Journal Notes

I had no idea how many anti-Earp people were in the world until Thunder Over the Prairie came out. The bulk of the book is about the “most intrepid posse” of the Old West. I spent years researching the material and made sure the book included was a comprehensive bibliography, as well as numerous end-notes, and a foreword by the Director of the Kansas Heritage Center, explaining where the information came from. Even with all that, there are still a handful of people who insist the story is fabricated. The one that is making the biggest noise is very upset about a quote used in the book from an 1881 edition of the Dodge City Globe about Wyatt’s vendetta ride. The report from the paper notes that Earp and his men killed 150 men in that ride. The outraged critic insists I made that up. Without bothering to check the facts for himself or contact the Director of the Kansas Heritage Center himself, he has taken to openly blasting me on a website dedicated to complaining and knocking various authors. Dealing with that individual consumed a big portion of my work day. I passed his complaints on to my editor. His hope is to get the book taken off the shelves. He’s furious that it’s been optioned for a screenplay too. There are those days when writing isn’t everything I dreamed it would be. People who say you lied never have to back it up. They only have to say it. I happen to believe if Wyatt Earp was alive he would have called this guy out. That’s the way they settled things in the Old West. I’m a fan of frontier justice. I’m also a fan of truth. I don’t see frontier justice making a come back, but I’d certainly like to see truth become commonplace. I’ve often wondered what happened to truth. How did it become so unaccepted. I read a quote that explains it better than I ever could. It’s from Joan Beck of the Chicago Tribune. “Lying is commonplace in our society – government, courts, churches, and homes. Sometimes for what may seem the best of reasons, often for personal gain, almost routinely for social or business convenience (?Tell him I’m in a meeting.’) We cannot assume that honesty is a way of life in our country – or the world. The forces of society have subtly squeezed us into new definitions of honest and morality. Absolutes of right and wrong have largely disapproved and have been replaced by a fuzzy, gray fog of inconsistent moral choice.”
Excellent quote! If anyone would stop to contemplate the notion perhaps things would change. But I guess to a lot of people it’s easier just to call someone a liar without having to prove your case. Someone like Earp wouldn’t have bothered to wait for the motive behind the lie to come to light. I like to think he would have stared him down the barrel of a gun and just before he turned the coward’s head into a canoe told him, “You’re a blackguard, a hypocrite, and a stench in the nostrils of honest men.” It’s extreme, I know. Guess you can’t get rid of all the dogs just because one has fleas.
I’m sure I’ll hear from this same flea invested dog when the book about Elizabeth Custer comes out. What else does he have to do?

Sales for Thunder Over the Prairie continue to drop off aas quickly as visits to this site. And talks with Walter Hill have stalled while the remaining funds to make the film are being raised. We have partial funding, but getting another entity to committ to additional money is slow going. We are told quite often that “Western movies don’t sell.” If you can’t open a picture with the kind of revenue a film like Harry Potter makes it isn’t worth the studio’s time. It’s exhausting. This pneumonia I’ve had since July 14 continues to drag on. My condition was further aggrevated yesterday by a close family member who insists I “let go of the past.” She was referring to my brother. It is a past event to her and those around her. Her investment in the tragedy is a letter to Rick every now and then. There is no real emotional tie and no respect for the devotion I have for him. My brother is not gone yet. He languishes in a prison, hurt, with broken teeth the prison will not allow me to help fix. Since his beating his teeth have been broken and all efforts to get him dentures have failed. In fact, the prison dentist told Rick that she “would confiscate the teeth he has remaining if he didn’t shut-up about it.” That kind of treatment makes it hard for me to put this “in the past.” Of course, my loving family don’t get the calls about such hardships and hurts. I believe when she says “let go of the past” what she is really saying is “don’t mention this situation to me anymore because it interferes with my life.” The situation with my brother is my past, present, and future. His continued care is my responsibility. Where he lives, if he lives, is of utmost concern to me. I won’t let him be tossed out onto the street to be thrown into the gutter. And so we learn that aunts, neices, cousins, grandmothers, do not want to be bothered with your hurts. Their motto is “Don’t deal, forget,” and their family crest is a drawing of several people sitting around a television, never dealing with what is. So I shall leave them to themselves. I think I’ll make a trip to Custer’s Last Stand next month. I have more research I need to do on the book about Elizabeth Custer. For a little while maybe I can surround myself with people who know how difficult it is to leave things in the past. At the very least I have that in common with Libbie.

According to Amazon.com, sales for Thunder Over the Prairie have begun to slip a bit. Perhaps things will pick up once everything is in place for the film. Award winning director, screenwriter Walter Hill will be writing the screenplay. He does westerns better than anyone I know. I loved the Long Riders, Broken Trail, and Geronimo. While I wait for all that to come to pass, I’m focused on the Elizabeth Custer book and lining up more speaking engagements. I thought I’d pass on an email I’ve received about one of the other books. Thunder, however, is my favorite book that Howard and I have been able to write and I hope it has a long shelf life. “Hi Chris, I met you last year when you came to speak to a 7/8 grade Social Studies class. My daughter was in that class and really enjoyed your presentation. At the end of the school year one of my students gave me a gift certificate to the Book Seller, so my daughter and I picked out one of your books, A Beautiful Mine. I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed reading the book and look forward to purchasing more that you have written. I think it would make a nice gift for girls heading out on their own in the world to encourage them to work to achieve their goals. Thank you for such well written books on a fascinating era! Helen
Cope” Thank you, Helen. You’ve made a pneumonia ridden gal very happy.

I’ve been able to get a lot of writing done since I’ve been sick. Usually I breakup my work day with a routine trip to FedEx or the post office, but I’m unable to do that so I’ve just concentrated on the next book. For a little while I’d hoped this bought of bronchial pneumonia would take me out of this world. I tire of the struggle. I continually worry about my brother that’s in prison and it’s too painful to hear the hurt in my parent’s voices over what happened. My mother is justified in how badly she feels. Her execution?let’s just say she’s like a mother lion that has her mouth around her cub’s neck – sometimes she clamps down a little too hard. Maybe all mothers are like this, but my mother can work a 48 years-gone umbilical cord like Zorro lighting matching with a whip. She’s got the psychological and emotional drop on me. And you know what, a mother’s claim on your psyche is wholly substantiated because you love her so much. My mom has been right there for all the investigation into the accusations made against Rick. She’s seen the letters from officials who confirm everything Rick has said and can backup his side of the story. She’s seen the medical reports that show there’s no way he ever raped the accused in the manner she claimed. She knows and it’s killing her. She wants to be heard, but no one is listening. And the sad sorry truth is no one ever will. My mom wants to protect her kids from anymore hurt. That’s her job. There’s a very good explanation for why cult leaders force members to cut off all contact with their families. Because they know that their spell will be broken and all the mind control will disappear the instant you hear your mother saying: “And I suppose that just because your new friends are having themselves castrated so they can go on the spaceship, you have to do it too, right?” The relationship between mothers and children never changes, and that’s because no matter how rich or powerful you are, your mother still remembers when you were three and put SpaghettiOs up your nose.

Today I took some time from thinking about the demands of my job, missing family members, and loved ones currently incarcerated, and concentrated solely on what the heck I’m going to wear to my high school reunion. In contrast to the sad events in my recent past I thought it would be a nice break. It wasn’t. It just brought up a lot of self esteem issues. I think everyone has low self-esteem to some degree. Because no one can ever take a compliment. They either totally dismiss it or they confess some really horrible thing about themselves that you would never have otherwise known. You’ll tell someone, “Oh, you have a beautiful smile.” They’ll say, “My back tooth is completely black.” “Oh. Well. That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing.” “It was a dollar.” Fashion. People have been obsessed with fashion ever since the Garden of Eden when Eve said to Adam, “You know, that fig leaf you have on is so last season.” During prehistoric times everyone wore the same thing every day. I mean, look at Wilma Flinstone. She’s always sporting the same tight, short skirt with that shredded zigzag cut three inches above her knee. Where does she shop? Fashion is commerce built on envy. Know why fashion magazines are always thicker than a Tokyo phone directory? Because they’re full of ads that are tying to make you think that if you use this raspberry/kiwi/placenta thigh cream, your life is going to change, and articles that are trying to make you believe that if you wear this Dolce and Gabbana dress, you’re going look just like the ninety-five pound heroin addict who’s modeling it. I don’t know what I’m going to wear yet, but it won’t be anywhere close to a size 2 or 4, although it will have a 2 or a 4 as the second digit if that counts for anything. Here are two basic rules of fashion I will adhere to however. Never wear a Budweiser cap with a Coors T-shirt. Commit. When using a Magic Marker to color in your ankle to cover a hole in your pantyhose, make sure the Magic Marker color matches the hose. Now, where did I put that J.C. Penneys catalog?

I took my research books to the emergency room yesterday. I didn’t know how long I’d be waiting to see a doctor and I hate wasted time. I’m trying to find the necessary sources to back up information I have that notes that General Custer had a child with a Cheyenne woman named Monahsetah. I have numerous books on the subject, but the bibliographies are woefully lacking. I’ll need to go to the source and try and locate Custer’s great, great, great, great granddaugther Gail Kelly Custer. There’s nothing like actually going to the source of a story to find the answers you need. I decided yesterday that I’m going to have to employ the same method when it comes to getting to the bottom of the accusations against my brother. As distasteful as it may be, I’ve got to go to the source. I made an attempt at doing just that yesterday. I’m trying desperately to think things through this time. I don’t want to make another costly mistake. I’m struggling with broncial pneumonia at the moment and it’s reeking havoc with my emotions. Not that they weren’t running high to begin with, but this just makes the situation seem all the more desperate. I can’t let my brother die without a further fight. I got a letter from an attorney this past week that suggested I do just that. He had my best interests at heart, but I know I can’t let Rick die like that. I doubt this source I’ve contacted is reliable and I’ll be afraid for my life should a meeting come about, but I am compelled to do this.

Today is the next to last day on the eight week promotional tour for Thunder Over the Prairie. It’s too early to tell if the blitz had the long term effect I’d hope. The book has done well in the short term. I appreciate KNCO Radio. They are always enthusiastic about doing interviews with me on the material and both reporters had actually read the entire book prior to the broadcast. So today the signing is at a fabulous western clothing store in downtown Grass Valley. I’ll have to resist the temptation to spend any profit I make on the merchandise at the store. I’m broken hearted today, so I could be persuaded to believe that kind of spending is justifies. I received a letter yesterday about my brother Rick informing me that “there is simply nothing left to be done to save him and that it is time to allow myself to heal.” That seems like an impossibility. In the right now my hands are filled with bitterness and it’s all I want to taste. Hatred for the mother and daughter who brought about this ending washes over me. I’m living a nightmare I can’t wake up from. The ongoing horror is punctuated with book signings and talks of motion pictures, but it does little to ease the pain or rage. I want to look my tormentors in the face and ask why?

Elizabeth Custer is one of the most fascinating characters I’ve had the pleasure to write about. She was fiercely loyal to her husband, the boy General, and tough enough to withstand months in the field with George and the 7th Cavalry. “Instinct guided me always in detecting the general’s enemies,” Elizabeth wrote about George, “and when I found them out, a struggle began between us as to my manner of treating them.” Manner of treating them. I like that expression. It’s a very polite way of letting people know that she would deal harshly with anyone who threatened her family. Her method of taking down her enemies was much more refined than that of Wyatt Earp, but just as deadly. Her behavior peaked my interest today. My brother Rick’s ex-wife is going out her way to get in touch with members of my family again and thoughts of the manner which I’d like to treat her and her odious daughter play out in my mind. How satisfying it would all be if I could act out the last scene from the film the Quick and the Dead. All the evil that licks at my family’s heels like sick dogs would be taken out. Into all these vengeful thoughts a still soft voice whispers in my ear reminding me that Jesus loves them and that I want to serve him. So I can’t do any of those things I see Clint Eastwood or John Wayne do in the movies. Elizabeth Custer didn’t simply defend her husband’s actions at the Little Big Horn because she loved him, she collected reports that supported what happened the day he and 200 other men were killed in battle. I’ve done the same with my brother. I’ve spent five years investigating his case and gathering evidence. A month ago I learned much of the evidence the prosecuting attorney said they had was made up. They lied. I thought a lot about that when I left the federal prison two weeks ago after seeing my brother. Seeing him was very hard. I walked to the parking lot and sat in my car for a long time, weeping, unable to see enough through the torrent of tears to drive away. A piece of my heart stayed at the prison – a part I feel at times is vital for my heart to continue beating at all. Nothing about this journey is familiar, comfortable, or desired. It’s like a trip to another country – to a foreign land where my brother doesn’t belong. I want so much not feel this way, to go on like it doesn’t matter, to return to the way it was. But there is no going back. There was no going back for Elizabeth Custer either. What’s gone is gone.

All too often I find myself in ridiculous situations in which there is no way out. Generally, I sign up for a beating, I get a beating, and then I’m surprised I got the beating.. Such was the case with the book event I attended in Texas this past week. Exhausted and struggling with bronchitis, I drag myself to a location across from the Alamo to promote Thunder Over the Prairie. Most of the people I met were incredibly kind. I learned some interesting facts about history listening to some of the other authors at the program talking about their books. One of the speakers had written a book about John Ringo and had researched the outlaw’s death and concluded that Ringo had committed suicide. It was fascinating to hear him discuss the documentation that led him to that thought. He shared Ringo’s death certificate and historical information with a coroner he knows. Brilliant idea! There were a few self proclaimed historians sitting around me during the author’s talk who were jotting down mistakes they believed the writer made in his book. They couldn’t wait to share their mean-spirited critique. I realized in that instant that I was guilty of the same thing. I made a mental note of every snub and hurtful comment that was made to me about my work while I was there. And I couldn’t wait to share my thoughts with others if anyone asked. Many of us our critics. From the comfort of my couch I’ve sniped at a few active individuals struggling to effect political change, make a movie, write a book, tell a joke, design a faucet – okay, that guy is a jerk. The faucets are fine, stop messing around with them, all right. The ones in airports are like science projects with the electronic eyes and motion sensors, water-saving springs – Faucet guy! Stop it! 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, play, book, that gave you a real feel of what the author was trying to say? Now I don’t have any personal ax to grind here. Bad reviews don’t even affect me that much. I’m not the kind of person who names names – in fact, I don’t even know the name of that insufferable blow-hard from Wyoming. But uh?I feel so cleansed? The key thing to remember about all critics is that they remain dependent on the innovator, the person doing the real work of creating. And because they just sit on the sidelines of life, never the hunter, they are doomed to be forgotten. I hope to have further news to report this week on the progress of the film based on Thunder Over the Prairie. I know I’ll have news to report about my brother Rick’s condition. In the meantime, here’s a review of Thunder that was emailed to me. If only every reader felt this way? “Earp! Bassett! Masterson! Imagine joining a posse that is after a murderer, corrupt with a sour passion of lust and love. That’s what it its like reading THUNDER OVER THE PRAIRIE! Ms. Enss has done it again! Surpassing her other great books such as Pistol Packin’ Madams, A Beautiful Mine, and The Lady was a Gambler. Being a amateur historian, its totally amazing how much time, effort, and travel has been made on research just for one book. All I can say is THANK YOU, Ms. Enss, THANK YOU!!!!! Waiting for another book. TL Smethers.”

I slowly made my way through the Polo Lounge Restaurant at the Beverly Hills Hotel, careful not to gawk at whatever celebrity might be dining at the same establishment. When my eyes did stray I noticed that everyone around was tall, perfectly tan, and dressed in crisp, freshly pressed garments. I was wearing a white dress with a matching black and white coat, slightly crumpled from the plane ride to L.A.. My skin is hopelessly white. It’s as if I’ve never been around the sun. One would think my parent’s were polar bears. My new shoes were pinching my feet and I walked with a slight limp. Something didn’t belong in this setting and it was clearly me. That fact became even more obvious when Walter Hill met Howard Kazanjian at our table. Sitting between two legendary film makers who were polished and poised and discussing the art of film making with reverence, I blurt out “So, how about those Long Riders.” The Long Riders is a great western Walter Hill produced. He kindly responded, but clearly I didn’t belong there. I was dumb-struck by the setting and company and from what I can remember, was barely able to string two sentences together that made sense and that didn’t include the expression, “Holy Cow!” Walter was nice and complimentary of the book Thunder Over the Prairie and I was thrilled with that. He will be adapting the material to the screen. Until everything comes together and the film premiers my part is done. All I can think is Holy Cow! I’m off to San Antonio tomorrow to the Western Writers History Association conference. It should be a real learning experience. I can only hope one of the things I learn is another phrase to express my enthusiasm and admiration. “Holy Cow” is getting a little old.