Journal Notes

To those folks who read my daily journals…. Please forgive the vile allegations of people who continue to add their thoughts to my guest book. My brother was a good man and was wrongly accused. I find it interesting for people who have moved on that they even read my journal at all. I guess if they were so righteous they’d get their own website. I will continue to voice my thoughts on my grief regardless of the few who don’t like it. In the past, guests who visited the guest book signed their names and left their email addresses. I noticed that the coward who blasted me for not embracing a liar refused to do that. But that’s what cowards do. I will be seeking legal recourse against the people who have spewed their falsehoods on my website. They told the authorities that they want nothing to do with my family had the police make that clear to my mother. Again, it seems odd if that were their true feelings they would leave us alone. Hopefully, the lawyers can handle this now.

Valentine’s Day is fast approaching and some of the Old West romances I’ve been able to write about come to mind. One of the sweetest romantic stories (told in the book ‘Love Untamed’) was the romance between Frank Butler and Annie Oakley. The couple performed their sharpshooting acts together. Butler soon realized it was his wife the crowds were coming to see, and not him. Ultimately, he stepped aside and put Annie front and center. It was a generous sacrifice and one that continues to move me. They had been married for 52 years when Oakley died in 1926. Frank Butler was so overcome with grief that he stopped eating and died 17 days later. We know about Annie Oakley’s accomplishment, but we seldom ever hear about what Frank did.
Another fascinating tale, this one less romantic, appears in the book Hearts West. Eleanor Berry wrote to the Matrimonial News to find a husband and struck up a correspondence with a gentleman who asked her to marry him. So she traveled to the Nevada County area. No sooner did she get here when her stagecoach was held up by masked bandits, who demanded that everybody throw down everything they owned. She was frantic. She was on her way to get married and had her trousseau with her. She pleaded with the robbers, ‘Please let me keep these things.’ The leader said OK. Eleanor proceeded to the home where the ceremony would take place. There, she met her future sister-in-law, who took her into the back bedroom and helped her prepare for the wedding.
When the organist started to play, Eleanor came out and met the man she’d been corresponding with for so long. The moment he began to speak, though, there was something familiar about him. Then she realized he was the man who had just held her up.

I’ve been spending the last few days with either Buffalo Bill Cody or the men from the most intrepid posse in the Old West. I’m including in this post a few paragraphs from chapter seven of the posse book. I’m excited to tell the story of the men who successful brought in Dora Hand’s killer. The ending of the tale is as compelling as the chase itself. A cold morning broke in rose and gold colors over the vast Cimarron grassland. James Kenedy tumbled out of his rocky bed tucked under a long, narrow mesa and abruptly rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He hauled his weary frame to a depression in the earth, turned his back to the frigid, biting wind, and began relieving himself. His tired horse meandered behind him, alternating between gnawing on dried brush and drinking from deep puddles made by the rain that had assaulted the region.
James finished his business and dragged himself to the saddle and bit he’d removed from his mount the night before. The horse gave the outlaw a disapproving look as he approached him with the harness. Dried lather from profuse sweating beaded across the animals backside and his unshod hooves were tender and chipped. The idea of riding on wasn’t anymore appealing to James than his horse, but it was necessary. The downpour from the previous evening had no doubt raised the level of the river further, but James was hopeful that the water had crested and would begin receding by late afternoon. If that happened the ford would be passable and James and the cowboys he was sure his father had sent after him, could make it across.
No matter what trouble James had ever managed to get himself into he knew there was sanctuary in Texas.

His father had recently purchased Laureles Ranch, a one hundred thirty-one thousand acre spread 20 miles from Corpus Christi, and had hired a team of ranch hands to fence in the property. Miflin Kenedy planned to build up his herds, raise a better quality of livestock, and isolate his rebellious son from persistent police or vengeful gunslingers.
For a brief moment in time Miflin believed his spoiled boy had a future with the Texas Rangers. In November 1875, James joined a company whose main objective was to reduce the raids on cattle ranches by Mexican bandits. His knowledge of the wild territory made him a valuable asset to the troops, but his term of duty lasted only five months. In April 1876, he voluntarily left the Rangers earning a mere $59.72 for his time served.
Law and order was not in James’s nature. He thrived on misdeeds and violent confrontations with competing ranchers outside of the Texas Panhandle. He relished indulgencies of every kind and came and went at his sweet will. He could not conceive of a single circumstance where he would not be rescued from the consequences of his vicious actions. In fact, he counted on it.
With no regard for the promise his race horse once possessed, he cinched the saddle tightly on the animal’s

back, sunk his boots into the stirrup, and threw himself on the ride. With staggering self assurance James led the horse away from the scant hideout onto the plains.

There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of forgiveness practiced in the area of the Old West I’ve been writing about as of late. Neither Bat Masterson or Wyatt Earp decided to simply forgive the people who killed their brothers. They did away with them. I don’t know how they felt afterwards. I’d like to know if they felt satisfied. I think it would ultimately rip your soul to pieces. I struggle with forgiveness though. I want to look beyond those individuals who have severed relationships and shredded unity. I know that I’ve been forgiven of much and that I should be forgiving. I know. And just when I think I could try there is another call from an attorney and the nightmare starts all over again. The pain is still there. The confusion over what to do and who to talk to never leaves. I wish there was someone I could turn to take care of this situation with my brother once and for all. I don’t believe the pain ever left Wyatt and Bat no matter what they did. Their brothers were still gone. An eye for an eye offered no real peace. I believe forgiveness would do that. If I only knew how.

Snow and heavy rain have kept me tied to my office now for four days. I’ve got to venture out soon to do more research on Buffalo Bill Cody. I am working on a book about his life and loves and need more information about his home in Nebraska. He was married for more than 50 years to Louisa Frederici. They had a rocky marriage and it’s been interesting to learn why the relationship was strained. Cody was larger than life and Louisa couldn’t compete with his drive to conquer the wild frontier. He was rarely home. She wanted his attention and love so much she purchased a “love” potion from a gypsy. She slipped it into his tea and it made him very ill. When he filed for divorce he noted the incident to the court and claimed that she tried to poison him. Oh, the acts of a desperate woman.

Wyatt Earp. I thought I knew just about everything there was to know about him until today. I’ve been working on a chapter in my posse book about Wyatt and learned that he was a fine boxer. More often than not, Wyatt was able to subdue outlaws without ever pulling his gun. He was naturally good with his fists and having observed fighters in numerous boxing matches, had become a cunning pugilist in his own right. Bat Masterson claimed that Wyatt “never, at any time in his career, resorted to the pistol excepting in cases where such a course was absolutely necessary. Wyatt could scrap with his fist, and had often taken all the fight out of bad men, as they were called, with no other weapons than those provided by nature.” Wish I knew how to take “all the fight out of a bad man.” I’d do it and possibly find some peace.

The last permission form needed to complete the schoolmarm book came in today and I can finally send the manuscript off to the publisher. I’ve walked away from the experience writing this book with a great deal more respect for teachers than I did have. It’s a tough job and when it’s done well has a lasting, positive impact on a student. I finished chapter six of the posse book today and think I became even more enamored with Bill Tilghman. He was tough and had a love for the law and seeing true justic served. His wife Zoe wrote an amazing biography about him. She was quite the author in her own right. She wrote several books and I bet when Bill returned home from a long ride had great stories for her to draw from. I think a book about her life would make a good read. Maybe I’m just looking for a reason to spend more time with Mr. Tilghman.

I’ve been spending the last few days with Wyatt Earp. He was part of the posse that went looking for Dora Hand’s murderer and iatrical to the story I’m working on about the manhunt. So much has been written about him it’s hard to find a fresh approach to the material. He was a fearless man and very good with his fists. I didn’t realize that until I started my research. He seldom if ever went for his gun first. He preferred to physically beat his opponent down. He spent a great deal of time at saloons and railroad worker camps watching boxing matches and picked up tips that aided him in his pugilistic endeavors. I suppose a man like Earp is just born a soldier of sorts. I don’t know how it was that at the age of 22 he was so unafraid to confront the worst sort of man. His yes meant yes and his no meant no. I admire his strength of character and the fact that he stood up for his brothers in times of trial. My yeses are cheap and I can’t go to the extent to stand up for my brothers like he did. I’d lose my very soul in the trying.

The article in today’s Sacramento Bee generated a great deal of interest in the books. I’m pleased that so many people want to read about women’s contributions to the Old West. I got a call from Christina Richter, the Community Relations Manager at Barnes & Noble in Roseville, this afternoon. She wanted me to know that folks had been into the store and were asking about the titles. Fortunately they had a few books on hand. In the seven years I’ve been traveling around promoting the titles I’ve never met anyone at any of the bookstores more accomodating and generous as Christina. She likes authors and wants them to do well. That attitude contibutes to the success of that particular store and does wonders for an author. She’s a joy to work with. Most of the books I’ve written are at Barnes and Noble and can also be found at the Placer County Museum Gift Shop in Auburn. I’ll be at both locations for signings in February and March and I’m looking forward to it.

It’s always good to hear from readers who like the books you’ve worked on. Writing is such a solitary profession and you never know if anyone has given the material a look. It’s amazing how much encouragement a postive remark about the books gives you. I’m grateful. I spent part of Friday with a reporter from the Sacramento Bee. Al Pierleoni was kind and asked a number of thoughtful questions. The article is to appear in the Wednesday, January 16 edition of the paper. These are all very positive things, but I still miss my brother and would do anything to get beyond that darkness. Any day now…