Journal Notes

Guns are part of this country’s DNA, they’re inextricably woven into the fiber of our psyche. The gunplay in most every western I’ve ever seen is something to behold. From Shane to the Quick and the Dead, everyone in the movies know how to handle a weapon. And they sound good doing it too. Some of my favorite dialogue about gunplay are from Two Gun Lady and the Outlaw Josey Wales. In Two Gun Lady, made in 1956, a bar owner pulls a sawed-off double barrel shotgun from behind the bar and covers the gunfighter threatening to kill him. The gunfighter says, “You’re hands are shakin’.” The bartender replies, “The shot spreads better. The gunfighter responds, “You weren’t this brave before.” The bartender retorts, “I’m not that brave now. That’s what makes me so dangerous.” And then there’s the great lines from the Outlaw Josey Wales. Wales asks a group of Rebel soldiers in the flick, “You gonna pull those pistols, or whistle Dixie?” My personal experience with guns is varied. I thought I had died and gone to heaven last year when I had a chance to hold Bill Tilghman’s and Bat Masterson’s guns. I went target shooting my brothers and Dad several years ago and enjoyed that time immensely. It was the last time we were all together actually. My first encounter with a gun didn’t have the same feel as the movies portray. My brothers were there, but there was nothing entertaining about it. My bio-father had showed up out of the blue and threatened to shoot my mother. He held the barrel of the gun against her forehead and begged her to give him a reason to pull the trigger. I was panicked. He eventually lowered the gun, laid it on the dryer, and pretended to have a fainting spell. Outside of a good western or an afternoon of target practice with my brothers, I don’t have much use for guns. It seems to me that the police have powerful weapons and the criminals have powerful weapons and the rest of us are left with eight dead bolts, a nine-hundred-dollar-a-month cable bill, and we’ve been reduced to asking the pizza boy as he slips the deep-dish, meat lovers pie under the door, “Hey, have the leaves turned out there yet?” I’ve been thinking about this a lot since being asked to speak at the Single Action Shooting Society Convention in Las Vegas in December. The organization promotes gun safety and gives incredible demonstrations of Old West shooting styles. They teach you that a gun is good or bad as the person using it. What happens with SASS shouldn’t be confused with the heinous acts of the average thug or a crazed sperm donor frightening a mother and her children. I’m honored to have been asked to be a part of the convention and am looking forward to the event, but the invitation has triggered certain memories. Wonder whatever became of the man who threatened my mother’s life? I know what would have happened to him if this were a western. If this were the movie The Maverick Queen, Barbara Stanwyck’s character would have leveled her weapon at him and announced, “The only way you leave here is feet first.” I’ll be at the SASS Convention on Friday, December 10 from 3 pm to 6pm at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.

The John Wayne collector’s edition of American Cowboy magazine was released this past week. It’s a wonderful tribute to the legend. One of the articles I wrote about Wayne’s younger years appears in the periodical as well as a half page ad for the book The Young Duke. I’ve been a fan of John Wayne since I was 8 years old. My dad took my brothers and I to see True Grit and I was hooked on Wayne and westerns from that point on. The remake of the picture looks promising and I’m anxious to see it. The only problem I had with American Cowboy’s Wayne edition is that they spelled my name wrong. In the “contributing author” section my name is spelled Chris Enns. My name is spelled correctly in the ad in the body of the magazine however. It only bothers me that my name is misspelled because of what happened to my brother Rick. Shortly after he was arrested the prosecuting attorney ran a check on the name Rick Enns to see if there were any prior convictions. There were, but our name is not spelled that way. Under the name Rick Enss there were no prior convictions, but that didn’t serve the P-A’s purpose. She announced in court that my brother had prior convictions. She announced to the newspapers that my brother had prior convictions. She was told by the court not to do that, but she did it anyway. It worked out in her favor. You say something like that about a person who is arrested and everyone listens. You retract it, which she never did, no one cares. It’s important that your name be spelled correctly. It’s really all you’ve got. And it could mean the difference between going home or 20 years to life. True Grit being one of my favorite movies and my brother continuing to struggle, I’d like to leave this entry with a quote from that unforgettable movie that seems to fit the circumstances in my own life right now. Mattie delivered the line to Rooster Cogburn when she was referring to the man who killed her father. “I won’t rest until I see Tom Chenney barking in hell.” That’s how I feel about the people who cost me my brother.

I can generally spot a liberal if I see them. The dyed-in-the-wool liberals are generally dressed in their threadbare “Al Gore for President” T-shirts having a decaf latte and a nonfat three-berry chocolate chip scone a Barnes & Noble coffee bar, reading Joan Didion. It’s harder for me to identify a liberal over the phone. Without the immediate talk of my recycling habits or my favorite organic food category, I can’t readily pick them out. I suppose there are some universities and museums that are known for their liberal stance, but I wasn’t up on any of that when I called various institutions looking for a venue to host the launch of the Elizabeth Custer bio. I knew that George Custer was a controversial person, but wasn’t aware Elizabeth was thought to be just as controversial. It’s that controversial impression that prompted all of the places I phoned yesterday to turn me down. One university told me that the name Custer is on par with the name Hitler. That comment may be a tad extreme. The book is Elizabeth’s life with and without George. Her experiences traveling the frontier, living in tents, and how she survived after George’s death. It’s not the first time I’ve heard professors and museum directors suggest we gloss over certain aspects of history, but I’m just as surprised as I was the first time it was mentioned. After speaking with the fifth and final Attila-like professor and being accused of being a racist for writing such a book at all, I decided to contact the one place I knew would be welcoming – Dodge City, Kansas. I wasn’t disappointed. History lover Brent Harris, also known as the face of Dodge City, seemed pleased to hear from me, eager to accommodate the book launch, and willing to display some of Elizabeth’s personal items. Unless something unusual happens, the launch will be held at Dodge City and all will be invited to attend. I’ve never made it a secret that I love Dodge City and I’m thrilled that I’ll have a chance to return for the event. Some of the most decent people in the world live there. I’m a little ashamed I didn’t contact the Front Street Museum first. The response I received from many West Coast colleges and museums about forgetting certain accounts in America’s past reminds me of a Sioux proverb. “A people without history is like wind on the buffalo grass.”

A big part of being a writer is promoting your work. I’ve been busy the last few days trying to do just that for the Elizabeth Custer book due to be released in April 2011. I’m excited about the launch, not only because the book will be out and available for everyone to read, but because several of Elizabeth’s personal items are set to be on display at the occasion. I contacted a women’s history museum in hopes that the book and the never-before-seen items would prompt the folks at the facility to say, “Yes! We’d love to host the book launch!” They didn’t say that. They couldn’t have been less interested. I’ll move on – confused by the response, but wiser. Maybe there’s a men’s history museum that will be more receptive – or a fashion museum. Elizabeth Custer was a very stylishly dressed woman. She created a variety of new looks out on the plains using cavalry jacket’s and military caps. She was daring. Trendsetters always are. People like Elizabeth Custer have been obsessed with trends and fashion ever since the Garden of Eden when Eve said to Adam, “You know, that fig leaf you have on is so last season.” I think most everyone is a bit obsessed with trends and fashion. Fashion is the way humans provide what nature didn’t. It’s our plumage, our fur, our scales. Now, since Our Maker, who by the way designs for the House of God, did not provide us with fancy tail feathers, we wear clothing. During the prehistoric times everyone wore the same thing every day. I mean, look at Wilma Flintstone. She’s always sporting the same tight, short skirt with the shredded zigzag cut three inches above her knee. Oh, that Wilma! As I’ve been reviewing the photos I have of Elizabeth Custer I’ve been admiring her style and thinking about my own tired look and I’ve come up with three basic rules for fashion: 1 – Never wear a Budwiser cap with a Coors T-shirt. Commit. 2 – Hey, Levi Strauss. 501’s? 505’s? 509’s? What am I, buying pants or catching a train? 3 – When using a Magic Marker to color in your ankle to cover a hole in your sock, make sure the Magic Marker color matches the socks. If Elizabeth’s sole contribution to history was the fact that she was sporting the military look long before it was considered chic, I could see why a women’s museum wouldn’t be interested in a showing of her things. But that’s not the case with Libbie. She was an author, lecturer, and a faithful army wife who witnessed first-hand the taming of the wild frontier. She’ll be remembered long after the women’s history museum has been closed for lack of funding and torn down to make room for a mall filled with shops selling cavalry style jackets and military caps.

As an author I primarily work alone. I co-write material with Howard Kazanjian, but he is in Los Angeles and I’m in the northern portion of the state. My day begins at my desk by myself and ends the same way. I’m not complaining. I couldn’t write any other way, but there are times I wish I had someone close to discuss the industry with. I found out yesterday that the Elizabeth Custer book will be released in March. I’d like to know the best way to launch the material to the general public. I need wise counsel. A life coach. Someone in a top hat maybe to pop out just before I make a crucial error singing a song entitled Mistake. I have been invited by the Single Action Shooting Society to participate in their annual holiday conference in Las Vegas in December. It sounds like a lot of fun, but so did attending the Western Writer’s Association meeting last year in San Antonio and that turned out to be one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some awful experiences. My judgment making skills are not state of the art. The initial financing for the film Thunder Over the Prairie fell through at the last minute, but it looks like Nomadic Pictures will pick up the project. They produced a movie with AMC entitled Broken Trail. I have every confidence they will do right by Thunder. It’s an odd career I’ve chosen for myself. At 49, however, I’ve got too much time invested in it to give up now. Although, some serious vocational changes will have to be made in the next few years. There’s got to be nothing more pathetic than a 50 plus year-old woman hanging around Hollywood still trying to pitch screenplays. My publisher asked me to update the book Outlaw Tales of California for a re-release date in 2012. I’ve got that along with the Sam Sixkiller book due to be released in May 2012. I know I’m going to need more to keep going financially and to combat the hurt and torture deep inside that has brought about the sadness deep in my soul and the scalding pain of hate over my brother’s situation. As long as there is a western story to be told with revenge as the central theme, I think I’ll make it through. As I mentioned, I need wise counsel. So did Charlie Pitts in 1876. Pitts was a gang member who was killed in a gunfight near Madelia, Montana in which the Youngers were captured after the Northfield bank robbery. A derringer belonging to bank teller, A.E. Bunker was found in Charlie’s pocket. Even if Pitts weren’t killed there was no way he was going to get away with saying he had nothing to do with the Northfield robberies. Then again, I’ve seen liars get away with murder, so maybe Pitts could have talked his way out of the situation.

A couple of months ago I was notified by cowgirl LeeAnn Sharpe that I was going to be the recipient of the Spirit of the West Alive award. LeeAnn is not just a cowgirl, but a writer and the creator of the award that honors those people who preserve the spirit of the west either through books, art, and/or film. The award is co-sponsored by the publication the Wild West Gazette and past recipients of the award include Bruce Dern, Buck Taylor, and Hugh O’Brian. The award ceremony takes place on Saturday, October 16 at 130 p.m. at the Wild West Festival in Saguaro Ranch Park. I am looking forward to it, but wish my brother could be there to share it with me. I always wish my brother was able to be well and home. Home being any place away from those that lie and murder. Throughout the history of the Old West brothers and sisters stood up for their siblings, fighting for them if they were falsely accused of a crime or had their lives taken away by a harlot and her lover. I’m reminded of western lawmen Dallas Stoudenmire. Stoudenmire had a reputation for being exceptional with a weapon. His claim to fame was killing four men in a five second gunfight. In 1882, Stoudenmire was about to finish off Doc Manning, a diminutive man with the fighting instincts of a terrier. After Dallas shot Doc in the chest twice, Doc’s brother, Jim, rushed onto the scene and dispatched Stoudenmire with a shot behind the left ear. Jim missed with his first shot at only 8 feet. Stoudenmire lived and was later ostracized from the community for his abuse of power. Jim never gave up the quest to see that Stoudenmire was brought to justice for what he did to his brother. That’s the spirit of the Old West I happily try to preserve everyday. I’ll keep at it until the real outlaws are sent to jail for a very long time for what they’ve done.

Dressed in my Dale Evans costume, complete with a fringed shirt, riding pants, and white cowboy boot, I’m ready to start the work day. I’m traveling to Lake Wildwood in a few hours to do a book signing and give a lecture about the cowboy film duo of Rogers and Evans. Clint Black has been working hard to attract interest from production companies to back the film project about the couple’s life. Hope this studio green lights the movie. His efforts are much appreciated and I’m looking forward to meeting with the studio heads. The book Outlaw Tales of California is doing well. I’ve been asked to update the tome and add a few more outlaws to the mix. Crime was rampant in the Old West so finding additional bad guys to write about won’t be hard to do. I’d like to finally have the book I wrote about the outlaws in my own sphere of influence released, but timing is everything. Now isn’t the time, but soon. And speaking of outlaws, on this day in 1896, Killin Jim Miller ended his feud with Sheriff Bud Frazer by blowing off most of Frazer’s head with a shotgun in Toyah, Texas. Frazer’s sister roundly cursed him for it and he threatened to shoot her too. His tough talk didn’t stop her from making him pay for what he did to her brother. Now that’s a women worth admiring. Still settling into my new place. Hope to locate the box with my undergarments in them today. I can’t keep wearing the bottoms to bathing suits. More on the new books to come in the Women of the Old West series in the next post.

When pioneers moved west they loaded all their belongings in wagons, carts, and onto pack mules. They packed everything they had for the trip – sets of fine dinnerware that had been passed down from generation to generation, stacks of books, several outfits of clothing, etc.. East coast newspapers, encouraged by the government to write glowing articles about westward expansion, reported that the way west was easy and that no complications should be expected. United States politicians and wealthy entrepreneurs wanted the land populated and would have said anything to get hordes of people to stretch the boundaries of the country beyond the Mississippi.
The trip was anything but easy as the pioneers found out. Wagons had to be disassembled to be lowered down sides of mountains, carts had to be pulled through sand and dense rock, mules fainted under the constant weight of the cargo they were saddled with and some had to be eaten when the food source was depleted. The majority of the possessions the pioneers started the journey out with never made it to their destination. The trail west was littered with dishes, picture frames, furniture, and clothing. Only the bare necessities actually made it to the end of the trail.
I recently moved across town and found myself in much the same situation. I foolishly believed I could easily transport 18 years worth of belongings to a new house, unpack the items quickly, and go on with barely a hic-up in my daily routine. While attempting to settle into the home, I’ve had to throw away mountains of books, miles of knick-knacks, and a river of clothing. Why I was hanging on to a pair of jeans I wore when I was a junior in high school is a mystery. Why did I pack three bottles of aspirin with only three tablets in each bottle? Why do I have two sets of china? I don’t cook and have never formally entertained. Unless you count having people over for Ring-Dings and a liter of Pepsi formal dining, and even that doesn’t require china. Many of these useless items had to be gotten rid of in order to make the move.
Still in the process of unpacking, my home looks a lot like an episode of the show Hoarders. I’m ashamed and embarrassed that I have so many unopened boxes of Wheaties. I love Cap Ripkin and years ago purchased boxes of cereal with his image on the front. I guess I thought someday I’d sell the items on eBay. Why do I have so many decorative pillows for my bed? Has anyone ever equated the number of decorative pillows one has with personal wealth? I find I’m now having to take the example set by the tired, misinformed pioneer and am getting rid of even more items I have no place for in the new home. With the exception of the unopened Cal Ripkin cereal boxes. I mean – come on! It’s Cal Ripkin.

About 17 years ago today I began my professional writing career. Some of the material has been well received and others have been highly criticized. Perhaps it’s human nature, but it’s always easier to remember the harsh reviews. It’s hard to forget someone who sends you an email that reads, “You are an author worth watching. Not reading…just watching.” Recently, however, I received an email about my work I’ll recall for a long time. Candis from Tucson wrote, “I so wanted to drop a short letter to you. In lack of anything new to read on my shelves I have started sorting through some of my favorite ones I’ve already torn through. Only today have I noticed that you have written some of my favorite books on females in the west. I am sure you are contacted on this often, but I, as well, wanted to give you my due gratitude in bringing so many of these unsung female everyday heroes to light. Without you so many would not know their stories. I find my own strength in these women every day. If they can do the impossible so can I. You’ll never know how much it means to me. Thank you and looking forward to many more reads.” I thought this message would be a good way to mark my writing anniversary. I look forward to many more years of writing and yes, reviews. If only they could all be good. I will not be updating this site for a few days because I’m in the process of moving. I don’t want to conclude this entry without sharing what was going on in the Old West around this time. In 1857, Brigham Young declared marital law in the Utah Territory. The atmosphere was tense, as many Saints remembered the murder of their first prophet in Nauvoo, Illinois, and the subsequent exodus to Council Bluffs. With the territory under martial law, President Young forbid any US armed forced to enter Utah. It would prove to be a fatal decision. Happy Trails until we meet again, readers.

Out in the wild, wild West, the men were strong, the women were hard, the horses were fast, and the talk was rough – rougher than the saddle on a rustler’s steed, rougher than a barroom brawl, rougher than the face of a lonesome drifter, rougher than…well, you get the picture. I like the fact that a cur on the rugged frontier could be called out for what he or she was and there were no reprisals because everyone knew the truth was being told. The only place I see that happening now of days is in a western film. In the movie Duel in the Sun, Senator Jackson McCanles, played by Lionel Barrymore, tells his son, Jesse McCanles, played by Joseph Cotton, exactly what’s in store for anyone who harms his family or tries to take over his land. “You mean to shoot down unarmed men?” Jesse asks. “Just like they was rattlesnakes,” the Senator replies. Henry Fonda’s character in Fort Apache doesn’t mince words when telling a corrupt Indian agent just what he thinks about him. “Mr. Meechum,” he says, “You’re a blackguard, a liar, a hypocrite, and a stench in the nostrils of honest men.” I think that line would be applicable when referring to many government officials today. In my estimations it also applies to anyone who would manufacture evidence in order to put someone in prison. Rough talk in the Old West was generally followed by harsh punishment for being a “stench in the nostrils of honest men.” Now of days blackguards go about their everyday life unpunished, like they’ve done nothing wrong. They lack a soul or a conscious. They attended college, fish with friends, get married, have children, all without the weight of their sins pressing on their hearts. In the movie Forty Guns, Barbara Stanwyck’s character, Jessica Drummond points out the consequences for living such a cold life to murderer Griff Bonnell played by Barry Sullivan. “You don’t want the only evidence of your life’s work to be bullet holes in men.” Griff eventually recognizes that Jessica is right and corrects his mistakes. I don’t hold out much hope for that happening with the people who manufactured evidence against my brother. I live for the day the rough truth comes out. I hope I have the presence of mind to say something equally as profound as Robert Mitchum’s character in the western Pursued. “See that rise,” Michum’s character points out to his wife played by Teresa Wright. Both characters were aching to see justice come to the real criminals in the film. “They’ll be coming over that rise. They’ll come killing. But we’ll be ready to stop them this time and put them away for good for what they’ve done.”