A Tale of Two States

As noted in an earlier blog, the radio is rarely an option when Deb and I are traveling. And the woman's well seldom runs dry.

What do you get when you put ten West Virginians in a room together?

I give.

A full set of teeth.

What's the state flower of West Virginia?

I give.

A satellite dish.

Virginians generally don't give much thought to their western neighbor. But when they do, its usually in the form of ridicule. Folks in the Old Dominion (Deb included) are still upset that the mountainous western chunk of their state seceded from them shortly after they themselves seceded from the rest of the country during the Civil War. That little 1863 rebellion within a rebellion reduced the Cavalier Commonwealth from one of the larger American states to a mere also-ran on a par with Maine and New Jersey. And Virginians ain't forgettin'.

What is the last thing a West Virginian says before he dies?

I give.

Watch this!

Although I have met some great people from West Virginia, and there are some I haven't met–-test pilot Chuck Yager, Sen. Robert Byrd, Nobel Prize Winner John Nash--I must admit, if the state suddenly sank into some enormous coal mine, the market would crash on the mobile home industry overnight.

"When the trailer's rockin', don't be knockin', " reads the popular unwelcome sign outside 95% of West Virginia's homes.

One fine autumn day Deb and I were returning to our home in Virginia after a series of talks in New England. We had not seen a trailer house in all that vast region. The first one we encountered on the trip was about one hundred feet behind the sign that read: "Welcome to West Virginia-–The Mountaineer State."

John Denver set West Virginia jokes back twenty years with his nostalgic mountain mama song, "Country Roads." Only now are the jokesters beginning to recover lost ground. Deb is leading the charge.

What do you call road kill in West Virginia?

I give.

Lunch.

I reminded my lesser that given her hillbilly antecedents, such jests coming from such a person as herself sounded much like the pot calling the kettle black. No comment.

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Debbie Daily


On December 1, 1903, an event occurred that has changed the lives of hundreds of thousands of Wild West Fanatics--The Great Train Robbery was released. America, nay, the world, has not been the same since. Even if you haven't seen this classic film, you've seen bits of it used in the movie, Tombstone. Remember the cowboy shooting straight at the audience? According to the movie website, this was a trailer of sorts that theatre operators could use at the beginning as a teaser or at the end as a "bang-up" ending. http://www.filmsite.org/grea.html

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December has so many wonderful events and so many short days! Even though we are in the deep freeze, I would love to be in Buffalo, Wyoming, tomorrow night for the lighted Christmas parade. The procession passes right by the Occidental Hotel where Owen Wister penned The Virginian. Warm up with some grog in this historic inn. www.buffalowyo.com.

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Mining is such an integral part of the history of the West and no better place to cozy up to the mining legacy than Silver Plume, Colorado, only 50 miles west of Denver. Now a National Historic District, the town boasts many restored/preserved buildings from the booming silver era. Today through Dec. 3 the Silver Plume Tea Room is hosting Christmas Tea. Visit www.silverplumetearoom.com and http://www.ghosttowns.com/states/co/silverplume.html for more on this picturesque town right off I-70.

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Not to forget our civic duties in the midst of the holidays, The Billings Outpost reports that on December 7, Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks will hold a public meeting to discuss a new management plan for Rosebud Battlefield State Park in Big Horn County. The meeting is the first of several aimed at guiding park management over the next 10 to 15 years for the 3,000-acre site, where an 1876 battle was fought just eight days before the Battle of the Little Bighorn. For information, contact Sue Dalbey at (406) 444-3764 or at suedalbey@mt.gov. It isn't always convenient when we're spread all over the country to attend such meetings, but we can offer input nonetheless. When archaeologist Doug Scott was at Fort Leavenworth a month or more ago, he had interesting insights into the Rosebud and its impact on the famous battle that followed. I can't wait to get back to the battle site and see the work they are doing.

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History for Sofa Spuds

To escape the meaningless monotony of ESPN, the moronic sitcoms, the "no spin" spin zones, and the in-your-face sleaziness of MTV, stay up on History Channel happenings: thc.tvlistings@newsletters.aetv.com

Caution . . . Apocalypse Ahead!

When Deb and I were driving to California for a series of talks earlier this century, we wound up on a lonely mountain road in southern New Mexico. It was starting to rain and we were the onlys on the highway. Soon we approached a sign holder, indicating that there was road construction somewhere ahead. The man had on a long black poncho which hid his face and his sign said "Slow." Against the mountain backdrop, the solitary figure looked for all the world like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse dismounted. The strange apparition stood stock still as we rolled slowly by and there was no attempt to communicate with us or wave. Deb and I both commented at the time how spooky the scene was. Far worse, after a mile or so we realized there were no other men or machines about and no road construction in sight.

A short time later, when we reached the pass above, we peered far down into the next valley. We both were stunned. The land below was entirely black. We could not imagine what would cause this. When we finally hit the valley floor we discovered that it was an ancient lava bed where everything had been burned to a crisp by a volcano.

A little further on and we spotted a sign by the side of the road. The first atomic bomb test had occurred in the nearby desert.

This was, in fact, the most surreal stretch of highway either Deb or I had ever traversed and the series of coincidences certainly made it the most memorable, then and now.

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Deb Sez . . .

I look at the calendar and recall that a year ago today Tom's mother died. She had been suffering from Alzheimer's and her death was a relief in many ways, but final nonetheless. That night, we spoke at the Pony Express Museum in St. Joseph, Missouri. We could see no reason to cancel as there was a big crowd waiting for us and we felt we could go through the speech mechanically, as I guess we did.

The next day, after making funeral arrangements, we were on a plane to Boston to film a documentary with Limulus Productions. In the course of researching The Day Dixie Died, Tom and I became well-versed in the aftermath of the Civil War in the South. The resulting film, Aftershock, will air on the "History Channel", December 19.

What was to have been a vacation in Boston became surreal. Tom found it very difficult to concentrate through the three hour filming. Even though your emotions are under control, it doesn't mean that you're dealing with life below the surface. That night, we and the film crew hopped a subway and enjoyed drinks and chowder at the Union Oyster House, one of my favorite places on earth. The next morning, back on a plane for Kansas and more funeral planning.

Tom's mother was born and raised in the coal mining camps along the Kansas-Missouri border. Her family had moved westward for work. She spent much of her growing-up years here on the edge of the Ozarks. Later, her dad moved to California, looking for a better life.

Sometimes, if we can see it, history is seamless. The end of the Civil War signaled the true settling of the American West as scores of veterans staked their land claims in the Western States and territories. (Long before it was the "Sunflower State," Kansas was known as the "Soldier State.") Displaced families from the South headed West to make a living. Blacks tested the limits of freedom and looked toward the setting sun and a new life. The Indians, pushed to the brink of survival, pushed back the onslaught and we fell headfirst into the Indian Wars.

We all look for a better life, no matter what time and place we are born into, and for better or worse, we bump into one another along the way.

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Bumper Snickers

I've read about the evils of drinking, so I gave up reading.

Arkensaw Speling Bee Runer-Up

Dyslexics Untie!

So many stupid people, so few asteroids.

Follow that car, Godzilla--and step on it!

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Answer to yesterday's Sagebrush Stumper: True.

On the Road to Reptile Gardens

Bound for the Black Hills a while back, the woman and I pulled over at the town of Wall, South Dakota. Deb had heard so much about the "World Famous Wall Drug Store" that she just had to stop. For once, there was no protest from me; one of the few places in the West I had not been to, Wall would certainly fill the bill for some strong sleeping pills that might replace my nightly knockout from the grape and grain. (I have a tough enough time sleeping under my own rock under any circumstances; sleep under strange rocks in strange climes is a really rugged ride.)

When we finally swung down Wall's main street, we discovered a huge block-long accretion of something purporting to be the drug store. It was anything but. In fact, though I dutifully trudged with Deb through the entire thing, I did not see a drug store. I did see, however, a huge tourist trap that would rival the largest mammoth tar pit. Trinkets, beads, candy, photos of race car stars, polished stones, jewelry, sunglasses, toys, corny plaques ("Cowboys Are Buckin' Crazy," "Good Cowgirls Keep Their Calves Together"), belts, maps, books, potato chips, etc., etc. There was seemingly anything and everything sold there but that which is offered in a drug store, viz, sleeping pills.

Obviously, thousands more had heard of the famous "pharmacy" since they were crawling over the place like ants. After bending again to Deb's plea that we take in the Wild West wax museum--in which, I must say, was a very good depiction of the Gunfight at the OK Corral--we left Wall and its vaunted "Drug Store." Like little Bill, Wyoming, starring Dean Monkers and his one-man circus, when I saw the sign on the edge of town, "Welcome to Wall–-Home of the Wall Drug Store," I felt like scratching out "Wall Drug Store" and scratching in "Wall Shakedown."

And then began the blitz of billboards, reminding one and all to visit Mt. Rushmore Caverns, the Black Hills Passion Play, Gulches of Fun, the Wood Carvers Hall of Fame, Historic Deadwood, Flintstones Family Fun Theme Park, and on and on. The board that really caught my attention was "Visit Reptile Gardens." For forty miles or more, these signs had been designed to scare the holy hell out of kids: "See the alligators and venomous snakes!" they urged with lurid imagery. "They are Real, Alive and Here!" More signs: "You Won't Believe It! You've Got to See It! Reptile Gardens!" I can only imagine the thousands of cumulative hours of dad-badgering that takes place along this stretch of road per annum.

"Please dad, can we go, can we go? Please daddy, let's go to Reptile Gardens. Please?"

Probably the answers until now had been firm "N-O's!", "We don't have times," and "Will you just shut ups?" But then, the shrewd Reptile Garden marketers anticipated this little war of wills. There soon appears a billboard as big as a football field with a picture of a ferocious Komodo Dragon on it. Now, that scared me, so I'm sure it worked on the other dads as well. Even dads want to see Komodo Dragons. So it's settled.

"Oh, alright," surrenders dad. "Let's go to Reptile Gardens."

"Hurray!" sing the kids.

But the folks at Reptile Gardens are keen observers of child psychology. Now that the children have won the war and Reptile Gardens is a done deal, now that they are not pestering dad, the kids have ample time to think. Their minds ponder: "Is it safe? Do I really want to go through with this? What if all those dragons, gators, snakes, and other scary things get loose and eat me?" Anticipating just such a reaction, the Reptile staff stationed signs further down the road. Long gone are the fangs, claws and Komodos as large as any nightmare. On these new billboards are only soft, cuddly cartoon creatures, each laughing and enjoying a train ride while a happy Tommy Turtle toots the whistle, "All Aboard For Reptile Gardens!" In case anyone should miss the obvious, a caption below even spells it out: "Don't worry! All the animals have been fed first!" Reassured, the children are joyous again. Everyone is off to Reptile Gardens.

I don't think any of the above signs are just a coincidence; after years of scientific study, Reptile Gardens knows its niche.

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Debbie Daily

The first bite of winter

The first winter in the Kansas Territory was unseasonably mild--70's on Christmas Day, 1854. It lulled the settlers into complacency. Those first folks who arrived had come from comfortable homes, for the most part, especially people from Indiana or New England. They found no such accommodations in the West and began throwing together structures with any supplies they could find. Cottonwood, so plentiful in their new home, is great shade but makes for poor flooring and wallboard. Cut and nailed while green, the lumber twisted as it cured leaving broad cracks. Well, it may have let the varmints in, but it also allowed a nice breeze to pass.

Thus comes the winter of 1855-56. Temperatures dropped to way below zero and snow drifted through the walls and piled on bedclothes. To slice bread, women had to hold it over the fire to thaw. Water froze on the table before it was drunk. Babies froze to death in their cribs.

Tom turned up the gas logs in the fire place this morning as the temperature had dropped 50 degrees from the balmy weather we have enjoyed over the past few days. I've been decorating for Christmas--the cold weather puts me in the mood. But it also puts me in mind of pioneers. They were not a higher, better race of people. They were just like us. The cold was just as cold, the future just as uncertain.

I go through the CDs and select "Ho for the Kansas Plains" by The Free Staters (above). The strains of fiddle and piano, beats of bones and banjo, make me feel close to those who braved the cold before me.

It also makes me grateful for my gas logs.

(You, too, can enjoy the music of The Free Staters. Visit their website at www.thefreestaters.com. Besides "Ho! for the Kansas Plains," the soundtrack for the documentary Touched by Fire is available. TBF is a stunning documentary on "Bleeding Kansas"--where the Wild West was really born! The soundtrack is a must if you love Civil War or Western history.)

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Email

Tom,

Remember when all TVs in sitcoms automatically tuned in Westerns, with Indian war whoops, Winchester rifles, and a cavalry bugle blowing "charge"? Nowadays, if a sitcom character is vegging out in front of the TV, we'll hear the screeching tires, wailing sirens, and booming gunfire of a chase scene in a generic cop show. I think the change happened around the late 80's.

David A. Norris, Wilmington, North Carolina

TG: Never thought of it, but yes, Dave, now that you mention it, you are right. . . . Never a generic space program on old sitcom TVs, or a 'Dragnet' type of movie; always Indian stuff and always screaming, charging, bugles, and bullets. . . . Ha!

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Sagebrush Stumper

One of the dilemmas of modern man is balancing the need for protection with his desire for freedom. At a "T" in the road in southern Kansas is a sign. One way points to Freedom, Oklahoma, and the other way points to Protection, Kansas. True or False? (answer in tomorrow's blog)

Deb Sez . . .

Ladies and Gentlemen, step right up! Once in a lifetime does a chance like this come along--a chance to buy Jesse James's hideout . . . the site of a gunfight . . . the place where Indians held sacred rituals.

And at least one of these claims can be proven!

At the end of Robber's Cave Road in Lincoln, Nebraska, is Lot #3, under which is a cave at least 500 feet long with five main rooms and numerous niches, according to the Lincoln Journal Star. Asking price is $180,000.

Historians cannot verify that Jesse and his gang actually hid out here, though he did have relatives nearby. Nor can they confirm that the Pawnees held religious rituals underground. But the Journal Star quotes local historian, Jim McKee, and old newspaper clippings in asserting that a duel took place inside the dark tunnel in 1867 and early settlers sought refuge from Indian attacks here as well. The cave once housed a brewery. Thousands of inscriptions have been written on the walls and the cave also served as a tourist attraction. The entrance, however, has been sealed for several years.

What more could you ask for in a piece of property? Unauthenticated legends, real history, and beer--at $180,000 it sounds like a bargain to me.

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Go Ask Chuck

(The following email appeared a few blogs back. I turned it over to our resident expert, Chuck Rabas, below, for a fuller response)

Hello, Saw this chap's website that shows interesting pics of a Jesse and his Mom. Supposedly, he escaped and went to Canada and lived on. What do you make of it. Please write back. Blessings, Mary www.geocities.com/bikengruvin/davidnjesse.html

Chuck Rabas: Fake Jesses were common--there were about 30 that I know of. Now some of the descendants of those imposters are taking up their cause--and in some cases inventing new Jesses out of ancestors that never made the claim themselves. Although not a single one of those claims has a shred of credibility, there are still those who believe them in spite of the mountain of evidence that Jesse was killed in St. Joseph, Missouri on the morning of April 3, 1882.

David McCelvey's site offers no evidence that William McCelvey was Jesse James, other than a couple of sets of photos. In one set--of William and of Jesse--the two have, at best and with a LOT of wishful thinking, only a superficial resemblance. Note that Wm. had a very square chin, while Jesse had a much longer one. (You can check out other authenticated photos of Jesse at http://www.islandnet.com/~the-gang/jessepic.htm )

David also includes a photo of himself that shows a resemblance to another of Jesse. The problem there is that the photo of Jesse isn't him! It is taken from one that shows two men, mis-identified as Frank and Jesse. It keeps showing up in various publications despite having been proven not to have been them.

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Quote of the Day

"Never play cards with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called Mom's. Never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own."
-------Nelson Algren

The Eternal Custer

Yesterday's blog touched upon the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Now a note on the star of that bloody drama.

"Hurry up. Be quick. Big village," Custer had jotted on a scrap of paper as he peered into the Little Bighorn Valley on that hot afternoon of June 25, 1876. The commander was sending a final urgent message to the rear, ordering the pack mules to come forward with all haste as he prepared to attack. This was no ordinary Indian "village" Custer was gazing down upon. It was an Indian city. The encampment, which stretched for miles along the river, contained perhaps as many as twenty-thousand souls. A haze--a smog--created by the countless campfires and enormous pony herd could be seen for fifteen miles or more.

Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer has been battered and bruised over the last fifty years. Professional historians and armchair amateurs alike have called him impulsive, reckless and rash. As proof, they point here. Outnumbered perhaps ten to one; facing a better armed, better mounted and more experienced foe; dividing his far inferior force in the face of a supremely mobile enemy with little more than the "hope" of coordination; attacking in the middle of the day; these facts and more flew in the face of modern military science. It is easy to assail someone who commits these cardinal sins and who thereupon goes down in a blaze of utter and catastrophic defeat. What most historians fail to mention in their pounding of Custer is that eight years earlier, nearly the exact same scenario was played out during the Battle of the Washita. But on that occasion, the tactics worked. What was called "impulsive, reckless and rash" following the debacle on the Little Bighorn was termed "brilliant," "bold" and "daring" after the victory along the Washita in Indian Territory.

Custer is also hammered for being a rampant racist. As seems so very clear to most casual observers, anyone who fought and bested Indians at war must certainly be anti-Indian. This is not so. While it is true that Custer was perhaps the man most instrumental in crushing the culture of the plains Indian tribes, it is also true that, like his counterpart, Crazy Horse, he was a warrior through and through. Many history-challenged people forget that Custer also fought in the American Civil War. Anyone who reads even a little of his exploits in that terrible conflict will quickly attest: Custer fought the rebel exactly as he fought the red man, with every ounce of energy he possessed. Custer's favorite guide was Bloody Knife, an Arikaree who died with him here at the Little Bighorn. Bloody Knife was more than a government employee; he was a friend. Indeed, officers in the Seventh Cavalry often complained that their commander spent more time socializing with his native scouts than with men of his own race.

"Custer had a heart like an Indian," said one of his red scouts as the Seventh Cavalry set off on the Little Bighorn campaign. "If we ever left out one thing in our ceremonies he always suggested it to us. We got on our horses and rode around, singing the songs. Then we fell in behind Custer."

Long ago, an Indian friend of mine revealed to me that he had heard through the tribal grapevine that when the final rush was made on the Last Stand ridge, Custer had quickly disemboweled a horse and crawled inside the cavity to escape detection. That was the word in the 1960's during the height of the Cultural Revolution and the anti-Custer crusade. Although the statement may be true, the facts do not bear it out. Custer had been in many tight spots before. He had been surrounded. He had been outnumbered. Dozens of times, death had been one whistling bullet or arrow away. And yet, not once did he show what was then called, the "white feather." In fact, by all accounts, Custer displayed the opposite traits. When others around him were on the verge of peeling off in panic, their commander continued his normal thought process with a coolness rare in any man.

Custer is also criticized for being "ambitious." Even those without an historical thought in their head will smugly jabber something like this upon the mere mention of the name "Custer":

Custer? Oh, yeah . . . he wanted to be president . . . that's what wuz wrong with him. He wanted to be president.

Spoken with high sanctimony, that supposedly ends all debate on the who, why and wherefore of George Armstrong Custer and explains why he suffered defeat on the Little Bighorn--his ambition blinded him. What is never mentioned in such a statement--because it is probably never thought of--is that almost every military man above the rank of private has some sort of ambition. If the soldier happens to be a colonel and up he most certainly has aspirations for higher things. If Custer "wanted to be president," well who in similar circumstances didn't? Grant did. Garfield did. McKinley did. Teddy Roosevelt did. Eisenhower did. Kennedy did. Bush did. And so on. These men and others were seemingly not blinded in the least by their ambition.

None of the above is meant in any way to suggest that I am a drooling Custer fan. Were we somehow to meet, I can almost guarantee that George Armstrong Custer and Michael Thomas Goodrich would take an almost instant dislike to one another. While I enthusiastically admire his choice in ladies (Libbie is my dream woman), Custer loved far too much the murderous side of life for the heart and stomach of this poor pacifist-vegetarian-historian. And would I have enjoyed serving under Custer? No . . . and HELL NO! Both during the Civil War and after, "long hair" had a well-deserved reputation for being a "hard-ass," or one who was so relentless in the saddle that their cans were calloused. Custer's drive and tenacity were the death of many a poor man and beast, both friend and foe. No, my defense of Custer is joined in the same spirit as I would defend a wounded buffalo bull against a pack of wolves.

Few pursued the Indian more relentlessly and few had a greater role in crushing his culture that George Armstrong Custer. And yet, few more clearly understood or truly identified with the plight of the plains tribes than this strange white warrior called Yellow Hair.

"If I were an Indian, I would greatly prefer to cast my lot among those of my people adhered to the free open plains rather than submit to the confined limits of a reservation."

(for more on Custer and the Indian Wars, check out Little Bighorn Associates: http://www.lbha.org/. Deb and I are members of this great organization. You can be too! And to hear the best regimental fight song in all creation, "Garry Owen," check this out and turn up the sound: http://www.garryowen.com/ )

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Debbie Daily

Sooner Than You Think . . .

The celebration of Oklahoma's 100th birthday in November, 2007, has already begun. Events over the past week in Tulsa are just the start of the year-long commemoration of the Indian Territory's incredible history. Oklahomans will be popping up all over the place as the Sooner State puts its best talent forward all year long. For those of you who spent Thanksgiving in front of the tube, you may have seen the "Oklahoma Rising" float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade which featured Oklahoma athletes and entertainers. Chatauqua events during the coming year will reenact folks like Bill Tilghman, Belle Starr, and Woody Guthrie. 2007 will be a great time to visit the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City or the Tom Mix Museum in Bartlesville. Visit the state's official website for happenings over the next year: http://www.oklahomacentennial.com/

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Christmas in Pella

At the Historical Village in Pella, Iowa, a Village Christmas Walk features self-guided tours of 22 decorated buildings through Dec. 30 and a Christmas Tour of Homes Dec. 7-8 (10 a.m. to 8 p.m). The historic site includes Wyatt Earp's boyhood home (right), a sod house, a log cabin, a bakery and a blacksmith shop. Hours are 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Saturday. $8-$11 for adults, $2 for students. Closed Christmas Day. 1-641-628-2409, or: www.pellatuliptime.com/historical-village

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Bumper Snickers

"Criminal Lawyer" is a redundancy.

Forget world peace. Visualize using your turn signal.

WANTED: Meaningful overnight relationship.

I majored in liberal arts. Would you like fries with that?

She's always late. Her ancestors arrived on the Juneflower.

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Quote of the Day

"Nature fits all her children with something to do.
He who would write and can't write, can surely review."
--------James Russell Lowell

Black and White and Red All Over?

A few years ago, Deb and I pulled over at the Little Bighorn National Battlefield. It was her first visit but like virtually every other place in the West, I had been here before. And yet I'm always amazed by the solemnity of it all. The silence that rushed in following that last echoing gunshot is still present. Despite the enormous amount of tourists, the atmosphere shrouding the ridge is almost hushed. Even children, who normally act up at historic sites, seem subdued; even they can see at a glance how hopeless the situation was and how forlorn these men must have felt on this bare and windswept hill. Down by the river, the bone white headstones are sprinkled about in ones and twos. As they spread up the long slope the markers increase in number until they reach the site of the Last Stand, where we now stood. Up here, the stones are as thick as dragons teeth.

Deb was most struck by the graves further along the ridge. Seldom was there but a single stone, she noted. Almost always they were grouped in twos and threes. "It's as if they didn't want to die alone," she said with a mix of sadness and horror. One can easily imagine this to be the case. As fate swarmed in, comrades bunched up. When one went down, friend fought for friend, until he too fell.

Just over Last Stand ridge is the new memorial dedicated to the Native Americans who fought and died here. As a rule, I am opposed to monuments on battlefields. And this one is no exception. But it is a beautiful thing; a circular berm that blends well with its surroundings. On the inside, a wall winds around with words and sketches of Indian participants in the fight. The most arresting sight though, is the metal outline that graces the open end of the memorial and through which one may view the prairie beyond. Done in the stylistic manner of Nineteenth-Century Indian hide sketches, the delicate and almost spectral scene depicts mounted warriors galloping into battle.

I had heard that various tribes were upset with the inclusive nature of the monument. Some Native Americans resent the fact that the Crow and Arikaree scouts share space in the memorial. After all, they did side with Custer. Like every other war I have researched, there is nothing black and white about the Indian Wars either (I am working on an article now for Armchair General that touches upon this very subject). Long before the European stepped onto the stage, the Sioux and their allies had been kicking around the smaller tribes at will. Much like the neighbors of Germany in Europe and those facing the Zulus in Africa, the smaller bands had to form alliances if they were to survive. Hence, when a tribe of mighty whites crossed the Missouri and appeared on the scene, those with their backs to the wall did not even have to think.

Explained one Crow orator to Gen. George Crook as the two sides sat in council:

The great white chief will hear his Indian brother. These are our lands by inheritance. The Great Spirit gave them to our fathers, but the Sioux stole them from us. They hunt upon our mountains. They fish in our streams. They have stolen our horses. They have murdered our squaws, our children. What white man has done these things to us? The face of the Sioux is red, but his heart is black. But the heart of the pale face has ever been red to the Crow. ("Ugh!" "Ugh!" "Hey!") The scalp of no white man hangs in our lodges. They are thick as grass in the wigwams of the Sioux. ("Ugh!") The great white chief will lead us against no other tribe of red men. Our war is with the Sioux and only them. We want back our lands. We want their women for our slaves, to work for us as our women have had to work for them. We want their horses for our young men, and their mules for our squaws. The Sioux have trampled upon our hearts. We shall spit upon their scalps. ("Ugh!" "Hey!" and terrific yelling.)

As with the angry Crow above, the Shoshone, Pawnee, Arikaree, and more, all had scores to settle with the Sioux and they joined the "long knives" not because they were traitors to their race, but because they were human. It was prairie payback. History is full of such examples.

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Email

Hello,

Saw this chap's website that shows interesting pics of Jesse (James) and his Mom. Supposedly, he escaped and went to Canada and lived on. What do you make of it?
www.geocities.com/bikengruvin/davidnjesse.html

Mary (no last name, no home)

TG: Canada? Why not? We can now add the British Dominions to Texas, Indian Territory, California, Inner Mongolia, and a dozen other points on the globe where Jesse supposedly escaped to.

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Bumper Snickers

"Very funny, Scotty. Now beam down my clothes."

Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies.

Make it idiot proof and someone will invent a better idiot.

Lottery: A tax on people who are bad at math.

We have enough youth, how about a fountain of SMART?

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Quote of the Day

"You cannot make a man by standing a sheep on its hind-legs. But by standing a flock of sheep in that position you can make a mob of men."
--------Max Beerbohm