The Hotel That Bill Built

A few years ago I was up in Cody, Wyoming. It's a neat place. To the east are miles and miles of burning, but beautiful, high desert; to the west, miles and miles of tall, frozen mountains. Caught between fire and ice, Cody is a true oasis. Other than the superb Buffalo Bill Historical Center, and perhaps the nightly rodeo, there is only one other must-see in this charming little cowboy capital, viz., the Irma Hotel. Located downtown on the main drag, this venerable edifice (right) was built by Buffalo Bill in 1902 and named in honor of his daughter, Agnes (just kidding!). On the eve in question I had supper at the Irma in a dining room surrounded by rich, dark wood and rustic appointments. The food was forgettable but the Teton Ale was capital.

Later, I carried my jug outside and sat on the covered porch where the mountain shadows had cooled things off considerably. Nearby, a group of local loudies were seated around a table. They were in high galore. From what I could pick up, the group was celebrating nothing in particular; perhaps the end of a hard day's work at a dude ranch where they scooped horse apples for a living. The only woman in the group, "Christy," a most blasphemous wench perched somewhere between 30 and 55 years of age, and a woman who was already three beers over her three-beer limit, was down on handsome men, down as she could be.

"They're all a-s holes," spake Christy loudly to her neighbor, Jim. "I don't want nothing to do with any good-looking men. They're a-s holes . . . all of ‘em."

"Well you can kiss my a-s!" said Jim indignantly. "That makes us here feel pretty damned good about ourselves."

"Jim, by Christy's standards," laughed another at the table, "you must be about the nicest guy in town."

"F--k you and the horse you rode in on," was Jim's witty rejoinder.

If one is patient and listens--and if one's ears can stand the heat--there is much free entertainment in this world . . . much. Life is food. Eat it up.

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John Ringo of Missouri

"Ringo's family left Missouri when Johnny was 14," emails Kansas City historian, Chuck Rabas, last night, "and there's nothing to indicate he ever returned. Some 20-odd years ago, the Westport (MO) Historical Society's journal featured an article . . . about a photograph of Gen. J. O. Shelby found in a trunk in Tombstone. On the back was a handwritten notation that read something like "General Shelby. I fought under him at Westport. John Ringo." (I don't recall the exact wording, but that was the gist of it.) The article's author was convinced that Ringo was indeed at Westport. Unfortunately for a good story, the Ringo family had left Gallatin, Missouri in early May of 1864 and headed for his mother's sister's home in California. His mother kept a detailed journal of the trip, and they (and Johnny) were apparently in western Nevada or extreme eastern California at the time of the Oct. 23, 1864 Battle of Westport. "

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Sagebrush Stumper

The Missouri home of Harry S Truman's grandparents was raided by Kansas Jayhawkers during the Civil War. As a consequence, the 33rd American president disliked Kansas until the day he died. What was Truman's middle name? (answer in tomorrow's blog)

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Coming Tomorrow in a Blog Near You!
"On Getting Arrested: An Historian in Cuffs, or, a Life of Crime Finally Catches Up to Him."

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Answer to yesterday's blog: false.

Weird, Weird West

I think we have a sure fire candidate for George Laughead's "Weird, Weird West" project. In the current issue of Wild West magazine (October, 2006), there is a photo of one of the strangest looking mammals I have ever laid my orbs on (and my orbs have beheld a bunch). The scratchy image is that of either a man in women's clothes, or one hard-looking female with a full beard. Since this bizarre individual is called "The Hermit of the Organ Mountains," I reckon he has male plumbing in the basement, though I wouldn't bet on it. Seems "he" spent most of the 1860's living in caves and under rocks down by Las Cruces, New Mexico Territory; lived there that is, until someone finally flat-lined him. Naturally, no one knew for sure who committed the deadly deed but suspicion fell upon a local named El Indio Chacon. A photo of this murder suspect also accompanies the article. If possible, the accused murderer looks even crazier than the murderee--looks like some wild, grinning devil. Yes, I think George Laughead had better check this story out.

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Sagebrush Stumper

Biologists in the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming made a startling discovery this summer when they located at an altitude of nearly 12,000 feet what they term an “Arctic Snake.” Like the Arctic Fox and Hare, the reptile is entirely white except for a long streak of green on its underbelly. Scientists theorize that during the brief summer months, when the snakes are active, they instinctively roll onto their backs to fool predators who frequent the tundra-like landscape in the higher altitudes. The reptile discovered measures eight inches long and is non-venomous. True or false? (answer in tomorrow's blog)

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Answer to yesterday's Sagebrush Stumper: c) The Cottonwood Tree

On Helmets and Humanoids

Today, more than ever, I noticed on the bike trail the growing mania for helmets. Big people, little people, short people, tall people, old people, young people, male and female, straight and gay, fat and spare, all God's chillen' it seems, must now have protection for their coconut.

As a kid growing up in a small town, you might say I came from a biker subculture. All us kids took a spill now and then on asphalt or gravel, but no one ever came close to busting their head that I am aware of-–and we are talking some serious biking hours here. Plus, as kids, we always rode hell-bent-for-leather (whatever that means). In a pinch, the first thing a person will do is try to save their noggin. It's instinct. Should any force be strong enough to penetrate the protective arms and hard hands draped around a head-–say a car, bus, train, or space shuttle–-then a helmet would be of absolutely no use in any case. Actually, some bikers are so snail-like on the trails that a helmet is totally unnecessary. I've seen youngsters, oldsters and fatsters creeping so slowly along that joggers, and even someone walking at a brisk clip, could probably pass them. The only way these slow-billies could receive blunt force trauma to the pate would be if they fell off their bikes and literally beat their heads against a rock.

But then, if a helmet makes one feel safer, so be it. I think, however, that the helmet manufacturers must also feel pretty safe, financially speaking. I suppose some day mandatory seat belts on bikes may be next. And then, who knows? Air bags?

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An email from one of the most interesting and unique Wild West individuals I have ever met, George Laughead, keeper-of-the-history-flame in Dodge City, "Queen of the Cowtowns":

I'll be posting some neat news clips from the 1800's soon--I'll send you the link as soon as I get it up. . . . Lynn Nelson and I are starting an "Odd Old West" area for them. . . . Example:

BORN---To Mr. and Mrs. J. C. Overley, June 11, 1878, a daughter. It is unnecessary to state that the old gentleman, who is bordering on 60, is very proud of this masterly streak of luck.
-----------Dodge City Times, June 15, 1878.

TG: More from George, Dodge and the Odd, Old West later.

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Sagebrush Stumper

One of the most famous shrines in America is the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas. The Alamo is named for:

a) Jose Frederico Alamo, the first alcalde of San Antonio
b) St. Alamo, patron saint of lost causes
c) The Cottonwood tree
d) The first horse and buggy rental service

(answer in tomorrow's blog)

Morning Emails

Drew Gomber, Lincoln, New Mexico:

Peter Sherayko, with the Hubbard Museum of the American West, will be presenting a show in 2007 called the "Guns of Tombstone," a history vs. Hollywood style exhibit. Sherayko will be remembered for his portrayal of "Texas Jack" in the film Tombstone. He also supplied all the firearms for the film. As you know, I am a former employee at the Hubbard, and I will be acting as liaison and host.

TG: BTW--Drew is available for history tours of Old Lincoln town and Lincoln County (serious Billy the Kid country), as well as speaking engagements. Once you see him, you will immediately recognize Gomber from countless TV programs. Says Drew: "For a day-long county tour, its $300. They supply the vehicle, and I show them where the bodies are buried, with the tour completing in White Oaks, where we would get a beer or whatever at the "No Scum Allowed" saloon." For more information about booking a tour or presentation, or to order Drew’s books or CDs, call 505-653-4056 or email Drew at drew@pvtnetworks.net.


Chuck Rabas, Kansas City:

My mom taught at the government Indian school in Phoenix, Arizona, for a few years in the 1950s, and we lived in staff housing on campus. That was when I first became interested in the Old West. If the school had an official name, I never heard it--it was simply referred to as "the Indian school." It served all the tribes of the Southwest, and the majority of the students were Navajo, Apache, Hopi, Pima and Papago.

When I sent you the reading list [last week], I was coming up with them off the top of my head, and missed mentioning Joseph Rosa's excellent works on Hickok and Glenn Shirley's many books on the early Oklahoma outlaws. His Gunfight at Ingalls: Death of an Outlaw Town is a great read about a gunfight that rivals, if not surpasses, the OK Corral.

TG: BTW--Chuck is editor of the William Clarke Quantrill Society newsletter. The WCQS are a great group of hands-on folks who study the Civil War along the Missouri/Kansas border. They have great tours, an annual convention, tons of fun . . . and that is why I too am a member. Check them out: http://www.geocities.com/quantrillsoc/

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Joke of the Day

The Lone Ranger and Tonto went camping in the desert. After they got their tent all set up, both men fell sound asleep. Some hours later, Tonto woke up the Lone Ranger and said, "Kemo Sabe, look towards sky, what you see?"

The Lone Ranger replied, "I see millions of stars."

"What that tell you?" asked Tonto.

The Lone Ranger pondered for a minute then said, "Astronomically speaking, it tells me there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Time wise, it appears to be approximately a quarter past three in the morning. Theologically, the Lord is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What's it tell you, Tonto?"

Replied Tonto, not overly impressed, "You dumber than stump. Someone stole tent!"

Buffalo Chips

So great was the fame of William F. Cody (below), that by the 1870's scores of star struck young men came west and in every way possible they tried to imitate their hero. One of these pilgrims was a chap named Charley White.

Like every other kid growing up in the 1950's and 60's, I was a big fan of the afternoon TV Westerns. They were fun, full of action and there were a lot of them. But I had one problem. Almost every two-fisted, hard-riding hero that was fit to save the girl at the end could seemingly not manage his affairs without the aid of a bumbling sidekick. Gene had his Smiley, Roy had his Gabby, Cisco had his Pancho, Hickok had his Jingles ("Hey, Wild Bill, wait for me!"), and so on. Even back then I thought to myself: "This is just a stunt; a device to provide us kids with a funny fool so we don't get too scared. After all, why would such neat guys hang out with such a bunch of bumpkins?" But surprisingly, as I discovered in my research of the Indian Wars, where there is so much smoke, there has to be a little fire. And that is where Charley White comes in.

By all accounts, Charley was a likable enough guy–-"a good-natured liar," said one soldier-–a fellow of average intelligence and not without redeeming qualities. When it came to his hero, however, Charley was a hopeless toady. Unlike most admirers who were happy to merely meet Buffalo Bill, shake his hand, then leave, White never left. As Sancho Panza faithfully followed Don Quixote, so too did Charley White trail Buffalo Bill wherever he went, come hell or high water. Many times the plainsman tried to give his annoying new shadow the slip, but to no avail. Eventually, Cody just gave up.

"Wherever I went, no matter how dangerous the errand, my new friend went along," sighed the famous scout.

At camp each night, when others were content simply to flop down in the dust after a hard day's ride, White would rush to boil his idol's coffee, hurry to cook his food, dash to clean his gun, run to shake out his roll, and streak to curry his horse. This he happily did before he tended to his own affairs. As if the slavish spectacle were not already egregious enough, Charley made sure he dressed like Cody, walked like Cody, talked like Cody, and grew his hair long like Cody.

During one of Buffalo Bill's periodic absences from the plains, Phil Sheridan (below) set up a tent and started taking applications for scouts to serve in an upcoming Indian campaign. One of the first men to saunter into the general's tent was Charley White.

"Who the hell are you?" asked the hard-nosed commander.

"When Cody is not here," replied White, "I am Buffalo Bill."

"The devil you are!" cried Sheridan. "Buffalo S--t, more likely."


Crestfallen, Charley hung his head and slunk from the tent. Painful as this encounter was, things got worse for White in a hurry-–someone had been listening outside the tent. In a matter of minutes the terrible new nickname raced through the camp and within weeks it had reached every army post in the West. Never more just plain Charley White, "Buffalo S--t" became the standing joke of the plains. Newspaper reporters covering the Indian Wars laughed just as loud and long as the soldiers. With the delicate sensibilities of their Eastern readers in mind though, the journalists simply referred to White in their dispatches as "Buffalo Chips." Desperately did poor Charley try to escape this horrible incubus with feats of derring-do, but nothing worked and the name stuck.

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Answer to yesterday's Sagebrush Stumper--false.

Tombstone Thoughts: Chapter 9, Verse 15

Of all the characters involved in the OK shootout, Ike Clanton is by far the most amusing and arresting. Judging by the excellent piece in the recent Anniversary Issue of Wild West magazine, this bouncing braggart was seemingly everywhere at once. Ike, of course, was most responsible for stirring the hornet's nest that fateful day; but, as the article noted, "when the bullets started flying, so did he." Stephen Lang's portrayal of Clanton in the film, Tombstone (above), was superb and even though he didn't get the Big O, it was an Academy Award-winning performance all the same. Greasy, sweaty, drunken, loud, vulgar, profane, ignorant, poor Ike cannot win for losing and, in a movie with incredible tension, this bumbling, bombastic bozo provides plenty of light relief.

"What is that Holliday? Thirteen hands in a row? Nobody's that lucky!" spits an angry Clanton when the bulb finally flickers that Doc has just taken him to the cleaners at the poker table.

"Why, Ike," replies an equally drunken Doc in mock surprise, "whatever do you mean?"

As Ike visibly reddens and the rage builds, Doc cannot resist.

"Perhaps poker's not your game. . . . I know . . . let's have a spelling contest!"

Since Ike probably cannot even spell his own name, an explosion is imminent.

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Sagebrush Stumper

On June 23, 1949, Wilber Underwood of Prairie View, Iowa, dropped dead from a heart attack while visiting the four corners of Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado. Because Underwood's body fell exactly in the center of the four corners, his obituary placed his death in all four states. True or false? (answer tomorrow)

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Rod Beemer

On the horn last eve with an old Kansas cowboy. Rod Beemer looks more like Buffalo Bill than any individual I have ever seen. And like Cody, Buffalo Beemer has also written a good book. If one wants to understand history, they should first understand geography and weather. Much will become clear after that. Until Rod came along, there wasn't all that much available on the meteorological American frontier, but now . . . . The Deadliest Woman in the West: Mother Nature on the Prairies and Plains, 1800-1900, has just arrived. . . . More on this later.