Journal Notes

In the Wild West, where law was often non-existent, vigilantes often took “enforcement of the law,” as well as moral codes into their own hands. The term vigilante stems from the Spanish equivalent, meaning private security agents. Vigilantes were most common in mining communities, but were also known to exist in cow towns and in farming settlements. Most often, these groups formed before any law and order existed in a new settlement. Justice included whipping and banishment from the town, but more often – offenders were lynched. Sometimes; however, vigilante groups formed in places where “authority” did exist, but where the “law” was deemed weak, intimidated by criminal elements, corrupt, or insufficient.
Many times the vigilantes were seen as heroes and supported by the law-abiding citizens, seen as a necessary step to fill a much needed gap. In 1869, vigilantes ordered a couple of ruffians, Sam Strawhim and Joe Weiss out of Hays City, Kansas. The two toughs later accosted a vigilante leader, A.B. Webster, in the post office and bullied him and threatened him and when Weiss finally pulled a gun on him Webster fired back. Weiss was killed and Strawhim fled town. There’s something to be said for vigilante justice. At the very least it gave people something to do on a Friday night. I’m considering actually treating myself to a meal inside a restaurant this evening rather than hitting the drive-through at McDonalds. I think I’ve had my last Happy Meal for a while. The last time I had dinner out I took a book to read so it didn’t seem so obvious I was by myself. The book was hardly necessary as I found myself staring out the window of the establishment at the colorful characters passing by on a regular basis. I was astonished at how many of them were carrying their pets with them. Some had birds perched on their shoulders, others had snakes draped around their necks. I suppose I spend too much time inside writing because I missed the fashion news about live animals being accessories. I couldn’t help noticing how unhappy these pets seemed. I wondered if it even occurred to these odd trend setters that perhaps their pets didn’t want to go with them on their jack-ass errands. Maybe the bird just wants to be home in its cage ringing his little bell or staring at his reflection in his little mirror. Maybe the snake would prefer to be lounging on a heated rock than spending a night out on the town posing as a necklace. I suppose I’ll be pondering that question again tonight along with the relevance of a vigilante group in today’s society. Personally I’m all for it. The group could start by dealing with the shirtless skateboarder wearing a pair of ferrets as a belt.

American cowboy Will James once said, “Whenever there is (trouble), we’ll depend on ourselves. We’ll take care of it – when it comes, not after it’s too late. I think that’s what Mysterious Dave Mather was thinking on this day in 1884, when he got a few shots at Tom Nixon inside the Opera House Bar in Dodge City, Kansas. The first shot dropped Nixon passing right through him and wounding a bystander. Nixon was hit three times more. No offense to Mysterious Dave, but that’s pretty easy to do when no one is shooting back at you. It’s a common misnomer to think gunfighters that shot it out in a saloon or on the street hit one another with a bullet the first time out. Several shots would be exchanged before a bullet made contact, unless of course you were Wild Bill Hickok. He was the best shot in the west and on this day in 1865, he proved just how good he was. In a romantic duel over the affections of Susanna Moore Wild Bill Hickok shot Dave Tutt through the heart at 75 yards in the town square in Springfield, Missouri. Tutt fired first and missed. Now that’s some shooting. I’m doing a couple of radio interviews this week for stations on either side of the country. I’ll be speaking with the folks at NEWD Magazine and radio in New York and LA Theatre Works radio in Los Angeles. I wrote a book some time back called Hearts West: True Stories of Mail Order Brides on the Frontier and that will be the subject matter for both interviews. The second edition of Hearts West will be available next year – if I ever get it done. Things seem to be going better for my brother. I look for big changes to come spring 2012. What’s on the way reminds me of the creed the Texas Rangers had. “No man in the wrong can stand up to a man in the right who just keeps on a-comin.” And that’s just what’s going to happen.

It’s so easy to romanticize what it would have been like to live in the Old West. I do it daily. I mostly contemplate enacting a bit of frontier justice on today’s lawbreakers, but even that wasn’t as I good as I dream it was. Let’s take a look a rural life in the wild new land. Country life in the post-Civil War era was an unremitting hardship. The farmer and his family toiled fourteen hours a day merely to sustain themselves, primarily on a landscape that lacked the picturesque inspiration of Currier & Ives’ prints. Nor did their endless drudgery reward the farmers with prosperity; during the economic distress of 1870-1900 few small and middle-sized farms produced anything beyond bare subsistence, and many were foreclosed. In place of a neat rose garden, an expanse of muck and manure surrounded the farmhouse, sucking at boots and exuding a pestilential stench that attracted swarms of flies, ticks and worms to amplify the miseries of men, women, children and beasts. Cooking, the kitchen’s major activity, was done in an open hearth fireplace with crooks and arms or, more likely, on an iron stove. Many received severe burns reaching into the hearth to remove their food. People needed a well to get water. For practical purposes the well was dug close to the farmhouse, which itself was close to the barnyard, stable, pigsty, coop and cesspool. With not even a pretense of drainage, the well was thus exposed to all sorts of noxious matter seeping through the ground. Slush from the kitchen, festering matter from privies, and seepage from animal wastes posed a growing danger to the water supply and filled the air with a vile odor. Given all that, I think the good old days were really quite terrible. When I wasn’t crying this weekend over unanswered prayer for my brother, I was taking a more critical look at the time period I so love. I’d trade all the hardship one had to endure back then to see my brother home alive.

It always bugged me that I wasn’t naturally talented at anything. I always wanted to be a natural athlete. To throw farther, run faster, jump higher – the first time out at whatever the sport might be. It would have been nice to have the instant skill to be a great chef or seamstress. Or to have the innate ability to paint like Monet, sing like Adele, dance like Ginger Rogers. The skills that were quickly identifiable in me was the grace in which I could fall UP a flight of stairs, my talent for growing a head of hair that resembles a Chia-Pet, and of course, my knack for being able to select the correct vowel on Wheel of Fortune. Things changed in the area of natural ability for me yesterday when I went to the range to take my first firearms lesson. I handled a six-shooter like I’d been doing it all my life or at least writing about it for several years. I consistently hit the center of the target and was told by my instructor that I was a “natural” at firing the weapon. What a comfort it is to know the one thing I can do with little effort is shoot. Why it’s what every mother dreams for her little girl. You know, guns are part of this country’s DNA, they’re inextricably woven into the fiber of our psyche. American was founded by rebels, liberated by guerrillas, and settled in no small part by outlaws. I have a healthy respect for guns and as controversial as the idea is, I believe in a person’s Constitutional right to own bear arms. I won’t ever own one myself because as I mentioned, I fall UP stairs. With that kind of grace I can be expected to shoot my own leg off if I were carrying a gun…and going up stairs. I think some guns should be banned however. We can’t obviously do though because many of them are used for the recreational sport of hunting. And people have to hunt because it’s a simple fact that deer have to die. They have to be taken out, because if they aren’t, they’re just going to keep dashing through the forest, frolicking in the fields, and nibbling the leaves and berries off the trees and bushes. I mean, come on, Bambi is begging for it. Maybe if we just make guns harder to get. They should at least be harder to get than a reservation at Chevys.

This is a big day in the history of the American Old West – beginning with a major happening that occurred in 1881. Sheriff Pat Garrett killed Billy the Kid in Pete Maxwell’s bedroom in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. A year later, Johnny Ringo was found dead of a gunshot wound to his head up on west Turkey Creek in Cochise County, Arizona. It was ruled a suicide, but he may have been murdered by Buckskin Frank Leslie. Leslie was treacherous and prone to jealousy when drunk. The two men had been drinking together since the Fourth of July. I’ll be taking a break from writing tomorrow evening to learn how to shoot. I’ve always wanted to learn how to load and fire a revolver so I’ll be heading to the range to have my first lesson with a Colt six-shooter. One of my favorite Old West slogans is about the man who designed and made the famous six-shooter. “God made some men big and some men small, but Sam Colt even things up.” I guess no one knew that better than Billy the Kid and Johnny Ringo. Both were shot with a Colt revolver.

Another day working on the second edition of Hearts West: Mail Order Brides of the Frontier. I sincerely do not know how mail-order brides were able to marry a man they never physically met until an hour before their wedding. They had no idea if the description the man gave of himself was accurate. And vice-versa. I suppose in many respects the system hasn’t changed much from the mid-1860s. Today people agree to marry using nothing more than their home computer. Couples supposedly meet their soul mate on-line. Again, with no idea the description of one another is accurate. Many times I think it’s not. I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble here, but all those succulent Hawaiian Tropic beauties men think they’re trading secrets with are probably fifty-year-old fat guys who make Abe Vigoda look like Ashton Kutcher. The same goes for women too. I think it’s rare that anyone actually handwrites letters (love letters or otherwise) anymore. And if you do get one in the mail you might automatically assume it’s a ransom note. Maybe I’m a little rebellious when it comes to the whole technological blitzkrieg. Okay. I AM rebellious when it comes to the whole technological blitzkrieg. Nothing serious I don’t suppose. I’m not going to stop bathing and live in a dirt-floored Fotomat, but there is such a thing as a dependence on synthetic forms of communication. Whatever happened to the good old-fashion face-to-face insincerity? Part of the problem for me with the computer is that I really don’t know how to use it well. I can do the basic stuff, but nothing fancy. I can’t attach or send a JPEG (whatever that is) or download anything. I have all the technical proficiency of Bullwinkle of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. Oh, how I miss them. I’m at the complete mercy of the good people at the House of Print and Copy (in Grass Valley on Nevada City Highway – for all your copying and shredding needs). They never take that condescending tone the neighbor kid does when I ask him for help. He talks to me like Alex Trebek talks to contestants when they get the wrong answer on Jeopardy. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss Chris. The correct answer was ‘the on-off switch.’ Like the mail-order brides of old, I’ll be writing all my correspondence by hand. The drawback with that is no spell check.

Possibility and faith wake me each morning. Before I roll out of bed I think about the great adventures that lie ahead. I savor that positive notion…and then a call comes from the prison and waves of reality wash any hopefulness away. How can any court restore what was taken? One of my favorite films is the Princess Bride. I particularly like the scene where Inigo Montoya final catches up with the six-fingered man (Count Rugen) who killed his father. There is a brilliant sword fighting scene that ends with Inigo ridding the Count of his weapon and he says “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” The Count is horrified and tries to make a deal with Inigo to spare his life. Inigo responds, “Promise me great riches.” The Count does so. “Promises me great power,” Inigo adds. The Count agrees. “Promise me anything I want,” Inigo forcefully demands from the Count. The Count echoes the request. “Yes,” he says, “I promise you anything you want.” Inigo readies his sword and announces to the Count, “I want my father back.” Just before Inigo runs him through with his sword there is a moment on the Count’s face that lets the audience know he is fully aware of what he did to Inigo’s father. I want my brother back, but how can anyone restore was has been taken. I want to see the look of recognition on the faces of those that brought about this forever hurt. I pray that it happens. The possibility of it wakes me each morning. Being able to write wakes me as well. I’m finishing up the Sam Sixkiller book and the next edition of Hearts West: Mail Order Brides of the Frontier. Big changes are coming to the website in September including an introductory film. It’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to being a part of a western short and I’m going to savor every moment. On this day in 1871, drover Juan Bideno, was herding cattle from Texas to Abilene. At Cottonwood River Juan couldn’t be persuaded to cross and the dispute with the other men on the drive led to violence. Bideno killed the 22 year old trail boss, Billy Cohron, and fled south towards the Indian Territory. Bideno was known as one of the fastest guns in the west. He was often a gun for hire, but in this case he was trying to change his ways and go straight. It just didn’t work out like he planned. Great adventures were lying ahead for him, but he couldn’t see past the rage brewing inside him. There’s a lesson here I think.

Before I leave the Elizabeth Custer story to concentrate on the other books I’m working on I’d like to look back at her life one last time. I’ve spent more than three years with her and it’s going to be hard to move on. Elizabeth Custer was thirty-four when her husband was killed at the Little Big Horn. She had been married to George Custer for twelve years. After the shock of bereavement, with its clarifying vision, all was nebulous. It was said that on the evening of the Sunday following, Elizabeth arranged a religious service to be held in the parlor of her home at Fort Lincoln. So broken by George’s death and overcome by the heat of the day, she fainted in the middle of the service. Elizabeth returned to her home town of Monroe, Michigan. She remembered how happy she was there with George. Now she was a stricken woman isolated in grief. Letters of condolences poured in on her. The letters helped her go on and gave her the courage she needed to go through George’s things. It was here she made some astonishing discoveries. Among the items in his footlocker were letters and photos from other women and gambling receipts which showed he had more than $13,000 in gambling debts. It’s hard to know how she was able to go on from there, but go on she did. Elizabeth was a remarkable champion of George and his life as a soldier. Regardless of his infidelity she defended his military career to the end. She died in 1933 at the age of 92. The story of her life with and without George should be made into a movie – and I’ll get right on that after Thunder Over the Prairie gets made. It’ll happen. Right, God?

This wasn’t a good day for outlaw Mike Morose back in 1895. The Texas badman was hiding out in Juarez when lawmen lured him back across the border. George Scarborough killed him while resisting arrest. Scarborough was a deputy at the time he gunned Morose down, but he wasn’t necessarily a good guy. He dabbled in both sides of the law. Scarborough was best known at the time for his association with John Wesley Hardin. The two frequently robbed people and split the victim’s money between then. Corrupt officers and investigators like Scarborough were not uncommon in the Old West. They aren’t uncommon in the New West either. Timothy Masters, a man wrongfully accused of murder 10 years ago, was released today after the DNA evidence the prosecution used to build their case on was found to belong to someone else. The prosecuting attorney withheld that information along with a number of other things and that aided in their efforts to have the 15 year old Masters sentenced to life in prison. It took a team of dedicated lawyers and investigators (hired by Masters family) to dig deep and find the truth. This kind of story gives me great hope for my brother. The team I’m working with is just as fierce and driven to get at the truth and the surprises that are going to be revealed will make front page headlines everywhere. On this day 135 years ago, Elizabeth Custer was going through her slain husband’s personal effects and packing up to return to Monroe, Michigan. Among the items she found was a note from a dear friend who lived in Michigan. Elizabeth frequently had George travel to her hometown to collect her friend and bring her to Fort Lincoln where the Custer’s were stationed. Elizabeth introduced Nellie Wadsworth to some of the single officers on post in hopes that she might meet the man of her dreams. Unbeknownst to Elizabeth, Nellie had already found such a man in George. Among George’s things were letters from Nellie pleading with him to meet her and professing her love. I’m sure Elizabeth felt doubly betrayed. I’d like to find out what, if anything, she ever said to Nellie about the matter. She was such a classy lady she probably never said a word. She just waited for that day. Elizabeth just knew Nellie would eventually be exposed and indeed she was. I suppose the fact that the world now know after all these years that the prim and proper Ms. Wadsworth was not what she seemed is payback enough. Life can be a witch…and then you sleep with her husband. And if you have the patience you eventually see what becomes of liars and cheats. More on Elizabeth Custer Friday.

I’m heading home after a long book tour.  Montana was beautiful – from the Little Big Horn to Bozeman.  I enjoyed visiting all the locations in between those historic places.  Now comes the hard part, traveling back to California.  I’m currently an airline hostage in a steamy, overcrowded terminal in Salt Lake City, Utah.  When or if I’ll make it out of here tonight is anyone’s guess.  On my left are a couple of inconsiderate parents changing their infants urine soaked diaper out in the open for all to smell.  To my right, a rail thin woman chewing and popping one piece of gum after another and laughing and yelling uproariously into her cell phone.  Hey, lady!  It’s not a pair of tin cans connected with string.  You don’t have scream!  There.  I feel a little better.  Prior to traveling to Billings to do a signing at Barnes and Noble I imagined the event would be my last stand.  I just figured there would be a number of people there who wanted to challenge me on every point of the book.  Although the book None Wounded, None Missing, All Dead is about Elizabeth Custer’s life and her relationship with her husband, there are those who have complained on Amazon.com that I didn’t reveal any new information about the battles Armstrong Custer participated.  I thought some of those confused souls would be at the signings, but such was not the case.  It was a pleasure.  I met only kind individuals.  Until the diaper changers and gum popper I hadn’t met anyone on this journey who was thoughtless or rude.  No matter how far away I am from home the issues with Rick never go away.  The suffering is always there and it’s always tragic.  My brother Scott and I are planning to visit him in August.  I hope that lifts his spirits.  I’m grateful that yet another witness has come forward to share what they know with regards to Rick’s case.  I can’t wait until all this is made public.  What satisfaction!  Until then it’s on to the next Old West book even if I am working on it from the airport.  It’s not so bad I guess.  Maybe the gum popper will get off the phone and share a stick of Wrigley’s with the other stranded, irritated passengers.