Journal Notes

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You could win a copy of The Trials of Annie Oakley.

Long before the screen placed the face of Mary Pickford before the eyes of millions of Americans, this girl, born August 13, 1800 and who was christened Phoebe Anne Oakley Moses and was destined to make the shortened form her name, “Annie Oakley,” known throughout the world, had won the right to the title of the first “America’s Sweetheart.”

The life story of Annie Oakley is a combination Cinderella fairy story and frontier melodrama.

The Cinderella part of it begins with the pioneer home near a small cross-roads settlement to Darke County, Ohio, where in a little log cabin lived Jake Moses and his wife, whom, as a twelve-year-old child he had rescued from a brutal stepfather in Pennsylvania.  He had given her a home with her sister and, after marrying her, when she was fifteen, set out with her to make a new home in the Ohio country.  In this new home Moses and his wife fought a constant battle with privation and poverty.  Then Moses returning from the saw mill, was frozen to death in a blizzard and upon the mother fell the whole task of carrying for her seven children.

At the age of six Annie began helping fill the family larder by trapping quail and a few years later she had made the first start on the rifle career that made her famous.  One of the few possessions that Jake Moses had brought with him from Pennsylvania was a 40 inch cap and ball Kentucky rifle which hung over the fireplace, but which had never been used because Moses was a Quaker with the Quaker prejudice against firearms.  The tomboy Annie, however, did not share that prejudice.  She saw in the weapon an instrument for getting more food for her brothers and sisters, and finally gained her mother’s reluctant consent.

But the beginning of her career as a markswoman was soon interrupted.  She went to the country infirmary to get the chance to attend school and while there a stranger appeared and offered to take one of the girls at the infirmary to work for her “board and keep.”  Annie was the girl selected and in the home of this man began her Cinderella existence.  The man was a brute and his wife a virago.  Annie was held as a virtual slave subjected to all sorts of cruel treatment.  Once when she fell asleep over a basket of mending the woman threw her out into a snowstorm half-naked.  After two years of this existence she finally escaped and returned home.

There she continued her former role of provider for the family with the rifle and thus laid the foundation for the marvelous skill which was to make her world famous.  News of her skill spread throughout Darke County and even to Cincinnati where hotel keepers had been buying the game which she killed.  When Annie was fifteen there came to Cincinnati the “far-famed team of Butler and Company, performing deeds of daring and dexterity with firearms, seldom exhibited before the eyes of an audience.  As a publicity stunt, Frank E. Butler was accustomed to issue a challenge to all comers to a shooting match.  The challenge was taken up by one of Annie’s hotel keeping patrons who prevailed upon her to shoot against the professional.

The girl not only won the match, but also won the heart of Frank Butler and a year or so later they were married.  Frank often wrote Annie poems that shared his plans for their future together.

Some find day I’ll settle down

And stop this roving life.

With a cottage in the country

I will claim my little wife.

Then we will be happy and contented,

No quarrels shall arise

And I’ll never leave my little girl

With the rain drops in her eyes.

Annie eventually began taking part in her husband’s act and for some time they were billed as “Butler and Oakley.”  Then Butler, who was a skillful showman, began giving his wife more and more of the limelight and pushing himself more and more into the background.  Within a short time, Annie was a noted figure in the Wild West theater.

“What fools we mortals be!  Annie once wrote of her beloved husband.  “My admiration for Frank Butler’s poodle led me into signing some sort of alliance papers with him that tied a knot so hard it lasted some fifty years.”

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Colonel John Chivington and representatives of the First and Third Colorado Cavalry rode hard and fast from the sun-touched butte where they’d been waiting at the Indian encampment along Sand Creek. A bugler sounded the charge as the horses’ hooves drummed and the soldiers shouted, reins in their teeth and guns in their fists.  Members of the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes living in the path of the cavalry hurried from their lodges and frantically scattered in different directions. Mothers scooped young children into their arms and ushered elderly men and women to clusters of trees. Braves grabbed weapons in order to defend themselves from the surprise invasion.

Several of Chivington’s troops raced to the paddock where the Indians’ horses were corralled. Without the herd the Indians would be at a disadvantage, unable to pursue attackers or flee from the chaos. Just before the flood of soldiers arrived on the scene, Colonel Chivington urged his men to “recall the blood of wives and children spilled on the Platte and Arkansas Rivers.”

The full force of the cavalry’s strike yielded immediate devastation. Bullet-ridden children fell where they once played; mothers lay dying with their babies in their arms; elderly women and men collapsed from gunshot wounds in their backs. It was a killing frenzy. Some Indians managed to escape without injury and take refuge in thick brush and behind scattered rock outcroppings.

Black Kettle tried desperately to keep his people from panicking. He clung to the belief that the attack would cease when the soldiers noticed the American flag unfurled. He and Chief White Antelope huddled at the base of the flag post. They only ran for cover when they realized the soldiers were hell-bent on annihilating them.

Fearless Cheyenne women and braves stood their ground, refusing to leave without a fight. The men exchanged shots with the soldiers and the women fought using spears and knives, all of which gave members of the tribe a chance to retreat slowly up the dried streambed. Many Cheyenne and Arapaho were killed as they ran to hide in the banks of the Sand Creek.

Indian horses spooked by gunfire broke away from the soldiers trying to drive them from the encampment. Indian women who managed to capture and calm a horse long enough to climb onto its back were shot. Their lifeless bodies slid from the backs of the horses onto the hard earth. Braves on foot who dared charge the relentless soldiers were stopped in their tracks with a barrage of bullets. According to accounts from those who witnessed the battle, children who ventured out of hiding waving white flags and mothers who pleaded for their infants’ lives were beaten with the butt of the soldiers’ guns and then scalped.

Black Kettle stood watching the bloody event in disbelief. He made a white flag of truce and raised it under the American flag. It had no effect upon the soldiers. Chivington’s persistent orders to continue to pursue the enemy were strictly followed. Black Kettle grabbed his wife, and the two fled toward a creek bed. The bark of the rifles all around him was steady, and there seemed to be no escape for the Cheyenne leader. Black Kettle’s wife was struck by several bullets, and the concussion of the shots knocked her face first onto the ground. Black Kettle tried to get her onto her feet again, but her injuries were too serious. The cavalry was bearing down on him quickly and he was forced to leave his wife’s body behind. He continued running until he reached the sandy creek bed. He hid in the dry wash under a thick overgrowth of brush.

To learn more about the Sand Creek Massacre read

Mochi’s War:  The Tragedy of Sand Creek

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“Historians Enss and Kanzanjian (coauthors, None Wounded, None Missing, All Dead) succeed in personalizing one of America’s most troubling memories, the brutal and unprovoked massacre of a sleeping village of Cheyenne and Arapaho peoples at Sand Creek (present-day Colorado) by troops of the Colorado Volunteers in November 1864. This still controversial military engagement (see Ari Kelman’s A Misplaced Massacre) sets the background in which Mochi, a Cheyenne woman, lost her entire family and barely survived herself, by killing a soldier and then fleeing her camp. She reinvented herself as a Dog Soldier and member of the Bowstring Society, one of the few females to claim association in these elite Cheyenne warrior groups. She remarried, to Medicine Water, himself a military leader, and they in turn brutally raided and avenged themselves on American soldiers and settlers alike for over a decade. The authors have again collaborated to write Western history in an accurate yet accessible manner for mainstream readers. They provide a graphic account of the Plains Indian Wars from 1864 to 1875. VERDICT Highly recommended for adult readers of Western and Native American history, this biographical account provides a counterpoint to the many works that have mythologized such women as Pocahontas and Sacajawea.”

—Nathan Bender, Albany Cty. P.L., Laramie, WY

To learn more read Mochi’s War:  The Tragedy of Sand Creek

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Mochi’s War:  The Tragedy of Sand Creek

The sun had not quite risen over the vast Kansas plains when John German heard a sound that tempted him from his work packing his family’s belongings into their wagon.  He surveyed the campsite with a careful eye.  His wife Lydia and their seven children were each going about their morning chores and preparing to continue their journey to Colorado.  The Germans were from the Blue Ridge region of Georgia and had spent the summer of 1874 traveling west.  They planned to reach their new home before winter.

John and Lydia’s oldest children, twenty-year-old Rebecca Jane and nineteen-year-old Stephen, were tending to the livestock in a field not far from the family campsite.  For a brief moment all seemed as it should be then, suddenly, a small herd of antelope darted across the trail, panicked.  Several shots rang out, and the antelope scattered in different directions.  Another shot fired and a bullet smacked John in the chest, and he fell in a heap on the ground.  Lydia ran toward her husband.  Nineteen members of the Bowstring Society rode hard and fast into the German family’s camp, whooping and yelling.  Lydia continued running.  A Cheyenne Indian on horseback chased her down and thrust a tomahawk into her back.

Rebecca Jane grabbed a nearby ax and attempted to fight off the warrior as they rode toward her.  She managed to hit one of the attackers in the shoulder before she was knocked unconscious with the butt of a gun, raped, and killed.

To learn more about the German family and the tragedy that drove Cheyenne Indian warrior, Mochi, read

Mochi’s War:  The Tragedy of Sand Creek

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Mochi’s War: The Tragedy of Sand Creek

“Mochi was so distinguished for fiend-like fierceness and atrocity that it was not deemed safe to leave her on the plains. She was a fine-looking Indian woman but as mean as they come.”

Observation made by a military officer after Mochi’s arrest on March 5, 1875

Somewhere amid the high plain’s sage country, the Big Sandy Creek once ran red with the blood of dozens of Cheyenne and Arapaho men, women, and children. On November 29, 1864, hundreds of members of the Colorado Volunteers poured down upon a sleeping Indian camp, leaving in their wake the slaughtered remains of Native Americans who were scalped and mutilated.

The unprovoked attack on the Indian settlement was led by Colonel John Milton Chivington, who is said to have ordered every Indian at the scene killed. To those settlers and traders who had been terrorized by the Indians and because of exaggerated reports of Indian attacks on families and troops, the Sand Creek Massacre was regarded by some as proper retribution on the Indians, and Chivington was revered for his actions.

The event that forced frontiersmen and women to address the serious issues that had been building between them and the Indians occurred on June 11, 1864. Rancher Nathan Ward Hungate, his wife, Ellen, and their two little girls were slaughtered by Indians. Their mutilated bodies were brought to Denver and put on display in the center of town. The people there were thrown into a panic. In the following weeks, at the mere mention of Indians in the outlying areas, women and children were sent to homes that were fortified and guarded. Plains travel slowed to a trickle. The supply of kerosene was exhausted, and the settlers had to use candles.

A regiment of 100-day volunteers known as the Third Colorado Cavalry was organized and George L. Shoup, a scout during the Civil War, was named the outfit’s colonel. At the same time, John Evans, governor of the Colorado Territory, issued a proclamation stating: “Friendly Arapahoe and Cheyenne belonging to the Arkansas River will go to Major Colley, U.S. Indian Agent at Fort Lyon, who will give them a place of safety…. The war on hostile Indians will be continued until they are effectually subdued.”

On August 29, 1864, before the regiment saw active service, a letter from Cheyenne leader Black Kettle explaining the Indians had agreed to make peace was delivered to officers at Fort Lyon, 150 miles away from Denver. The letter noted that Cheyenne and Arapaho war parties had prisoners they would like to exchange for Indians being held by the volunteers.

Major E. W. Wynkoop of the 1^st Colorado at Fort Lyon marched his troops to Black Kettle’s camp to collect the captives. While there, Wynkoop persuaded the chief to send a delegation to Denver to talk about the conditions for peace.

From Fort Leavenworth, Major General Samuel Ryan Curtis, commander of the Department of Kansas, telegraphed Chivington prior to the conference with the chiefs: “I shall require the bad Indians delivered up; restoration of equal numbers of stock; also hostages to secure. I want no peace till the Indians suffer more.” Chivington took the order to heart.

To learn more about Mochi and the vendetta war she started read

Mochi’s War: The Tragedy of Sand Creek

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Outlaw Women of the Midwest

Anyone who knew Anne Cook thought she was cruel, unfeeling, and motivated by money.  The brothel she operated in North Platte, Nebraska, in the late 1920s was a profitable enterprise, but she wanted to amass a fortune and one house of ill repute would not be enough.  No legitimate business alone could make her rich either.  Anne hoped to fulfill her dream with a combination of both.  According to those who knew the Cook family well, Anne’s teenage daughter brought in a substantial amount of income working for her at the brothel.  Clients requested the thirteen-year-old on a regular basis.

By the time Clara was in her 30s she had fully adopted her mother’s quest for wealth and was equally ambitious.  In addition to entertaining callers, Clara had become a bookkeeper for Anne’s various illegal enterprises.  Among Anne’s nefarious business ventures was bootlegging, gambling, and extortion.  Clara used what she knew about her mother’s criminal behavior to extort money from Anne and grow her own bank account.  The pair often fought over the misappropriation of funds.  Clara misjudged how far Anne would go to maintain the property, money, and power she had acquired.

On May 29, 1934, Clara challenged her mother for the last time.  Family members at the sprawling farm where they lived in Lincoln County, Nebraska, told authorities that the pair had been arguing most of the day.  No one was certain of the nature of the quarrel only that Anne had settled the heated discussion by killing her daughter.

For more information about Anne Cook read the

Bedside Book of Bad Girls:  Outlaw Women of the Old West

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Bedside Book of Bad Girls: Outlaw Women of the Midwest

On August 2, 1895, two women bandits, Mrs. Belle Black and Mrs. Jennie Freeman, were captured in the Glass Mountains, in the western part of the Cherokee Strip, and were place in the Unites States jail in Guthrie, Oklahoma.  They belonged to the notorious gang of desperados led by Zip Wyatt, an outlaw guilty of at least a dozen murders.  So skillful was his performance and that of his two female deputies that they defied the vigilance of the Sheriff for more than a year.

According to the arresting officers neither of the women was “appealing in any way.”  “Mrs. Black was small and heavy with dark hair and blue eyes and an expression that was not only criminal, but very unpleasant.  Her husband was one of the outlaw members of the gang.  Mrs. Freeman was tall, thin and malignant.  She left her husband in 1894 to elope with Zip Wyatt.  The women dressed as ordinary farmers’ wives and their appearance and manner enabled them to get away with a good deal of plunder unsuspected.  They sit in their cells chatting with the other prisoners or playing a game of cards with those who have been allowed the freedom of the corridors with them.”

For more information about the women highway robbers who eluded law enforcement read the Bedside Book of Bad Girls

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The Bedside Book of Bad Girls:  Outlaw Women of the Midwest

Tom King followed five, spirited, fast-moving horses into a dense line of trees seven miles outside the town of Fredonia, Kansas. It was a stifling hot, August day in 1894. The ground the criminal’s horse’s hooves pounded into was cracked and dry. Sweat foamed around the animal’s neck and hind quarters. Low hanging branches on brown, thirsty trees slapped at them as they passed by. King, dressed in worn trousers, chaps, flannel shirt, a large brimmed hat, and a tan duster, skillfully maneuvered his ride around limbs that had fallen and lay about on the path they raced along.

King and his roan were directly beside the five horses as they broke through the other side of the copse of trees. His horse leapt over a cluster of large boulders standing between the rider and the open prairie. Tom leaned back in the saddle as his horse jumped to let the wind strip off his coat. In that moment Tom and the horse were in mid-air, and the coat trailed behind him like leather wings.

From a crude camp in the far distance, Fredonia Sheriff H.S. McCleary watched Tom and his mount keep pace with the horses. The lawman cast a glance at the deputies standing on either side of him. Their eyes were fixed on King. If not for the fact that the authorities were there to arrest King for horse stealing, they might have felt compelled to congratulate him on his equestrian skills. They had apprehended King’s partner, Ed Bullock, at the thieve’s camp, placed a gag around his mouth, and handcuffed him to the back of a wagon. The ground around the vehicle was strewn with provisions that had once been packed inside the wagon. One of the items was a large trunk. The sheriff and his men had been searching for something, and the hunt appeared to have concluded with the trunk. The lock on it had been busted; the trunk was opened, and an assortment of stolen jewelry, resting on a long tray, gleamed in the sunlight.

Bullock tugged at the handcuffs in a desperate attempt to break free. He wanted to warn King about what was waiting for him. King led the ill-gotten horses into the camp, realizing too late the law had found him. The sheriff leveled his gun at the outlaw, and King slowly dismounted. He surrendered his weapon without having to be asked. The sheriff took a few steps toward King, studying his face as he walked. The sun and wind had darkened King’s complexion, and at first glance he appeared to be a mixed-blood Cherokee Indian. Sheriff McCleary asked him how old he was, and King told him his age was twenty-five. The sheriff scrutinized King’s face then told him to remove his hat. In that moment it was clear that the notorious Tom King was really the woman named Flora Mundis. Her lashes and small features gave her away.

To learn more about Flora Mundis read The Bedside Book of Bad Girls

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A fierce wind filled with alkali dust blew past Silas Toles, a Labette County, Kansas farmer, as he made his way to his neighbor’s seemingly vacant home.  Three other farmers followed tentatively behind him.  An endless prairie stretched out on either side of the weather-beaten building.  A hungry calf languished in a nearby fenced enclosure bawled pitilessly for something to eat.  A handful of dead chickens lay scattered about the parched earth leading to the house.  The front door was ajar and creaked back and forth.  Silas cautiously walked to the main entrance of the building and glanced inside.  Light from the late afternoon sun filtered through partially drawn curtains onto the sparse, shabby, and torn furnishings in the center of the one room home.

Silas pushed the door open and stood in the dirt entryway.  The home was in complete disarray; clothing, books, paper, and dishes were on the floor; bugs covered bits of food on a broken table, chairs were overturned, and a pungent smell of death hung in the air.  The three men with Silas held back waiting for him to motion them forward.  The sound of fast approaching horses distracted the quartet and they watched with rapt attention as several riders hurried to the spot and quickly dismounted.  Colonel A. M. York, a distinguished, bearded man dressed in the uniform of an army officer, led a team of Civil War veterans and lawmen to the entrance of the home.  They pushed past Silas and the others and boldly entered.

Colonel York surveyed the room and kicked away the debris at his feet as he walked around.  He wore a determined, yet forlorn expression.  The group with the Colonel examined the area along with him and inspected the items underfoot carefully.  One of the men noticed a collection of Pagan artifacts including a pentagram and Tarot cards in the corner of the room.  Some of the articles were covered with dried blood.  Colonel York followed a trail of blood from the artifacts to a mound of fresh earth under a pile of soiled sheets.  Kneeling down in the dirt he scooped the earth out until he reached a crude door.  The men around stared wide-eyed at the oddity waiting for the Colonel to make the next move.  One of the lawmen brushed dirt away from a round handle attached to the door.  Before giving it a pull, he glanced over at the Colonel to see if he wanted to continue the search.  The Colonel was quietly transfixed by the scene.  The lawman interpreted his silence as an affirmative answer and quickly pulled the door open.  The foul stench that wafted out of the dark hole hit the men like a punch in the face.  There was no question the source of the odor that had offended their senses from the moment they entered the home was coming from this location.

To learn more about bad girls like Kate Bender read The Bedside Book of Bad Girls