Wild West Magazine's Official Blog

Freedom v. Protection

2009-11-08T14:00:00.010-06:00

There are dumb people who are smart enough to realize they are dumb (construction sites, college campuses, assembly lines, taxi cabs, and 7-11s are filled with this category of folks).

There are dumb people who are too dumb to realize they are dumb (TV studios, prisons and episodes of "Cops" are filled with this latter group).

This pretty much accounts for 99% of humanity. But what of the others? The one-percenters? What about the "artists" of the world, those who write, paint, sculpt, compose, invent, sing, act, dance, perform, and those who "wing it" in a hundred other ways? These featherless bipeds who imagine they are artists and were born to create . . . are they not smart people, but too dumb to realize how dumb they are? If wealth and happiness are the measures, then I do not know any smart artists. . . .

Most of the 99 percenters say they admire the one-percenters. They see the glitz and bling, they hear the applause and shouts, they see the art shows and book signings, but they do not see the rest of the picture. How many of the 99 percenters would give up their steady paychecks, their paid vacations, their health coverage, and their retirement checks to become an independent trucker, so to speak? I can tell you straight: Very few. True artists pursue their passion even if the trail winds through a junk yard to a slice of cold pizza and a cardboard bed under a bridge. These people are convinced that their whirl on this mortal coil was meant for more than a lifetime of wage slaving in which the reward after thirty years of dog-like obedience is a gold watch, death from cancer two years after retirement and their name misspelled in the local obit.

I once came to a "T" in the road. One sign pointed to Freedom, Oklahoma; the other sign led to Protection, Kansas. And, as one true old artist, Bill Shakespeare, might have said, "therein lies the rub." Ninety-nine percent of humanity ditches freedom for protection; one-percent fore goes protection for freedom. Both groups make their choice. Some will know the slavery of protection all their lives; some will know freedom, but hardships, all of theirs. God Bless both groups; without the one, the world would stop spinning; without the other, this orbiting orb would be as gray and sterile as a rock in space.

Where the Buffalo Roamed

2009-11-03T16:04:00.007-06:00

There is a small "herd" of buffalo here--maybe 10 animals. Every time I see these buffalo, or others penned in, I have an overwhelming urge to see them unpenned. I find it sad that these most migratory of American mammals are confined by barbed wire to a few square feet of stubble and manure. No other animal was more wedded to the prairie than the bison--even their deep brown color matches the soil. With an instinct to move born over tens of thousands of years, it must be maddening to the great beasts, even perplexing, to be confined thus. Humans denied freedom kill themselves or go nuts. And yet, most caged humans have committed some crime against the rest of us; the buffalo's only crime is merely existing.

Even though these past ten generations of bison here in Hays, Kansas, have never known a single day of freedom in their lives, the urge to move hundreds of miles each spring and fall must still beat heavy in their hearts. I have no doubt that if the gate was suddenly thrown open, these buffalo would begin drifting south within days, if not hours. Next spring, I'm sure we would see the same animals moving by here on their migration north.

Do not trouble me with small matters of money or logistics: Would it not be glorious to some day establish a Migratory National Park--a swath of prairie say 200 miles wide stretching from the Missouri in the north to the Rio Grande in the south, in which a herd one million buffalo strong could live and roam as intended? Think of those nature films of the Wildebeest migrations in Africa and how impressive they are with the bellowing roar of thousands and the clouds of dust roiling on the horizon. That's a scene we could have here too . . . again.

Sorry. Just dreaming with words.

Beer + Busts = Bikes

2009-10-28T10:53:00.005-05:00

To all my loyal--and disloyal--blog-heads out there, my most sincere, humble and apocalyptic apology for being so negligent on this blog. A number of petty assignments and sundry bullwhack have kept me hoppin' 'round lately like a toad under a workin' harrow. With some luck and a bit of geographic stability we should be good to go for at least another hour or so. I won't promise to be more punctual, but I will promise to try.

Since reaching the environs of this most historic of historic places, your blogologist has noticed with surprise that there is an incredible number of cyclists in Hays. Indeed, I have seen more bikers here, per capita, than anywhere else in the States. Most, like myself, just prefer a quiet, healthy way to get around. That seems clear. As for the others? Since you see "the others" even in cold weather pedaling around, bundled, smoking a cig, I don't think the bike has anything to do with being eco-friendly in their case. Don't forget: This is German America out here.

Talking with a Hays chap last night (another biker, of course), I mentioned the super high incidence of cyclists in town. A wry smile came to the man's lips, a twinkle in his green eye. He said he personally knew one drunken farm fellow, a bit down on his luck after his hundredth DUI, who was warned by the cops that he would be jugged the moment he tried to drive his truck again on the streets of Hays. So, next time he gets a suds seizure, this ingenious imbiber fires up his tractor and chugs into town. The cops were waiting, of course, and promptly caught and caged the man, but not for driving the tractor; it was verboten for the drunk to drive ANYTHING on the streets. Worthless/desperate sot that he may have been, stupid he was not. So, the next time this gent gets a hankerin' for hops, he drives his tractor to town on the railroad tracks, then parks back behind the Horseshoe Inn. Problem solved.

Half-Masts, Half-Wits: Gripes & Groans

2009-09-23T18:43:00.007-05:00

Perplexing. Buzzing around the High Plains this week I noted that some flags are at half-mast and some not. This half-staff stuff must stop. I have no idea whose death made possible this latest flag lowering but it does seem like the flag is at half-staff about half the time, or more. We may as well just leave the flag where it is now, cut off the top half of the pole, and never move the flag again; that way the flag can be at full-mast and half-mast at the same time. Ridiculous. The thing with Ted Kennedy just sort of says it all. Certainly one of the most divisive characters in modern American politics, I can safely bet that well over 50% of Americans despised this liberal wonk who voted for Lefties 99% of the time. Who decides if this US senator or that US senator gets a half-staffer? I say stop it. It's out of control. It's a bad joke. No more half-mast for anybody or anything.

Speaking of divisive. Who has had it with Obama? I personally am tired of the empty suit, the empty rhetoric and the toothsome smiles. Stop making war on half the world, Mr Obama, and stop threatening war on the other half. Make peace. Follow through with your campaign promises. You were elected because we were just sick and tired of a smirking clown in the White House who tossed out world-wide threats like other people eat popcorn, who sanctioned torture and surrounded himself with some of the most sinister men the world has ever seen. You were elected by white people, Mr. Obama, not because you are black but because you promised to stop these non-stop wars. To many white voters you looked like a breath of fresh air. You were not. In less than a year there is the stench of corruption and duplicity surrounding you that takes most presidents years to acquire. Where is that Iraqi shoe-thrower when we need him? Send in the shoes!

Stones

2009-09-09T17:32:00.010-05:00

Despite its Italian-sounding name, Antonino is an old German community. At the close of the Nineteenth-Century these thrifty, industrious immigrants flocked to the High Plains around Hays, Kansas, and established their own communities. When I lived here in the late Seventies, I still recall German being spoken in the supermarkets.

I biked to Antonino today. One way is maybe eight miles but the day was gorgeous and the wind was behavin' and when those two come together I ain't complainin.' Just west of town is the community cemetery. Here I stopped, opened the little gate, then rested and watered in the shade of a large statue depicting the crucifixion. Like the blood of Christ above, the sweat of Tom dropped down to the bricks below.

Perched on a gentle slope above the Smoky Hill River valley, this cemetery is a large one, I judge, surrounded on one side by a fancy wrought iron fence and on the others by the ubiquitous post rocks (top, limestone posts cut from the ground to make up for the lack of wood on the plains). But it does seem odd. In that large plot of land--maybe 3-4 acres--only a hundred or so souls rest in peace, and these in the middle, taking up only a fraction of the space. Obviously, the city fathers long ago looked to a day when Antonino would be a booming, bustling hive of industry, commerce and agriculture with plenty of dead folks to fill the plots. But that day never came. Barely a crossroads today, no more than fifty souls call the village home. The dead easily outnumber the living.

Sauer...Klaus...Pfanenstiel...Reichert...Wasinger...Keberlein...Munsch....
the names on these New World stones trace back to the earliest beginnings of the Old World. Touchingly, separated from the adults, a children's cemetery. The two dozen markers here, many made of metal, appear to be done by hand, as if it were the last loving act a heart-broken father could perform for his child.

The plain surrounding the cemetery is almost treeless. I walked about this wind-swept ridge, looking at the markers, avoiding the little cacti that refuse to die after a thousand mowings. Chewing on some buffalo grass that grows here reminded me of oats. A flock of small birds passed high overhead. I had forgotten that wonderful whooshing sound so many working wings make.

Some of the stones have little round photos of the deceased.

"Dale F. Rohr, November 19, 1948-June 5, 1969."
Dark suit...thin black tie....innocent looks...his high school graduation photo. One year younger than me, we look nothing alike....but then again we do.

An ambulance speeds by on the lonely little highway in front of the cemetery, lights flashing but siren silent. The irony.

Pedal Ponders

2009-09-02T16:59:00.011-05:00

Back after a glorious pedal over the plains. Each day the weather gets better. Today, straight south on a paved road with no shoulder but...no problem. Very few cars use this road and those that do give a biker plenty of room. The wind, of course, is always a problem up on the prairie plateau but for every action there is an equal reaction and sailing back with a stiff breeze at my butt is just the greatest thing.

At one ranch I passed, I noticed that out back several hundred yards, amid a waste of rusting farm equipment and sundry junk, sat a big blue bread box. Someone's older stoner brother, no doubt, abides with his habit and eccentricities in that painted school bus. Who hasn't seen this a hundred times? A school bus squatting in a debris field. Let's call it rural recycling.

A little further on was a field of sunflowers-for-profit. So heavy-headed with seeds were these that none could lift their face to the sun anymore. With bended necks, all drooped on their chins submissively, I thought. Harvest and the dying time are already upon the plains.

Generally, when I arrive back in town, I plant myself for a fifteen minute cool-down in the pretty little park at 10th & Main. Here, I am in my glory. Not only do I share space with the wonderful statue of Wild Bill Hickok (top), but if I am really lucky a train on the old Kansas Pacific thunders by only a few yards from the park. The horn will blow out your eardrums. Since my diaper days, when I popped up in the crib each morning to watch the old Missouri steam engine pass by the window, I must always stop and watch a train go by even today.

Across Main is 10th Street. This is the front street of the notorious old Hays City that Custer, Cody and above all, Hickok, made so famous at the time. Modern bronze plaques at virtually ever door tote the tally of the poor nameless wretches who did, at least, make a name for Wild Bill.

On the corner of 10th and Main is the old bank building. Every half hour or so there is a loud and terrible taped screeching of owl, falcon and hawk sounds, designed to keep the pigeons moving. It does not work. The pigeon may have a brain the size of a raisin but with him, as with everything else in life, familiarity soon breeds contempt. On the roofs above, the birds continue to poop twice a minute and madly mate to make even more pigeons.

Apologia: I have repeatedly neglected to mention this but for the past several months yours truly has been blogging for something called Great History. If interested, go to greathistory.com and look for me under American History.

Weather Central

2009-08-18T13:57:00.004-05:00

Hays, Kansas. For the past week I have taken longish bike rides out into the country. Since there are no trails here one must either negotiate the stop-and-go city streets, risk life and limb on the highways, or strike off on the rural roads. No brainer. The locals call 'em "gravel roads" but they are actually dirt roads, sandy and as hard as concrete in the summer sun. Unlike the back roads I grew up with, which were yellowish, these out here on the high and dry plains are chalkish. My bike tires quickly turn white after only a few yards.

On the southern heights above town, out by "Sentinel Hill" (soldiers stood watch here to warn the fort of Indian attacks), one can see for miles and miles in any direction. And with no trees or other obstructions, the sky is a beautiful open book. If a thunderstorm is brewing three counties west, you know it. Rain fifty miles south? Easy to see and up go the car windows. Cold front from the north? Plenty of lead time to chop more logs. I love it. Weather Channel? Ha! Don't need no fancy folks a thousand miles away in fancy clothes pointing at fancy radars and fancy Doppler's to tell me what's cookin' out here.

And something else: Nothing like a storm cell thirty miles wide and a towering thunderhead seven miles tall to make you feel small as an atom and put life into perspective. Vanity and large egos cannot survive the Big Sky. Maybe that is why I value the folks out here so much.

The Human Shooting Gallery

2009-08-03T14:56:00.010-05:00

Kansas, August 21, 1863: During the Lawrence Massacre, when rebel raiders knocked on their doors, women employed almost any device to save their homes . . . and very often the men hiding in rooms just above or cellars just below. But as often as not, no amount of tears or lies would suffice, and a home was put to the torch anyhow. And, as soon as the bushwhackers had done their work and moved on, behind them women and children rushed with quilts and slopping buckets of water in an attempt to smother the flames. As was commonly the case, however, after gamely battling and subduing a blaze, the soot-smeared ladies looked up only to find another squad approaching with the same intent.

"Put that out if you can!" snapped an exasperated guerrilla to a woman who had just stopped one fire. When he had gone, she did just that.

Those at the home of John Thornton were more persistent. When the straw tick they ignited was doused, the rebels returned and started it again, but this time Nancy Thornton was forced to leave. In a short while, when the husband too appeared and raced out the back, the guerrillas were ready and waiting. A chunk of hot lead burned into Thornton’s hip. He turned and fled back into the house. Again the heat became unbearable, and when he reappeared another shot was fired, this time blowing his knee apart. Once more, and followed by his screaming wife, Thornton limped back into his blazing home.

Blinded by smoke, the wounded man soon came out again, leaning on Nancy for support. One of the raiders rode up, took aim, but just before he could jerk the trigger the Kansan lunged for his leg. Thornton was unable to reach the weapon, however, and a slug at pointblank smashed into his eye and exploded out the cheek. Another gun went off and a ball entered the victim's back, ripped down the spine, then tore into a buttock. Still, Thornton clung to his attacker. Frustrated and out of ammunition, the bushwhacker tried again.

"I can kill you," he growled as he used the heavy revolver like a hammer to bash again and again the head of the struggling man. At last John Thornton lost his grip and released the leg. But he wasn’t dead.

"Stand back and let me try," yelled an impatient guerrilla nearby. "He is the hardest man to kill I ever saw."

With that, the enraged bushwhacker let fly every ball in his weapon, striking the target one, two, three times. Thornton stumbled a few steps, then collapsed in a heap. Still doubtful, one of the rebels reared his horse to stomp the body.

"For God’s sake," shrieked the hysterical wife as she grabbed the horse’s bridle, "let him alone, he’s killed now."

Satisfied, though amazed at the time and energy needed to do it, the men finally moved on.

To preserve it for burial, Nancy managed to drag the body away from the fire to an open space across the street. There, she saw that her dead husband had a wound for almost any given spot and was literally soaked in blood from head to toe. Looking closer though, the woman saw something else--John Thornton was still alive!

Historical Postscript

Many of John and Nancy Thornton's neighbors were not so lucky. Shot, stabbed, drowned, strangled, suffocated, incinerated--150 men did not escape the awful revenge of Missouri on that fateful "Black Friday." And, in more ways than one, John and Nancy Thornton may have envied them. Terribly maimed and disfigured by his ordeal, Thornton spent the rest of his life as a pitiful freak, slithering along the sidewalks of Lawrence on his hands and knees like some crippled amphibian.

More on Fire Ants

Little did I realize when complaining about the fire ants in the last blog that the best was yet to come. A day or so after receiving the stings, blisters began to form. Now, as painful as the initial attack was, it was nothing compared to these poison pockets. I could not stop itching the things one night. In desperation I applied vinegar. For the most part, it worked. But today my scabbed over feet look like a meth addict's face. At a party last night, one lady told me that fire ants are responsible for some horrific livestock losses. When horses, cattle and sheep deliver their babies, death is sure to follow if the newborn happens to be dropped near a fire ant colony. And, given that there might be dozens of such nests per acre, the likelihood of something bad happening are strong.

More Devils

2009-07-30T18:49:00.003-05:00

Since my last post on Dallas and Hell, the Lone Star has mercifully backed off a bit. Although the humidity is hovering around a hundred and twenty percent, the rains have cooled Old Hell down tolerably. But as I am learning, when Texas gives, Texas also takes.

Off and on today I have been out trimming small mesquites. Hopefully all of your encounters with this almost shadeless "tree" came out of a barbecue bottle and not up close and personal. The mesquite is truly one nasty customer; more like a big rack of thorns with a few tiny leaves placed here and there by God to dress it up a little. The enormous white stabbing things, needle sharp, seemingly cover every inch of the mesquite and if one is not careful (and even if one is) the result is worse than being jabbed by an ice pick. The mesquite grows in Texas like crab grass grows elsewhere--all over, and fast. There is a town just north of here called Mesquite. The people who formed this town must have run out of heroes or ideas for why anyone would name a place after a horrible tree like the mesquite in beyond me.

But as I learned today, the mesquite's daggers are only its first line of defense. In roughly every other tree that I sawed into I found a colony of vicious fire ants. Fire ants are surely the devils of the insect world; their sting is like that of a small bee and they are aggressive beyond belief. They are remorseless. They will hunt you down in record time. The angry brutes today attacked my feet in seconds and even as I was slaughtering them right and left like Samson of old other fiends were racing up my clothes to attack other unnamed parts. After a few such encounters (and some swelling feet) I changed my tactics. In quickly, out quickly was my new motto. For the most part it worked. But even as I would periodically come into the ranchero for something to drink, ten minutes later I would discover one or two of the ugly things crawling on my clothes still looking for a patch of bare skin to sting.

Quite a place this Texas. Quite a place.

Dallas Devil Diary

2009-07-21T15:01:00.011-05:00

May 10th:

Just moved to Texas! Now this is a state that knows how to live!! Beautiful sunny days and warm balmy evenings. What a place! It is beautiful. I've finally found my home. I love it here.

May 22nd:

Really heating up. Got to 100 today. Not a problem. Live in an air-conditioned home, drive an air-conditioned car. What a pleasure to see the sun everyday like this. I'm turning into a sun worshipper.

May 30th:

Had the backyard landscaped with western plants today. Lots of cactus and rocks. What a breeze to maintain. No more mowing the lawn for me. Another scorcher today, but I love it here.

June 10th:

The temperature hasn't been below 100 all week. How do people get used to this kind of heat? At least, it's kind of windy though. But getting used to the heat is taking longer than I expected.

June 15th:

Fell asleep by the pool. Got 3rd degree burns over 60% of my body. Missed 3 days of work. What a dumb thing to do. I learned my lesson though. Got to respect the ole sun in a climate like this.

June 20th:

I missed Tom (my cat) sneaking into the truck when I left this morning. By the time I got to the hot truck at noon, Tom had died and swollen up to the size of a shopping bag, then popped like a water balloon. The truck now smells like Friskies and Cat S--t. I learned my lesson though. No more pets in this heat. Good ole Mr. Sun strikes again.

June 25th:

The wind sucks. It feels like a giant freaking blow dryer!! And it's hot as hell. The home air-conditioner is on the fritz and the AC repairman charged $200 just to drive by and tell me he needed to order parts.

June 30th:

Been sleeping outside on the patio for 3 nights now, $400,000 house and I can't even go inside. Tom is the lucky one. Why did I ever come here?

July 4th:

It's 115 degrees. Finally got the air-conditioner fixed today. It cost $500 and gets the temperature down to 85. I hate this stupid state. It was not meant for human habitation. Give it back to the fire ants and scorpions!

July 8th:

If another wise ass cracks, 'Hot enough for you today?' I'm going to strangle him. Damn heat. By the time I get to work, the radiator is boiling over, my clothes are soaking wet, and I smell like baked cat!!

July 9th:

Tried to run some errands after work. Wore shorts, and when I sat on the seats in the car, I thought my butt was on fire. My skin melted to the seat. I lost 2 layers of flesh and all the hair on the back of my legs and can . . . Now my car smells like burnt hair, fried ass, and baked cat.

July 10th:

The weather report might as well be a damn recording. Hot and sunny. Hot and sunny. Hot and sunny. It's been too hot to do jack squat for 2 damn months and the weatherman says it might really warm up next week. Doesn't it ever rain in this damn state? Water rationing will be next, so my $1700 worth of cactus will just dry up and blow over. Even the cactus can't live in this furnace.

July 18th:

Welcome to HELL! Temperature got to 115 today. Cactus are dead. Forgot to crack the window and blew the damn windshield out of the truck. The installer came to fix it and guess what the first words out of his mouth were??? "Hot enough for you today?" My friend had to spend $1,500 to bail me out of jail. Freaking Texas. What kind of a sick demented idiot would want to live here?? Will write more later when the trial is over.

(The above--with a few adjustments--was forwarded by a Dutch friend. Although some other poor devil composed it, the sentiments pretty well square with my own. Like General Sheridan once said, "If I owned Texas and Hell, I would rent out Texas and move to Hell.")

Ted & Cecil

2009-07-11T15:04:00.005-05:00

I have not watched TV much in the last two months and none at all in the last two weeks. So, imagine my euphoria when I did sleepily push the power button Thursday night and I saw that, within a few minutes, the Turner movie channel would show Union Pacific. The last--and only time--I had ever seen this thundering Cecil B. DeMille classic was over thirty years ago. And I never forgot it; imagined I would never see it again in this lifetime. But....God Bless Ted Turner.

If the "Golden Age" of Hollywood was the 1930s and 40s, the Golden Year was 1939. Jesse James, Dodge City, Gone With the Wind, Young Mister Lincoln, Stagecoach, Drums Along the Mohawk....and those are just some of my '39 favorites with a Western theme. Throw in The Wizard of Oz, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Roaring Twenties, Gunga Din, and Goodbye Mr. Chips, and you see why it was such a stellar year. Add Union Pacific to the list.

With literally a cast of thousands, with sets that are right out of the period, with costuming as accurate as any movie ever made, before or since, and with a wonderful script and plot that holds you throughout, the film is pure DeMille. Then add an incredible cast. Joel McCrey as the hero, Barbara Stanwyck (left) as the saucy Irish engineer's daughter that every one loves, Robert Preston as the formula-villain who proves his mettle in the end, the leering Brian Donlevey who proves nothing in the end except that he is still a wretch, his hired gun and card shill, a young Anthony Quinn....there are already enough headliners to ensure box office bullion.

But in typical, epical DeMille fashion, Union Pacific tells a mighty story--The Winning of the West. From the brawny Irish gandydancers who brawl their way through one Hell-On-Wheels after another, to the young Indian warriors (real Indians) who imagine they can halt the Iron Horse by shooting arrows into it, this is one movie that everyone who loves the Old West must see.

Begrijp? ¿Entienda? Understand?

2009-06-24T09:15:00.004-05:00

Wat moet de taal met de geschiedenis van Wilde Westennen doen?

¿Qué la lengua tiene que hacer con historia del oeste salvaje?

On a typical day, I interact with three Dutch women and three Mexican men. Thus, the constant in my life is seemingly always language, or rather, my inability to understand it. Since the women were born and bred in Holland, and since the same goes for the men in Mexico, they speak with one another in their natural and native tongues. When exchanging with me, or with one of the other group, they jump to English. The results vary from very good communication to stone age sign language.

What the heck does language have to do with Wild West history? That's the question raised above in Dutch and Spanish. Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. As one who has done his share of research into the Nineteenth-Century, I can vouch that I have never seen a totally accurate portrayal of those times. Almost always left out in any modern depiction of the Old West is the lack of homogeneity. Watch a typical TV Western or a John Wayne movie and one comes away with the impression that everyone more or less looked alike and everyone more or less spoke alike. Only occasionally is a Swedish, Italian or Irish accent heard, and these are always just sprinkled around and always obligatory, it seems.

Fact is, America in the 1800s was a Babel of languages and strong accents. A traveler crossing the continent back then would have been hard-pressed to move ten miles and not encounter ten languages spoken. Hard as it may be for modern Americans to understand, America was a far less homogeneous place back in the 'good ol' days,' than now. Indeed, could they come back and visit us today, I think our ancestors might be as much amazed by the loss of our linguistic variety as anything.

Another New Book

2009-06-19T09:48:00.005-05:00

General Orders No. 11 is perhaps the most draconian act committed by the US Government against its own people in American history. Following the Lawrence (Kansas) Massacre of August, 1863, several Missouri counties bordering Kansas were burned from the face of the earth. A sanctuary for the guerrillas ... that was the official reason given for destroying the area; revenge for years of strife along the state line was the unofficial reason. Millions of dollars in property were destroyed or stolen, scores, perhaps hundreds, of civilians were killed, and an entire people were cast from their homes, never to return.

The author and executioner of the edict was Thomas Ewing, Jr. The author and expert of a new book on General Ewing is Ronald D. Smith. Smith, a Kansas attorney, knows his subject. Although the above mentioned disaster was perhaps the singular event in Ewing's life, the book covers the gamut. A foster brother (and later a brother-in-law) of William Tecumseh Sherman, a Kansas supreme court justice, a brave and very capable Union officer in the American Civil War, a defender of the conspirators at the Lincoln assassination trial, an Ohio politician, Tom Ewing not only lived through stirring times, but played an active role in them. Thomas Ewing, Jr.: Frontier Lawyer and Civil War General: Check it out at amazon.com, or order through your bookstore.

Texas Tid-Bits

2009-06-04T13:53:00.003-05:00

Judy, the lady living on the south twenty, had some trouble last week. The woman came home one afternoon and found a small snapping turtle in her kidney-shaped pool. Judy did eventually get a net over the nasty little brute but senor snappo was so aggressive that the would-be rescuer lost her balance in the tussle. The leap from the diving board to the concrete was not a good one. Result: A badly sprained ankle.

A few weeks previous, Judy was compelled to perform the same rescue with a large armadillo. Now, a snapping turtle in a swimming pool makes much more sense than an armadillo in a swimming pool. These poor, dumb little beasties (above) seem to set new standards for stupidity. I am told that when a car approaches an armadillo on the road, the little things--instead of fleeing to the right or left--jump straight into the air. That tactic might work for some natural encounters, but not with a car. Whenever one enters the range of the armadillo, the roads and ditches are littered with the carcasses of the stupid little things.

Why did the chicken cross the road? To show the armadillo that it can be done.

Like Louisianans and their crawdads, some opportunistic Texans have apparently acquired a taste for armadillos, or "possum on the half shell", as they call them. Armadillo chili, Barbecue 'Dillo, Coon on the Rocks--which only proves that if something can be eaten, it will be eaten.

Dallas

2009-05-31T16:09:00.008-05:00

Since February 17 is the last entry posted on this blog, a normal person might assume that either the blogologist a) has gone to his long home or b) there has been a lot of water under the blogologist's bridge. If a "normal person" chose a little from line a) and a little from line b) they would be just about dead on.

For reasons I will note in another post, one fine day I picked up my twenty year-old dog and a box housing my one year-young tom cat, tossed some rags and my bike into the back of my cowboy limousine (which a normal person might call a beat up pickup truck), and made my way to Dallas, Texas. Except for the fact that I chose to abide in the Lone Star State directly in the teeth of the fiery furnace Texans charmingly call "Spring," things have progressed as well as could be hoped for. Although I have been pretty busy since coming here, and will be busier still in the months ahead, I do promise to make a better attempt at posting on this blog.

And so, to all you cowboys and cowgirls out there, from me to you, I send you a "Big D" HOWDY!

Hope in a Bottle

2009-02-17T15:24:00.004-06:00

The latest issue of Wild West magazine has a great article on the classic movie, The Searchers, and the true story behind it. Sometimes Hollywood gets history right. Here is something I wrote way back that has more than a whiff of The Searchers to it:

The tiny bottle lay on the sand. Nearby, gentle waves lapped softly against the beach. How long the bottle had been laying there no one knows. Whether it was the tide or a storm that placed it, we do not know that either. This much we do know: At some point, someone walking along the sand spotted the bottle and instead of breaking it or hurling it back out to sea, they stooped to pick it up. We also know that when the finder uncorked it he discovered that a note was folded inside. After fishing out the note and reading the incredible words on the paper, whoever held it must have been dumb-struck. Finally, we also know that soon after the finder read the note and recovered from his shock, word quickly spread.Thus ended one of the most remarkable journeys ever recorded.

The little bottle's story began somewhere on the dry and desolate plains of northwest Texas or eastern New Mexico, hundreds upon hundreds of miles from where it was found. Here, at a camp of the Southern Cheyenne Indians, a ragged and frightened young white woman secretly brought out her hidden treasure--a bottle, a cork, a pencil, a piece of paper--then nervously scratched out a note, a desperate plea for help. The girl quickly folded the paper into the bottle, corked the end tightly, then tossed it into the headwaters of the Brazos River. In this arid region, the Brazos in the best of times is a mere trickle of water; at worst, it is just a sandy draw. Nevertheless, this bottle and the tiny trickle that floated it were the best, and perhaps last, hope for freedom that the young woman would know.

Several months earlier, in September, 1874, Catherine German and her family had been moving up the Smoky Hill River with everything they owned in the back of a covered wagon. The Germans, from Elgin, Kansas, were bound for Colorado and a fresh start. Just moments after breaking camp that morning, the family was surprised by Indians. Within minutes the wagon was in flames, the mother, father, and two children were dead and scalped, and four daughters--Catherine, aged 17, Sophia, 12, and little Julia and Addie, aged 7 and 5 respectively--were carried off into captivity.

Catherine's story is not a pretty one to relate. There are no Harlequin Romance endings here; no Dances With Wolves Hollywood nonsense; no silly sentimentality. Catherine was raped repeatedly during her captivity; she was traded back and forth from one brave to the next; she was transformed into the tribal prostitute, her worth being measured in horses. Each time the frail young woman was forced to fetch wood or water for her lodge, she trembled in fear for she could expect to be raped as many as six times per trip.

Hence, Catherine's desperate attempt one day with her little bottle along the Brazos. Pathetic as her gesture was, it was all she had. Over the next several months, as her prayer drifted slowly down a shallow stream, this hope was the only thought that kept the young woman going. When all else had been stripped from her--her virtue, her freedom, her dignity--Catherine at least had her little star of hope.

Finally, after five months of captivity, the band holding Catherine and her sister, Sophia, at last returned to their reservation and surrendered the girls. Along with the two younger children, who earlier were rescued during a thundering cavalry charge, the two shattered girls tried to pick up the broken pieces of their lives.

Unbeknownst to Catherine (left), throughout her captivity, during all the rapes and beatings, during the freezing nights and terrifying days, the little bottle that she had secretly tossed into a trickle of water on the high plains had, despite snags and shoals and rocks and floods, continued its slow journey down a winding river.

Four months after Catherine's rescue, the Ellsworth (Kansas) Reporter picked up an article from a Houston, Texas, newspaper. The startled editor then informed his readers:

"Strange to say, after having traveled eight hundred or one thousand miles along the devious windings and changing current...a bottle...was picked up on the beach of the Gulf of Mexico near the mouth of the Brazos River, in which upon examination, was a written account of the capture of...."

Thus ended an incredible journey. After the message was uncorked and read, it can only be hoped that the reader saved the little bottle and today, passed from one generation to the next, it sits atop some bookshelf, an antique, curious and pretty...if nothing more.

(An account of Catherine German is found in my book, Scalp Dance, available at Historynetshop.com at: http://historynetshop.com/wsdb.html )

History Lives!

2009-01-22T15:30:00.006-06:00

In previous posts I have mentioned Wyatt Earp, Doc Holiday and the shoot-out at the OK Corral; I have written about George Custer, Crazy Horse and the Battle of the Little Bighorn; Wild Bill and the Rock Creek Massacre; and dozens of other 19th-Century topics. When most folks read the gory details about any of the above, and when they get over their shock and horror, a certain disconnection unavoidably sets in. After all, these incidents occurred well over a century ago and to most people anything that happened that far back seems as remote and distant as the Bronze Age. I felt much the same way until a couple of interviews I did a dozen years ago while researching my book, Scalp Dance.

One of the interviews was with a lady in her 95th summer; her Kansas mother had been captured by Indians in 1874. The other meeting was with Agnes Shrader of Topeka; she was 92 at the time and her aunt had suffered the same fate in the same state in the same year. Mrs. Schrader was as lucid and bright in her chat with me as most people half her age. She still lived in her own home and kept it neat and tidy. Indeed, it was immaculate. Mrs. Schrader even walked around the block every day for exercise. Although neither woman knew much about the ordeal of their loved ones, this to me was unimportant. Just sitting and talking to someone who was a single generation removed from the Indian Wars was everything. It was something akin to time travel.

A few years later, during the Q&A following a talk we had just given in San Francisco, Deb mentioned that William F. Cody (top) was her hero and that he was perhaps the greatest American of all time. Out in the audience, an old man stood up and, with the drama of a Shakespearian actor, he announced: "I'll have you know that I SAW Buffalo Bill!" The feeling was electric.

Suddenly, after being with the ladies above and hearing the words of this old Californian, the accounts of Wild Bill Hickok, or Wyatt Earp (above), or the Little Bighorn, were not something from the dark and dead past. They were close, very close . . . and they were real. For me, from that time forth, History Lives!

New Book

2009-01-15T21:14:00.004-06:00

James Henry Lane was beyond a reasonable doubt one of the most colorful, flamboyant, astute, charismatic, and utterly dangerous men in American history. The noxious and disturbed Rasputin--of Czar Nicholas II fame--is the first and only image that comes to my mind when conjuring Lane. Jim was a confidant of Abraham Lincoln, the first US Senator from Kansas, a general in the Civil War and he was also responsible for mass murder, mass arson, maybe mass rape, and he was perhaps even into bestiality. During his tenure in this world, there seemed no mountain so high, or no valley so low, that Lane had not stalked through. When the animated stump shrieker, through his flaming oratory, persuaded thousands of normally sane, sober men to not only follow him into a shark frenzy of looting and plundering, but also swear fealty to him at the polls, he must have been precisely the sort of demagogue our Founding Fathers had in mind when they worried about the capacity of Americans to govern themselves.

Although this book will not be available until later this spring I can safely predict it will become a much-talked about staple in history circles. I know the author. I can vouch for his research abilities. As preposterous as some of the incidents in this book may seem, they will be truthful. And as ludicrous, horrifying and incredible as Jim Lane may appear to the outsider, it will be an accurate portrayal of the real man.

The Time: American Civil War
The Place: Kansas and Missouri
The Cast: Jim Lane and his Jayhawkers
The Author: Bryce Benedict
The Book: Jayhawkers--The Civil War Brigade of James Henry Lane

(to save some bucks, check out Amazon.com and pre-order: http://www.amazon.com/Jayhawkers-Civil-Brigade-James-Henry/dp/0806139994/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1232074572&sr=1-1 )

Sad

2009-01-14T17:36:00.004-06:00

Greg Hawley was one of those lucky individuals we hidebound historians deeply admire. He was a "hands-on," get-down-and-dirty historian. After years of searching for buried treasure and sunken gold, Greg (right) and his family--which included his mom and dad--decided one day they had finally found what they were looking for. That was the day they unearthed the Arabia at a bend in the river just north of Kansas City. The family soon realized that although there was no gold or silver in the hull of the old paddlewheel, there was a great hidden treasure nonetheless.

And so, began a great romance--the recovery (down in the muck and cold water) and preservation ("painstaking" is the word) of an entire cargo of frontier goods. Boots, hats, guns, saddles, nails, tools--there was plenty of the mundane; but the Hawley's also brought up canned peaches, bottled cherries, cologne, and champaign. Clearly, the Wild West wasn't quite so wild as earlier thought.

Because of Greg and his family, the "Steamboat Arabia Museum" in the River Market area of Kansas City has become a world class tourist attraction. And it has made the study of history so much simpler and interesting.

Greg Hawley, age 50, was killed Saturday night. He was returning home from the museum when a car ran into his truck. Greg's vehicle rolled several times, he was ejected, and this soft-spoken, patient gentleman died a short time later at the hospital. Greg was a friend. He will be missed.

Crossroads of the West

2009-01-13T13:16:00.005-06:00

Fort Laramie. For anyone who has not been where the blue Laramie meets the green North Platte . . . Go! For anyone who has been there . . . Go Again! It is a wonderful place. The mountains and prairie remain as they were; there are no subdivision encroachments; there are no roaring interstates nearby; there are no jets landing overhead. There is only scenery, silence . . . and history by the heaps.

Although it was never besieged and burned as were some other forts in Wyoming, it was here at the Laramie "peace" council in 1866 that the great Sioux chief, Red Cloud, dramatically declared war on the United States (Crazy Horse may have won a great battle in Montana, but Red Cloud won a great war in Wyoming). It was also from Ft. Laramie that Buffalo Bill, California Joe, "Lonesome" Charley Reynolds, and other scouts made their dangerous sorties into the howling wilderness beyond. Indeed, Laramie is perhaps the most fabled fort in frontier history for it is here where we find the true crossroads of the West. Oregon Trail . . . California Trail . . . Pony Express Trail . . . Bozeman Trail . . . Mormon Trail . . . Black Hills Trail . . . all God's trails, it seems, passed through Ft. Laramie. The national park service has done, as usual, an extremely fine job of restoring and interpreting this "sentinel of the plains" and a person could easily spend a day at the fort and surrounding countryside.

The day I spent at the fort recently was hot as hot can be and I soon paid a visit to the Trader's Store for a cold sarsaparilla. Two young reenactors happened to be in the store at the time and we quickly engaged in conversation. They were young, bright kids. Both were eager to hear all the history they could. When I told the story of Buffalo Bill's sidekick, Charlie White, both they, the bartender, and some tourists laughed aloud when it was revealed how poor "Chips" got his terrible nickname. I then told an anecdote about the very room we were sitting in.

Nick Janis was one of the craftiest scouts in the West. The legendary Jim Bridger called him "the whitest man on the plains," whatever that meant. When Janis finally retired after risking his scalp on a daily basis for "more tears than dollars," he chose Ft. Laramie to hole up. The old scout spent most of his time loafing about this very same sutler's store telling tall tales and entertaining newcomers with his rustic wit.

One day, a young westering "pilgrim" entered the store and Janis spotted the butt of small Smith & Wesson .22 caliber pistol peeking from his vest.

"What's that?" asked the old man.

Taking out the weapon, the young man handed it to Janis for inspection. After carefully examining the barrel of the tiny piece and eyeing each cylinder closely, the old man at last handed it back with a laugh.

"Boy," said Janis as he stared at the young man, "if you shoot me with dat and I find out, I put you acrost my knee and spank hell outen you!"

Pea Soup

2009-01-12T10:19:00.004-06:00

A rather chilly, gray day this, and the thought of split pea soup just warms me up. Pea soup also harkens me back to a camping trip I took with Clipper some twenty odd years ago.

One evening, while we were camped along the Elkhorn River in northern Nebraska, I was making a pot of the aforementioned soup over an open fire. The odor must have been irresistible for soon a neighbor walked up and started small talk. I offered him a bowl of soup and he quickly accepted. I then poured him a whisky on the rocks and he gratefully accepted that too. This fellow, about my age, was an itinerant photographer. He traveled throughout the West taking portraits at schools, churches, and clubs. His specialty was baby pictures. The man was extremely happy with his job and very proud of his work. In fact, after the second whisky he rushed back to his tent and toted over a large album of his best baby photos.

Looking through the album, I was stunned by the quality of this man's work . . . stunned, that is, not by the high quality of his work, but stunned at how terrible the photos were. They were awful. This poor man who smiled lovingly as each page turned and who took such pleasure at showing me the album seemed to have a God-given gift for highlighting the flaws and imperfections in each of his tiny subjects–-red spots, rashes, pointed heads, lazy eyes, bad teeth, crooked smiles–-all seemed to be accentuated in this man's photos. I did not see one child that could be called cute, cuddly or adorable; indeed, most were ugly and grotesque in the extreme. Many photographers, I've heard, snap three or four shots and pick the best. This unlucky man must have drilled a dozen and picked the worst. He was a good, decent guy who loved what he did, but I am absolutely certain that as of this writing he has drifted to another line of work.

Ho Ho-Hum

2009-01-02T15:18:00.004-06:00

The old year is out like a lamb and the new year enters like a lamb. And that suits me to a T. No A-bombs, no earthquakes, no sunamis, no pestilence, no frogs, warts or lizards. Well do I remember the Y2K World-Enders. Do you? There was so much written about it at the time that I too started to get creeped out. Let's face it: When physics professors leave their jobs in the cities and move to a deep hole in the desert, or when a normally down-to-earth neighbor with an advanced degree in engineering starts hoarding dried food, gasoline and flash light batteries, who wouldn't get a bit concerned? Y2K found Deb and I camped in the Blue Ridge of Virginia on a steep mountain side. Can't say I was real concerned about the world ending that night but I did poke my noggin out at midnight to see if there was any fire in the sky or looters headed our way. When I had satisfied myself that the earth would continue to rotate on its axis, as of yore, I fired one round of my pistol into the air in celebration and promptly returned to bed. And so, for my money, any new year that comes in like a lamb--be it Y2K or Y2K+9--is a very good thing.

Quick, Stale Thought #2: Christmas is for kids. And by kids, I mean those little wingless bipeds under the ages of 10 or so. Except for making the season as nice and fantasy-filled as we can for the wee ones, adults have no business being in the holiday business. How many arguments have been started, how many marriages ended, because one or the other failed to read the other's mind when it came to gift-giving? I know of at least one such case. I sincerely believe that adults should not exchange Christmas gifts. And yet, it is hard to avoid. Indeed, in these "tough economic times" the barrage this past Christmas was greater than I ever remember. Brenda Lee, Bing Crosby, Elvis, Johnny Mathis, Burl Ives, and the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir beseeched us from a thousand different AM and FM radio stations to join their Merry Madness. These siren calls led us none-too-subtely to the malls. As the festive tunes wafted in the stores where people shopped like sharks feed, I could not but help notice the dour, downcast eyes of the employees who walked and worked and waited for the Jolly season to be over, just like myself. Maybe we can have the Great American Gift Out, similar to the "Great American Smoke Out"--no more adult Christmas gift-giving.

Et Tu, Muntadar?

2008-12-15T13:19:00.006-06:00

By now, I suppose everyone around the world has seen the images: George Bush, in Baghdad, at the Green Zone, standing at the podium with Iraqi PM Maliki, both ready to field questions from the world's press. Surprise. Bush soon finds himself engaged in a new sport invented right there on the spot called "Dodge Shoes." Thrown by an outraged Arab journalist, Muntadar al-Zaidi, the shoes--first one, then another--narrowly miss the president's noggin. The would-be shoe assassin was quickly "wrestled to the ground" (as they used to say back in the days of Gerald Ford), but really! Facing beatings, torture and death--and yet this young reporter still had to make that largely symbolic gesture.

A wise man (perhaps on drugs) once said that the history of the world could be told in a grain of sand. If so, then several large books could be written about this little incident in the seemingly safe and secure Green Zone. I won't go into all the obvious--and all the not-so-obvious--elements of this affair (I am not being paid enough to do that), but will note a couple of thoughts:

1) Not sure if I was as startled by shoes flying at Bush's head as I was at how quickly that head dodged those shoes. Either Bush had advance warning that an attempt would be made on his head by the thrown shoes, or that is surely one quick head. Not once, but twice, that empty coconut avoided the leather missiles as if this was its standard operating procedure five times a day.

2) Equally surprising was PM Maliki. I guess it comes with the territory. Maliki stands there during the barrage as if little or nothing has happened. "What, me duck from flying shoes when RPG's, rockets and bullets have been filling the air here for five years," he seems to be saying. "You've got to be kidding!"

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/mid...st/7782422.stm

With temperatures ranging from five to ten below out in far western Kansas, our + 7 degrees here in Topeka feels mighty toasty. May just try and slip out this afternoon, find a shade tree, and enjoy the weather while it lasts. Right! Hell or Texas (take your pick) is looking better and better.

For two hours yesterday, I watched "BookTV." Our friend and late house guest, Michael Burlingame, held forth on his new book, Abraham Lincoln--A Life. And a masterful job Michael did, too. I'm not ever surprised; but I'm always amazed. It is one thing to sit around in our living room, cupping wine, smoking cigarettes I bummed off our good neighbor (another Michael), chatting about this and that and just shooting the breeze in general; quite another thing to be grilled for two hours on LIVE television and never lose a beat. From start to finish, Michael's depth of knowledge and eloquence were constants. Next month, I believe--or it is February?--Michael will honor us with another visit as he speaks here in Kansas.

http://www.booktv.org/watch.aspx?ProgramId=HI-10056

The Wild Bunch

2008-12-07T20:35:00.003-06:00

Last night, for the dozenth time, watched that great classic, The Wild Bunch. Starring William Holden, Robert Ryan, and Ernest Borgnine, I think the movie can truly be called, The Last Great Western. I say this not because there were no more good cowboy-type shoot-em-ups made after this Sam Peckinpah opus of 1969 (Tombstone comes to mind), but because the film takes place when the Wild West was winding down in American history. There is a "horseless carriage" in the movie; mention is made of "one of these things with wings that can fly;" the Mexican Revolution of 1913 forms a back drop of the film. Won't get into the plot. Will mention some actors. As good as Holden, Ryan, and Borgnine are--and they are superb--the three are pretty much overshadowed by the supporting cast. Dub Taylor as the gnarly prohibitionist preacher; Ben Johnson and Warren Oats as the brothers and gang members, "Tector and Lyle Gorch." Struther Martin and his motley crew as the ragged and ghoulish bounty hunters. But the best support of all comes from Emilio Fernandez as the greasy Mexican general, "Mapache." One can hardly take their eyes off this drunken, dangerous, deceptive character. I have the good luck of owning the uncut CD. Unlike the theater version, this version shows Mapache as all the above, but also as a pretty brave fellow as he stands defiantly while revolutionistas bullets fly all around. He is even considerate of children. Check out the old trailer of the movie:

http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi3371958553/

Read in the local paper today that the city will be handing out $500 fines for those homeowners who do not keep their curb sides free of leaves. Forget murders, rapes and drugs; seems clogged gutters are causing Topeka fits. Taking at peek at our own curb, I was surprised to see that ours was probably the home they had in mind when the city began leaf threatening. Thus, I spent a couple hours tonight raking up what God showered down. Cities! Pick up your leaves, can't start fires, can't relieve yourself at night in your own back yard--well, one out of three is not so bad, I guess.

My little friend and companion of 20+ years, Pepper, is still hanging in there. Although he is very gimpy and his spine sticks up like a picket fence, he seems fairly happy. I suppose some folks would have "put him down" by now as an inconvenience, but I don't plan on ever doing that unless something far worse than age bothers him. If he loses use of his rear legs--which seems likely--I will just carry him in an out. He is a Peke and weighs only 10 pounds or so and that would be no problem for a 250 pound human, I guess.

Jim Jones

2008-11-26T11:49:00.008-06:00

The other night I watched the new documentary on Jim Jones and the Guyana Massacre. This piqued my interest to learn more. Must say that when the event actually occurred back in 1978, I was living in Boston and having a good time and thus paid little attention to it. My impression back then was pretty much my impression now; rather, was my impression until I started digging deeper.

I have never been one to accept the standard version of anything. I have learned in my overly long life that when a major event occurs, many forces (federal government, the media, etc.) are brought to bear to shape something to their liking. In a word, I had formerly thought of Jim Jones (left) as just another cultish-type leader whose megalomania and power over his followers drove 900 of them to commit suicide. Bad as that already is, it is only a tithe of the story.

I have listened to some of the tapes and read the transcripts of the People's Temple gatherings while in Jonestown, Guyana. And I am horrified. There is a bloodthirsty paranoia that colors everything. On one tape, we hear the congregation come forward one at a time and describe in graphic detail what they would like to do to their parents and former friends back in the "vomit" called America; the objects of their hatred are the people who either fled Jonestown and the cult or who were trying to get their loved ones out. With Jim Jones sitting on his throne (a lawn chair) and encouraging the throng, even little children come forward and talk about hanging relatives "by their balls" and roasting them alive. They speak not just of vengeance and death to those who oppose them, but sadistic torture. The Reverend Jones just giggles. And such vile language. I won't repeat what is on the tapes here, but there was no thought or word too graphic. In "fairness" to this zoo, Jonestown had long since ceased being even a nominal religious organization. With the sinister Reverend Jones ruling with an iron fist, vicious, paranoid Marxism was the guiding faith of all. The sad fact is: Left to their own, I think virtually everyone would have left Jonestown. But such was his power and terrible menace, that Jones turned this jungle clearing into a private concentration camp.

Mind alteration? Brainwashing? You bet, and plenty more. Fascinating subject. http://jonestown.sdsu.edu/

My grown son, Clip (right, age 4 or 5, in Camden, Maine), was filmed for the local PBS and will have his movie debut soon. It was part of a segment on farming, I believe, and Clip was shot while up in a tractor bailing hay. He said that a couple of his buds were drinking beer and ragging on him as the cameras were rolling. Another big thing that came to the little crossroads known as Dover, Kansas, (where I once lived and where Clip still does) was the National Pie Contest. The old gal (a Mrs. Grubb, if one can believe that) who bakes in the Dover Cafe won and the cameras were once more rolling on "Good Morning America." That place has always been known for pie. Years ago I would take Clip in there when he was a little boy for a slice on whatever was on the menu. I believe a piece of pie was a buck twenty-five twenty years ago.

Just like the rotten economy beyond, my own personal economy is in the tank. There are some nice things that should happen eventually, but I am reminded of the frozen wanderer who dies in a drift within sight of his warm cabin--he's just as dead whether he's one mile or a million from home. Moral: One must tuff it out.

My good friend in Denver, Jeff Broome, has a new, affordable paperback coming out soon called Dog Soldier Justice. The story recounts the horrific treatment two white women captives suffered during the Indian Wars on the High Plains. Jeff is a meticulous researcher and fine writer and this book is groundbreaking. http://www.amazon.com/Dog-Soldier-Justice-Susanna-Alderdice/dp/0803222882/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226591303&sr=1-1