My Life With a Mass Murderer

My fascination with Bill Anderson began during my freshman year at Washburn University. I had just received a discharge from the military and one fine day I found myself in a college classroom. Forget those images of serious students studying under the GI Bill; of square jaws and mature haircuts taking copious notes and posing profound questions to professors from the front row; forget all that--dis chil' didn’t have a clue. Of course, after a near perfect run of "F's" I set some sort of speed record for flunking out. But before that day, I often found myself in the college library where I would seek some quiet nook to sleep off the effects of the night before. Before conking off I would pull down a book or two and drowsily look at the pretty pictures.

One day I found myself in the history section. The book I chose concerned the civil war along the Missouri-Kansas border. I was intrigued. Battles, raids, massacres, so I learned, occurred at places I knew, and knew well. I was stunned that such history had happened right beneath my feet. I went back to this section the next day to sleep and the next; instead of snoozing though, I spent more and more time awake, poring over not only the original book but others dealing with the Missouri-Kansas troubles.

Simply put, I was astonished by the incredible cast of characters back then--thieves, rogues, scoundrels, villains all, with nary a hero among ‘em. But one man in particular nailed my attention. Like myself, he considered himself a Kansan. Like myself, he had spent much of his life in Missouri. Like myself, he was young. Unlike myself, his hobby was chopping off heads.

Even those writers who claimed impartiality had nothing kind to say about Bill Anderson. Fiendish, demonic, sadistic, satanic--just a few of the milder terms used to describe him. In a word, I thought this man must have really been one scary devil to stand hooves and horns above an already hellish crew.

I never forgot Bill Anderson. Like any extreme, he stuck. And so, after a year of digging ditches, pumping gas and flinging pizza dough, I discovered to my utter amazement that I really was college material after all. After worming my way back into Washburn and, after majoring in American History, there was never a doubt what the subject of my senior research paper would be. Thus, with pen and pad, I set off on the first research mission of my life--to this day, it remains my most enjoyable. And, as the body of facts on Anderson grew, so did my disbelief.

Briefly, what I learned was this: Missouri and Kansas back in 1861-65 was virtually an Iraq in our own backyard; and Bill Anderson was our own version of the head-chopping al-Zarqawi (left). When the former had finally been brought down low (below), he had personally killed 54 men and was responsible for the slaughter of hundreds more. It's a safe bet that none of Anderson's victims died quickly.

After considerable travel and no mean amount of midnight oil, I turned in my longish term paper (74 pages). A week or so later, my adviser at Washburn, Dr. Donald Danker, met me in the foyer of the history department and personally showed me his verdict. It was an A+. He was so impressed by the effort, in fact, that he offered to help me find a publisher. I was stunned and embarrassed by his words. But I was also flattered. It was the greatest compliment I had ever received.

And so, a dolt’s choice of a place to skip class, a morbid fascination with a mass murderer, and a professor’s encouragement, pretty much determined the course my life would take, for better or for worse. It is no mystery why Anderson figures prominently in my first two books and why I also penned a biography of the man. His image haunts me still.


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Debbie Daily

The Santa Fe Trail--Word is that the wind is gusting up to a hundred miles per hour in western Kansas and eastern Colorado today, and will continue until sundown. The good news is: The wind should bring warmer temperatures (it's still in the teens here so it can't happen fast enough). Our local weatherman nearly broke down and wept last night forecasting temperatures in the 50's for the coming week. I've never seen a TV person more emotional. Life in the West was never meant for sissies. Which brings us to an interesting fact I never learned until meeting Tom: The Santa Fe Trail, like all great Western trails, ran both ways. People at various unbearable points said, "to hell with this!" and turned around (a wind gust of 100 mph would do it for me every time). We read history and have these great images of the vast westward migrations and the hardy pioneers who made the trek, but not much about the sensible folks who turned around after finding that the West didn't suit them. Nor do we think much about the day-to-day traffic on the trails. For instance, Bill Anderson (see Tom's piece above) grew up on the Santa Fe Trail; traded along the trail; raided along the trail; murdered along the trail. It was the interstate highway of the day. When Quantrill rode into Kansas to burn Lawrence, he took the main highway--the California Road. Soldiers like Jeb Stuart used the trails, just like the convoys of military vehicles today on I-70. John Brown fought along the trail. It's where paths crossed, literally! It was a working road with business along the way to serve travelers just like our roads today, and just like today, history happens on the highway (ever watch an episode of Cops or Cold Case Files?). Colorado Preservation, Inc., just unveiled their 2007 list of endangered historic sites and the Santa Fe Trail is included. The Picketwire Canyonlands, along with the largest known dinosaur track site in the country, are among the endangered sites along the trail. The area is threatened by expansion of the U. S. Army’s maneuvering site which would make visiting the natural and historical locations difficult if not impossible. So, wait for the wind to die down and plan a trip along the Santa Fe Trail. Then, turn from the glorious sunset and look eastward if you will, and remember the good people who just wanted to get back to the comfort of the Great Known. And while you're at it, please consider a contribution to help preserve one of America's first super highways--The Santa Fe Trail.

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Remember Him?













Before he became an actor, Lee Marvin was a World War II combat veteran and a plumber's assistant. His role in the 1962 John Wayne movie, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, is still one of the best performances by a Western badman in Hollywood history.

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Quote of the Day

“The brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all."

---------Author unknown

More Signs, Please!

Who would have thought you could write a book about interpreting Yellowstone National Park? Well, park historian, Lee H. Whittlesey, did exactly that and it is an unusual read, indeed. He has examined, in a most scholarly way, how guides have chosen to interpret the natural phenomenon of this most unique landscape. Lee has done exhaustive research into topics such as, what Native Americans thought of the park and "Well Dressed, Lettered, and Affixed: Signs and Guideboards in Early Yellowstone." Having a short attention span myself, I cut to the chase and went right for the anecdotes from park lore. I quote this one directly:

"Some ten or twelve years ago...a woman fell into the Vault hot spring," whispered the guide. "It happened this way. The lady was wearing glasses and taking notes. The Vault was filled with water, flush with the formation as you see it now. Steam was arising from its placid surface in dense clouds. Absorbed in her note-taking, with glasses steamed, the unfortunate woman walked straight into the pool." Silently, the little group left the spot. Nine bespectacled school marms quietly polished off their glasses.

Now that's the best ad for contact lenses I've ever read! Tom and I will have to add the above account to our growing list of the stupid things people do in Yellowstone (see "Here's Your Sign," 1.12.07). Perhaps warning signs in infrared (below) should be added to show folks that despite their rather airy appearance, these geysers, springs and acid vats can get mighty nasty, especially if you fall head first into one.

(Storytelling in Yellowstone: Horse and Buggy Tour Guides, University of New Mexico Press, 377 pages)

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Headlines We'd Like to Read....

Billy Bonney's Buried Bonanza
The Kid's Kold Kash Stash

Tucumcari, N.M. Feb. 15 (UPI) A grave has been uncovered in eastern New Mexico that leaves little doubt that it is the last resting place of the notorious outlaw, Billy the Kid, also known as William Bonney. State archaeologists reported the startling find to a packed auditorium at a news conference in Santa Fe this morning (right).

Discovered in a lead lined coffin near Tucumcari were the remarkably well-preserved remains of Bonney. Also found was a crumbling pile of paper money. Of far more value, however, were several bags filled with well over a million dollars in gold and silver coins.

Most important, at least to historians, a diary kept by "the Kid" was located in a tattered coat pocket. Although in brittle condition, the hand writing is still discernible. Experts have compared the daily journal--an account of the last year of his life--with the only known fragments of the Kid's writing. All agree that it is a match.

"This is an incredible find," said life-long Billy the Kid historian, Byron "Billy" Smith of Portales. "This discovery finally puts to bed all the silly nonsense of those who later claimed to be Billy the Kid. It also puts the kibosh on the Billy statists, or those who said it happened just the way the history books say it happened. This discovery proves that everyone was wrong."

Among the startling finds that are sure to rewrite history books: Billy the Kid was actually born in 1849, which makes him ten years older than originally thought. "From now on, we will have to start referring to him as 'Billy the Man'," quipped Smith after the press conference; although he was wanted for a number of crimes, the Kid was actually working for the Pinkerton Detective Agency during the so-called "Lincoln County War." Bonney had been hired to infiltrate the corrupt New Mexico "Cattle Ring" which existed within the territorial government.

Another press conference is schedule in Santa Fe for February 21, in which many new facts of the legendary outlaw's life are expected to be announced.


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Debbie Daily

Idaho--The auctioning of a print by world-renowned photographer, Annie Leibovitz, and the work of Native American artists will be among the highlights of the 5th annual “Celebrating Women: Their Strength and Vision” National Women’s Art Show at Idaho State University March 19-31. The art of women throughout the United States working in a variety of mediums from painting and sculpture to digital imaging and beadwork will be showcased. While women constitute 51% of the population, their art work still only takes up about 5 % of the space in American museums. Okay, this is a cause I can get excited about. Just in our circle of friends alone there are so many phenomenally talented female artists that this 5% number is ridiculous. For more information on this show, contact Claudia McCoy at 208-282-5002. Believe it or not, the "Spud State" also owes a lot to Abraham Lincoln--Idaho owes its existence, even its name, to Old Abe. Gov. Butch Otter signed a proclamation on Monday that kicks off the state's official appreciation for Lincoln--official appreciation that continues through 2009, the bicentennial of Abe's birth. They don't have specific plans, but have asked the legislature for $165,000 to implement them. (That should nicely cover consulting fees for a couple of Lincoln scholars, say, two from Topeka. . . .) Oklahoma--Wine lovers in Muskogee will have the chance to sample wines from all over the state Saturday at the 4th annual Bedouin Flying Fez Wine Tasting Festival. "It's an educational thing," said Rick Radloff, Bedouin Flying Fez unit member, "It’s not a (keg) party." (Well, darn, that may cut down on attendance so let's not publicize that fact too loudly!) Throw in food, music, and a fashion show and this event sounds like another cause I could wholeheartedly support. From noon to 7 at the Bedouin Shrine Temple on Sixth Street.

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Roses From Hell

While Tom is off today, a thought: The recent report of red roses being sprayed with deadly chemicals made me realize that not all love stories end sweetly.

Take for example, Zerelda James. Zerelda, of course, was Frank and Jesse's mother. But oh, if her walls could talk! Zerelda's first husband, Robert James, was a Baptist preacher, among other professions. He felt a calling to minister to the miners in the California goldfields in the 1850's and there he sped. Those who knew the couple whispered that his real calling was to be anywhere Zerelda wasn't. Zerelda stood about six feet tall, had a demanding and domineering presence, and she had a smacker that would stop a Wyoming coal train ten miles around a bend. Her next husband didn't last long either. He fared ill with Zerelda's children. She planned to divorce him. Fortunately, he was thrown from a horse and killed and the mother didn't have to bother with legalities. Zerelda's last husband, Dr. Reuben Samuel, was a mild-mannered Unionist. She, of course, was a staunch Confederate, but Rube just minded his manners, nodded, and the marriage worked just fine, till he, too, passed away. (A valuable lesson, I might add.)

Another woman who tried her hand at love many times was "Outlaw Queen," Belle Starr (left). After a couple of notorious husbands who died by various violent means, Belle married a man more than a decade her junior. He apparently cheated on her, creating some ill will between them. According to one source, the spouse offered someone $200 to kill Belle and when they refused, he thundered, "Hell--I’ll kill the old hag myself and spend the money for whiskey!” She was ambushed a few days later and the killer never found. (Frankly, the most offensive part of this story to me is the fact that he called her an "old hag." Belle was a day or so shy of 41 when she died!).

Yesterday, Tom mentioned U. S. Sen. James Lane (he's the one to the right who blew his head off and took ten days to die). The real miracle of Jim Lane's life is that his long suffering wife, Mary (right), didn't shoot him long before. A notorious womanizer, Sen. Lane scandalized Kansas when he was publicly "cowhided" on the streets of Washington by a scorned woman. He and Mary divorced once (the wife claimed the husband was into kinky sex and bestiality!) but they remarried. Can you imagine the thoughts going through her mind when he finally put a hole in his head only to linger and linger and all the while he could still talk?. . . . Where did she find the fortitude not to finish the job? Or did she?

One of my favorite stories, though, is of Suffragette, Martha Farnsworth. Idealistically married at a young age, she was terribly disappointed by the reality of marital bliss. Her brutish husband was mean and abusive and poor Martha was miserable. He also suffered from "consumption," which meant that he smelled most loathsome. She described in her diary how disgusted she was to lie down beside him at night. . . . Mercifully, he died after only four years of marriage, and a relieved Martha buried her wedding veil and gloves with him, glad to be rid of all.

Of course there are the sweet love stories--Josie and Wyatt, Libbie and George--but the others remind us to be careful what, or who, we wish for. We might just get them.

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Debbie Daily

Massachusetts--The Valentine candy we all grew up with--Sweet Conversation Hearts--have evolved from a confection made when Abraham Lincoln was president. "Cockles," a small crisp candy made of sugar and flour and shaped like cockle, or scallop, shells contained "mottoes," little sayings printed on paper and stuck inside the candy. Sometime in the 1860's, the New England Confectionery Company actually started printing on the candy itself. They soon became a hit. Grown-ups were entertained and passed the hearts around at parties. For weddings, there were wedding-day mints with humorously foreboding prophecies such as: “Married in Satin, Love will not be lastin' ” ; “Married in Pink, He will take to drink”; and “Married in White, You have chosen right.” (Perhaps some more appropriate to the Wild West would be: "If she grabs the gun, better run," or "Earps Kiss Better," or, "A husband named Doc will stop your clock.")

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Political Cartoon of the Day

Killin'

"Killin' a man ain't easy." How many times I've heard that phrase in fifty-something-TV- Western-watching-years. "Killin' a man ain't easy." Now, sometimes--as in the case of Wyatt Earp lecturing younger brother, Morgan, in the movie, Tombstone--this is spoken with a person's soul in mind, i.e., "don't skin that smoke-wagon lightly boy, for once you do a man your soul will dog you the rest of your days." But I think a good many times the phrase in question may/should be spoken in the literal sense: Killing a man is NOT easy...or, it takes a lot of killin' to kill a man.

The body is a tough organism. Life fears death. From an earthworm to an Earp, every living thing generally takes a lot of dying before it is dead. After receiving an assassin's bullet to the back of his head, Abe Lincoln should have died within ten minutes; instead, he lived for nearly ten hours. The first U. S. Senator from Kansas, James Henry Lane, placed a pistol in his mouth one despondent day and promptly blew a hole through the top of his skull. Not ten hours did Lane live, but ten DAYS; some thought he might even recover from the ghastly wound.

More recently, readers might refer to John Thornton and the Lawrence, Kansas, Massacre ("The Human Shooting Gallery," 2.1.07). When one hears the stats on that massacre--150 killed in cold blood--most, I'm sure, imagine (if they imagine at all) that these 150 men were killed with neatness and dispatch. Terrible and messy as the affair may have been overall, at least the individuals died quickly, or so one hopes. Well, take it from me: NO ONE died quickly that morn. Here are just two snatches from my book on the Lawrence Massacre, Bloody Dawn:

Old Joseph Savage wasn't in that great of a rush to leave town--at least not until he had hitched his buggy and safely loaded everything of value into the back, including his brand-new silver baritone, which he was eager to show off at the next band concert. But finally, he and his wife and a German friend did pull away for their home just south of Lawrence and drove up Cemetery Road.

"Mine pipe, mine pipe," cried the German, who wanted to go back and get it. But Savage wasn't turning around just for a pipe, and the German and his smoke would simply have to wait.

After a short ride they came to the home of Otis Longley; here they stopped. To their surprise they saw Otis suddenly bolt out his back door and run to the front, "making a frightened noise, unlike any other sound I ever heard," thought Savage. Close behind came two men cursing him to halt. He kept running, however, and just as he was about to reach the fence along the road, a shot rang out. Otis went down. As the stunned people watched on, the moaning man struggled to climb the fence. But another explosion sounded behind him and another bullet blew open his jaw, knocking him back to the ground. When the two Rebels walked up--one greedily chomping slices of cantaloupe--Otis was on his hands and knees, coughing streams of blood. Again he tried to rise. A loud blast at close range dropped him for good. The men then crossed the fence.

Joseph Savage, "some times crawling, and some times running and rolling," had already made his break for cover. But trembling and pale, the German sat beside Mrs. Savage stiff with fear. The woman's pleading and the sight of the horrified German was just too much, however, and the wagon was allowed to pass.

The two guerrillas strolled back to the house, the one still eating melon and the other merrily tooting his new silver horn....

At the end of the business district, a large gang of drunks spotted Dan Palmer and a friend standing in the door of Palmer's gun shop. Before they could duck back in both were shot and wounded. While some of the bushwhackers set the building on fire, others stood the two men up and bound them together with rope. Then, when the flames caught and began to roar, the startled captives were pitched inside. Wild with fright, Palmer and his friend regained their footing and struggled out the door, pleading with the Rebels for mercy. But amid hellish laughter and waving pistols the men were again hurled into the furnace. At last the rope broke, but there was nowhere to run. By this time only Palmer was able to rise. Standing in the flames, arms reaching for heaven, he screamed above the roar, "O God save us!" This brought a new round of applause and laughter. Soon, the cries inside ceased and the drunken gang moved on.

Neatness and dispatch? In the real world, death is seldom clean and quick.

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Debbie Daily

Texas--The Daughters of the Republic of Texas are sponsoring the 19th Texas History Forum on February 23 at the Alamo library. Seating is limited and pre-registration is suggested. Our readers may recall that February 23 marks the day the siege began in 1836. A friend and fellow hysterian here in Topeka flies the flag of the Republic of Texas every year during the anniversary of those dark days. Remember: The Eye of Texas is Upon Us. For more information, please call (210) 225-1071 or e-mail drtl@drtl.org. North Carolina--The Eastern Band of the Cherokee are about to ratify a law that would banish drug dealers from their reservation. For a people who identify so closely with their homeland, banishment is a big deal (anyone remember the Trail of Tears?). “Tribal communities such as ours have remained a cohesive group for thousands of years,” spokeswoman, Lynne Harlan, told an Asheville newspaper. "Potential banishment is a serious issue because it disenfranchises the individuals from this tribal community and often their families.” Other tribes have taken similar action, such as the Upper Sioux and Chippewa in Minnesota and the Lummi Nation of Washington.

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Vices

When I first met her back in '99, Deb already owned the movie, Tombstone; had watched the thing so many times that she could quote whole lines from it (in the years since, we have met many others who can do just the same). Now, before I met her, I had seen that movie several times as well and I too loved it thoroughly. But movies are about the only vice I am not a gluttonous hog about. Unlike food, wine, etc., a great movie to me is something to view once, maybe twice, then stash away to savor all over again with renewed relish a year or so hence.

But Tombstone is different. When Deb would pop in that video every month or so, no matter what room I was in or what I was doing, I found myself drawn to it like a fiend to his dope. Unlike every other movie I have ever loved, this film cannot be resisted. We have cable in our hacienda and maybe a zillion channels to choose from. If I decide to lay and loaf late some night and surf these channels, the odds are bullish that Tombstone will be playing on at least one. And there is the rub: Virtually any spot in the film is enough to hook this carp and reel him in. Simply, I cannot resist.

And so, I have joined the mad mob of OK addicts who watch the film every time it comes on. So severe is my mania for this movie that Deb calls me "Tomstone." Like Lays Potato Chips, the makers of this film found that perfect secret ingredient whereby you "cannot eat just one," or, in this case, you "cannot watch just once." And so, just call me "Tombstone Tom," or, "Tomstone Tomb."*

(*note: The movie might better be known as Saloonstone for many of the most memorable scenes occur within.)

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Remember Him?




Lash Larue (right) seemed to break the mold when it came to TV cowboy Good Guys. Lash wore a black hat, Lash rode a black horse, Lash smoked, and Lash probably had a few more vices that I can't recall now. But when he encountered those little thin mustaches each week (left), there was no doubt who was on the right side of the law. Every week I loved watching this diminutive hero right wrongs and punish crime wherever encountered. And if Lash's two six-guns couldn't handle any given situation, his 15' long bull whip did. Many were the times when a stroke or three across the hindparts of an evil-doer convinced him of the error of his ways. Alas, after a life-time of addiction to cigarettes (and maybe other vices mentioned above), Lash in later years (right) looked more like Willie Nelson than the whip-cracking rake of his hey-day. Deb once met him back in Virginia and said that he was a "really sweet man." Pretty sweet with that whip too!