Journal Notes

Since I’m working on the last chapter in the Elizabeth Custer book entitled The Soldier’s Widow, I thought it fitting to share some of the greatest lines from movies made about the Boy General. There have been no films made specifically on Elizabeth. I hope I have a chance to change that in my lifetime.

They Died with Their Boots On (1941)
Ned Sharp: Where is the regiment riding?
George Armstrong Custer: To hell, Sharp… or to glory. It depends on one’s point of view.

George Armstrong Custer: You may be right about money, Sharp; quite right. But there’s one thing to be said for glory.
Ned Sharp: Yeah? What’s that?
George Armstrong Custer: You can take glory with you when it’s your time to go.

George Armstrong Custer: [on his cadet uniform] I must get myself a tigerskin as soon as possible.

George Armstrong Custer: Walking through life with you, ma’am, has been a very gracious thing.

[after they first meet, Custer walks Miss Bacon to Gen. Sheridan’s house]
George Armstrong Custer: Do you think if I were to come strolling past your house around nine o’clock at night you might be just sitting around on the veranda?
Elizabeth Bacon: Life is full of surprises.
George Armstrong Custer: And if I did find you sitting on the porch perhaps you and I could go for a walk together.
Elizabeth Bacon: [laughs] We seem to have been walking together ever since we met.
George Armstrong Custer: Well, I can’t imagine, ma’am – if I may say so – any pleasanter journey, ma’am, than walking through life with you beside me, ma’am.

[Custer addresses the officers after his arrival at Fort Lincoln]
George Armstrong Custer: We’re responsible for the protection of 100,000 square miles of territory. And against us are ranged thousands of the finest light cavalry on earth. I found that out this morning. It’s a big job, gentlemen… and it’s gonna need a fine regiment. Our job is to make this the finest regiment that the United States ever saw. I needn’t tell most of you that a regiment is something more than just six hundred disciplined fighting men. Men die. But a regiment lives on; because a regiment has an immortal soul of its own. Well, the way to begin is to find it. To find something that belongs to us alone. Something to give us that pride in ourselves that’ll make men endure – and, if necessary, die… with their boots on. As for the rest it’s easy: since it’s no more than hard work, hard riding and hard fighting. Thank you, gentlemen, I know I can count on you.

Ned Sharp: If the other outfits don’t fight their way through, you’re liable to have a lot of Sioux on your hands.
George Armstrong Custer: Yes. Yes, quite a lot of Sioux, Sharp. But the greater the odds, the greater the glory.

[the night before the battle, Custer asks Butler to take his last letter back to Fort Lincoln]
Lt. “Queen’s Own” Butler: Why are you asking me to go back with it?
George Armstrong Custer: Well, for one thing you’re an Englishman, not an American.
Lt. “Queen’s Own” Butler: Not an American! What do you Yankees think you are? The only REAL Americans in this merry old parish are on the other side of the hill with feathers in their hatr.
George Armstrong Custer: You’re probably right about that. But there’s 6,000 of them… and less than 600 of us. The regiment’s being sacrificed, Butler, and I wouldn’t want to see a foreigner butchered in a dirty deal like this,
Lt. “Queen’s Own” Butler: Sporty of you to think of it that way. But I’ll remind you, sir, I’m a member of the mess of the Seventh U.S. Cavalry. Fancy walking into the Service Club in Picadilly if the regiment… Get somebody else to post your blinking letter!
George Armstrong Custer: Thanks, ‘Queen’s Own’. Just so long as you know.

Son of the Morning Star (1991) (TV)
George Armstrong Custer: [after pursuing a group of Indians on horseback who started to scatter] They scattered. They scattered!
[Fires his rifle in the air]
George Armstrong Custer: Give me a civilized war! An enemy I can find and beat! An enemy who fights by the rules!

George Armstrong Custer: [Upon realizing he had ran into Crazy Horse’s warriors] Oh God. This is not the end of the village. This is the middle!

George Armstrong Custer: [a doctor tends to the wounded deserters] Stay away from that wagon, doctor. I have no sympathy with those men. They will receive no aid. Is this clear?

Libby Custer: Let me know what the women are wearing.
George Armstrong Custer: I’ll study them carefully.
Libby Custer: Don’t you dare.

George Armstrong Custer: [as he watches Reno attack] It begins!

George Armstrong Custer: [to his men as they charge] All right, boys, we caught ’em nappin!

George Armstrong Custer: [to Libby] I didn’t matty you for me to sleep in one bed and you in another.

Little Big Man (1970)
General Custer: You came up here to kill me, didn’t you? And you lost your nerve. Well, I was correct. In a sense, you are a renegade, but you are no Cheyenne Brave. Do I hang you? I think not. Get out of here.

Jack Crabb: You’re not going to hang me.
General Custer: Your miserable life is not worth the reversal of a Custer decision.

Jack Crabb: General, you go down there.
General Custer: You’re advising me to go into the Coulee?
Jack Crabb: Yes sir.
General Custer: There are no Indians there, I suppose.
Jack Crabb: I didn’t say that. There are thousands of Indians down there. And when they get done with you, there won’t be nothing left but a greasy stain. This ain’t the Washite River, General, and them ain’t helpless women and children waiting for you. They’re Cheyenne brave, and Sioux. You go down there, General, if you’ve got the nerve.
General Custer: Still trying to outsmart me, aren’t you, mule-skinner. You want me to think that you don’t want me to go down there, but the subtle truth is you really *don’t* want me to go down there!

General Custer: Nothing in this world is more surprising than the attack without mercy!

General Custer: A Custer decision impetuous? GRANT called me impetuous, too, the drunkard, sitting there in the White House, calling ME impetuous!

General Custer: A scout has a certain look… Kit Carson, for example. You look like… a muleskinner!
Jack Crabb: Uh, General I don’t know anything about mules…
General Custer: Lieutenant, it’s amazing how I can guess the profession of a man just by looking at him! Notice the bandy legs, the powerful arms. This man has spent years with mules. Isn’t that right?
Jack Crabb: Uh, yes sir!
General Custer: Hire the muleskinner!

The Legend of Custer (1968)
[first lines]
[Custer rides into stable where a game of craps is under way]
Sergeant James Bustard: Go ahead and shoot. Go on, shoot. Shoot! Shoot!
[Game continues]
Sergeant James Bustard: Hold it! I win!
[when Bustard reaches for his winnings, Custer steps on the cash]
Custer: What is your name, Private?
Sergeant James Bustard: James Bustard.
Custer: Do you count yourself a tough man?
Sergeant James Bustard: None tougher in the Seventh or any other damned Yankee regiment, General, suh. But I’m forgettin’, it isn’t General anymore is it?

Custer: My name is George Armstrong Custer. Rank: Lieutenant Colonel, United States Cavalry, formerly Brevet Major General. Found guilty of dereliction of duty and suspended from rank for one year. By order of General Phil Sheridan reinstated commander of the Seventh Regiment as of now. The Seventh was my first command after the war. I was proud of it. I intend to be proud of it again.

Custer: Is that Captain Reno bearing down on us?
Captain Myles Keogh: Oh, then you’re acquainted?
Custer: Captain Reno never quite got over the fact that I followed him in West Point and now he follows me. The salt that really burns the wound is that I graduated 34th in a class of 34.

General Alfred Terry: For the record, I don’t like you. You’re too sure of yourself, too much your own man.
Custer: Then why did you bring me back?
General Alfred Terry: Because, by the Almighty, you’re a soldier. There’s another kind of war brewing out here on the frontier. We’re going to need every trained man we can get.

[rather than return to Fort Hays as he was ordered, Custer has just led his troopers to General Terry’s rescue]
General Alfred Terry: And more important, I gave you a direct order to return to this post, Mr. Custer!
Custer: I received the General’s order, sir, and was carrying it out.
General Alfred Terry: By riding in the opposite direction of the fort?
Custer: The general’s order did not specify the route I was to take in getting here, sir.

There are times I see a young man in his early 20s and think about the son I lost. He would have been 22 this month. I imagine Elizabeth Custer thought about such things. She and George wanted children, but they could never have any. Some historians believe George couldn’t father any children. They maintain that complications from spending years riding horseback made it impossible. Descendants of a Sioux Indian woman named Monahsetah disregard that notion. They believe that George fathered a child with the lovely maiden and that Elizabeth knew about the boy. George loved Elizabeth, but he never let that interfere with getting involved with another woman. If he did have a baby with Monahsetah that had to have been heartbreaking for Elizabeth. Not only would that have been physical proof your husband had been unfaithful, but confirmation that YOU were definitely the one unable to have a child. I admire her devotion to George even after he was killed. Elizabeth was a faithful widow. On this day 129 years ago people in the town of Galeyville, Arizona were celebrating the fact that notorious bad guy, Curly Bill Brocious would soon be leaving the territory. A Galeyville resident by the name of Jim Wallace had grown tired of Curly Bill constantly giving him sass and shot him in the neck. The bullet exited through Curly Bill’s cheek and knocked out several teeth. It was a serious wound, but Curly Bill survived and left the area after he recovered. He had it coming. Sure hope that skunk never procreated.

I have days when the grief over how my brother is suffering overwhelms me. It feels like it’s almost impossible to go on. Taking a handful of pills which would let me sleep to the end seems preferable. I was at that point this past Saturday. I struggle with knowing that people I once thought had heart, thumb their nose at the immense hurt and simply DO NOT CARE. I blame a religious belief that teaches that only a few are chosen. I blame a so-called minister who claims God’s grace is not sufficient. I blame a religion that teaches it’s congregation that it’s okay to send threatening emails to a person they believe is not chosen.The email I received announced that “someone like me should have their eyes cut out and bleed to death through their eye sockets.” That kind of email, along with watching Rick slowly fade, drove me to seek help from a professional this week. I was reminded then that I am not the Messiah and that only God can handle this hurt. I was reminded that God does love me and my brother and nothing can ever take that away. I’m still sad, but it’s not as bad as it was. Keeping my thoughts on my writing and the Old West helps. I am working on Chapter 10 of the Custer book. And speaking of the Old West, on this day in 1874, John Wesley Hardin celebrated his 21st birthday in Comanche, Texas. He won heavily betting on horse races and finished the day by killing Deputy Sheriff Charles Webb. Hardin escaped the pursuing posse but his brother, Joe, and Bud and Tom Dixon were soon caught and lynched by townsmen. You got to love frontier justice.

According to the book 1001 Ways to Market Your Book, it’s important to publicize your product on the internet. Towards that end, I now have two new commercials on my site. They are also running on You Tube on the Chris Enss channel. You’ll find them at www.chrisenss.com under the heading of Media. I’m never quite sure of the best marketing tools to use. I’ve run full page ads in all the major western publications about the lecture series I give at school and conferences, but there was no response. It’s often the same way with the e-newsletters I send out once a month. I’ve had numerous give-a-ways, but no takers. Conventional advertising techniques don’t seem to work with the types of books I write. I don’t write books about weight loss, child rearing, or how to stop the aging process. It would be wonderful to chat with other authors about the methods they use to promote their work. It’s a common misnomer to think a publisher does anything to help. They might send out a press release, but that’s the extent of what they do. You have to promote your own work. I need a fresh idea. The Many Loves of Buffalo Bill was reviewed in the recent issue of American Cowboy. The review was brief, but good. A great deal of writing is promoting. Who knew? Drop me a line and let me know what you think of the ads. I’d appreciate the feedback.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been involved in organizing and directing a western melodrama to be performed on May 21st. The proceeds from the event will go to help a gentlemen in our community who is struggling with stage 4 cancer. It’s been a positive experience to see so many people come together to help their fellow man. I’m a cynical individual. Events that have taken place over the last six years has left me convinced that most people are self-absorbed and will do just about anything to further their own agenda. I’ve met a few exceptions to that rule in my lifetime; Lois Stark, Edna Kirsten, my Aunt Maryann. I believe the cast and crew of people working on this western are some of the most giving I’ve ever known. It’s been a pleasure to be around them. Producers on the Purple Sage will open tomorrow night, for one night only, at Abundant Life Community Church. The show starts at 7 p.m. and promises to be a group of grins! At the conclusion of that program I’m going to be removing myself from a lot of activities I’ve been preoccupied with for so long. I want to concentrate solely on my writing for awhile. I have several books I need to complete and I need to make some serious changes to make that happen. Apart from the finishing the book about my brother I’m still writing more westerns. And speaking of which, here’s a western history note for you. On this day in 1895, the outlaw, Little Bill Raidler, killed a townsman, Joe Seaborn, during a bank robbery by the Doolin Gang in Southwest City, MO. The same shot hit Joe’s brother, Oscar. I’ve almost got the Elizabeth Custer biography finished. It’s been one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. She was an extraordinary woman.

I turned 49 yesterday. I received lots of well wishes and cards to mark the birthday and it made me thankful to have so many people in my life that care. I have learned a lot over this lifetime and have decided to make some serious changes based on what I?ve learned. Aging is a constant process that only stops when we do. And since I want to be here only mildly more than I want to die trying to escape, I’ve got to make some changes. I’m not interested in wasting my dwindling energies on the following: Three-day long book signings at locations no one knows anything about where I am relegated to a table outside the building. I’m not interrupting people at a restaurant who are eating a meal to hand them information about my books and tell them about the signings. I don’t want to be one of those people. I’ve got to learn to say no. I’ve never been very good at that. I always feel like I’m letting someone down if I say no. Often times I’m miserable because I can’t say no. I’m going to say no now to helping out with Vacation Bible Study at church, the Harvest Festival, and being on the Benevolence Committee. I want to be free to do more writing and see what I write brought to light. I believe it’s my calling. Forty-nine is not old, but I feel old because I continue to invest in life-sucking people and events I think are going to help me vocationally. I think my ability to make sound judgments with regards to that is broken and I’m going to have it fixed. I’m going to eat more pie, cherry, to be specific. I’m going to listen to the Holy Spirit whispering in my ear, warning me to protect my family from narcissistic individuals who live to destroy everyone I hold dear. Perhaps this is the start of aging gracefully. The difficulty of aging gracefully however is that there are so few examples of it in popular culture. Any book, movies, or TV programs geared toward an older generation stand out like Steve Buchemi in a Beijing police line-up. Aside from the occasional Diagnosis Murder or Golden Girls, advertisers are after the 14 to 30 demographics. Why? Because older people don’t tolerate stupidity as much as young people. So, I’ve got that to look forward to. That attitude would be a welcomed improvement over the way I ordinarily handle business.

Tales Behind the Tombstones was the most enjoyable books to work on. I’m glad it’s been well received.

By Ambergris “John Thomas” (New England?USA)

This review is from: Tales Behind the Tombstones (Paperback) This book became the
latest edition to my vast library of western fact and lore this past Christmas. People that know me well realize that it can be a pretty tough chore to try and get me something in print that tells it like it is, or rather like it was as to the American frontier. Something that I don’t already have that is. Someone took a chance on this book and fortunately hit the mark. Tales Behind The Tombstones is sorta a book that takes over, or begins where a lot of other books, bios, and documentaries are set to call it end of trail. I have read so many books and seen so many docus and shows that do a fair job in telling the tale of some of the west most colorful figures, but when it comes to their finally getting around to detailing said figures deaths, they tend to not manage much more than just to tell you they upped and kicked it on a certain date. Oh, they mention that they got shot, got sick and died, wasted away, etc. But rarely will you find what is in my opinion such a well researched collection of the last days and events of some the wests best known heroes, as well as a handful of its sorriest.

“Tales” is a really interesting book that I feel both tenderfoots and seasoned old west aficionados will find informative, and even fascinating in parts. It not only covers the last days and deaths of well known western legends such as Billy the Kid and Wild Bill Hickok, but it also introduces you to other interesting characters that made their mark on the west and whose lives we will instantly find worthy of getting comfy with and reading on. People like Sarah Winnemucca, Rattlesnake Dick, and a fascinating but heartbreaking entry called Children of the Trail. Try as you might, it will be difficult for anyone to recall a book or story that begins at the end of a true legends tale of wonder. Most of us that are big fans of this era know so well all about the deeds and musings of so much that came before the end. Allow yourself the pleasure now of catching up and joining so many as the end is right up over the next rise.

A really good book at a very reasonable price that I highly recommend. Enjoy…

The gray skies hanging over Nevada County today mirror my mood. It’s snowing in some parts of the area. Snowing! A quick look at my calendar confirms that it is indeed May. I thought something had happened and it might really be November. I was alerted to a nasty review of one of my books this morning. The day is off to a wonderful start. And yes I am completely aware of how much I sound like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. Be that as it may, it was a particular harsh criticism and it got me to thinking – why is it that every single activity in our lives is subject to mean-spirited critique? Sports, pet training, home repair, snow removal, you name it somewhere there’s a cable show dedicated to ripping it. And I’m not saying there isn’t a place for solid intelligent constructive criticism, but when was the last time you read a review of something, a movie, a play, a book, that gave you a real feel for what the author was trying to say? Now of days you can only make a name for yourself if you’re a spiteful crank heaping scorn on a product your significant other was going to devote themselves to if you hadn’t have done it first. You know the kind of person I’m referring to – a poison tongued lard who refuses to review anything he likes because his praise mechanism was broken when his father wouldn’t buy him an easy-bake over for his 10th birthday. There are those people in life who think they need to tell you what you like. The key thing to remember about critics is that they remain dependent on the innovator, the person doing the real work creating. And because they just sit on the sidelines of life, and are never the hunter, they are doomed to be forgotten. But we give them the power because the sheer speed of their existence has further tattered our already fragile confidence. I say, you like the Red Skelton painting?buy the Red Skelton painting. You like Bonanza tape it and watch it over and over again. Follow your own heart and take what critics say with a fifty pound bag of salt. That is unless it’s a great review – in which case everything I’ve just noted is null and void.

It would appear as though the funds for the motion picture project Thunder Over the Prairie will not be coming in from the source my co-author has been working on for close to a year. Howard labored long and hard to hammer out a deal, but the company has continuously delayed writing a check to start work on the screenplay. I suppose that’s the way of the industry as a whole. Now we have to consider pursuing this project with another company. That means starting over. The problem is I don’t think I have it in me anymore. I’m going to be 49 next week. Hollywood considers that too old. They could be right. You have to want to pursue raising funds for the film projects you write more than you want anything else. I don’t. I used to, when I was younger, but I don’t anymore. Truth is, I’m not sure I want anything. I’m amazed at how much of my heart was cut out seeing my brother for the first time shackled and handcuffed. Still more heart was cut away after he was beaten and raped. Nothing seems to be worth it anymore. I love writing and the Old West and am grateful to be able to write books for a living, but I used to want more. I miss that. I miss the passion for something, anything! I guess that’s why I like the Old West. Even the bad guys had passion. It was misdirected, but it was passion just the same. For example on this day in 1885, outlaw Ned Christie was up to no good and putting everything he had into that venture. During an attempted arrest the bootlegger killed U.S. Marshal Dan Maples near Tahlequah, Oklahoma. Later in the same month Ned shot, at different times, two other deputies who tried to arrest him for killing Maples. Ned built himself a strong fortress and survived many bloody encounters with lawmen over the next eight years. He was finally shot and killed trying to escape his fortress by Deputy Wess Bowman. Sam Maples, whose father had been killed by Christie in Tahlequah in 1885, emptied his revolver into Christie’s lifeless body. Now that’s passion for something.

More than twenty people filed into the federal prison Sunday morning. All of them were wearing the same pained, sad expression I was. After turning over our licenses and being screened for weapons or contraband, we were herded into a concrete waiting room. This was our church for the day. We shouted our names out to the stern, unsympathetic guard on duty, in the same militarized cadence he announced our handle to the prison employees who would be patting us down. That was our hymn. Our pews were plastic, blue-green benches, our offering was kept in clear sandwich bags. Quarters we would used to purchase food from the vending machines in the next room we would be held up for an undisclosed amount of time. The bread we broke together came in the form of a Pop-Tart and the juice was a 7-Up. As time slowly passed more members congregated in the cold holding cell. Among them were elderly men and women pushing walkers and mothers wearing doleful expressions and holding the hands of their energetic children struggling to break free. After awhile we were all marched into a long chamber and stood standing single-file waiting for our hands to be stamped. A pass through an additional security point led the way into a large, open concrete yard. From there we were herded into another long holding cell, razor wire was all around us. The guards referred to this area as “the trap.” No one dared speak. We couldn’t find our voices anyway. We lowered our heads and fought back the tears. This was our prayer time. When “the trap” was opened we filtered into another room where we met our loved ones handcuffed to steel benches. My brother’s bloated face and swollen eyes made him barely recognizable. Apart from a few people, this pale man fighting to control violent tremors, is forgotten. He’s a man who has been wrongly accused; a man who will not live to see the outside again. It pains me to know just how much I long for retribution after witnessing such hurt. I am reminded that the Knower knows the truth, but it means little when I look at the destruction done. Church is dismissed with just as much pomp and circumstance as it began. I left the prison with little belief that my cries of mercy reached the Maker. I’m just as broken as I was when I went into the sanctuary. Somehow I have to sweep the images out of my mind; brush them away like cobwebs and get back to work on the book about Elizabeth Custer.