What did the bad man of the Old West most fear? Mob violence and a rope. The desperado was not afraid of tarantulas, centipedes, or rattlesnakes, but he was in common with many other Westerners, in constant fear or hydrophobia skunks at night, while sleeping on the ground. Fatalities from the bite of such an animal were certain and not uncommon among cowboys, and there was no known anecdote for the infection. According to a report in a Southern Arizona newspaper in 1897 an outlaw named Graham Devine noted that weather was a significant worry to bad guys as well. “Now, here’s a funny thing,” he said. “I never saw a man I was afraid of, no matter whether he was drunk and shooting or cold sober and ready to kill. But I did fear fire, high water, earthquakes and cyclones. It was cyclones that drove me out of Oklahoma. They was too much for me…so I sold out for only $3,500 and left. The one other thing I was afraid of was rope. I have been mobbed twice, and the idea of dying by a rope is one I never liked to think about.” Notable peach officers were daring and faithful in protecting their bad-men captives from mobs. In 1881, Texas Ranger Captain Jim Gillett could find no leader in the mob threatening to lynch his prisoner, Enofore Baca. The mob seemed to act as an individual when it overcame Gillett and hanged Baca. Wyatt Earp could find no apparent leader in the mob of five-hundred angry Tombstone miners coming after Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce, in Earp’s custody in January of 1881. But Wyatt invented a leader, as he oscillated the muzzle do his Wells Fargo shotgun across the first twenty mobsters. He picked out a wealthy owner of one of the mines at Tombstone, who was in front, and told him he would be the first to “get it” if the mob advanced. At that, the mine owner retired and the mob dispersed slowly, one by one. Sheriff Pat Garrett faced an angry mob which closed in his railway coach and which threatened to lynch Billy the Kid, in Pat’s custody. Pat yelled at the top of his voice that if they made a rush, he would give the Kid two six-shooters and they would both open up on the crowd. The mob lost it enthusiasm immediately, and the train finally pulled out. Billy the Kid was one of the very few exceptions among bad men who seemed not to fear mob violence. He looked out his coach window at the crowd with a smiling, calmly interested expression. A lot has changed since the Earps and Pat Garrett had the nerve to stand up against a mob and hold the bad guys responsible for what they did. Bad guys aren’t afraid of anything anymore and that goes particularly for the bad guys I know personally. I have great hope that they will be very soon.

Skies are grey over the Silver Pick spread in Northern California today. Conditions are right to remain in my office writing the next western book due. This one will be about female outlaws of the Midwest. Flora Mundis alias Tom King is the lady I’m focusing on. She was one of the most notorious female horse thieves in Oklahoma in 1893 and 1894. Disguised as a man she took rides from field and street and even was rumored to have been romantically involved with Bob Dalton, a bank robber and member of the Wild Bunch Gang. She escaped jail three times before she stood trial for her misdeeds. By that time she was clearly pregnant and no judge would sentence her to serving any real time. She was released on bail and left the Territory. Oklahoma lawman Heck Thomas reported that Tom was eventually shot and killed in a failed bank robbery attempt in Southern Arizona, but no one is really sure what happened to her or her child. What is not debatable is the hold she had over men. Tom was able to seduce her way out of jail and always had men around her. I think it’s because she knew what men wanted from women – starting with how they dress. Tom dressed in cowboy garb, complete with buckskin leggings and a vest. She knew that men don’t care about clothes – hers or their own. All they needed was one pair of boots and a clean shirt to wear to Sunday go-to-meeting church events. She knew that when she had the reins of her horse and wanted to get aggressive with a bad guy that was fine, but she didn’t instigate a fight and then expect the man she was with to defend her honor. I like what one of the outlaws she was involved with said about his relationship with Tom. “You have to love a woman to know her – even then, there’s a lot of guesswork involved.”

“Three o’clock.” the gruff speaking guard announces. “Visiting time is over!” Hurried goodbyes are spoken. My father and I step aside to let my mother hug her ailing son. It might be the last time she will be able to do so. Her son, my brother can barely hold his arms and hands still long enough to embrace her. His right leg and head shake as well. He has Parkinson’s disease. His face is bloated, his scalp scarred from the severe beatings he received five years ago at a prison in Texas. A prison guard stomps over to my mother and demands the pair separate. “Time is up!” he reminds us again. We are hurried out a heavy door into an area prison officials refer to as “the gate.” Through the tiny glass we watch Rick shuffle away with the guard to be strip searched. A tragic indignity for him to endure, a tragic indignity for my parents to realize their son must be subjected to. “We’re waiting in the gate,” the prison guard conveyed to a coworker on the other end of the walkie-talkie he breathed in to. My mother is inconsolable. She turns her face away from the heard-hearted guard and sobs into the exterior wall inside the 5 foot by 20 foot enclosure we were locked in when we left the visitation room. The wall her face is buried in is stained with feces and urine from seagulls and cranes that make their home on the roof of the penitentiary. My mother is so distraught over having to leave her sick son behind she doesn’t care about the unsanitary conditions. The image reminded the guard of a funny story and he wasted no time in sharing. “Watch what you touch there, lady,” he chuckles. “Prison gulls are the worst. They’re messy and mean. I’ve seen them eat a wounded pidgeon then crap all over that wall. The pidgeon’s wing was broken and a big gull swooped down and started tearing a hole in the pidgeon’s flesh with its beak. Damn pidgeon was still alive. Can you imagine?” The guard was proud of his story. He seemed to be completely oblivious to how much more it made my mother cry. “Even pidgeons know how short a life is inside here,” he added at the end of his tale. I am two people. My heart is divided against itself. I know the Lord wants me to forgive. I want to. I long to. But it seems impossible after seeing all I have? I am overcome with grief and bitterness. I loathe the mother and daughter who falsely accused my brother of heinous crimes. They have no regret. No remorse. Will I regret when the tables are turned on them or will my heart continue to be divided against itself? Should I tell them about the prison gulls or let them learn it on their own?

Roy Rogers would have been 100 years old Saturday. Several radio stations celebrated the King of Cowboy’s birthday by airing episodes of the popular program he did with his wife Dale Evans. It was fun to hear the western duo ride and sing their way out of various desperate situations. Their faith in God always played an important role in each program but one program in particular moved me to tears. The bad guy in the episode I’m referring to had challenged Roy to a gunfight and the outlaw’s wife paid a visit to Dale to ask her for help. Dale suggested they pray. It was a moving, sincere prayer about surrendering all to God. It was refreshing to hear and the notion of complete surrender just happens to be the subject of the Monday night Bible study I belong to. I was convicted. I surrender nothing to God. I feel like two people many times. One part of me once to serve the Lord and the other part of me doesn’t want to surrender anything having to do with my brother. I want to see the people who caused so much hurt punished and I war against waiting on the Lord to bring that about. This lesson is getting old. The battle will intensify this week because I travel to see Rick. Oh, how I hate seeing the suffering. I want justice, but God wants me to surrender that to Him. I’ll take Dale’s example and pray constantly. Thanks Roy & Dale – you’re positive message continues to resonate in 2011. Thanks for not compromising you beliefs. Help me God to lay this burden down and focus on rewriting Hearts West II.

Tom King was one of the best horseback riders in Oklahoma in the late 1890s. He was also a horse and jewel thief. Oh, and a woman named Flora Mundis. She is one of the twelve women I’m researching for a book about women outlaws of the Midwest. I’m always amazed when the Old West figures I’m writing about so parallel what I have witnessed in my own life. Before dressing in men’s clothing and robbing ranchers of their horses she worked at her own saloon in West Guthrie and was always adorned in stunning gowns. Men flocked to her side and she reveled in the attention. Doc Jordan was one man that was not charmed by her. All her attempts to gain his affections were a waste and she made him pay for it. Now, here’s the parallel – in mid-1892, Flora swore out a warrant for Doc Jordan’s arrest, charging him with assault with intent to rape. He hadn’t touched her but few people believed the teary-eyed beauty would make up such a story. He tried to tell the citizenry of West Guthrie she was a liar but no one wanted to listen. Rather than turn himself in to the authorities and risk being lynched by a mob who promised to do just that, Doc Jordan left the territory. While he was gone the truth came out and the case was eventually dropped. After that, no man in his right senses would patronize Flora’s place. So she stashed her gorgeous wardrobe, donned cowboy garb, and began stealing horses. There is no record of the extent of her lifting, rebranding, driving, and selling of stock, but during the spring of 1893, she allegedly took horses from field and pasture, off the streets of towns, anywhere, disposing of them across Hell’s Fringe. Floris Mundis aka Tom King was killed in late 1894 trying to rob a bank near Tombstone, Arizona. Lawman Heck Thomas told of the woman’s ultimate demise to a reporter for a Kansas newspaper and added that Flora had accused several men of the same crime she accused Doc Jordan. The line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between political parties either – but right through every human heart – Alexander Solzhenitsyn. Ain’t it the truth, Al.

The world is full of cowards. Now of days they hide behind Facebook accounts. Advanced technology enables owners of various sites to see who visit and it shows what they are looking for. For example cowards working at a hospital in Liberty, Missouri or going to school near Branson, Missouri can be seen snooping around a website. The new security system I have on my website will not allow cowards to leave anymore threats unless they post their name and email address. That they will not do. I believe if Bob Ford were alive today he would be a Facebook user who blocks his account so Jesse James couldn’t contact him. Ford however would be reading James’s website entries every chance he got. That’s because Ford was a coward, knew he had done wrong and just wanted to know when life as he knew it would come to an end. I’m not a fan of Jesse James, but I like this analogy. Jesse James is perhaps the most beloved murderer in American history. He and his gang shot bank clerks in cold blood, killed passersby who looked the wrong way, and derailed trains and robbed the passengers as they lay injured. But none of that mattered. To many alive at the time James was a post-Civil War hero, satisfying the thirst of many defeated Confederates to get in a few last shots after the war. James, a handsome bearded man with blue eyes and a narrow face, was fashioned as a modern-day Robin Hood, though later historians were at a loss to find any evidence of charitableness. As a Confederate guerrilla and later as a bank robber, James came close to a violent death several times. But as long as he had his own guns, he always seemed to survive. During the war he was badly wounded in the leg and his horse was shot out from under him. Just after the war federal soldiers shot James in the lung and left him for dead. He lay on the ground for two days until a farmer aided him. When he was ambushed robbing the Northfield, Minnesota, bank in 1876, three of his gang were killed, three were shot and captured, and only Jesse and his brother, Frank, escaped. His luck ended in 1882, after a local sheriff got 21- year-old Robert Ford, a less notorious outlaw, to join James’s gang to try to capture him. Ford and his brother easily joined up and were staying with James and his wife in St. Joseph, Missouri, that April, planning their next bank robbery. Early on the morning of the third, James, who had just come inside from feeding the horses, took off his jacket and, because he trusted his friends, his gun belt. He had climbed up on a chair to pull some cobwebs from a picture when he heard the cock of a pistol. As he turned unarmed, Robert Ford shot James in the head with a .44-caliber pistol that James had given him as a present. James body was put in a $260 casket – paid for by the sheriff who had recruited Ford – and sent by train the few miles to his hometown of Kearney, in Clay County, Missouri. His open casket at the Kearney Hotel drew thousands, jamming the small town with their horses, and even passengers from trains that made unscheduled stops on their way through. A collection to benefit James’s wife and two children gathered less than $10, but that was only the beginning. Personal effects of the house were sold for about $250. The owner of the house, a St. Joseph city councilman who thought he had rented it to Thomas Howard (an alias of James’s), sold bloody floor splinters for 25 cents apiece. A year later James’ mother opened her home to visitors, also for a quarter. Of the more than twenty movies made about Jesse James, the first was financed by his descendants in 1920. Meanwhile Bob Ford was pardoned by the governor. Ford toured Eastern cities reenacting the shooting, but the show was booed in the Midwest. Later, in a mining camp in Colorado, Ford was shot in the neck and killed by a man with a sawed-off shotgun seeking revenge for the death of Jesse James. What a fitting end to a coward.

The final revisions for the Sixkiller book has been sent to the editor and the second chapter of the book about outlaw women of the Old West is complete. I’m a little less behind than I was but still running to catch up. On Monday I’ll start working on the changes for the second edition of Hearts West which is due by the end of November. I seem to forever be facing an outrageous deadline. The message in the history of the subjects I’m fortunate enough to write about is not lost in the busyness however. Ma Barker is the subject of the outlaw book. I know she and her four sons were criminals but their loyalty to one another fascinates me. Ma lived in a small home north of the railroad tracks in Tulsa and acted as a “front” for her boys with the law. She took them in when they came home to “cool off” after the robberies and her home became a key point for making contact with other members of the Barker gang and its interlocking membership with other gangs; such as the one run by John Dillinger. Ma made spurious bond once or twice to free her sons so they could “jump bail” and disappear. Officers were unable to prove anything against her. With the criminals who visited her flitting out of town before law enforcement could arrive – due to the communication system of the underworld – it was impossible to obtain necessary evidence. No matter what the police did they couldn’t get her to squeal on her sons and they couldn’t get the Barker brothers to “rat out” one another. Ma’s final hours were spent defending her boys – the youngest one in particular. At 6:50 in the morning on January 16, 1935, Special Agents surrounding the home she and her son Fred were living in near Lake Weir in Florida. The police demanded that everyone inside the home “come out with their hands up.” For a few minutes there was no response then a voice from inside the cottage called out “all right go ahead.” Thinking the comment was an indication that the people in the house were going to surrender, the police waited anxiously for the criminals to exit. The front door slowly opened and the muzzle of a machine gun appeared. Without warning a fuselage of shots ripped into the Agents standing nearest the home. The authorities answered the gun fire with tear gas bombs, rifle fire and machine gun fire. When the gunfire ceased at 11 a.m., authorities cautiously entered the home. More than 1,500 rounds of ammunition had struck the building. Fred’s body was found sprawled on the floor with eleven machine gun slugs in his shoulder and three in his head. Ma Barker was lying dead in a heap by the front door with a machine gun in her hand. A portion of the drum of ammunition in her weapon had been exhausted. She had been hit only once by a bullet. Ma Barker was fifty-five years old when she was killed. She laid down her life for her loved ones. I can appreciate that. I’d do the same for my brothers. Sometimes I’m convinced that’s what it’s going to come to.

Had it not been for the time I was blessed to spend researching the life and career of Roy Rogers my association with the name “Roy” would not be good. I was married to a “Roy” once. I thought he loved me. I’ve gotten that wrong more than once. Anyway, Roy Rogers was an extraordinary man. I traveled to Victorville in Southern California in 2004 to begin the research. I spent several days at the Rogers/Evans museum. The family gave me the opportunity to go through several boxes of Roy’s personal items. Among his things was a 1949 edition of Modern Screen magazine. Roy had written an article about working with his wife, Dale Evans that appeared in the periodical. I found it very romantic. “I am writing this in my portable dressing room at Republic Studios, where we are shooting Susanna Pass,” the article began. “Right next door is the dressing room of the girl who is playing opposite me in the picture and – what do you know? – once more she’s Dale Evans. It’s just like old time.” Rogers was referring to Republic Studios and the fact that they had relented on the decision to separate Roy and Dale as a romantic team in the King of Cowboys Western series. He continued: “It fits right into the plan of life we’d talked about when we were married – the plan the studio busted all to bits when it decided that a married couple made a poor romantic team on the screen. And, in addition to Dale and myself, there are three other members of our family who are plumb delighted: Cheryl, our oldest, who’s eight, Linda Lou, who’s five; and Roy Jr., who’s 27 months old and whom we call “Dusty” on account of he generally is. All five of us are deeply grateful to the thousands of fans who wrote us at Republic and convinced the studio that it was wrong about separating us. That plan Dale and I made when were married a year ago was centered around our home. We decided we’d guide our careers so we could spend as much time as possible together – as a family. Yes, sir, it’s just like old times – and I’m sure thankful to the fans, to Modern Screen, and to everyone who brought my Dale back to me. Just think – three and a half years, up to the time of our marriage, we made 24 pictures together! I don’t have to tell you that we got so we could sail through a scene, no matter how tough it was, because we were comfortable with each other, knew just how the other worked. And then, just because we moved even closer together in our personal lives, we had to split up professionally! But that’s all over now. I’m a happy man again. Dale is right next to me – and all I have to do is look through the window to see Old Trigger tied to a post. There was a postscript from Dale: “I knew it!” she wrote. “I knew he’d have to get his Old Trigger into this somewhere.”

After traveling for weeks to promote books and research future books, I arrived home with laryngitis and a firm grasp of how to handle myself in the emergency exit row of any airplane. I’ve been going so much and spending so much time in various airports that I when I got off the plane in Sacramento I wasn’t sure exactly where I was. This is exactly the reason I didn’t want to continue doing standup comedy. I didn’t like being on the road so often. It’s lonely. Nothing is as romantic as you think it’s going to be. Of course that’s not an original notion. Pioneers lured west had the same thought. What those poor souls didn’t realize…. The West was haunted by loneliness and its twin sister, despair. One aspect of the frontier has been dodged persistently to satisfy the vagaries of folk drama: the isolation and loneliness of families who lived there. There was no place lonelier than the frontier. The legal proviso that a homesteader stay on his claim – often extending for miles around – practically excluded human contacts. There was nowhere to go, no one to see; no casual visitors, no passers-by. The prairie itself, a bleak flat expanse unrelieved by so much as a single tree, emphasized the settlers’ sense of physical separation from the human community. Winter intensified their isolation, shutting them indoors for long periods and leaving them without even the meager comfort that the sight of another living creature might bring. The separation from neighbors and relatives was especially distressing; adding to the bleakness was the absence of an occasional social event that would involve some happy commotion. There were only dismal evenings, the endless drudgery and the restless behavior of cooped-up children, who were often prevented by bad weather from making the long trek to school. Frontier life was most depressing on those who by nature were gregarious. The sense of abandonment was most keenly felt by homesteaders who came from small European villages, where social gatherings and folk dances were a tradition, where life was hard but not lonesome. This sense of abandonment drove many settlers insane. I feel like that so often. But I’m home now…still lonely but surrounded by my own things and familiar with all the emergency exits. That’s something anyway.

A wide variety of distribution companies, authors and press services attended the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association convention this weekend. Numerous book store owners, librarians, and book buyers for museums and special interest gift shops were on hand to learn about the new books being released and to stock up on material they know will sell at their businesses. My mission, in addition to signing books at the event, was to find out what does sell well. Big changes are transpiring in the publishing world. Many people are by-passing printed material and opting for books that can be read on their Kindles and I-Pads. I wanted to know where they predicted the market was headed. I did find out what books sell better than others and what book buyers are craving but more importantly I learned that nothing will ever take the place of good, old-fashion personal contact. Books are more likely to be carried at a store if the author reaches out to speak with the business owners and buyer. Owners of smaller book stores want to feel they matter as much as the chain stores. It’s interesting how it comes down to the simple art of consideration. All the advanced programs in the world won’t replace that. I was off to the airport after the event and while waiting for my flight I spent some time working on a letter to send lawyer I hired to represent my brother. I write him once a year on the anniversary of my brother’s sentencing. I can’t let there be a year go by without reminding this lawyer of what happened – even if he only considers it for a second or two. “Dear Mr. Hobbs, Six years have passed since you convinced me to persuade my brother to say he was guilty of a crime he didn’t commit. I’ll regret forever making him take a plea. I was told you were a defense attorney and I paid you an unimaginable fee for work in that area. I realized too late you do little more than negotiate plea agreements. If you had been forth coming with the truth at the start I would have been in a position to make a different decision. You were less than honest in your representation. I will always think of you as a disreputable man. Apart from my own ignorant actions in this matter, I recall your duplicity every time I see my brother’s bloated, broken face. I know you don’t but you should want to make this right.” My brothers are my brothers to the bone. Some of the booksellers I met this weekend who visit my website shared with me how well they think the book about Rick is going to do. It doesn’t really matter much to me anymore. He’ll still be just as gone and I’ll still be just as much to blame.