Killing Dora Hand

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Thunder Over the Prairie:

The True Story of a Murder and a Manhunt by the Greatest Posse of All Time

This month I’m spotlighting Thunder Over the Prairie, the book I wrote with Howard Kazanjian—a true tale of murder, manhunt, and four future legends: Charlie Bassett, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, and Bill Tilghman. In 1878 Dodge City, they chase down a cattle baron’s son after he kills beloved singer Dora Hand.

It’s a gripping slice of Western history, but I’ll admit, I’m just as captivated by Dora’s wardrobe. Elegant Victorian style meets frontier practicality: high collars, long sleeves, and plenty of layers.

Honestly, I respect an era that understood the power of fabric. Some of us were simply meant to be swaddled in wool – comfortable for us, slightly alarming for everyone else.

It’s amazing how summer turns perfectly nice people into the Fashion Police. Suddenly everyone I meet is issuing citations: “Ma’am, step away from the sleeves.”

Now, I’ll admit, I don’t dress like most people in July. I am not wearing a sleeveless top. Not now, not ever. At sixty-five, the situation with my upper arms is such that I can wave at someone, stop waving, and the encore continues. No one needs that kind of extended performance.

And while we’re on the subject, I’m not doing short shorts, miniskirts, tank tops, yoga pants, or anything that suggests I’m “pulling it off.” I’m not pulling it off – I’m pulling it down and praying. Same goes for a thong bathing suit. First, I resemble a sumo wrestler who made a series of bad decisions. Second, if fabric goes where fabric naturally should not go, my instinct is to retrieve it immediately. I’m not built for denial.

Last year at a business meeting, I wore perfectly lovely ice-blue slacks and a short-sleeved blouse. Five different people asked, “Aren’t you hot?” Let’s review: air-conditioned house to air-conditioned car to air-conditioned office. I’m outside for maybe six minutes total. I’m not crossing the Serengeti. This is not 1865. I’m not loading a Conestoga wagon and heading west with a bonnet and a dream. I can survive the parking lot.

People have been obsessed with fashion since the Garden of Eden. You just know Eve looked at Adam and said, “That fig leaf is so last season.” Clothing is what we use to compensate for what nature didn’t provide—our version of feathers, fur, and scales.

My early fashion education came from cartoons. Wilma Flintstone wore the same outfit every day and looked fabulous – great gams, confident stride. Fred? Built like the Michelin Man and still committed to a necktie. In Bedrock. You know that man was sweating through granite.

These days, I choose outfits based on one simple rule: does it itch? Beyond that, I have no working knowledge of modern fashion. For years I thought prêt-à-porter was where French construction workers went to the bathroom. But it seems the fashion industry thrives on our need to stand out while also fitting in. If you dress like I do, you accomplish neither and that makes people far more uncomfortable than a little summer heat.

So, in the spirit of public service, here are a few fashion rules I wish more people would consider:

1. Before piercing your tongue, belly button, or eyebrow, factor in lightning.
2. Never wear a Budweiser cap with a Coors T-shirt. Pick a team.
3. If you’re coloring your ankle with a Magic Marker to hide a sock hole, at least match the shade.

All right, enough wisdom for one day. I’ve got to get out of this Victorian gown and matching bloomers.

Now I’m hot.

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