Journal Notes

Next stop Vegas. The Single Action Shooter’s Society convention gets underway this week at the Riviera Hotel and I’m schedule to speak about lady gamblers of the Old West, mail-order brides of the frontier and Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. I’m looking forward to visiting with others who enjoy talking about the Wild West. This is the last year SASS will be holding a convention. Low attendance and a poor economy prompted the organizers of the event to call it quits. SASS itself will live on however. I find myself completely over extended and will have to cancel a few signings in the next few months. I’m not quite sure how it happened but I’ve fallen way behind. I hate not living up to commitments I made with regards to book promotions but the situation with my brother is reaching a critical point and I’m forced to rearrange my life for that. In truth, my life has become just that. And with every adjustment I have to make because of the false allegations leveled against him I become more resentful. Every day is a fight against that. Wednesday I’ll be engaged in another fight of sorts – travel. Whatever glamor used to be associated with the idea of traveling by plane has gone for me. It now has all the allure of hanging out in a Greyhound bus station only minimally faster. It’s still much more comfortable than travel in the Old West. It’s difficult to comprehend that a little more than a century ago the horizon for most people was limited to the spot where fate had deposited them. For the affluent, traveling via steam packed, Pullman train or stagecoach was often a costly ordeal where consideration of human comfort and safety was at best an afterthought. The most fearful means of transportation was also the most widely used – the railroad. Train wrecks due to broken trestles, poor track, exploding boilers, faulty signals, and careless engineers and switchmen were a daily occurrence, producing an accident rate in the United States five times that of England. In 1890 railroad-connected accidents caused 10,000 deaths and 80,000 serious injuries. And while the primitive technology had built-in dangers, railroad management was the real villain, prompting George T. Strong to diarize: “We shall never travel safely till some pious, wealthy, and much beloved railroad director has been hanged for murder….” I feel the same way about the folks that run the airlines.

He introduced himself as Wheelchair Joe and he was eager to talk. I hadn’t expected to meet anyone like him when I volunteered to help with Gold Country Calvary Chapel’s Thanksgiving meal for the homeless. I never really expected to get out of the kitchen of the Veteran’s building where the event was being held. I was a dishwasher – not a server. But I had a few minutes between pots and pans and decided to wander about and meet some of the people who came to have Thanksgiving dinner. Wheelchair Joe was waiting in the back of the room by himself. He told me a story about the front of his wheelchair falling into a sinkhole and he couldn’t get it out. He was quite stuck. He called for help but no one came to his aid. Finally, Joy Sidebottom (the amazing lady who organized the dinner) stopped to lend a hand. Wheelchair Joe was thankful for the woman he referred to as an angel. He told me how thankful he was to have a place to spend Thanksgiving. His ex-wife and children had abandoned him years ago. It seems his step-daughter falsely accused him of a crime. Scared and wanting to spare his family the pain of going through a trial he had taken a plea. He had spent more than 15 years in prison. When he got out he had nothing. His parents and only brother had passed away. He had no one and no place to go. He lives on the streets and is dependent on the kindness of the Joy Sidebottoms of this world. I shared the story of my brother with him and he was moved to tears. We joined hands and prayed before the meal was served and I returned to my dishes. Nothing happens by accident with God. I watched Wheelchair Joe have a second and third helping of turkey, sample a couple of pieces of pumpkin pie, then wheel himself to the care package area. He loaded his lap with a bag of groceries, thanked Joy for her kindness, and reluctantly wheeled himself out of the building into the drizzling rain. I cried then. A lie cost him everything and try as he might he’ll never be able to get back what was taken from him. Wheelchair Joe wasn’t a bitter man though. He wasn’t seeking revenge. He just wanted a chance to talk about his life and for a moment believe he was valued by someone. I admired his strength of heart and found myself wishing I could be like him, void of anger or resentment. I miss my brother and hate what was done to him. Rick and Wheelchair Joe have a great deal in common. Before we parted company Wheelchair Joe reminded me of something Socrates once said. “False words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil.” I know forgiveness is the only cure for the infection, but I’m not there yet. I’m thankful I got to meet Wheelchair Joe. What an example of the heart triumphing over the human condition.

Thought I’d share the following article I’ve been working on for the second edition of Hearts West: Mail Order Brides on the Frontier. Marrying the wrong person could mean death or at the very least 20 years in prison. Hearts West II will be released Christmas 2012. When Carroll B. Rablen, a thirty-four year old veteran of World War II from Tuttletown, California, advertised for a bride he imagined hearing from a woman who longed to spend their life with him hiking and enjoying the historic, scenic beauty of the Gold Country in Northern California. The ad he placed in a San Francisco matrimonial paper in June 1928 was answered by Eva Brandon. The thirty-three year-old Eva was living in Quanah, Texas when she received a copy of the matrimonial publication.
If Carroll had been less eager to marry he might have noticed the immature tone Eva’s letters possessed. If he’d taken the time to scrutinize her words he might have been able to recognize a flaw in her thinking. According to the July 14, 1929 edition of the Ogden, Utah newspaper the Ogden Standard-Examiner, one of Eva’s first correspondences demonstrated that not only did she seem much younger than thirty-three years old, but she also had a dark side. “Mr. Rablen, Dear Friend,” the letter began. “You wrote about a son I have. He has had no father since he was a month old. The father left me. I haven’t seen him. If a man leaves me I don’t want to see them. And I’ll make sure I can’t.”
Eva left Texas for California in late April 1929. She and Carroll were married the evening of April 29, 1929. The dance that followed the nuptials at the Tuttletown school house was well attended by Carroll’s friends and neighbors. They were happy he had found someone to share his life. Eva twirled around the room dancing with anyone who wanted to join her. She was elated with her situation. Carroll on the other hand chose to wait outside for his new bride in the car. According to the Ogden Standard Examiner, Carroll was slightly deaf and despondent over the other physical ailments that kept him from fully enjoying the festivities.
When Carroll’s father, Stephen Rablen began regaling guests with his rendition of the song “Turkey in the Straw” on his fiddle, Eva excused herself and went outside to visit with her husband. She took a tray of sandwiches and coffee to him. He smiled proudly at her and commented on how thoughtful it was for her to bring him some refreshments. Carroll helped himself to a cup of coffee, blew across the top of it to cool it down then took a sip. He made a bit of a face as if the coffee lacked something. He took another drink to determine what it needed.
Shortly after Carroll swallowed the brew a third time, he dropped the cup and began to scream. Eva watched him slump over in the front seat of the car. Carroll continued to scream. Wedding guests poured out of the building to see what was wrong. Carroll’s father pushed past the people to get to his son. “Papa. Papa,” Carroll repeated, reaching out for Stephen’s hand. “The coffee was bitter…so bitter.”
Emergency services were called to the scene but by the time they arrived Carroll had slipped into an unconscious state. Attendees at the reception told reporters for the local newspaper that Eva simply stood back and watched the action play out around her. She wore no expression at all; no worry, concern, anxiety, nothing. An ambulance transported Carroll to the hospital and Eva road along in the vehicle with her husband. He was pronounced dead at the scene.
Doctors suspected foul-play because his illness came on so suddenly. An autopsy was performed and the contents in Carroll’s stomach revealed the presence of poison. The cup he drank coffee out of was also analyzed and traces of poison were found there as well.
On May 1, 1929, the day of Carroll’s funeral, the Sheriff of Tuolumne County returned to the spot where the groom died. In a patch of grass only a few spots where Rablen’s automobile was parked, a bottle of strychnine was found. The bottle was traced to a drugstore in near Tuttletown. The register showing the purchase of the item had been signed for by Mrs. Joe Williams. The description of Mrs. Williams given by the clerk at the drugstore suggested Eva Brandon Rablen bought the item.
The sheriff asked Carroll’s widow to accompany him to the drugstore where without hesitation the clerk identified her as the purchaser of the poison.
Authorities escorted Eva to the police station and she immediately claimed her husband had poisoned himself because he was brokenhearted over his health problems. Stephen arrived at the station soon afterwards and told police that he suspected his daughter-in-law killed his son over a $3,500 insurance police. He accused Eva of finding her victims through mail-order bride advertisements and suggested she killed her last husband, a mail-order groom named Hubert Brandon. Stephen demanded Eva be arrested for murder.
Eva was arrested for the crime, but not on her father-in-law’s orders. A handwriting expert had compared the signature on a drugstore’s registry with one Eva provided authorities with at the station. The two were a match. Eva was charged with premeditated murder.
Newspaper articles about the homicide referred to Eva as “Borgia of the Sierras.” The public was ravenous for specifics about the killing. “Quarrels, quarrels, I was sick of and tired of them,” Eva told a judge about her marriage. “We talked things over. It was decided we should both commit suicide. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Finally I decided to poison him. It was the best way out, I thought. Now they want to hang me? I could only put him out of the way because I felt it was the only way to get my freedom.”
Eva was sentenced to life in prison at San Quentin for murder. The day the authorities escorted her to the ferry that would take her to the penitentiary she was all smiles. Reporters and inquisitive spectators on hand at the dock asked Eva why she killed Carroll. She politely told them she couldn’t give them the information they wanted. “I can’t tell you why I confessed to putting strychnine in my husband’s coffee. I told the court all and I want to tell all.”
Eva was helped onto the ferry that would transport her to San Quentin. Sheriff Jack Dambacher of Sonora County and his wife decided to travel with Eva to prison. “I feel fine,” she told her traveling companions, “not a bit tired. I’m not at all downhearted or discouraged.” Eva’s eleven year-old son, Albert Lee waiting at the dock with his aunt and uncle to say goodbye to his mother. Eva showed little emotion as she held her child close to her. “I will be all right,” she told him. “I’m going to study Spanish. I’ve always been crazy to learn Spanish. Then if I get along well with that I can take on other subjects.” Eva’s sister assured her that she would take very good care of her boy and promised her that those who lived in the Sonora area would help with Albert as well. “He will not suffer for what wasn’t his fault. We will see he wants for nothing.”
According to the Examiner the 1929 murder of Carroll Rablen by his mail-order bride Eva Brandon is the most notorious case of its type.

What did the bad man of the Old West most fear? Mob violence and a rope. The desperado was not afraid of tarantulas, centipedes, or rattlesnakes, but he was in common with many other Westerners, in constant fear or hydrophobia skunks at night, while sleeping on the ground. Fatalities from the bite of such an animal were certain and not uncommon among cowboys, and there was no known anecdote for the infection. According to a report in a Southern Arizona newspaper in 1897 an outlaw named Graham Devine noted that weather was a significant worry to bad guys as well. “Now, here’s a funny thing,” he said. “I never saw a man I was afraid of, no matter whether he was drunk and shooting or cold sober and ready to kill. But I did fear fire, high water, earthquakes and cyclones. It was cyclones that drove me out of Oklahoma. They was too much for me…so I sold out for only $3,500 and left. The one other thing I was afraid of was rope. I have been mobbed twice, and the idea of dying by a rope is one I never liked to think about.” Notable peach officers were daring and faithful in protecting their bad-men captives from mobs. In 1881, Texas Ranger Captain Jim Gillett could find no leader in the mob threatening to lynch his prisoner, Enofore Baca. The mob seemed to act as an individual when it overcame Gillett and hanged Baca. Wyatt Earp could find no apparent leader in the mob of five-hundred angry Tombstone miners coming after Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce, in Earp’s custody in January of 1881. But Wyatt invented a leader, as he oscillated the muzzle do his Wells Fargo shotgun across the first twenty mobsters. He picked out a wealthy owner of one of the mines at Tombstone, who was in front, and told him he would be the first to “get it” if the mob advanced. At that, the mine owner retired and the mob dispersed slowly, one by one. Sheriff Pat Garrett faced an angry mob which closed in his railway coach and which threatened to lynch Billy the Kid, in Pat’s custody. Pat yelled at the top of his voice that if they made a rush, he would give the Kid two six-shooters and they would both open up on the crowd. The mob lost it enthusiasm immediately, and the train finally pulled out. Billy the Kid was one of the very few exceptions among bad men who seemed not to fear mob violence. He looked out his coach window at the crowd with a smiling, calmly interested expression. A lot has changed since the Earps and Pat Garrett had the nerve to stand up against a mob and hold the bad guys responsible for what they did. Bad guys aren’t afraid of anything anymore and that goes particularly for the bad guys I know personally. I have great hope that they will be very soon.

Skies are grey over the Silver Pick spread in Northern California today. Conditions are right to remain in my office writing the next western book due. This one will be about female outlaws of the Midwest. Flora Mundis alias Tom King is the lady I’m focusing on. She was one of the most notorious female horse thieves in Oklahoma in 1893 and 1894. Disguised as a man she took rides from field and street and even was rumored to have been romantically involved with Bob Dalton, a bank robber and member of the Wild Bunch Gang. She escaped jail three times before she stood trial for her misdeeds. By that time she was clearly pregnant and no judge would sentence her to serving any real time. She was released on bail and left the Territory. Oklahoma lawman Heck Thomas reported that Tom was eventually shot and killed in a failed bank robbery attempt in Southern Arizona, but no one is really sure what happened to her or her child. What is not debatable is the hold she had over men. Tom was able to seduce her way out of jail and always had men around her. I think it’s because she knew what men wanted from women – starting with how they dress. Tom dressed in cowboy garb, complete with buckskin leggings and a vest. She knew that men don’t care about clothes – hers or their own. All they needed was one pair of boots and a clean shirt to wear to Sunday go-to-meeting church events. She knew that when she had the reins of her horse and wanted to get aggressive with a bad guy that was fine, but she didn’t instigate a fight and then expect the man she was with to defend her honor. I like what one of the outlaws she was involved with said about his relationship with Tom. “You have to love a woman to know her – even then, there’s a lot of guesswork involved.”

“Three o’clock.” the gruff speaking guard announces. “Visiting time is over!” Hurried goodbyes are spoken. My father and I step aside to let my mother hug her ailing son. It might be the last time she will be able to do so. Her son, my brother can barely hold his arms and hands still long enough to embrace her. His right leg and head shake as well. He has Parkinson’s disease. His face is bloated, his scalp scarred from the severe beatings he received five years ago at a prison in Texas. A prison guard stomps over to my mother and demands the pair separate. “Time is up!” he reminds us again. We are hurried out a heavy door into an area prison officials refer to as “the gate.” Through the tiny glass we watch Rick shuffle away with the guard to be strip searched. A tragic indignity for him to endure, a tragic indignity for my parents to realize their son must be subjected to. “We’re waiting in the gate,” the prison guard conveyed to a coworker on the other end of the walkie-talkie he breathed in to. My mother is inconsolable. She turns her face away from the heard-hearted guard and sobs into the exterior wall inside the 5 foot by 20 foot enclosure we were locked in when we left the visitation room. The wall her face is buried in is stained with feces and urine from seagulls and cranes that make their home on the roof of the penitentiary. My mother is so distraught over having to leave her sick son behind she doesn’t care about the unsanitary conditions. The image reminded the guard of a funny story and he wasted no time in sharing. “Watch what you touch there, lady,” he chuckles. “Prison gulls are the worst. They’re messy and mean. I’ve seen them eat a wounded pidgeon then crap all over that wall. The pidgeon’s wing was broken and a big gull swooped down and started tearing a hole in the pidgeon’s flesh with its beak. Damn pidgeon was still alive. Can you imagine?” The guard was proud of his story. He seemed to be completely oblivious to how much more it made my mother cry. “Even pidgeons know how short a life is inside here,” he added at the end of his tale. I am two people. My heart is divided against itself. I know the Lord wants me to forgive. I want to. I long to. But it seems impossible after seeing all I have? I am overcome with grief and bitterness. I loathe the mother and daughter who falsely accused my brother of heinous crimes. They have no regret. No remorse. Will I regret when the tables are turned on them or will my heart continue to be divided against itself? Should I tell them about the prison gulls or let them learn it on their own?

Roy Rogers would have been 100 years old Saturday. Several radio stations celebrated the King of Cowboy’s birthday by airing episodes of the popular program he did with his wife Dale Evans. It was fun to hear the western duo ride and sing their way out of various desperate situations. Their faith in God always played an important role in each program but one program in particular moved me to tears. The bad guy in the episode I’m referring to had challenged Roy to a gunfight and the outlaw’s wife paid a visit to Dale to ask her for help. Dale suggested they pray. It was a moving, sincere prayer about surrendering all to God. It was refreshing to hear and the notion of complete surrender just happens to be the subject of the Monday night Bible study I belong to. I was convicted. I surrender nothing to God. I feel like two people many times. One part of me once to serve the Lord and the other part of me doesn’t want to surrender anything having to do with my brother. I want to see the people who caused so much hurt punished and I war against waiting on the Lord to bring that about. This lesson is getting old. The battle will intensify this week because I travel to see Rick. Oh, how I hate seeing the suffering. I want justice, but God wants me to surrender that to Him. I’ll take Dale’s example and pray constantly. Thanks Roy & Dale – you’re positive message continues to resonate in 2011. Thanks for not compromising you beliefs. Help me God to lay this burden down and focus on rewriting Hearts West II.

Tom King was one of the best horseback riders in Oklahoma in the late 1890s. He was also a horse and jewel thief. Oh, and a woman named Flora Mundis. She is one of the twelve women I’m researching for a book about women outlaws of the Midwest. I’m always amazed when the Old West figures I’m writing about so parallel what I have witnessed in my own life. Before dressing in men’s clothing and robbing ranchers of their horses she worked at her own saloon in West Guthrie and was always adorned in stunning gowns. Men flocked to her side and she reveled in the attention. Doc Jordan was one man that was not charmed by her. All her attempts to gain his affections were a waste and she made him pay for it. Now, here’s the parallel – in mid-1892, Flora swore out a warrant for Doc Jordan’s arrest, charging him with assault with intent to rape. He hadn’t touched her but few people believed the teary-eyed beauty would make up such a story. He tried to tell the citizenry of West Guthrie she was a liar but no one wanted to listen. Rather than turn himself in to the authorities and risk being lynched by a mob who promised to do just that, Doc Jordan left the territory. While he was gone the truth came out and the case was eventually dropped. After that, no man in his right senses would patronize Flora’s place. So she stashed her gorgeous wardrobe, donned cowboy garb, and began stealing horses. There is no record of the extent of her lifting, rebranding, driving, and selling of stock, but during the spring of 1893, she allegedly took horses from field and pasture, off the streets of towns, anywhere, disposing of them across Hell’s Fringe. Floris Mundis aka Tom King was killed in late 1894 trying to rob a bank near Tombstone, Arizona. Lawman Heck Thomas told of the woman’s ultimate demise to a reporter for a Kansas newspaper and added that Flora had accused several men of the same crime she accused Doc Jordan. The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between political parties either – but right through every human heart – Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Ain’t it the truth, Al.

The world is full of cowards. Now of days they hide behind Facebook accounts. Advanced technology enables owners of various sites to see who visit and it shows what they are looking for. For example cowards working at a hospital in Liberty, Missouri or going to school near Branson, Missouri can be seen snooping around a website. The new security system I have on my website will not allow cowards to leave anymore threats unless they post their name and email address. That they will not do. I believe if Bob Ford were alive today he would be a Facebook user who blocks his account so Jesse James couldn’t contact him. Ford however would be reading James’s website entries every chance he got. That’s because Ford was a coward, knew he had done wrong and just wanted to know when life as he knew it would come to an end. I’m not a fan of Jesse James, but I like this analogy. Jesse James is perhaps the most beloved murderer in American history. He and his gang shot bank clerks in cold blood, killed passersby who looked the wrong way, and derailed trains and robbed the passengers as they lay injured. But none of that mattered. To many alive at the time James was a post-Civil War hero, satisfying the thirst of many defeated Confederates to get in a few last shots after the war. James, a handsome bearded man with blue eyes and a narrow face, was fashioned as a modern-day Robin Hood, though later historians were at a loss to find any evidence of charitableness. As a Confederate guerrilla and later as a bank robber, James came close to a violent death several times. But as long as he had his own guns, he always seemed to survive. During the war he was badly wounded in the leg and his horse was shot out from under him. Just after the war federal soldiers shot James in the lung and left him for dead. He lay on the ground for two days until a farmer aided him. When he was ambushed robbing the Northfield, Minnesota, bank in 1876, three of his gang were killed, three were shot and captured, and only Jesse and his brother, Frank, escaped. His luck ended in 1882, after a local sheriff got 21- year-old Robert Ford, a less notorious outlaw, to join James’s gang to try to capture him. Ford and his brother easily joined up and were staying with James and his wife in St. Joseph, Missouri, that April, planning their next bank robbery. Early on the morning of the third, James, who had just come inside from feeding the horses, took off his jacket and, because he trusted his friends, his gun belt. He had climbed up on a chair to pull some cobwebs from a picture when he heard the cock of a pistol. As he turned unarmed, Robert Ford shot James in the head with a .44-caliber pistol that James had given him as a present. James body was put in a $260 casket – paid for by the sheriff who had recruited Ford – and sent by train the few miles to his hometown of Kearney, in Clay County, Missouri. His open casket at the Kearney Hotel drew thousands, jamming the small town with their horses, and even passengers from trains that made unscheduled stops on their way through. A collection to benefit James’s wife and two children gathered less than $10, but that was only the beginning. Personal effects of the house were sold for about $250. The owner of the house, a St. Joseph city councilman who thought he had rented it to Thomas Howard (an alias of James’s), sold bloody floor splinters for 25 cents apiece. A year later James’ mother opened her home to visitors, also for a quarter. Of the more than twenty movies made about Jesse James, the first was financed by his descendants in 1920. Meanwhile Bob Ford was pardoned by the governor. Ford toured Eastern cities reenacting the shooting, but the show was booed in the Midwest. Later, in a mining camp in Colorado, Ford was shot in the neck and killed by a man with a sawed-off shotgun seeking revenge for the death of Jesse James. What a fitting end to a coward.