Journal Notes

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.

The delay in the publication of the book about my brother is due largely to my own ambivalence . I have three drafts written, but can’t decide which version to use in the final submission. Last week I heard from a reader who noted that they enjoyed reading the daily journals on my site about Rick because the feelings are raw and unedited. I guess there will be more of that coming because I will be traveling to see my brother this week. Going through the visitation process at a federal prison is a lesson in humility. All around you are broken, withdrawn family members waiting to get in to see their loved one. Regardless of what anyone thinks of the prisoner they are going to see, watching an elderly couple or a four year-old child, assume the position to get patted down is heartbreaking. You can’t look upon that scene and not be moved. One of the threatening emails I received a few weeks ago described how disgusting I was because I had sympathy for my brother, my parents – anyone other than victims. They described how I should have “my eyes cut out” and then be “left to bleed to death through my eye sockets.” I believe our failure to show love to those who are hurting puts us in league with the devil. When you are in a lobby of a federal prison you are surrounded by hurting people. You never leave a place like that unchanged. Sometimes I think the final submission of the book should focus on how God can use events such as these for his good. Others times I think the book the should go into production is a scathing expose about everything that’s happened in the last six years. Then there are those times I thing I should send my publisher a copy of the journal I’ve been keeping. I’m still not clear what the book should ultimately be. I only know it should be. I do know that the proceeds from the sale of the material (what ever form that takes) are going to go to the Prison Fellowship Ministry. While wrestling with that decision I’ll be working on Chapter 9 of the Elizabeth Custer book. I’ll be writing about the Battle of the Little Big Horn and Elizabeth’s reaction to the news that her husband had been killed. On this day in the Old West in 1895 – the outlaw Black Jack Will Christian and his brother Bob killed Deputy Sheriff Will Turner during an arrest attempt. They were soon arrested by other lawmen but shot their way out of jail in Oklahoma City on June 30.

Whenever I was writing about a something that took place in Nevada County I always made a trip to Searls Library in Nevada City to do the research. Ed Tyson, the kind, elderly librarian would welcome me into the small, two-room building that was once a law office back in the day, and clear a place for me to sit down and start to work. I was struck by his ability to know just where a particular document was located. He had been at Searls for years and could quickly put his finger on the very item that was needed. He knew off the top of his head what photographs were on file and what book he needed to pull off the shelf to help get the job done well. He was always gracious and genuinely interested in whatever topic I was exploring. Ed passed away a few weeks ago. He was in his 90s and still working at the library. I’ve got to make another run to Searls Library in the not too distant future and I know the memory of Ed will be all around the historic location. I’ll miss his eagerness to assist and his generous smile. He always had a story or two to share about notorious western characters like Black Bart or Jesse James. And speaking of Jesse James?on this day more than 135 years ago he was getting ready to marry Zee Mimms. The couple had four children. Jesse became a devout Christian, but he was still a thief and a ruthless killer and had no intention of ever supporting his family in an honest fashion. I guess he wasn’t that devout. Two of his children grew to adulthood. His son, Jesse Jr., became a lawyer. I could make a humorous comment here, but some jokes are just too obvious to be funny. Jesse James had twins that died at an early age. I’m not sure from what. I bet Ed Tyson would have known.

I’ve never been as excited about writing a book as I am the one Howard and I are working on now about Elizabeth Custer. Her story has been told before, but we have the advantage of using a number personal letters and photographs that no one has ever seen before. I have been dividing my days into thirds in order to complete all the work needed by August. I spend the morning reviewing a completed chapter, checking and rechecking the facts, and adding endnotes. At noon I rewrite a chapter I’ve finished writing and type it up. I write everything out by hand at first. It may seem old school, but it works for me. Usually around two I work on writing the next chapter of the book. I’m expecting a copy of the only film footage that exists of Elizabeth Custer to arrive this week. It’s a silent film of her at a pottery studio. Once I’ve had a chance to review the material I’m going to try and track down the children in the film with her. They would be in their 90s now. I think it would be a treat to interview them and find out what they remember about the first lady of the west. The book is due to be released in May 2011. The plan is to launch the book at Azusa Pacific University in the L.A. area, along with a showing of Elizabeth Custer’s personal belongings. There is a lot of work to do between now and the launch. I anticipate having to do a lot of rewriting as well. My deadline is three months away. I hope I make it.

Many of the wagon trains that arrived in Nevada County more than 150 years ago, brought with them women who had become widows on the journey west. Cholera or lack of water claimed the lives of more than a few men. Often times those men left behind families. When the survivors reached the Gold Country they were dazed about having lost a loved one and confused about what to do next. I met a woman like that yesterday. She’s 22 and four months pregnant with her first child. Her fiancé died of cancer on April 6th. She has been sitting by his side at the hospital for weeks. Now that he’s gone she has nothing. No income, no home, no food, nothing. When she and I spoke she was naturally very sad, but eager to do whatever she could to repay whatever help our church could give her. When I left her she had a room for a week at a local hotel and a gift certificate for food. She was grateful and I was humbled by her graciousness. She was still very sad, but making the necessary steps to move ahead. It made me aware of how much my own sadness has overtaken me. I’ve not been able to move ahead like my new friend was bravely doing. I want to be like her. I’ve been drowning in a sadness that cries out for vengeance, but I realized in speaking with this young lady yesterday that I don’t really want vengeance. I want a balance of right and wrong. I’ve spent far too long praying for that balance to come RIGHT NOW. But that’s God’s business. I’m going to move on now as though the roaches who live to hurt, then self-righteously quote Scripture, never were. I’ll write my books about the Old West and my brother, protect my family from harm, and isolate my loved ones from the very existence of people who have souls as black as the night. Balance will come; just like it did in 1887 for Texas posse member, John Hughes. After a harrowing pursuit lasting 11 months Hughes, Sheriff Frank Swafford, and a deputy cornered a gang of horse thieves in Northwest Texas. Four of the outlaws were killed and two were taken into custody before Hughes finally recovered his stolen horses. Hughes went on to a long and distinguished career with the Texas Rangers. Balance will come.

I haven’t been feeling too well so I asked my friend Cynthia to contribute something to the blog. I thought it might be a bit more interesting than my usual rants. She didn’t disappoint.

“Having grown up here in California in the gold country, stories of cowboys and Indians, gold minors and woman of the west have always been intriguing to me. Local history seems to still be alive here. I can smell it in the air, hear it in the roaring waters of the once gold filled rivers. History so rich I can almost taste it. Just walk down the streets in towns such as Virginia City, Bodie, Nevada City or even Grass Valley. It makes a person wonder, or at least me, what took place here on these streets back in the days of gun fighters and madams. If you let your imagination run wild, you can hear the horse hooves heading towards the nearest saloon, the piano music coming from inside, gun fire in the streets either from celebration or a dispute. You can see the history in the architecture here. History is all around you but, what’s the real story?

I love to read but, history books aren’t really a favorite of mine. I have to admit, I like excitement and a good love story. I need to be hooked from the beginning in order to stick around for the end. I don’t have a lot of free time for such luxuries as reading but, when I do, I not only want to be entertained but enlightened. There are a lot of history books out there. A lot of dusty boring ones. I think they’re all in my son’s eighth grade history class. Oh, the stories have the facts. It’s just that the attention span of a 14 year old boy needs a lot more than facts and my prodding to get through one. Now I don’t know if author Chris Enss books can hold the attention span of a 14 year old boy, the only thing to hold my son’s is extreme snowboarding but, they certainly hold mine. The content is exciting and comes alive on the page for me. Maybe it’s because I’ve sat next to her in a dusty library and touched things such as a letter written by Annie Oakley to George Custer. Maybe it’s actually knowing I’m standing right on the spot where an outlaw was shot by a relentless sheriff bent on justice. But Chris Enss style or writing brings the old west alive for me.

I also appreciate the time and effort she puts into her research. I’m amazed she has the time, given her own personal struggles and pursuit for justice. But, I’ve seen her sit for hours digging through those dusty history books. Talking to family members and looking through personal belongings of a real western hero, looking for the story behind the story. She’s called me from familiar sounding places where I’ve watched scenes play out in western movies, digging up facts that might have been overlooked. Stepping inside the cold cell where a prison inmate on death row spent his last days. I’ve walked through overgrown graveyards with her, looking for the tombstone of an almost forgotten settler or gold miner. I’ve seen her tear up over a cross marking the spot of six unnamed babies and heard the excitement in her voice when she called to tell me that she was given the change to hold the pistols that once belonged to Bat Masterson and Bill Tilghman. I’ve seen her walk the dusty streets of a ghost town, dressed in period costume. She not only looks the part but, the old west is in her heart. You can see it in her face. Hear it in her voice as she captivates the group of history fans that have shown up for her book signing. Sitting in rundown airports, driving long distances with a GPS devise and a CD of old time radio shows. Doing the hard work for me so that I can sit and read about real places and people of the old west. Bringing them alive for me. Making history interesting and colorful. I hope there are always books out there that will allow the love of knowledge and the old west to live on in the hearts and minds of our next generation. History rich with lessons to teach us about truth, justice and love.”

I did a radio interview yesterday with a gentlemen who dislikes westerns. It was an uncomfortable 15 to 20 minutes defending the genre, Dodge City, and the wisdom to write about such a well-known story as Dora Hand’s. It was awkward, but I guess it comes with the territory. The last few days I’ve been quite irritated with the officials at the prison where my brother is housed. He was beaten a few years ago and has no teeth. I’ve been trying to do something about it, but to no avail. I have had conversations with the officials and offer to pay for the teeth, but they simply laugh at me. They don’t see that they are doing anything wrong and that they are treating my family like criminals. It’s evil. I guess that comes with the territory too. It would be wonderful, bliss actually, if I never had to think about my brother’s situation again. Getting passed all that’s happened is next to impossible when he has health issues. He’s been beaten and raped and his tremors get worse each time I see him. He won’t be around much longer. Which in many respects is a blessing. I’ll be with him in a few weeks. I’ll have to go through a series of security measure to see him including being locked down myself a couple of times. I was told yesterday that I refuse to see that my brother deserves this. I marvel at how easy it is for people who do not have to experience anything like going into a federal prison on a regular basis to make such a comment. Let’s just suppose he does deserve to be in prison, (and the actual facts of the case which have never been heard prove differently) how does my mother deserve to look into the face of her son who has been beaten beyond recognition? How does my father deserve to see that his son has no teeth and that his mouth is misshapen as a result of the severe beatings? The individual who noted so assuredly that my brother is getting what he deserves also quoted Scripture. Specifically, Phil: 4-8, “whatever is true, pure, and right.” Compassion is true, pure, and right. There’s no question I hold on to my anger, loathing, and contempt. The system is broken. I’m my brother’s guardian and would have it no other way, but having to see what I see on a regular basis changes a person. Make no mistake about it, after I look at my brother’s face and see those around him who are struggling in the same manner, it isn’t justice I want. It’s a reckoning. Now, on to this day in Western history. 1894-the bitter rivalry between Bud Frazer and his former deputy, Killin’ Jim Miller, boiled over in Pecos, TX. Miller got off a shot that wounded a spectator and Frazer emptied his six shooter into Killin’ Jim’s chest and walked away from the fight. But Miller survived that shooting by wearing a heavy steel plate under his coat.