Journal Notes

Calamity Jane may have dressed in buckskins, cussed with the roughest of men, and drank more than a few rough characters under the table, but there’s no question her heart was fragile. She fell for Wild Bill Hickok and hoped with everything she was that she could turn his head. Such would not be the case. One of the new titles I’m working on is Ten Love Lessons Learned by Women of the Old West. Under Calamity’s gruff mannerism and unfeminine like appearance was a woman who hoped to marry and have the famous lawman’s child. Of course she soon learned that acting like one of the guys would not get her the man of her dreams. Calamity had a rough life. Her parents died at an early age leaving behind several younger children for Calamity to care for. At the age of 14 she traveled from the mid-west to Fort Bridger, Wyoming where she adopted out all of her brothers and sisters. She just wasn’t able to be mother and father to the brood any longer. In order to make it in the rough and violent world of the wild frontier she adopted the look and mannerism of a man. She traveled the territory like other pioneers did and wasn’t about to go where no one had ever gone before in a dress. It wasn’t practical, but neither were her feelings for the dashing Mr. Hickok. She might have exaggerated their involvement with Dime Novelist, but there was nothing exaggerated about her reaction when Hickok was killed. Calamity wept bitterly. Her heart was broken. She never loved another in the same way. She vowed to kill the coward who shot Wild Bill. She warned Jack McCall, the man who shot Hickok in the head, that she would never stop looking for him. “When my name makes you cry in your sleep. When I’ve brought you to ashes – only then will I be through with you.” I couldn’t have said it better myself, Calam. I feel the exact same way about the cowards who cost me my brother. McCall was made to answer for his deeds at the end of a rope. Punishment comes one way or another.

It’s agonizing to love someone romantically who doesn’t return your feelings. The object of your affection sees you only as a friend and cannot be persuaded to view you as anything other than that. Your manner of dress doesn’t make a difference, how you defend yourself in a difficult time doesn’t turn their head, nothing makes a difference. There were a number of women in the Old West who were in love with men who didn’t love them back. These women had no choice but to live with broken hearts. In the mid-1860s such despondent females were referred to as being as “lonely as a teatotler in a saloon.” Although Calamity Jane was seldom by herself she was often alone. She was in love with a man who did not love her back. Wild Bill Hickok told her how he felt on more than one occasion, but her feelings for him never changed. Calamity was among the many mourners who attended the legendary gunfighter’s funeral in August 1876. The buckskin clad woman sobbed over his grave and for months after his passing was inconsolable. Jane kept company with various men from time to time and was even married once, but her heart belonged to James Butler Hickok. They arrived in Deadwood, South Dakota, in 1876 and were frequently seen together. Hickok maintained the pair were only friends, but Jane insisted they were more. On August 1, 1902, seventeen years after Hickok died, Calamity Jane passed away from pneumonia while staying at the Callaway Hotel in Terry, South Dakota. She was fifty-one. Her body was returned to Deadwood, where the town undertaker outfitted her in a white cotton dress before placing her in a cloth-lined coffin. Her last request was to be buried next to the man she was devoted to, Wild Bill. Her request was honored. It’s too bad Hickok didn’t love her. Guess she was too hard around the edges for him, too independent. Guess he thought she’d get over him and accept that he married someone else. Maybe he thought Calamity was such a strong woman she could handle a broken heart. He was wrong. Oddly enough Hickok’s wife, Agnes Thatcher Lake Hickok, is buried in Cincinnati, Ohio next to her first husband Bill Lake. Calamity once said of her feelings for Hickok, “Meeting him was fate, becoming his friend was a choice, but falling in love with him I had no control over.”

After more than two years of working on the book about lawman Sam Sixkiller it’s now complete and off to the publisher. The tentative title of the book is The Life and Hard Time of Captain Sam Sixkiller. Sixkiller was an amazing lawman and deserves to be remembered for his heroic efforts in the Oklahoma Territory in the 1880s. Published author, historian and history professor Art Burton wrote the foreword for the book. Burton did the first real work on Sixkiller so I’m proud he was able to add to the book. I completed Hearts West II: More True Stories of Frontier Mail-Order Brides today too. Both items will be released some time next summer. Next project – women outlaws of the Mid-West. Of course the women outlaws I know best have never served any time in jail…yet that is. August 19 was a significant day in Old West history. On this day in 1884 Doc Holiday shot Billy Allen in Leadville, Colorado over a five dollar gambling debt. Doc was arrested, tried and acquitted in that shooting. It was to be Doc’s final gunfight. And on this day in 1895 John Wesley Hardin was attacked and killed from behind by John Selman during a dice game in the Acme Saloon in El Paso, Texas. Long live the wild west.

Outside of Bodie, California one my favorite Old West locations is Ellsworth, Kansas. At one time is was known as the “wickedest cattletown in Kansas.” Ellsworth was a bustling cattle town for a time during the late 1860s but its cattle trade had dwindled down by the mid-1880s. The town was the setting for numerous killings following shootouts between drunken cowboys, and the town sported numerous saloons, brothels and gambling halls, with prostitution being rampant. Wild Bill Hickok ran for Sheriff there in 1868, but was defeated by former soldier E.W. Kingsbury. Kingsbury was an extremely effective lawman, but had to have the help of the local police to control Ellsworth itself, as he also had the county to deal with. Violence inside Ellsworth was commonplace. More than 137 years ago on this day, violence erupted at the one of the watering holes there and lawman Happy Jack Morco was shot and killed. Thompson would eventually become a lawman himself, but on August 16, 1873, he was deadly gunman and gambler arguing with another card player about how much they owed him. The argument got pretty heated and Ben’s brother Billie decided to settle the dispute. Billie drew his gun and fired on the card player giving his brother a hard time. His aim wasn’t true however because popular sheriff C.B. Whitney got the bullet. Ben came to his brother’s rescue and quickly sent him out of town before the law descended upon him. Wyatt Earp was the Sheriff at the time. Ben eventually turned himself into Earp. Whitney exonerated Billy Thompson on his deathbed and told Earp the shooting was an accident. When Billy was tried in 1877, he was acquitted. I like the fact that the brothers were willing to protect one another. I’m grateful to have four brothers that would all back one another’s play. A poem dating back to the early 1850s sums that dedication up nicely. “I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three.” In 1881, Thompson was elected marshal of Austin, Texas. He was a highly effective lawman but gave the job up the following the year after killing Jack Harris, the owner of the Vaudeville Variety Theatre in San Antonio. On March 11, 1884, fourteen months after he was acquitted of Harris’ murder, Thompson and his friend, John “King” Fisher, were watching show at the Vaudeville Theatre in San Antonio when Jack Harris’ two partners, Joe Foster and William Simms, started a gunfight in which Thompson was killed and Foster and Fisher were mortally wounded.

Three siblings are on the run in the Southeast right now. It’s been reported they’ve robbed a couple of banks. Their motivation for the crime spree has not been revealed as of yet. The news seldom if ever gets things right and I’m guessing the why isn’t as interesting to the talking heads as the act anyway. I’m not condoning what the sister and brothers have done, but a thousand hurts sometimes drives people to do unspeakable things. I can’t help but wonder what happened. Was it a lust for fame? What damaged their souls? If this were the late 1800s, Dime Novel authors would be scrambling to write about their exploits. Jesse James once said, “All the world likes an outlaw. For some damn reason they remember them.” The professional outlaws of the Old West planned their robberies just as efficiently as military high command plans an important campaign. To rob a train involved three functions, usually two men to each. One duty was the mounting of the engineer’s cab, covering the engineer and fireman, and throwing water into the firebox, thus “killing” the engine. Another was the covering and intimidating of passengers and train crew. The third and most important as far as proceeds and danger were concerned was the tapping of the express car, usually well-guarded by shotgun agents, some of whom would fight to the death. Of course, the quicker the surprise attack, the more successful the robbery. The Dalton Gang always gambled for these positions before each robbery, thus seeking to expel favoritism and jinxes. Probably the most sensational bank robbery the James-Younger gang ever pulled was at a small county-seat town named Corydon. Jesse had probably planned the whole thing minutely. He chose this particular day because there was to be a big gathering on the courthouse lawn for a political speaking. Now everybody turned out to things of that kind in those days – interest and people ran riot, anything was likely to happen. Loudmouthed orators bellowed to open-mouthed hypnotized audiences, and when the cheering started everyone went berserk. Seven young men rode into Corydon, dressed in their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes with potato bags slouchily flung across their saddle pommels ostensibly to buy provisions for the week and carry back to the farm. They had dressed up for the occasion of the speaking. That was all – that was what it looked like, and no one paid any attention to them. When the crowd became assembled on the courthouse lawn and some candidate began bombasting away with vehement gesticulations, three of the horsemen quietly entered the bank and found the cashier all alone. They covered him from head to toenail with six-shooters, took his keys to the safe, extracted some $40,000 which they dumped into the “potato” bag, bound the cashier and gagged him, and calmly walked out remarking about the weather. They, too, wanted to hear the speeches, or they wouldn’t have bound the cashier – they never did at any other of their robberies. They sat on their horses, as was common, on the outskirts of the crowd. When the speeches were over they made their get-a-way. The James-Younger Gang was motivated by their hatred for the north and the government as a whole. Man can be driven to do a lot that isn’t right when they feel pushed into a corner. Me, I’m just praying to get through the deep hurt involving my brothers. The only thing I’d be driven to do beyond reason is take my own life. I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t want anymore threatening emails sent to me. I want to be here only mildly more than I want to die trying to escape.

One of the most tragic figures in American West history has to be Thomas “Tom” Horn, Jr. (November 21, 1860 – November 20, 1903.) He was lawman, scout, soldier, hired gunman, detective, outlaw and assassin. On the day before his 43rd birthday, he was hanged in Cheyenne, Wyoming, for the murder of Willie Nickell. Horn’s exploits as an assassin far overshadowed any other accomplishments he made during his lifetime, including during his time as a scout in tracking Apaches in southeastern Arizona Territory, southwestern New Mexico Territory, and into the states of Sonora and Chihuahua in northern Mexico along the Sierra Madre Occidental. On July 18, 1901, Horn was once again working near Iron Mountain when Willie Nickell, the 14-year-old son of a sheepherding rancher, was murdered. Horn was arrested for the murder after a questionable confession to Joe Lefors, an office deputy in the US Marshal’s office, in 1902. Horn was convicted and sentenced to be hanged. In 1903 Horn escaped from custody in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He was quickly overtaken by townsmen after being grazed in the head by a shot fired O.M. Eldrich, and badly beaten during recapture. It is still debated whether Horn committed the murder he was convicted for. Some historians believe he did not, while others believe that he did, but that he did not realize he was shooting a boy. Whatever the case, the consensus is that regardless of whether he committed that particular murder, he had certainly committed many others. Chip Carlson, who extensively researched the Wyoming v. Tom Horn prosecution, concluded that although Horn could have committed the murder of Willie Nickell, he probably did not. According to Carlson’s book Tom Horn: Blood on the Moon, there was no actual evidence that Horn had committed the murder, he was last seen in the area the day before the murder, his alleged confession was valueless as evidence, and no efforts were made to investigate involvement by other possible suspects. In essence, Horn’s reputation and history made him an easy target for the prosecution. Steve McQueen portrayed Horn in a film released in 1980. McQueen was suffering with cancer at the time the movie was made and not feeling well at all. Linda Evans played the love interest in the film and had a great piece of dialogue that is resonating with me this morning. “Someday you’re going to have to pay for your way of life. You’re a bad person and God knows it.” I know at least six people I’d like to share that sentiment with. Some of them live in Greenboro, North Carolina and spent some time visiting the site yesterday. I suppose they’re curious about what’s going to happen to their family. It’s the calm before the storm, isn’t it. Nothing has changed. The storm is still coming. We’ll be in court soon. The people who framed my brother are bad people and God knows it.

I have multiple deadlines to make this month and I’m going out of town to see my brother. Looks like I’ll be at the computer night and day until the job is done. Somewhere along the way I hope to watch the western Hombre again. It’s one of my favorite westerns. The 1967 film starring Paul Newman, Richard Boone, and Diane Cilento has some great dialogue. Here’s a sample: “What are you doing here?” “Going bad, honey.” Landlady Jessie (Diane Cilento) and outlaw Frank Braden (Cameron Mitchell). “Any time a man weasels out on you, turns out that he’s doing you a favor.” Landlady Jessie (Diane Cilento). “And if you want to know if I’m carrying a gun, I’m not. My tongue is my only weapon, Mr. Grimes.” “And it’s deadly.” Landlady Jessie (Diane Cilento) to outlaw Cicero Grimes (Richard Boone). The excerpt the month on this site is A Beautiful Mine: Women Prospectors of the Old West. Contrary to popular belief, there were a number of lady prospectors in the hills, streams, and burrows of the west trying to find their fortune. According to a San Francisco in 1877, women were diligent hard-rock miners. The law would not allow any women under the age of 21 to work underground, but they could stake out claims for themselves and pan for gold alongside the men in the creek beds in Coloma, California, Leadville, Colorado, and Skagway, Alaska. In 1910, women were allowed to freely work in a gold or silver mines for major corporations. Their pay was substantially less than what a man got paid for the same work. Women earned $.30 an hour and a man made $.80 an hour. I’m not a feminist, but that seem really wrong. I saw the head of NOW – National Organization of Women – saying that women still only make 70 cents on the dollar to every man. I’m not sure I’m going to believe that. Women are notoriously bad at math. But seriously…I’ve got to get on with the next writing project.

Typically I start my day at the office dressed like a person going to…an office. I’ve got two deadlines for books to meet today, so I went with a casually look. Kaki pants, golf shirt, golf hat. Seems like years that I’ve been able to play a round of golf, but the clothes make me look like I frequent the links. The event held last evening at the Nevada County Library in Nevada City, CA. was wonderful. The people were engaging and sincerely interested in hearing the history of Elizabeth Custer. My Pastor and his wife were in attendance at the event. I was very impressed by the act of love and support. Not surprised though. Pastor Mike and his wife, Kyle are such giving people and reflect the true love of God. That’s something I’m far from feeling this morning. I’m thirteen days out from heading back to the prison to see my brother. It’s always difficult. His eyesight is going now and all efforts to get the okay from the powers-that-be at the facility to send him in new glasses have been met with indifference. I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. Watching someone you love dissolve this way and being helpless to do anything to make it better is worse than I could describe. The pain cuts deep and bitterness wells up to the point you think you’ll explode. The misery is that this pain doesn’t kill you like a shot to the heart or a head on collision would. You keep going so you can continue watching the misery play out before you. I haven’t slept through the night since Rick was beaten and raped. It plays over and over in my head. And when I see him I see the result of the assault and know nothing short of dying will make me rest easy again. I’ve got to lose myself in the job today. So I better get on with it.

I’ve been so busy finishing the Sam Sixkiller book, publicizing the next book signing, and compiling photos for the completed manuscript I’ve neglected other areas of the job, namely updating sections of the website. Finding photographs for the Sixkiller book has been the most time consuming. Most of the pictures I need are at the University Oklahoma Historical Center. To give you an example of how difficult it is to locate the photos from the digital collection at the center, the directors there have published a book that’s all about how to find the picture you need from their archives. I feel like Grocho Marx’s character in A Day at the Races. When he arrives at the track to place a bet on a horse Chico stops him from doing so and tells him that in order to make an informed decision about which horse to bet on he needs to purchase a “breeder’s guide.” Groucho buys the book from Chico, but he can’t read it because it’s in code. He’s forced to buy another book to teach him to read the one he just purchased. The bit goes on and on and believe me – it’s ten times funnier than I’ve made it out to be! The point being, the average writer has to participate in the Marx Brother’s routine the University of Oklahoma has employed in order to gain access to the historical archives. And you can forget about calling because the intellects that work there make you feel like a moron for not knowing how to find your way through the collection. I already feel like a moron most of the time. I don’t need any help on that front. Why is it that going somewhere, buying something, calling someone, doing historical research – just about any transaction you can name is as nerve-racking as a Bosnian grocery run? With few exceptions, it seems everyone with a job along the great service highway is an uninterested sociopath with the interpersonal skills of a wolverine? I can’t seem to go through the simplest procedures without a major hassle. For example, (as though I need to list another one after the U of O experience) I recently subscribed to a magazine, and after paying for it they sent me another bill. So I called them to rectify the situation, and they assured me they’d correct the problem. I then started receiving two copies of the magazine each week, one addressed to “Chris Enss” and the other addressed to “Christopher Enss.” Now, I want to know two things: One, how can they not know they’re sending two magazines to the same address, and two, how did they find out about my cross-dressing? It’s not like I don’t sympathize. I’ve been in the vast service gulag. After I got out of college, one of my first jobs was working at a radio station in Tucson. Part of my duties was to clean the bathrooms at night. Got that? I didn’t even rate cleaning the toilets during the day. My bosses actually thought to themselves, “Yeah, Enss is good. She’s real good. She’s just not ready for The Show yet.” I know all jobs can be unrewarding, but I’d like to go on vacation for a week, and call the paper boy, and ask him to suspend delivery during that time and not come back to nine newspapers sitting outside my doorstep, screaming to every lowlife in the area, “Yoo-Hoo! Over here! Nobody home!” Maybe the folks that run and work at major corporations, radio stations, historical centers need a refresher course in how to act in a way that would increase business. Forget the “moment of silence” everyone is always screaming for in the morning. Let’s shoot for a moment of science! Okay. I’ve put off calling the University of Oklahoma again long enough….

Review by Ken Crocker

I was a history buff in school. But in hindsight, I realize that the thinning out of history was well under way by the time my interest piqued. For example, history of frontier exploration was very watered down. Topics in this area were very limited and abbreviated.

I must say that based on the teaching of U.S. History I received, I only knew two things about Gen. Geo. Custer. One was that he fought the Battle of Little Bighorn as a general in the U.S.Army, and the other was that he was dead because of it. I was taught he made a stupid decision that cost the lives of himself and his officers/soldiers.

I certainly did not know he was married, or that he was a rather big deal during the civil war. I didn’t even know Libbie existed. Very patient, but impatient woman. Very devoted. And very, well, forgiving?

Excellent read, Chris. May the nay-sayers of your writing be in the same place in history as Benteen.