Journal Notes

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.

Many of the criminals in the Old West wanted to eliminate the law.  Their attitude was if there’s no law there’s no crime.  The frontier was a little too wild for my taste in the mid-1860s to late 1890s.  The rights of the outlaw should never supersede the rights of good, decent, hardworking people.  As far as I’m concerned, the rights of the criminal begin and end the moment the criminal is caught in the act; or it’s revealed they’ve lied and sent an innocent man to jail.  Everyone is such a victim now and cops have to be so politically correct that it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad.  Sometimes I yearn for the simpler days, when cops and judges didn’t have to be so politically correct and touchy-feely and compassionate.  Like Judge Isaac Parker, on the bench from 1875 to 1896.  He was just a strict, zero tolerance policy son of a gun who didn’t give a care about making the criminals, or the families of the criminals feel good.  Like when this couple from the Midwest whose daughter moved to the rowdy, Old West town of Griffith, Texas and she becomes a prostitute and gets murdered, and the parents are before Judge Parker and one of his best deputy marshals (probably Sam Sixkiller) sobbing and the tough Judge pounds his gavel and says:  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, she was Mom’s  apple pie, the Fourth of July…she was a PROSTITUTE!”  Judge Parker, we hardly knew ye.  Now we’ve gone to the other end of the spectrum, where the police have to drive alongside the armed fugitive, placing themselves and innocent civilians in harm’s way until PCP boy runs out of psycho gas.  They aren’t allowed to challenge the accusations of a young woman claiming she’s been violated.  Anyone remember the Duke University case where a stripper falsely accused several young men of raping her.   Those type of allegations are hurled about all the time.  It’s the perfect crime.  I think cops can be brutal sometimes, because it’s a brutal world we live in and make them work in.  There has to be some system in place to deal with outlaws – even if the system needs retooling now and again.  By the way, just like the bad guys of old who thought Bill Tilghman, Heck Thomas, or Sam Sixkiller wouldn’t come for them, there will be a day of reckoning for modern day criminals as well – especially those who lie about being abused as a child.  There’s a quote from one of my favorite song that goes:  “Throw your soul through every open door,  Count your blessings to find what you look for.  Turn the sorrow you caused into treasured gold,  You’ll pay back in kind and reap just what you’ve sown.”  I’ll write more when I return from Montana.  Until then….  Cue that Garryowen tune.

I’d planned to be in Colorado this past weekend for the Second Annual Tribute to Western Movie Days.  Books were shipped overnight to the Museum of the West in Montrose and I was sent an itinerary to follow during my visit.  The original True Grit was filmed there and I was looking forward to visiting the sight.  Delta cancelled the scheduled flight to the location and booked me on another flight going out the following morning at 6:20 a.m..  However, the flight was oversold and the chances of my getting an actual seat on the plane were slim to none.  The best the airlines could do was to fly me standby which entailed me sitting around the airport for a couple of days.  Once it was clear I wasn’t getting out of Sacramento I decided to forget the trip all together.  I couldn’t help but think that my time would be better spent back at my office working.  So, that’s where I ended up.  Maybe next year if the directors of the event will still have me.  After spending hour upon hour at the airport I learned a few things.  Flying in this country has turned into an amazingly arduous process, especially boarding the plane, which has now become this tedious Bataan death march with American Tourister overnight bags.   There’s a lot of terrorism in the air, but you know when you walk through the terminal and see the crack security people manning the perimeter, I think we all sleep the sleep of angels.  The woman working the X-ray machine had the attention span of Boo Radley.  She had a channel flicker and was watching baggage from other airports for crying out loud!  If all goes well this week I’m off to Montana Friday.  I’ll be at Billings, Garryowen, and Bozeman.  I hope I get a seat.  I’ll be attempting to fly out on Delta again.  If I don’t make it right away, you’ll find me waiting around the Sacramento airport eating my weight in Cinnabons.

On my way to Colorado today.  I won’t be too far from the sanitarium where Doc Holiday died.  I just might have to pay a visit to his grave site.  I noticed the usual suspects using a University of Missiouri server have been monitoring my site again.  Just want to remind them of the last note I received from them.  It read, “Don’t contact me again.  I am tired of trying to have a relationship with you.  Don’t contact me again, ever, for any reason.”  That note came from a family member who said they loved me – and of course the note came after I helped pay for her wedding.  Only a coward hides behind what they think is the anonymity of the internet.  Maybe that’s why I like people such as Doc Holiday.  He wasn’t a coward.

No element of America’s historical heritage has inspired more myth and legend that the opening of the American West – an epic of immense proportion.  The wild frontier days might be gone, but the lure of the West lives on in the form of personal freedom, and enduring bond between man and nature, and the restless yearning for a new and better way of life.  I like to remember important dates that help shape the West.  Somehow it keeps me tied into that time period and inspires me to strive for a new and better way of life.  I hope in a much more civilized way, but I’m not opposed to fighting for a dream or to preserve one.  On this day in 1876, the U.S. government was planning a large scale attack to remove the Indians fighting the settlement of their land by white invaders.   That slow, violent removal began way before 1876, but 1876 was a momentous year.  It started on the Rosebud River.  General Crook unexpectedly encountered the southern fringe of a huge Indian encampment.  He is attacked by almost 1500 Sioux, led by Crazy Horse.  The Indians were forced to retreat.  Crook suffers only nine soldiers killed but is forced to regroup southward at Goose Creek.  Jump ahead two years to 1878 – The Sam Bass Gang was surprised in their camp on Salt Creek in Wise County, Texas by a posse bed by Sheriff W.F. Eagan and some Texas Rangers.  The posse killed Arkansas Johnson and captured the gang’s horses.  But the rest of the gang got away on foot.  They soon stole other horses and made good their escape.  The West, it is said, never ends; both in myth and reality, it only changes.  And so it does.  I guess that’s what makes it so enticing.  Few of us want to stay the same.  We crave excitment and adventure and the changes those ambitions create.