Journal Notes

While on the phone late yesterday with Sam Sixkiller’s great, great grandson (Sixkiller was a famous Native American lawman and the subject of my next book)  I received a call from the Federal Prison.  No matter how much I want to put out of my mind, for just a little while, the thought that my brother is locked up and fading away, I just can’t.  I regret so much making him take a plea.  I know the bad guys are destined to get theirs, but in those moments when I’m forced to deal with it again and again,  it couldn’t come soon enough.  The age old struggle between being bitter and stopping to say a prayer for the lost fiends rears it’s ugly head.  After Sam Sixkiller was murdered on Christmas Eve 1886, his sons set out to make the culprits pay for their deeds.  They fired so many bullets into the men who gunned down their father the outlaws were nearly cut into.  Frontier Justice is long since gone, if it weren’t I promise a posse would have been organized to take out the Dodger’s fans who recently beat the man wearing a Giant’s jersey into a coma.  My Pastor recently asked me if I thought the three main players involved with helping to send a decent man to an early grave were Christians.  I told him that I thought they were.  He responded with, “How can they be?  Saved people don’t tell horrible lies as they have.  Saved people don’t act like that.”  He’s right.  I guess I just assumed because they went to church they were saved.  Funny, what comes to mind right now is something Harry Truman said about Richard Nixon.  “I don’t think the son of a b___ knows the difference between telling the truth and lying.”  I will pray for those lost souls, because God asked me to.  And when it all comes crashing down around them, and it will, I’ll pray even more.  My heart will  follow…that’s my prayer too.  In the meantime, the Elizabeth Custer book is out now a bit earlier than originally planned.  It’s a handsome book and I’m looking forward to traveling around with the title and telling Libbie’s story.  She was no stranger to lies herself.  She used to say, “Some people handle the truth carelessly; others never touch it at all.”  I think that sums it up perfectly.

In April 1865, the Rebels had surrendered to the Yankees, thus ending the Civil War.  George Custer arrived on the other side of the war a hero.  His actions at the Battle of the 1st Bull Run and subsequent heroic efforts helped bring about victory for the North.  Shortly after the official signing of the South’s declaration of surrender Major General Phil Sheridan sent Elizabeth Custer a gift along with a note of explanation.  It read, “My dear Madam – I respectfully present to you the small writing table on which the conditions for the surrender of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia were written by Lt. General Grant – and permit me to say, Madam, that there is scarecely an individual in our service who has contributed more to bring this about than your gallant husband.”   Regardless of what happened at the Battle of Little Bighorn, Elizabeth never forgot how George fought in the Civil War.  I don’t quite understand why Phil Sheridan thought the desk was his to give away.  The articles of surrender were signed in a private home and none of the items in the home belonged to the Major General.  By I digress…Elizabeth was loyal to George throughout the 12 years of their marriage and the 57 years after his passing.  Who doesn’t hope for such devotion from a spouse, a parent, their children, a  friend?   I had the pleasure of being a part of two radio broadcasts yesterday.  In both the interviews with KNCO and Capital Public Radio, I spoke about Elizabeth’s loyalty.  There’s no question in my mind her devotion made George the man he was.  I suppose after so many years of defending him and building him up to everyone who asked Elizabeth about her famous husband, she might have forgotten the real George (with all his flaws – and he had them) and lost herself in the myth of Custer.  Sometimes a myth is better than the real thing.  You rest easier believing your spouse never really cheated on you, your favorite actor pines only for you and isn’t tyring to match Marlon Brando’s weight before he dies, and your children would never tell such a horrible lie it lands you in prison and contributes to your suffering and early demise.  Elizabeth never remarried after George was killed at the Last Stand.  No one could ever measure up to the image of the Boy General she presented to the public.  Maybe myth is the way to go.

Words and thoughts.  They bounce around inside my head, with only a few making the transition into real life.  The rest are sentenced to stay in the world of fantasy.  I’m not where I imagined I’d be at almost 50 years old.  It’s taking me longer to get where I wantto be because of life’s hardships.  I’m not complaining.  It just is.  I have serious doubts I’ll ever get there now.  It was while I was mulling over the thought that I’m never going to be making western films like Dale Evans did, that I took myself to the mall and wandered over to the Lancome counter.  I was intrigued by the giant sign advertising a special cream that could eliminate dark circles and bags under the eyes.  I asked the tall, blonde, 19 year-old stick-figure behind the counter about the item and she was more than eager to show me the miracle cream.  She admitted that it was a product she used all the time.  That was aggrevating in an of itself – 19 year-old women do not have dark circles or bags under theireyes!  And I’ll thank you to get off my television and stop pretending you do so I’ll buy your cream!  While the teenager applied the cream to my face she asked me if I ever thought of darkening my eyebrows.  “It would take 15 years off your looks,” she announced proudly.  “Fifteen years?”  I asked increduously.  “How bad do I look?”  Of course I bought the cream – which was probably the whole idea, but I couldn’t take the chance.  I’ve been applying it everyday and I swear I’ve seen no change.  I could have sworn it was working in the store.  It was probably just the mirror.  False reflection I think they call it.  I then took myself to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch.  I was standing with a group of 20 somethings waiting to be seated when the hostess, yet another stick-figure, said, “How nice.  A day out with grandma.”  A quick glance at the faces around me made me realize she was referring to me.  The 20 somethings were suppose to be my grandchildren!  I ran back to the Lancome counter and purchased a variety of items that promised to help me look and feel younger.  Items that would make me feel like the hands of time are turning backwards.  I realize 50 isn’t old, but recent events make me feel old.   Unrealized dreams have played their part as well.  Some people refer to the age of 50 as maturing.  But, like calling green beans haricots verts a l’anglaise, the difference is academic.   How in the world did I get so old so young?  Where is the wisdom and character I expected to acquire by this time?  Where, for that matter, is the next egg I should have salted away and the portfolio stocks I’d planned to secure.  Actually, I know the answer to that one.  Don’t let anyone tell you that inmates in federal prison are cared for by the system.  Not true.  Anyway…as for books like Life Begins at Fifty, they’re comforting to read, but they’re about as close to the truth as the eye cream claim.  You don’t see any book titled It’s Fun to be Twenty because everyone already knows that.  And who’d buy them?  Twenty-somethings are evidently taking their grandmothers out to lunch, not sitting at home reading about how to have fun.  Oh, well.   If anybody needs me I’ll be sopping gently into the samples of anti-wrinkle cream the Lancome lady gave me.  “Nature needs a big lift sometimes,” she told me as she frowned and tossed the cream into my bag.

Over the last ten plus years, I’ve been blessed to see first hand some of the most extraordinary historical western sites, and hold in my hands important frontier artifacts. I’ve stood in the very spot gold was discovered in 1849. I roamed through the inside of the buildings of the famous ghost town in Bodie, California. I was at Little Round Top in Gettysburg and lingered where Pickett charged. I visited Baby Doe Tabor’s cabin in Leadville, Colorado and visited Jesse James’s family farm in Kearney, Missouri. I’ve spent the night at Buffalo Bill Cody’s famous hotel, The Irma, in Cody, Wyoming. I’ve been to Ford’s Theatre and seen the blood soaked pillow where President Abraham Lincoln laid his head after he was shot. I’ve been to Mount Vernon and gazed out over the Potomac. I’ve wandered the streets of Jamestown in Virginia and sat in Mark Twain’s newspaper office in Virginia City, Nevada. I’ve had a sarsaparilla at the Long Branch Saloon in Dodge City, Kansas. I’ve been to Calamity Jane’s gravesite in Deadwood, South Dakota and strolled along main thoroughfare of Tombstone, Arizona. I’ve followed the path the Seventh Cavalry took to the Last Stand and sat on the banks of Donner’s Lake at the base of the Sierra Foothills. I’ve held Bat Masterson’s and Bill Tilghman’s six-shooters, one of Annie Oakley’s outfits of clothing, Mary Graves’s journal, Sitting Bull’s headdress, and George and Elizabeth Custer’s wedding card. It’s been a true adventure and I wouldn’t trade a second of those great memories. This writing career has allowed me to experience many rare opportunities and I’m grateful for all of them. All the joy and incredible memories the job has afforded me still does not erase the image in my mind of my brother in prison. I live everyday with the regret of persuading him to take a plea and say he was guilty of a crime he did not do.

I wasn’t able to attend this year’s Festival of the West program.  My brother and his parents went in my place.  Thought I’d post the article he wrote about the experience.  Enjoy!  Festival of the West Review  By: B. Keith Williams  If you did not make it to the twenty-first Festival of the West this past weekend, you missed a rip-roarin’ good time! The attendance read like a combined “Who’s Who” from both Hollywood and Nashville. Larry Gatlin, Lynn Anderson, Johnny Rodriguez, and Michael Martin Murphey were the musical draws. Celebrities such as Robert Fuller, Jeff Connors, Clint Walker, Ed Faulkner, Julie Ann Ream, Cheryl Rogers-Barnett, and Peter Brown were among many other movie/television personalities.  The western era was also well represented and is kept alive by authors Major and Judy Mitchell from Shalako Press, Chronicles of the Old West’s Dakota and Sunny Livesay, True West’s Bob Boze Bell and Carole Glenn, Sherry Bond, Chris Enss, John Conley, Jeff Hildebrandt, and B. Keith Williams.  History’s Annabella O’Dwyer (Marsha Wats) and Wyatt Earp (.biz) were part of the festivities as well. Ermal “The Duke” Williamson and Paula Williamson, “America’s Yodeling Sweetheart,” performed also.  “We had a fabulous time” according to Ray and Camille Williams. “I never would have guessed in a million years that the Rifleman’s rifle and shirt would be transported in my car! What an honor to have associated with Jeff Connors, Sherry Bond, and Festival of the West’s publicist Happy and Gene Anderson. They are very gracious and personable individuals”. “It was always about the fans my dad said,” quoted Jeff Connors.  According to actor Ed Faulkner, the Festival of the West is one of the better shows he tries to attend each year.  While there may have been some transitional obstacles this year, most attendees seemed positive.  Rollie Stevens and Kathy Meek have both a great love for and desire to see Festival of the West grow. As an author representative for Chris Enss, B. Keith Williams adulated, “Working with Kathy was a pleasure. For the first time, I believe, they had a western authors’ area over which she was responsible. I feel our educational system is neglecting our kids by taking history from the classrooms across the country, and it is important work our authors are doing in keeping this era of history alive. I have probably been many of these characters (Rifleman, Cheyenne, Little Joe, and Lawman) in my own backyard growing up as a little boy.  For more photos and video, see… www.chrisenss.com (courtesy of Ray and Camille Williams and Larry Anger).

On March 20, 1865, George Custer was at White House Landing in Virginia. “My darling,” he wrote his wife at the end of his work day, “we are now resting our horses and obtaining such supplies as are needed after a march of 500 miles. The staff are gathered about the camp fire singing: “It’s a Way we have in the Army,” and “Let every old Bachelor fill up his glass, and drink to the health of this Favorite Lass…. I long for the return of peace. I look forward to our future with earnest hope. Our state may be far below our present one. We may not have the means for enjoyment we now possess, but we shall have enough and to spare. Above all, we shall have each other.” The sentiment would have been much more compelling had he not been involved with other women. Still, it’s a much more romantic letter other post- Civil War letters I’ve come across. One letter in particular stands out that a husband wrote his wife around the same time period: “When you’re away, I’m restless and lonely, wretched, bored, dejected, only – here’s the rub, my darling dear, I feel the same when you are here.” I do think George and Elizabeth loved one another very deeply, but there are times the term is overused. Love has been used to describe everything from how we feel about diapers to the devotion and sacrifice of the Savior. I certainly think it’s too easy to say. And only in rare exceptions does it have staying power. For example, I received an email from a niece a few weeks ago that read, “I love and care about you, Aunt Chris.” Not less than a day later another email arrives from the same niece informing me that she “never wants to hear from me again – ever!” The Elizabeth Custer book will soon be released. I want readers to…dare I say it…love the book. If being in this profession has taught me anything, it’s that people who might hate the book won’t be shy about hiding their feelings. None Wounded, None Missing, All Dead represents a sizeable chunk of my writing life. I loved the opportunity – at the very least I want people to like it. But it’s out of my hands now – a situation I’m never very comfortable with. A wonderful author by the name of Chuck Parsons once shared a quote with me by Michener, it goes “Never complain, never explain, never disdain.” I’m going to try, Chuck.

Pope Paul VI once said, “If you want peace, work for justice.” I want peace and I’ve been working for more than six years for justice. It inches closer everyday…and just like the murderers Earp went after, the outlaws don’t have any idea it’s coming. Some rides to justice are longer than others, but it does come around. The Earp Vendetta Ride, or simply the Earp Vendetta, was a three-week clash from March 20 to April 15, 1882 between personal enemies and federal and local law enforcement agencies in the Arizona Territory. It became romanticized in history as “The Last Charge of Wyatt Earp and His Immortals,” as the men involved earned a reputation that they could not be killed. The vendetta ride was variously known in newspapers of that time as the Earp Vendetta or Arizona War. The vendetta was a result of the tensions leading up to the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral on October 26, 1881, the attempted murder of Tombstone Marshal Virgil Earp on December 28, and the assassination of United States Deputy Marshal Morgan Earp on March 18, 1882. U.S. Deputy Marshal Wyatt Earp led a federal posse with a warrant for the arrest of “Curly Bill” Brocius. In October 1880, Wyatt had saved Curly Bill from a probable lynching and then testified that his shooting of Marshall Fred White was accidental, saving him from a murder indictment. Now, in March 1881, he was pursuing Curly Bill with the intention to kill him. The Earp posse took no prisoners but killed at least four men between March 20–24, beginning with the shooting of Frank Stilwell and ending with the killing of Curly Bill. During their ride, the Earp federal posse was pursued by a local County Sheriff’s posse consisting of Sheriff Johnny Behan and deputies Phineas Cochise Clanton, Johnny Ringo, and about twenty other Arizona ranchers and outlaws. Johnny Behan deliberately failed to include Pima County Sheriff Bob Paul who had jurisdiction over the Tucson killing of Frank Stillwell for which the sheriff’s posse sought Wyatt Earp and his fellow riders. The Behan posse never engaged the much smaller Earp posse, although it charged Cochise County USD$2593.65 for its expenses (about $58,831 in today’s dollars. The vendetta ride is an example of a jurisdictional dispute and failure of the law enforcement system in the Old West on the frontier. The ride ended April 15 when the Earps and their associates rode out of the Arizona Territory and headed for Colorado. That failure of the law enforcement system didn’t end on the Old West’s frontier. The fight for truth and justice didn’t end there either.