stanley as she picked the wooden box up. “Let me give you a hand with that,” he offered. “No thanks,” she said lifting the crate, “I can kick myself out.”
Stanley watched Laura exit, then eased himself to the door to watch her load the crate onto the wagon. She was bold and defiant – neither of which were traits he held in high regard. She didn’t look back as she drove the team and wagon from the ranch. Stanley motioned to one of the men who rode to the Reno place with him. The man coaxed his roan to the front of the house and stops. “Wait until she’s a few miles out,” Stanley ordered the man as he continued watching Laura ride on, “then kill her.”

One of the most fascinating experiences I’ve had in the last year was the time I had lunch with executive producer, Howard Kazanjian (Raiders of the Lost Ark, Return of the Jedi) and director, screenwriter, Walter Hill (Geronimo, The Long Riders, Broken Trail). Quietly sitting in between these two veteran film makers as they discussed the motion picture business and the talented individuals they had worked with was as educational as it was entertaining. Among the great artists they talked about working with were George Lucas, Sam Peckinpah, and Alfred Hitchcock. Peckinpah made a great western entitled The Wild Bunch. I didn’t think Lucas and Hitchcock contributed to my favorite genre but Walter Hill disagreed. He said that all movies are basically “westerns.” Howard noted that Star Wars was a “western set in space.” I could see that. Having worked with Hickok a number of times, Howard Kazanjian had the most to say about him. Here’s what I remember. Alfred Hitchcock Presents was perhaps the only true horror show on TV, an anthology of both mysteries and melodramas that debuted in 1955 and aired through 1962. Hitchcock had already made thirty films and used his rotund profile in silhouettes as a trademark, himself offering a drooling introduction to the show that was about to follow. At the end of each episode Hitchcock again returned to center stage to inform the audience that the dastardly criminal or sociopath presented was dutifully apprehended and currently receiving appropriate punishment, as he said “as a necessary gesture to morality.” Despite a lifetime devoted to the most ghoulish, strange, and murderous endings conceivable, he viewed his own final illness as a terrible inconvenience and intolerably mundane. At age eighty Sir Alfred Hitchcock struggled through the indignity of dialysis after renal failure. He died of chronic congestive heart failure only four months after he was dubbed a knight by Queen Elizabeth II in 1980. Upon his request, he preferred not to deal with the untidiness of a dead body and was promptly cremated. It was decided that North by Northwest was the closest Hitchcock ever came to making a real western film. I could see that too. And even if I couldn’t, I wasn’t about to argue the point with two giants of the industry. “That’s the way it is, so good evening,” as Hitchcock would say.

In the middle distance I saw it – a huge plume of dust, reaching for the sky. When the dust settled a bit the source of the disturbance could be seen. More than a dozen wild mustangs were racing across the open range to destinations unknown. It was a remarkable sight and a perfect way to end a research trip about the Old West. Coincidentally I was listening to classic radio programs on SirusXM and an episode of the Lone Ranger was playing. The pair were on a quest to capture a bad guy and hold him accountable for his misdeeds. It’s a theme that never fails to capture my attention and leaves me aching for someone like the Lone Ranger to ride right through Norborne, Missouri and bring the bad guys to heel. So what happened to the Lone Ranger? Clayton Moore played the masked cowboy riding high on his horse Silver in the popular radio and TV show during the fifties. With the help of the wise, quiet Indian Tonto, played by Jay Silverheels, the duo went about righting injustices in over two hundred episodes. Moore had the odd fate for an actor of wearing a mask onscreen so that even during the fame of the show, he was hardly recognized. Perhaps for this, there is no other actor who clung to his role so diligently, regularly donning the mask and costume to go out in the public, some say even while in his car at a drive-through for fast-food. He was seen wearing his Lone Ranger costume shortly before his death of a heart attack in 1999 at the age of eighty-five. Silverheels took much less affinity to his role as Tonto and passed away quietly, though coughing laconically, at age sixty in 1980, of pneumonia. Hi-Ho, Silver, no more.

I’m on the road tomorrow and through the rest of the week, doing further research on a book about outlaws of the Old West. I’m fixated on the subject. According to the code of the West, a murderer was one who shot in the back or from ambush, who gave no warning or who shot an unarmed man. A bushwhacker was a “murderer.” Of course, if a bad man “got the drop,” and the enemy, instead of going for his weapons, signified his surrender by raising his hands, it would be downright murder to shoot him; but it was self-defense if the enemy reached for his gun. To violate his code would incur the wrath of witnesses and would usually cause a hanging bee. There was limit beyond which even the worst bad man of the West could not go with impunity. No one had to guess what those limits were, they were written on the hearts of every person who ventured west of the Mississippi. The “ten commandments” of the Old West were as follows: 1. Thou shalt not appear too inquisitive about one’s past. 2. Thou shalt be hospitable to strangers. 3. Thou shalt give thine enemy a fighting chance. 4. Thou shalt not shoot an unarmed man. 5. Thou shalt not make a threat or wrongly accuse someone of a crime without expecting dire consequences. 6. Thou shalt not practice ingratitude. 7. Thou shalt defend thyself whenever self-defense is necessary. 8. Thou shalt not rob. 9. Thou shalt honor and revere all womankind; shalt never thing of harming one hair of a woman. 10. Thou shalt look out for thine own. These commandments were binding and effective. It was the unwritten law of the Western frontier, and the pioneers understood it quite plainly and they appreciated it-and what’s more, they enforced it! I’d sure like to see enforcement of the fifth commandment right now.

There are times I believe I was born one hundred and seventy-five years too late. I like wide open spaces, horses, Old West justice, John Wayne, and the prospect of venturing into rugged territory just to see what’s over there. The fact that I am addicted to modern day plumbing and an advanced health care system makes me a poor candidate for a pioneer however. The technological advances of the Gilded Age were not accompanied by corresponding advances in medicine; health care in the 1800s was woefully neglected. What were the medical equivalents of the steam engine or the telegraph? True, it was the age or Pasteur and Lister, but it took decades for their discoveries to affect public health. The way people with emotional issues were treated in the Old West was horrifying. The question of mental illness was bound up in dark suspicion, shame and ignorance. Families hid a demented member as if he or she were evidence of sin. People suffering from depression, bi-polar conditions, etc., were kept in attics and in cellars; in Tucson, Arizona a lunatic was confined to an outhouse so narrow that “his flexor muscles permanently stiffened.” I’ve spent several hours in the office of a psychiatrist discussing the situation with my brother. Now that the situation with Rick is no more, my visits have increased. I’ve cried often and am thankful I wasn’t locked in a cold, dark room because no one in the medical profession could understand the extreme grief I’m still feeling. I don’t think I’m any the worse off because I’ve employed a sophisticated therapist to plumb the depths of my psyche, but I do think sometimes it’s as tragic and futile a gesture as the loading of the ice-making machine onto the Titanic. I feel so very betrayed by people I could have sworn loved my brother…and me for that matter. I thought that way mainly because they were people who swore they loved us. No matter how many $150 sessions I attend I’ll never understand why my niece told me she loved me, exchanged emails with me, let me pay for some of her wedding and accept the wedding veil I wore at my wedding, then shortly after the ceremony told me she didn’t want anything to do with me. Please note, she never asked me to pay for any part of her wedding. I wanted to help because I love her. In spite of everything, I still love her. But I don’t want to have anything to do with her ever again because I don’t trust her. How is a therapist going to help me with that? I want to think psychotherapy works. It would help if the practice weren’t so susceptible to every goofy trend that rolls down the Mental Health Freeway. There’s aromatherapy, pharmaceutical therapy, couples therapy, there’s even psychotherapy for dogs. How messed up are you if you have to bring your dog? I don’t think therapy works much of the time because people are so eager to Scotchgard themselves from taking personal responsibility and they are allowed to get away with it. They conveniently blame the bad in their lives on bad that supposedly happened to them, and they take everybody down with them when they go. Let me give you an example: Any restitution Rick owed after being falsely accused now becomes the responsibility of the family caring for him. Oh, yeah! It’s a fair court. When my therapist or any sincerely concerned individual asks me “what is it that won’t let you get past this hurt?” My answers is always “if I were allowed to get some distance from it all, maybe it wouldn’t always feel like a fresh wound.” And for those readers who might be thinking that the federal government doesn’t make family members pay restitution, I invite you to come with me to the prison next month and see for yourself. You’d be surprised what the federal government gets away with. I think Wyatt Earp was very aware of that and that’s why he decided a vendetta ride was the best way to handle the problem. I can’t imagine Earp sitting through a therapy session anyway. I bet he…oh, I’m sorry, our time is up. We’ll continue with this next week.