Saddlebag Dispatches—Summer 2023

WESTERN POETRY

BEHIND

by Paul Bishop

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

In the months ahead, new issues will focus on a variety of famous historical locations throughout the West, and we’ll be seeking original stories, articles, and poetry set in and around the specific places listed below.

Winter 2023—CochiseCounty,Arizona

Summer 2024—Leadville,Colorado

Winter 2024—CaliforniaGoldRushCountry

Summer 2025—Deadwood,SouthDakota

Winter 2025—KansasCity,Missouri

Deadline for submissions is February1 for all Summer issues and August1 for all Winter issues.

Saddlebag Dispatches is seeking original, previously-unpublished short stories, serial novellas, poetry, and nonfiction articles about the West. These will have themes of open country, unforgiving nature, struggles to survive and settle the land, freedom from authority, cooperation with fellow adventurers, and other experiences that human beings encounter on the frontier. Traditional westerns are set west of the Mississippi River between the end of the American Civil War and the turn of the twentieth century. The western is not limited to that time, however. The essence is openness and struggle. These things are happening now as much as they were in the years gone by. Short fiction and nonfiction submissions should be no more than 5,000 word in length and no less than 2,000 words. Due to space considerations, poetry submissions should be no longer than one page in length (approximately 30 lines).

QUERY LETTER: Put this in the e-mail message: In the first paragraph, give the title of the work and specify whether it is fiction, poetry, or nonfiction. If the latter, give the subject. The second paragraph should be a biography between one hundred and fifty and two hundred words.

MANUSCRIPT FORMATTING: All documents must be in Times New Roman, twelve-point font, double spaced, with one-inch margins all around. Do not include extra space between paragraphs. Do not write in all caps, and avoid excessive use of italics, bold, and exclamation marks. Files must be in .doc, or docx format. Fiction manuscripts should be in standard manuscript format. For instructions and examples see https://www.shunn.net/format/story.html.

OTHER ATTACHMENTS: Please also submit any pictures related to your manuscript. All photos must be high-resolution (at least 300 dpi) and include a photo caption and credit, if necessary.

Manuscripts will be edited for grammar and spelling. Submit to submissions@saddlebagdispatches.com with your name in the subject line.

The Wives and Lovers of The Earp Brothers

By Sherry Monahan

AS USUAL, WE have a lot going on in this issue of Saddlebag Dispatches. This time, we’re bringing you the sights, sounds, faces, and characters of old Dodge City.

A young couple starts life together in the unlikeliest of places. We have a Chinese moonshiner, a half-breed Kiowa deserter, a cowboy who’ll do anything to keep a secret, another bound by a vow he must keep, and a young boy who grows into a man but at a terrible price. And all of that just from the short stories in this issue.

We’ve got Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Doc Holliday , and “Squirrel Tooth” Alice. Terry Alexander and Paul Bishop take on the Dodge City denizens of Hollywood and the television screen. In Regina McLemore ’s column on Fort Dodge, we meet such notables as Grenville Dodge, Phil Sheridan, George Custer, Dull Knife, Satanta, Kicking Bird , and Standing Bear . Anthony Wood ’s feature details the events and importance of Fort Dodge to both the founding of the city and the trade along the Santa Fe Trail .

We have an excerpt from Bill Markley ’s excellent book, Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson: Lawmen of the Legendary West, a 2020 Will Rogers Medallion Award finalist in nonfiction, and another from Thunder Over the Prairie: The True Story of a Murder and a Manhunt by the Greatest Posse of

All Time by New York Times bestselling nonfiction author Chris Enss and her writing partner, Howard Kazanjian.

Last, but certainly not least, George “Clay” Mitchell interviews the afore mentioned producer/director Howard Kazanjian who not only was a producer for the Star Wars and Indiana Jones series but was second assistant on The Wild Bunch and has co-written with Chris Enss two biographies of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, The Cowboy and the Senorita and Happy Trails. They also collaborated on The Young Duke: The Early Life of John Wayne and Thunder Over the Prairie.

We are proud to present the winner of theThird Annual Saddlebag Dispatches Mustang Award for Western Flash Fiction, P.A. O’Neil’s “The Great Burro Revolt,” as well as the other three finalists: Brandon Barrows’s “Use Your Head,” Sharon Frame Gay’s “Tricks of the Trade,” and Donise Sheppard’s “Strong Enough.”

There’s still ample time to enter the First Annual Longhorn Prize for Western Short Fiction. Stories of 2,000 to 5,000 words are accepted until August 1st. Please use standard Shunn manuscript format with no headers or footers in your submissions. First prize is $300 and publication in ourWinter 2023 issue coming out in December.

Finally, it is with deep sadness that I must an -

nounce the passing of two great western writers, Bob Giel and Velda Brotherton . Bob was my Managing Editor and strong right arm here at Saddlebag Dispatches, as well as the author of his own great western novels. Velda was a legendary journalist, mentor, teacher, adventurer, short story writer, novelist, and my go-to writer when I needed a special feature. She never failed to deliver near-perfect copy on time about any subject I threw at her. It breaks my heart to say goodbye

THE PUNNY EXPRESS

to these two fine people. They were more than just colleagues and business partners, they were true friends we will all miss. They’re now sitting around the campfire with our co-founder, Dusty Richards , and I’m sure they’re swapping lies and tall tales over coffee. Maybe I’ll hear them myself one day.

—DENNIS DOTY Publisher

by GEORGE “CLAY” MITCHELL & VICTORIA MARBLE

Copyright 2017, Published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

THE CONCLUSION OF the Civil War brought great prosperity to the northeastern United States and with it a change in the consumer’s taste from ubiquitous pork to beef roasts and steaks. Cattle prices in the north soared. By contrast, the south, with the burning of its major cities and the plundering of what little wealth remained, became poverty-stricken. Fortunately for bold Texans, wild longhorns numbered in the hundreds of thousands in Texas, free to anyone with the courage and will to round them up and drive them to market. Money was being made. So much that British investors, often the non-inheriting heirs of nobility, formed investment partnerships and purchased enormous ranches. Surely the wealth would flow unfettered for decades.

Except that the cattle business was a commodity like any other, subject to the normal factors that drive any market. Cattle Kingdom explores the boom bust cycle of the age when cattle was king and examines the many reasons for its inevitable demise.

Knowlton tells a story as brilliantly as the best cinematographer. His narrative pans in and out from individual players such as English entrepreneur Moreton Frewen of the Powder River Cattle Company, cowboy Teddy Blue Abbot, and to

broader views of the cattle business such as its role in the growth of cow towns like Dodge City to the development of barbed wire and refrigerated railroad cars.

Cattle Kingdom is a cautionary tale about the greed of men, the inevitable advancement of technology, and the unpredictability of Mother Nature. Any student of economics or the Old West should add this one to their reading stack.

Rating: 4.5 Nuggets (out of 5)

CattleKingdom by Christopher Knowlton

DodgeCity by Matt Braun

Copyright 2006, Published by St. Martin’s Press.

DODGE CITY WAS the end of the trail. Texas cowhands, coated in trail dust and flush with cash, couldn’t wait to see the elephant. Of course, that sometimes brought them into unwanted contact with lawmen like the Masterson brothers or Wyatt Earp, who had their own ideas about frontier justice. Defense attorney Harry Gryden was often all who stood between the rambunctious cowboy and a noose—deserved or not. Everyone accused of a crime had the right to a defense, regardless of how heinous the crime or guilty the accused. Gryden was good at his job. Maybe he was too good. When one too many guilty men walked due to Gryden’s slick tongue, he becomes a wanted man—by both sides.

Throughout this character study of defense attorney Harry Gryden, Braun weaves historical events and figures into the narrative as he follows Gryden through the year 1878. Western dignitaries Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Luke Short, and Doc Holliday play important roles in the story line, and Braun brings them to life on the page. Courtroom drama, barroom battles, and gun fights in the streets of Dodge all create plenty of conflict and the western action readers of the genre enjoy. However, Braun missed opportunities to create tension,

which is lacking from the entire novel. Situational outcomes were predictable, and courtroom arguments bordered on cliché thanks to our nightly doses of television dramas.

Braun has written an enjoyable read full of characters as interesting as a traveling show. The prose, while stylistically somewhat out-of-date, is engaging and smooth. Despite its flaws, this quick read is worth picking up.

Rating: 3.5 Nuggets (out of 5)

OnceaMarshal by Peter Brandvold

Copyright 2019, Published by Wolfpack Publishing.

A SOILED DOVE shot lawman Ben Stillman in the back, leaving him hobbled and forcing him into retirement. Three years later, Stillman’s back is crippled up, and he plies his time sipping whiskey and gambling. That is, until young Jody Harmon shows up with a story about his father, Milk River Bill Harmon, Fancy Dan Hobbs’s attempts to forcefully buy all the homesteads on the Two Bear range, and the mysterious murder of Bill Harmon. The territorial marshal is too far away, and the local sheriff won’t investigate, leaving Jody with no other option than to involve Stillman, who had been friends with the elder Harmon twenty years prior. Unsure he’s up to the task, Stillman nonetheless eventually agrees. But Hobbs has hired Weed Cole to defend his ranch and chase off the homesteaders. Cole’s reputation makes the devil seem a saint, ensuring the deck is stacked against the already unsure Stillman.

Brandvold’s portrayal of Stillman, a man with physical limitations and significant self-doubts, generates both sympathy and frustration. His demons aren’t stereotypical, which makes Stillman an even richer character. Jody is full of the cocky rashness of a typical teenage boy, yet has grit and determina-

tion that has the reader pulling for him. As for the plot, following the twists is like watching a cowboy twirl his lariat—spinning and dipping until it finally snaps out and snares the reader.

Once a Marshal demonstrates why Brandvold is a popular author. Saddle up because this one’s an ornery critter with game.

Rating: 4 Nuggets (out of 5)

DODGE CITY...

Despite their wild west cachet, Tombstone, Abilene, Wichita, and any other legendary gunfight and cattle drive destination lacked the same depth of instant association with the Western as Dodge City. While Tombstone may arguably come in a close second, Dodge City—renowned as The King of the Cowtowns or reviled as The Sodom of the West—was unmistakably the world-wide touchstone that instantly evoked every aspect of the Wild West burned into our brains by uncountable Western movies and television shows. In Dodge City, the legendary Wyatt Earp walked boldly alongside the equally legendary Matt Dillon, with popular culture seeming to make no discernable dividing line between the real and the fictional.

I wasn’t raised on iconic Dodge City-centric Westerns such as Gunsmoke, Bat Masterson, or The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp. The closest I came to Westerns growing up was watching after school reruns of The Rifleman. However, despite the coolness of Lucas McCain’s rapid fire rifle work, once the pseudo-espionage world of James Bond and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. took over the movie theaters and TV channels, I happily embraced the era of suave spies, deadly gadgets, megalomaniacal villains, and girls.

While The Magnificent Seven and The Profession-

als kept the door to Westerns open for me, it wasn’t until the proliferation of streaming channels that I discovered the joys of the aforementioned Western series as well as so many others from Wanted Dead or Alive to Rawhide, Have Gun Will Travel, The Wild Wild West (my cross-over drug), and the amazing proliferation of so many other shoot-em-ups and horse operas.

Gunsmoke, Bat Masterson, and The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp also played their part in what, in my case, has become a bone deep obsession with the Western genre in all its forms. It was that obsession that is at the heart of the Six-Gun Justice Podcast and has sustained my enthusiasm for over 200 episodes.

The year before COVID turned the world upside down, I had the opportunity to travel to Wichita to deliver the keynote address at the annual Kansas Writers Conference. The gig was also the excuse my wife and I needed to make a very roundabout pilgrimage from Lawrence, Kansas, where we have family, through Abilene, and then on to Dodge City, before winding our way to Wichita and the conference.

I didn’t know what to expect in Dodge City. Would it now be just another city, or would it retain something of its Wild West, or in actuality, Wild Mid-West history. I was concerned when

I learned The Boot Hill Museum was the main tourist attraction. However, my anxieties proved unfounded as the museum was everything I could have hoped it would be. And since we visited, it has been expanded to almost twice its size and would be well worth a trip back. In the city itself there was enough of a Western legacy to make the road trip worthwhile, and as touristy as it was, there was indisputably a special Western connection standing next to the larger than life statues of Matt Dillion and Wyatt Earp at the city center.

With this issue’s focus on Dodge City, I thought I would move on from reminiscences to see what

Dodge City-related books I have in arm’s reach on my bookshelves. First up was Tom Calvin’s seminal Dodge City: Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and the Wickedest Town in the American West. This was a fascinating and very readable story of true friendships, romances, gunfights, and adventures shared by a remarkable cast of characters, including the titular Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson, as well as so many other recognizable names such as Wild Bill Hickock, Jesse James, Doc Holliday, Buffalo Bill Cody, John Wesley Hardin, Billy the Kid, and Theodore Roosevelt. If I had to pick one Dodge City book to recommend, this would be it.

A close second, however, would be another title from my shelf, Dodge City and the Birth of the Wild West. Authors Robert R. Dykstra and JoAnn Manfra looked through the lens of how cultural myths arise to see how Dodge City, of all the violent cities associated with the Wild West, was the only one to spawn a specific warning sobriquet—as in, Get outta Dodge.

One of my favorite books with a connection to Dodge City is Richard O’Connor’s Bat Masterson biography, which provided the basis for the Bat Masterson television show starring Gene Barry. While there were various editions of this book, the most highly sought after (and therefore expensive) is the paperback tie-in to the TV show featuring Gene Barry in his Bat Masterson garb on both the front and back covers. While a bit of a slow read by today’s standards, and having little to do between the covers with the actual TV show, I found it intriguing enough for me to seek out O’Connor’s other biographies of Western legends, such as Wild Bill Hickok and Pat Garrett.

As I am an aficionado of Western TV tie-in novels, I couldn’t pass up the chance to talk about the

show that has done the most to cement Dodge City in the public consciousness—Gunsmoke. As benefits the longest running and arguably most popular TV Western, Gunsmoke, along with Bonanza, generated substantially more TV tie-in novels than any other Western TV shows.

The first Gunsmoke tie-in appeared in 1957. Simply titled Gunsmoke, it was a collection of ten show scripts novelized by Don Burns . This was followed in 1970 by an original Gunsmoke novel—also simply titled Gunsmoke —written by Chris Stratton . Next came The Man from Alberta in 1973, a standalone Gunsmoke novel written by Canadian journeyman hack, James Moffatt . Published in England only, this one is strictly for completists as it’s obvious from reading the book Moffat had never seen an episode of the show and was probably working strictly from character sketches of the main participants. Copies can be found, but you’ve been fully warned.

In 1974, Award Books published four authorized Gunsmoke novels written under the pseudonym Jackson Flynn. To the best of my knowledge, the second book in this series, Shootout, was written by

top Western writer Gordon D. Shirreffs with the other three books, The Renegades, Duel At Dodge City, and Cheyenne Vengeance written by Don Bensen about whom I know nothing. However, what’s unusual about this tie-in series is the books written by Bensen are all novelizations of Gunsmoke scripts—the first book being adapted from the 1973 two-part episode, “A Game of Death an Act of Love,” by Paul F. Edwards—while the book written by Gordon Shirreffs is an original tie-in novel. This is the only example of a series of TV tie-ins of which I’m aware that is a mix of both novelizations and original novels. It’s usually one or the other.

First run episodes of Gunsmoke appeared on CBS for twenty years, but currently, at any given moment, there is an episode of Gunsmoke being rerun somewhere in the world with Matt Dillon keeping the streets of Dodge City safe. This has kept Gunsmoke fandom thriving. In 1999, twenty-five years after Gunsmoke was cancelled by CBS, Boulevard Books commissioned a three-book series of original Gunsmoke novels, Gunsmoke, Dead Man’s Witness, and Marshal Festus, written by the prolific and always readable Gary McCarthy .

These can be easily tracked down at a reasonable price on eBay or from other sources and are all worth reading.

Whitman Publishing also jumped on the Gunsmoke bandwagon with two of their “board book” TV tie-in novels for young readers. The first, again simply titled Gunsmoke, was written by Robert Turner and appeared in 1958. Gunsmoke: Showdown on Front Street, written by Paul S. Newman , was published in 1969, over ten years later, showing the enduring popularity of the show. For completists, there was also a 1958 juvenile Big Little Book, also simply titled Gunsmoke, written by Doris Schroder .

However, the latest iteration of Gunsmoke tiein novels hit the bookshelves in 2005. The six books in the series, Blood Bullets and Buckskin, Blizzard of Lead, The Last Dog Soldier, Dodge the Devil, The Reckless Gun, and Day of the Gunfighter, were published in paperback by Signet and written by respected Western stalwart Joseph West . Each entry in the series contained a forward by James Arness voicing his appreciation of the novels, which was a unique touch for a tie-in series. It’s

also notable that the name Gunsmoke emblazoned across each cover was followed by the trademark symbol for the first time. This series was my favorite of all the Gunsmoke tie-ins, and I highly recommend it.

That’s it for the Dodge City-related books I can quickly lay my hands on from the bookshelves nearest me. They all provided excitement and have the ability to transport readers to the dusty and dangerous streets walked by legends we all know.

—PAUL BISHOP is a well-known novelist, screenwriter, and Western-genre enthusiast, as well as the co-host of the Six-Gun Justice Podcast, which is available on all major streaming platforms or on the podcast website: www.sixgunjustice.com/

PHOTO BY PATRICIA RUSTIN CHRISTEN

VELDA BROTHERTON

1936—2023

IT IS WITH overwhelming sadness that we mourn the passing of the one and only Velda Brotherton . She was our friend, our mother, our mentor, our matriarch. The glue that held us all together. A talented, multi-genre author, an award-winning journalist, a dogged adventurer. Perhaps most of all, though, she will be remembered as the wise, patient, and loving teacher of the generations of writers who passed through the Northwest Arkansas Writers’ Workshop over the past thirty-five years.

When her longtime friend and writing partner, legendary Western author Dusty Richards, passed away five years ago, all anyone could talk about was how there would never be another one like him, but the very same thing can be said about Velda. She was larger than life in her very own right and could light up a room with her mischievious grin and that sparkle in her eye. She had

the kind of fun-loving, devil-may-care spirit that got her and many of her fellow writers in trouble with venues when they got a little too raucus and rowdy. Brilliant, kind, patient, loving, beautiful in body and soul, she could make you laugh one minute with her singular wit and cry the next as you poured out your heart to her… or vice versa.

Velda was an inspiration to every person she met and every writer she helped mentor, and she will be missed by all. For our part, her passing leaves a hole in our lives that can never be filled. She was not only our colleague and business partner, but our friend, as well. Consolation only comes with knowing she’s now free from her suffering and probably sitting around that big campfire in the sky with her buddies Dusty and Pat Richards and her beloved husband, Don Godspeed, Velda. You will be forever in our hearts and never forgotten.

BOB GIEL

WITH HEAVY HEARTS, we say goodbye to our good friend and Saddlebag Dispatches Managing Editor, the one and only Bob Giel.

Bob was not only a fantastic writer and editor, he was also one of the finest and truest people you’ll ever meet. Despite being a born-and-bred New Yorker living in New Jersey, he was a cowboy at heart and lived by the cowboy code. When most of the world today laughs at the quaint and seemingly antiquated concept of honor, he embodied it. Always faithful. Always loyal. Always giving his best effort. Always honest. And perhaps most importantly, keeping his word no matter what.

If you’d ever had the privilege of hearing Bob speak about meeting Roy Rogers and Trigger as a child—something that brought him to tears with every retelling—you knew his values weren’t just an act or an affectation but something he worked at

and recommitted to every day. Bob was more than just a cowboy, though. He was also just a good person. A caring, generous, and ebullient spirit—vital, energetic, optimistic, and always ready with a kind word and a zillion-watt smile. Whether you knew him as “Tiny Bob,” ”Little Bob,” “Gunfighter Bob,” or “Dirty Wiener Bob”—a tongue-in-cheek reference to an incident involving a dropped hot dog during a summer writing retreat—you knew a great man with a heart bigger than he was. He lived and loved life to the fullest and cherished his friends and family to the same degree. To say that the world is a little darker with his passing, a little more dreary and cruel, would be an understatement.

We will cherish Bob and his memory forever and aspire to be just as good, as kind, and as honorable as he was with every passing day.

Happy trails, cowboy. We’ll see you again at the end of the drive.

PHOTO BY DEREK HALE

NELLIE DABBED HER teary eyes and sniffled. The past twenty-four hours had been the hardest of her life, hearing about Luke’s gunfight and death, then burying him. Her son, Austin, seemed to think life would get easier with time, but Nellie wasn’t sure any amount of time would ease the pain of losing her husband of eighteen years.

“You’re stronger than you think,” Luke had told her a few days before he was shot. “You’re tougher’n me, that’s for sure.”

But she didn’t feel tough. She felt weak and vulnerable—like her heart had been ripped from her chest and buried with her husband.

She glanced away from the grave at the stranger standing ten yards away.

Austin took her hand and gently squeezed it. “Come on, Ma. We should get home.”

She let him lead her away from the grave, and the strange man watched them go.

THERE WAS A knock on the door, and Nellie rose to her feet. She opened the door and saw the stranger from Luke’s funeral standing there, hat in hand.

“Good evening, Miss Bennett. I was hoping I could have a word with you?”

Nellie looked the strange man up and down. “I’m sorry, Mister...?

“Cassidy.”

“Mister Cassidy. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

He glanced over her shoulder at Austin, then back at Nellie. “May I come in?”

Nellie’s heart raced. There was something about the man that unnerved her, but she stayed calm. “It’s late, Mister Cassidy. We can talk right here.”

He nodded but didn’t look pleased with her refusal.

“What can I do for ya, Mister Cassidy?”

“First, I’d like to say I’m sorry for your loss. Mister Bennett was a fine man.”

Nellie dropped her gaze for a moment, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

“I know this isn’t the best time, but before he died, your husband sold me this land.”

Nellie stiffened and narrowed her eyes at him. He seemed to squirm under her gaze.

“Now, Miss Bennett, I think you’d be far more comfortable in something a little smaller. If you’d like, I can talk to an associate and get you and your boy settled in a home not five miles from here. I can even keep your boy on as a ranch hand, if he so wishes.”

She felt Austin step up behind her, but Nellie held up a hand to stop him.

“Who do you think you are?” Austin seethed.

“It’s okay, Austin. There’s no need to be rude. Thank you for your offer, Mister Cassidy, but Austin and I are just fine here.”

A dark smile spread across his face. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear, Miss Bennett—”

“It’s Missus Bennett.”

Cassidy inclined his head slightly. “I only came out of courtesy. Mister Cassidy and I already came to the agreement. Money has exchanged hands. You and your son are officially trespassing.”

Nellie’s lips trembled. She opened her mouth to argue, but no words came.

“Pa wouldn’t have done that!” Austin yelled. “You’re a liar!”

Mr. Cassidy sucked his teeth. “Well, I’m afraid he did, son.”

Nellie’s mind reeled. Why would Luke do such a thing without telling her?

“Miss Bennett, if moving out is a problem, perhaps you and I could come to some sort of arrangement?”

His calloused hand stroked hers, and she pulled away. “Mister Cassidy, you’ve made some sort of mistake. My husband wouldn’t sell this ranch.”

“But he did.”

“Do you have the bill of sale? The deed?”

His eyes flashed. “Listen to me, woman!” he snarled. “Your husband sold me this land!”

“I don’t believe you… and my husband is no longer here, sir.”

He gritted his teeth, his lips pulling tight.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mister Cassidy, I have chores to do around my ranch.

Cassidy lunged forward and grabbed her by the wrist. “Do you take me for a fool? I want you and your son off my property by tomorrow, or I’ll be forced to treat you as squatters and take matters into my own hands. And I promise you, tomorrow I won’t be as courteous.”

Nellie snatched her hand away. “Get away from here, you... you....”

Cassidy put his hat on. “So be it. You’ve brought this on yourself. I’ll be back tomorrow with my men.” He turned on his heel, his boot grinding the wooden porch, then stalked away.

Nellie stared after him, the threat ringing in her ears. She grabbed Luke’s hunting rifle from beside the door and took aim. “Mister Cassidy!”

Cassidy turned, his eyes widening, and Nellie pulled the trigger. The shot hit him in the chest, and he fell to the ground. Nellie panted, staring at Cassidy’s body lying in the dirt. She barely registered Austin yanking the gun away from her.

“You shot him!”

Nellie stared at him like she didn’t know him.

“Ma!”

She blinked, and everything came into focus.

“We need to get rid of the body,” Austin said, his voice high with worry.

Nellie nodded and sucked in a deep breath. Now wasn’t the time for a conscience.

TWO WEEKS LATER, while Nellie set wildflowers on Luke’s grave, a man watched her, but this time, instead of ignoring the stranger, Nellie approached him.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for an associate of mine. Mister Sean Cassidy. Have you seen him?”

Nellie resisted smiling and shook her head.

“’Fraid I don’t know anyone by that name.”

The man stared at her for a moment. “I must be mistaken, then.”

“Seems so,” she agreed, holding his gaze until he tipped his hat and walked away.

Luke had been right. She was much stronger than she thought. He’d been gone for a fortnight, and she was surviving. Perhaps she was tougher than him, after all, because she didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, and wouldn’t when this second gentleman came calling, either.

—DONISE SHEPPARD is a multi-genre author residing in southern West Virginia with her husband and four children. Donise found her passion for books at an early age and has been chasing stories ever since. She is an author, editor, and co-owner of Pixie Forest Publishing. Follow her at www.facebook.com/authordonisesheppard

Soon to be a major motion picture!

“Lawmen, cowboys, songbirds and soiled doves…it doesn’t get much beter. A shootng, a chase and a trial whose verdict changes all of their lives. Thunder Over the Prairie is a great story from the history of our American West, warts and all.”

Dakota & Sunny Livesay, Chronicles of the Old West

A fast-paced, cinematc glimpse into the Old West that was. Follow future legends of the Old West Charlie Basset, Bat Masterson, Wyat Earp, and Bill Tilghman as they hunt down a murderer in a ride across a desolate landscape to seek justce.

Thunder over the Prairie

The True Story Of A Murder And A Manhunt

By The Greatest Posse Of All Time

CHRIS ENSS & HOWARD KAZANJIAN

978-0-7627-4493-0 • Paperback • $14.95

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Wild Bill Hickok and Bufalo Bill Cody Plainsmen of the Legendary West BILL MARKLEY -

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Polly Pry

The Woman Who Wrote the West

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978-1-4930-6378-9

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978-1-4930-3439-0 • Hardback

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The Trials of Annie Oakley

CHRIS ENSS & HOWARD KAZANJIAN

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978-1-4930-6377-2 • Paperback

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978-1-4930-1746-1 • Hardback

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Before Billy the Kid

The Boy Behind the Legendary Outlaw MELODY GROVES

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978-1-4930-6349-9

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THE MOON’S ONLY a sliver tonight, slicin’ through the sky. Stars poke through wispy clouds, riding a light wind. The desolate valley is painted in deep shadows.

The silence surprised me as I nudged my horse, Buck, through the brush. You’d think the whole desert would be singin’ out now that the sun was down and took its heat with it. Even under the cloak of a dim night, New Mexico was tired and yearned to sleep it off, like some old drunk back at The Velvet Slipper.

It gives me the shivers to think about what happened there tonight. Why, that saloon wasn’t fit for prairie dogs, much less to cater to people. It was bad enough the women, although loose as a lope, were ugly, but the drinks were so watered down I could read through the glass they served it in. On top of that, some card sharp in the corner was doing his best to fleece every cowboy who walked in, including me.

I admit, I took to the shakedown easily enough. A brash blonde with amber eyes sidled up in a cloud of perfume and smiled. To say she was

homely would be a kindness, but I’d just spent three weeks on the trail. So, I figured a drink or two might make her pretty.

The fact that she kept pouring my favorite whiskey for free should have been my first clue somethin’ was wrong. But I lapped it up like Buck does when he meets up with a cool stream on an August day.

I didn’t realize rooms could spin and informed the entire saloon about my revelation. To stop the swirlin’, I let the blonde sit me down at the table with the card swindler. Even though my eyes were dancing in my head, I couldn’t help but notice his oily smile was jagged-toothed and eager, like a wolf stalking a lamb.

When he dealt the cards, I held ’em in one hand and sipped another drink with the other. Before you know it, I was squeezing some coins out of my pocket and tossing ’em on the table like a seasoned gambler, confident in my inebriation and arrogant enough to believe in myself.

Then things got serious. It wasn’t long before every single cent I possessed had found its way into the dealer’s pocket, and all that was left were the

stains on the table from my sweating glass and a handful of marked cards splayed out like a fan.

That’s when it appeared I’d been taken. By the card sharp. By the woman. And by my lack of common sense, it seemed. I looked around the saloon and tried to get up but tumbled across the table. It crashed to the floor, taking everything with it, including me.

I lurched to my feet, then reeled around the chairs, knocking into them and hollerin’ that they needed to be hobbled to keep ’em from moving around so much. But that wasn’t enough, I suppose. My body decided now was as good a time as any to just lie down altogether, right there in the middle of The Velvet Slipper.

I heard somebody mumbling and realized it was me. Peering up, I saw the glare of disgust on the swindler’s face as he angled himself away from the broken table and clutched at the blonde. I dragged myself over and held on to his legs for dear life.

“Help!” was all I could muster in a pitiful voice.

Sneering, he tried to shake me off, but I held on until he clocked me on the chin with his fist.

“Don’t bring any more of these fools in here tonight, Lorna,” he snarled and spat on the floor. “It’s too easy. I swear there’s no challenge lately. I’m done!”

The scoundrel left in such a huff, he forgot his fallen bowler hat and silk handkerchief. He didn’t even stoop to pick them up off the floor where I was now residing.

The rest of the folks in the saloon must have decided I didn’t look half bad as a new rug because they let me linger where I fell.

The swinging doors looked far away, like when you peer through the wrong end of a bottle. Squinting, I decided to wander over there without botherin’ to stand until the bottom of the door smacked me on the forehead.

Somehow, I spilled out of the saloon and found Buck waiting patiently at his post. After a few good tries, I got my foot in the stirrup and hauled myself up. Buck groaned under my weight and tossed his head in complaint.

I slumped forward over his neck, nudged him with my heels, and we picked our ragged way down the street. Then I straightened and gave him his lead. He broke into a slow jog.

When we reached the edge of town, I tapped him with my spurs. Buck launched into a gallop. I rode for what seemed like hours until I stopped behind a boulder and peered around. The desert was as empty as a nun’s bed.

I got off, stretched, then took a big swig of water from the canteen. It slid down the throat cool and easy, just like the water I kept dribbling into my glass of whiskey when the blonde wasn’t lookin’.

I reached into my saddlebag, bringing out all the money the card swindler made tonight off the cowboys, before stuffing it into his pants pocket.

The same pocket I picked when I grabbed his legs and pretended I was drunk.

I took another slug of water and smiled.

Sometimes the lamb fleeces the wolf.

After climbing back on Buck, I jammed the bowler hat on my head and turned toward another goodbye town, the sliver moon pointing the way.

SHARON FRAME GAY lives in Washington State with her little dog, Henry Goodheart. Although she is a multi-genre author, she has a special fondness for writing Westerns. She is also published in many anthologies and literary magazines, including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Saddlebag Dispatches, Crannog Magazine, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction, Literally Stories, Literary Orphans, Adelaide, Scarlet Leaf Review, Indiana Voice Journal, and others. She has won a Will Rogers Medallion for one of her Western short stories and been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.

SWEAT GREASED MY palms, slicking the reins I held. I wiped one hand against my denims, then the other, hoping Dixon wouldn’t notice. His horse, to my right, was calm, but mine made a nervous little sidestep. I knew the feeling.

On the cusp of the ridge ahead, Gilford knelt, field glass to his eye. Dixon, sitting on a rock, smirked faintly at nothing that I could see.

“Scared, kid?” Gilford asked without turning, breaking the stillness. Silence did me no good, but neither did the question.

“Leave him be,” Dixon answered. His smirk turned to me. “He’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I’m all right,” I lied.

Gilford laughed. “He’s jumpier’n a hog in a damn slaughterhouse.”

“He’s fine,” Dixon repeated, lookin’ square at me. “Hart’s got his brother’s gun, and he remembers why he’s here, don’t you, Hart?”

A month earlier, my brother, Lincoln, was shot during a robbery gone straight to hell. Somehow,

Dixon, Gilford, and Lincoln all managed to escape, but Linc didn’t last the night.

When Linc died, grief came first, but nearly overwhelming fear followed. I wasn’t part of the gang, only a tagalong Dixon tolerated because I was Linc Prescott’s younger brother and had nowhere else to go. I expected to be out on my keister—sixteen, skint, and alone in the world.

Cloyd Dixon surprised me, though. He only said how sorry he was the job went badly. “Badly” did it no justice, but I kept quiet, from fear of and respect for the man keeping me fed.

Weeks passed. Cloyd treated me good, and Gilford—well, he didn’t treat me bad, just sort of ignored me. I began to forget the fear. Finally, when Dixon suggested I start earning my keep, there seemed no choice. I was scared all over again, but I owed him.

“I’ll remember.” I pushed the other thoughts aside.

Dixon stood, taking his horse’s reins from me. “The job’ll be a cinch.”

“Ain’t there a marshal? Or a bank guard?”

“Why’d you bring up his brother?” Gilford complained. “Now he’s thinkin’—”

“Shut up,” Dixon snapped. “No guard, and the marshal’s laid up with a broke ankle. Heard it in town yesterday. Even if he weren’t,” he patted his holster, “this here makes folks take whatever you give ’em.”

“Unless they got a gun, too.” It just came out, but I knew right away it was the wrong thing to say.

Dixon was irritated. “Maybe, but if you got a gun and some smarts—look, just use your head, don’t do nothin’ stupid, and it’ll work out fine.”

“Clerk’s left the bank,” Gilford announced, sliding the glass into his pocket. “No sign of the manager.”

“He’ll be a while longer, I reckon.” Grinning again, Dixon swung into his saddle. “Let’s go.”

Ice in my guts, I mounted up.

DUST MOTES DANCED in the sunlight streaming through the bank’s tall windows. At almost five in the afternoon, the place was deserted aside from a beefy, well-dressed man behind the waisthigh counter.

Dixon was leadin’, me on his heels. Gilford stayed outside. The man behind the counter looked up and smiled. “Say, you’re the fellow I talked to about opening an account. Come to make that deposit?”

“Like to see your setup again,” Dixon replied.

“Certainly.” The man pushed open a gate in the counter and gestured for us to follow.

The room behind the public area was cramped, really just a hallway ending in the steel door of a vault. My mouth was dry, and the gunbelt across my hips never felt heavier.

“The vault’s brand new, see. The latest model—”

“Open it,” Dixon demanded.

“Actually—” The manager froze as he noticed the gun now in Dixon’s hand.

“Open it,” Cloyd repeated.

The banker’s fists clenched, but his voice held steady. “I can’t. It’s a timed lock. It won’t open until eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Liar!” Dixon snarled, swinging the barrel of his Colt against the other man’s jaw with a vicious sound of metal on flesh. The banker went to his knees, mouth bloody. I felt sick.

Dixon leveled the gun at the man’s face. “Open the God-damned vault.”

“Let’s just go,” I blurted, suddenly desperate, feeling how wrong this was. Did Linc do this sorta thing? I couldn’t believe it. “He said he can’t open it.”

“He’s lying. He’ll—”

With a roar, the banker lunged for Dixon. Dixon sidestepped, barely escaping the bigger man’s grasp, raised his gun, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. Jammed or a dud cartridge.

Dixon swore and uselessly pulled the trigger again and again as the banker closed in, red-stained teeth bared, face furious. I watched, frozen, as something in Dixon changed.

“Shoot!” Dixon shrieked, bravado gone, everything now suddenly different. Without the gun, it was like he wasn’t even Dixon anymore—like the weapon was more Dixon than the man was. In all the time I lived with him, I never learned as much about Dixon as in that moment.

“For God’s sake, Hart,” Dixon cried as the banker got a hand on him, “use your gun!”

I felt the weight of the six-gun on my hip—the same one my brother had carried. I remembered Lincoln, gut-shot, dying in agony. I’d probably nev-

er learn exactly how Lincoln ended up shot, but I could guess now, and I knew nobody deserved to die like that.

I remembered what Dixon said earlier, too. I knew good advice when I heard it.

Lifting the gun from my holster, I pushed between the other men, my weighted fist swinging low. Dixon doubled up, staggered, and sank down against the wall, pure confusion on his face.

I handed the gun to the stunned banker. “Better call for help, mister. Use the back door, though. There’s another fella out front on lookout.”

“What’re you doing?” Dixon squeaked.

“Just what you told me to do,” I said. “I’m using my head.”

As the banker hurried out, I put myself between Dixon and the door to await whatever came next.

And this time, I wasn’t scared.

—BRANDON BARROWS is the author of the novels Burn Me Out, This Rough Old World, Nervosa, and over fifty published stories, some of which are collected in the books The Altar in the Hills and The Castle-Town Tragedy. He is an active member of Private Eye Writers of America and International Thriller Writers. He is a regular contributor to Saddlebag Dispatches, as well. Find out more about Brandon and his writing on Twitter @brandonbarrows or on his website, www.brandonbarrowscomics.com.

BILLY WOKE TO his brother’s foot in his face. This wasn’t unusual, as he was one of four little boys who slept in the wide bed.

Billy, Richard, and their cousins, Sam and David, all lived at their abuelo’s hacienda.

Their mothers were sisters who had married brothers, and they all now lived at their father-inlaw’s ranch, the El Molino. The women split their duties, one rearing the children, the other tending to household management.

The bedroom doors to the porch were already open to catch an early breeze as Tia Fina pulled back the covers to reveal the tangle of arms and legs she found every morning. She ordered all to wash their faces and dress, so she could do their hair before breakfast. Billy, only six, was usually the last. Wearing a smock and knee pants, he stood with his back to her as she undid his shoulder-length braid, dragged a brush through his curly locks, and pinning them all up into a bun.

“Ouch, you’re hurting me!”

“Cállate!” Tia Fina’s response was as sharp as the stroke of the brush.

After breakfast each day, the boys bolted out the door to wander around the El Molino, mostly unsupervised, as long as they stayed out of the way of the ranchero’s peones.

This day, though, Billy doubled back and to find his mother as she helped one of the Pima women, hired servants, hanging up the laundry. He relished time spent with her, even just watching her hang sheets on the line.

Billy had waited until she reached down to face the basket before speaking, “Mama. Why does Tia Fina hate me?”

“She doesn’t hate you, mijo,” she replied as she hung another sheet. “Why do you say that?”

“She always yells at me when she does my hair. Last night, she called me criado con los indios, and it hurts when she pulls the burrs out.

“Mama, why do we have to wear our hair like this, and how come we have to wear these dresses?”

His mother knelt down and took his hand. “Mijo, it’s 1898, almost the turn of a new century. Our family has worked for years to help bring civilization to this part of Arizona. Little boys back East

dress like this, and have long hair, until they are almost ten.”

“Ten! I don’t know if I’ll live that long.”

He stumbled off to find the others petting a lone burro through the rail fence.

Richard asked eagerly, “What did Mama say?”

“She says we have to look like this until we’re ten.”

The collective groans drowned out the burro’s little bray.

“Why is this colt by himself?” David asked.

Sam scratched the burro’s ears under the halter. “He’s recently weaned. His mama is one of the ones they use on the mill wheel. He’s too small, I guess.”

Billy’s attention wasn’t on the animal. “I wish there was something we could do to make Tia Fina stop picking on us.”

“Oh, I know how to knock her down a few pegs.” Sam smirked.

“Sam... Sam, I don’t want to hurt Mama,” David cautioned.

Sam’s face lit up. “Richard, hold on to this burro. David, help me get this rail fence down.”

Billy giggled. “What can I do?”

“Run ahead to see if my mama is near our bedroom, and make sure the outer doors are open.”

Richard stepped over the downed rails into the pen. “What do you have in mind, Sam?”

“David, link your hand with mine so we make a kind of sling behind the burro’s rear. Careful, we have to stay close, so he doesn’t kick us. Richard, lead him toward the hacienda.”

Billy came running back to the others as they crossed the yard. “I couldn’t see her, and the doors are still open.” He softly clapped his hands and giggled. “What else can I do?”

Sam and David gently persuaded the colt from the rear while Richard tugged, holding the halter close under the burro’s jaw. “When we get to the porch, pull down the blankets on the bed.”

Billy’s eyebrows rose, and his jaw dropped, but silently, he trotted away to complete his mission. As the others approached their room, he made one last check that Fina wasn’t in the hall, then he pulled down the blankets on their large bed. His chest expanded with the thought that, if he were caught before the others came, it would be worth her wrath.

The boys whispered as they led the burro through the doors and toward the naked bed. Richard stepped up, pulling the animal along behind him, while the others tried to lift as they pushed. Billy covered his mouth with his hands as he watched them push it down upon the white linen. Then, they got off, pulling the covers up over the colt.

Everybody did their best to hide behind doors and furniture.

It wasn’t long before Tia Fina arrived. “Haven’t I told you boys not to play Hide-n-Seek in the house?” She pulled back the covers with a force.

The scream echoed throughout the hacienda and yard. Others came running, only to find a confusion of boys chasing a braying burro around the room and Fina yelling in Spanish that she wished she had a strap.

The others returned the burro to his pen, while the boys sat with their noses in the room’s four corners. No one was allowed to talk, and each was sure more punishment would come.

It seemed like hours before the women returned. With solemn voices, they called their children to them.

Billy and Richard approached Mama with downcast eyes. Her face was stern as she took each by the shoulders and turned them around. Billy squeezed his eyes, prepared for a spanking, but popped them open when he heard the snipping sound of her shears cutting the bun off his head.

—P.A. O’NEIL is descended from Arizona pioneer stock and has always had a love for the ways of the Old West. Her Smoked Irish heritage (Mexican and Irish) allowed for her to experience the world as a member of the minority and majority simultaneously. She is a graduate of Pacific Lutheran University and has worked for colleges, churches, and youth organizations. She has been writing for almost six years and has been published over thirty-five times in anthologies and online journals. A collection of her stories was published two years ago and has met with great success. Witness Testimony and Other Tales is available in paperback and Kindle format. Her article, “Northwest Passage,” about the Ellensburg, Washington Rodeo from the Summer 2022 issue of Saddlebag Dispatches is currently a finalist for the 2023 Will Rogers Medallion Award.

BAT MASTERSON AND THE EARLY DAYS OF DODGE CITY

An excerpt from Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson: Lawmen of the Legendary West, a 2020 Will Rogers Medallion Award finalist for Best Western Nonfiction.

BILL MARKLEY

Illustrations by Jim Hazell

SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD Bat Masterson and his nineteen-year-old brother Ed had been working in western Kansas as buffalo skinners.

In the spring of 1872, the Santa Fe’s route was abuzz with railroad contractors and workers. The Santa Fe was paying top dollar to get the tracks laid in time. A member of a work gang could make two dollars a day, which was good pay in those days. The gangs were averaging more than a mile a day of track laid.

Bat and Ed, along with family friend Theodore Raymond, were looking for work. The Santa Fe contracted with a Topeka business, Wiley & Cutter, to grade the railroad track bed. Wiley & Cutter subcontracted with Raymond Ritter for some of the grading. Ritter offered Bat, Ed, and Theodore good pay to grade a five-mile section of track bed from Fort Dodge to Buffalo City. They accepted the offer, and, starting at Fort Dodge, they worked long

hours through the spring and summer until they reached Buffalo City in July, finishing their job.

The town was booming when they got there. A. A. Robinson, the Santa Fe’s chief engineer, was laying out the town’s streets, and its name was changed from Buffalo City to Dodge City. The town was right in the heart of prime buffalo hunting territory, and now that trains could reach it, hides could be quickly transported east. The first train to town experienced a two-hour delay due to a threemiles wide and ten-miles long buffalo herd crossing the tracks. Not only did the trains haul buffalo hides east, but they also brought west saloonkeepers, gamblers, and sporting gals. Soon Dodge City acquired additional names: “Hell on the Plains” and “The Wickedest Town in America.”

Raymond Ritter met Bat, Ed, and Theodore in Dodge, and he paid them a small amount of the money he owed them for their efforts. He told

them he needed to get the balance of three hundred dollars from Wiley & Cutter. Ritter headed east, promising he would return shortly with the cash. Bat, Ed, and Theodore, low on cash, realized after several weeks that Ritter had duped them.

SHORT ON CASH due to Raymond Ritter’s dishonesty, Bat and Ed Masterson , along with Theodore Raymond, needed to earn a livelihood. They left Dodge, returning to the buffalo range. Riding southeast to Kiowa Creek, they joined hunting partners Tom Nixon and Jim White ’s large and experienced buffalo hunting camp. Late in November 1872, Jim Masterson , Ed and Bat’s younger brother, and Henry Raymond , Theodore’s younger brother, joined them. Henry kept a journal for 1872 and 1873, recording events in and around Dodge.

Ed and Bat had now graduated from skinners to buffalo hunters while the Raymond brothers and Jim worked mainly as skinners. Not only did they skin the buffalo for their hides, but they also butchered the carcasses and sold the meat in Dodge. Bat met and became friends with frontiersman and buffalo hunter, Billy Dixon, who later described Bat. “He was a chunk of steel, and anything that struck him in those days always drew fire.”

Henry Raymond’s journal entries are sparse but interesting. Here are a few:

Saturday, November 30, 1872: “Ed and Bat and me killed and butchered 17 buffalos. [sic] Jim pegged.”

Wednesday, December 11, 1872: “Bat, Abe, Ed, Jim, Rigny and me went to Indian camp to trade.”

Friday, December 20, 1872: “very cold day. Shook snow off hides. The[odore] and Bat went to Big Johns. Started to town. 4 bull whackers here to spend eve. Sang songs and played violin. Snowed.”

Wednesday, December 25, 1872: “Christmas day. Shot at a mark to see whos [sic] treat. Ed and me best.”

The buffalo disappeared from around Kiowa Creek. Tom Nixon headed back to his wife and ranch on the outskirts of Dodge. Bat, Ed, and the others de-

cided to follow his example and rode back to town on January 1, 1873. The Raymond boys, Ed, and Jim all boarded the train for home, but Bat stayed in Dodge. On nice winter days, he rode out buffalo hunting with Tom Nixon and Jim White. In the spring, he resumed full-time buffalo hunting. Henry Raymond and Ed Masterson returned to Dodge toward the end of February. Henry continued buffalo hunting and skinning, but Ed found a job in town working at Jim “Dog” Kelley’s Alhambra Saloon. Kelley’s nickname was “Dog” because he was known for his pack of racing greyhounds.

After the Santa Fe railroad came through Dodge City on its way to the Colorado territorial line, the town boomed. It rose from a tent city servicing off-duty soldiers to more permanent frame buildings serving as a booming marketplace where buffalo hunters sold their hides to be loaded onto freight cars and shipped east. The hunters bought supplies and ammunition. They spent their money on drinking sprees, gambling, and women. Within a year of its existence, fifteen men had been killed and buried in the new Boot Hill cemetery. Residents formed a vigilance committee arbitrarily dispensing justice as they saw fit. Henry Raymond, still journaling and writing detailed letters, witnessed killings sanctioned by the vigilance committee and murders committed in the open. For instance, on Thursday, March 13, 1873, hearing gunshots, Henry ran into the street to see a crowd gathering around Charles Burns , who had been shot and was trying to crawl away from Tom Sherman . While holding a large-caliber revolver, Sherman ran after Burns, caught him, then stood over him, saying to the crowd, “I’d better shoot him again, hadn’t I, boys?” Sherman shot Burns in the head, blowing out his brains. Henry wrote in a letter, “All I could learn was Sherman had killed a friend of Burns and thought it would be safer to have him out of the way.” Dodge City would remain a wide-open lawless town. It would not be incorporated until November 5, 1875.

A friend of Bat’s arrived in Dodge from Granada, Colorado, the Santa Fe’s current end of the line.

He told Bat that Raymond Ritter, the contractor who never paid Theodore, Ed, and Bat for grading the railroad bed, was in Granada but would be leaving with three thousand dollars in cash. He was expected to be on the next eastbound train, and that train would be making a stop in Dodge. The news spread through town that the man who stiffed the Masterson boys and Theodore Raymond would be passing through. Everyone wondered what the Mastersons would do.

On Tuesday, April 15, 1873, the eastbound train pulled into town. A crowd gathered, watching Bat as he boarded the train searching the passenger cars. The crowd saw Ritter emerge onto the platform of one of the cars. Bat then walked onto the platform. Bat’s six-shooter was cocked and leveled on Ritter as he demanded the three hundred dollars Ritter owed them. Ritter appealed to the crowd that he was being robbed, but no one came to his defense. Bat told Ritter he was not leaving town alive if he didn’t hand

over what he owed them. Ritter said the money was in his valise inside the car. Bat called to Henry Raymond in the crowd to fetch Ritter’s valise. Bat asked Henry to hand Ritter the valise and then told Ritter to count out three hundred dollars and give it to him. After Ritter complied with Bat’s order, Bat allowed him back into the railroad car with the remainder of his money. The jovial crowd cheered as Bat led them to the Alhambra Saloon, where Ed worked and bought them a round of drinks.

After distributing their share of the money to Ed and Theodore, Bat teamed up with George Mitchell in May and left Dodge on a long buffalo hunt.

—BILL MARKLEY’S Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson:

Lawmen of the Legendary West won a 2020 bronze nonfiction Will Rogers Medallion. A Western Writers of America member, Bill has written for True West and Wild West and ten books. In 2015, he was sworn in as an honorary Dodge City Marshal.

ORLEY CRAMER HAILED Hank while they were both at work. Hank was already tired of putting up fence, so he hunkered down to talk to his friend.

Orley pulled up a grass stem, then stuck it in his mouth. “I just found out something I’d bet you might like to know.”

“What might that be? We have another mile of this?” He swung an arm sideways.

Orley grinned big. “Shore wish you were right. No, I just heard this from a fella who rode into Wichita from Dodge City. He heard it while drinking beer in the Long Branch.”

“Oh, and anything heard like that must be true.”

“Nah, you need to hear this. You know how you told me you wished you could find your brother, George? Didn’t he work for Clay Allison over in New Mexico?”

“I don’t know that for sure. Someone said so.”

“Well, it seems Wyatt Earp has a running feud with Allison, and the last time they drove cattle through, George was on Front Street shooting

off his gun. Earp and his brother, Morgan, got to shooting back at him, and when he went down, they beat him with their guns. I was told he died right there. Folks said it was mostly ’cause of the feud between Allison and Earp.”

If Orley had hit him in the stomach, he couldn’t have hurt him worse. When he could speak again, he did. “You sure this is true?”

“Ol’ boy swore it was. That the whole place talked about it plenty. I ’member from when we was at Atlanta during the war, you talked about wishing you could find your brother.”

“This George’s name was Hoyt?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Didn’t I say it was your brother?”

Hank didn’t finish his job that day but lit out for the bunkhouse, hunted down the boss, and asked for his pay.

“Well, sure. You’ve been a good worker. What’s wrong? You look like you stepped on a rattler.” The boss led him inside and unlocked the safe. “What’s happened, Hank?”

“I’ve got business in Dodge City, and I’d like to

leave out right away.” He didn’t bother to tell his boss that he was going to Dodge to gun down Wyatt Earp. He’d only try to talk him out of it.

In Wichita, he stopped at the bar for some fortifying before his long ride. A foaming glass in front of him, his reflection in the mirror threw back a ratty-looking fence builder. Maybe he’d change clothes before he went to Dodge City. Could he really bring this about? How would he stage the fight? He’d been a crack marksman during the war. But he couldn’t face down a gunfighter like Wyatt Earp carrying a rifle. He wasn’t about to pick him off from a rooftop, either. The point wasn’t only to kill the man but to shame him and his name for what he had done.

So, best if he didn’t get in such a blamed hurry. Earp wasn’t going anywhere, so he downed the beer and hustled to the gunsmith’s where he spent some of his hard-earned pay for a six-gun and the ammunition he needed to do some practicing. He soon learned the big difference between hitting a target with a rifle or with the Colt. But by the time the sun set, he was pulling and hitting fast and proper. Wasn’t so hard, just don’t think but do.

He called a halt, got some sleep, then lit out for Dodge in the morning. Several times along the way, he spotted a good target, dismounted, and shot— fast and accurate. He was ready. Earp would pay for killing his older brother, George.

Late the following day, he arrived at the edge of Dodge City and was hailed by a deputy.

How had they found out what he was up to so fast?

“Hey, mister, just to let you know. This is the south edge of town. Carrying your gun here is fine, but north of the railroad yards, you have to check it. Got that? There’ll be a deputy there to take your weapon should you ride north on Front Street beyond the deadline.”

It was getting near dark when he got there, so he went in search of the Long Branch. Someone there would know where Wyatt Earp might be. All he needed to do was parley with drinkers or gamblers a while. He had the evening and night to prepare.

Not wise to plan a gunfight for after dark. Stu-

pid, in fact. But he could plan real good sitting in the Long Branch with a beer and waiting for the man who would be his target come high noon tomorrow, that being the best time to have a standoff. Then, the sun wouldn’t be in his eyes, and Earp couldn’t claim he cheated by calling him out to face the bright sun hisself.

Orley said cattle drives were slowing down a lot in Dodge and that Earp and his brothers were talking about leaving town. He’d best finish this chore— shooting Wyatt and getting the hell out of Dodge. Bat Masterson was Sheriff here, and Wyatt’s brother Morgan was a deputy. Hank worried the most about them coming after him once Wyatt lay dead on Front Street. He just might need a distraction.

Compared to the bars in Wichita, or the ones he’d been in, the Long Branch was pretty fancy. ’Course it had to be, for everyone knew about the place. Lanterns already burned on either side of the doors. He tied his horse to the rail, gripped

the handle of the Colt to make sure it still rode in its holster, then pushed open the swinging doors to the sound of piano music. Midway and up front of the poker tables, three purty girls swung around kicking their legs, shaking their boobs, and twisting their behinds, in that order. He bellied up to the bar, ordered a beer, then turned where he could watch. Only a foolish man ignored purty girls.

He’d drink his beer, inching around the place like he might be hunting a poker game when all he was really doing was looking for Wyatt and his bunch. Next thing he’d do was plan those distractions he’d need to escape without being shot down or caught and tossed in jail or beat to death like his brother had been.

He took a measure of the fella propped on the bar beside him. “Seen Wyatt Earp?”

The fella grunted. “Talkin’ to me?”

“Yep.” Hank took another sip to keep from letting the man look at his face.

“Usually at his usual table. In the corner, his back to the wall. You know?”

“Yep. So he can see a bullet coming.”

“Yep.”

“Many want to shoot the good lawman?”

“Ever’body nearly. He watches out.”

“Figures, the law being what it is.”

“Figures, the town marshal being who he is.”

“Yep.”

“Met him, have you?”

“Not yet.”

“Want to?”

“Not yet.” Hank palmed his Colt. The fella chuckled. “Can’t say as I blame you. Clay Allison once rode his horse right through the doors and shot some holes in the ceiling. Made an enemy out of Wyatt Earp with that stunt, and they still fight to this day. So, I wouldn’t suggest you pull that fancy looking six-gun and shoot up the bar. Not so good to be an enemy of Wyatt Earp. Hear that growly laugh?”

“That’s him?”

“Yep.” The fella laughed.

“Think it’s funny, mocking me?”

Taking another look at the no-nonsense weapon on Hank’s hip, he nodded and moved away.

Carrying his beer, Hank slipped closer to Earp’s table. Got a look only at the shadowy faces sitting around. He asked to join a nearby poker game one man short and got hisself invited to play with information about the rules and high/low bids. He nodded, with no notion to win, lose, or draw before he found an excuse to leave.

From his chair, he listened until he placed Earp who was pontificating about the latest arrest in town.

“You betting, mister?” A player across from him raised his voice.

He pulled his thoughts back to the game and the cards in his hand. Tapping the table, he sat and went back to studying Earp. The bunch with him wasn’t playing cards. They was discussing something to do with town business.

“It’s getting to where there’s not much going on here. Soon, the cattle will be going around Dodge.

Morgan and I are looking to leaving out soon as that happens. Reckon I’ll stay a few weeks longer. Patrol Front Street to keep the law till we leave.”

A man at Hank’s table leaned forward and spoke quietly. “Won’t be the first time they lit out. What was it last time? Looking for gold or something?”

Laughter circled the table.

All Hank really cared about was if the marshal would be on Front Street the next day. The town marshal, that is. Wouldn’t do to think of him as a U.S. Marshal. Hopefully, that’d never happen. He was Dodge City Town Marshal. Soon as the lawman sprawled in his own blood on Front Street, Hank’s business would be over and done with. Nothing else they were talking about mattered. One ear on Earp, the other on the game, he soon heard what he wanted to hear when Earp bid good night to someone leaving the table. “See you tomorrow right here.” Earp went back to his visit.

Hank lost a pot and excused himself. He’d arrived in town on time to do his duty to brother George. Now, to keep his vow.

“Cain’t stand to lose, huh, mister?” One of the men at his table eyed him with a squint.

“Nope, just remembered I got someone waiting for me.”

“Next time don’t interrupt a game, then.”

The remark touched a nerve, and he glared down at the speaker but decided to let it go. No sense calling attention to himself now. He moved away and back to the bar where he ordered another beer. He’d wait and get a better look at the town marshal when the group filed out... and figure out a distraction to help him get out of town without being spotted.

HANK’S DISTRACTION

Inside and upstairs at the Long Branch, Julie shook herself into a low-cut dress, wiggled the split skirt over her behind, and dropped onto the divan to pull on stockings and slip into her shoes.

The door popped open and Mae stuck her head in. “Time to go on, girl. Hustle your buns now.”

Julie played at ignoring her. Thank God this was her last day in this hell hole. She’d come here to get away from something worse. An awful thing she had to forget. Sometimes life turned around and kicked you. All she wanted now was to be rid of this place and mouthy Mae. How could she ever have thought Dodge City would be a good place to hide? It was just another town to run from. Six months and she was ready to shoot the next man who nuzzled her bare skin with his fuzzy beard. There had to be a better life somewhere. Tomorrow she’d escape and never look back. There was enough money stuffed in a drawer to pay for the way outta here. She’d earned it hard.

She peered into the narrow, dark hallway before stepping through the door only to be addressed by her boss.

“Girl, if you don’t get your ass down there—” Mae’s voice sent her skin crawling. Maybe she’d kill that old sow before the night was over.

Fluffing her long hair, she hurried down the steps into the saloon where the piano player hammered the keys, and three of the girls hopped around on the stage acting like dancers. They looked more like fleas in hot ashes. It would be her turn to go on when the last notes were held for their final leap. She would do a better job.

Cupping her breasts so they plumped from the top of the dress, she threaded her way through the crowd of men up front. Used to a bunch of admirers, she hurried onto the walkway following the call of her name. The hurrah of shouts and pounding on tables greeted her. To give those closest a quick peek she leaned forward to spill half her breasts and wiggled her behind to make the men whoop and holler.

A sober handsome man stared at her over the rim of his glass. She gave him an extra twist, and men all around shouted and stomped the floor till the room shook. He only smiled. Determined, she sashayed to the very edge of the stage floor, held

her dress tail above her knees, so he had a real good view, and raised her voice in song. Everyone said she had a beautiful voice, but it was her body they hired her for, so she offered that, as well.

When the good-looking fellow reacted with pleasure to her efforts, she approached him and sat on his knee, ran her fingers through his long shiny hair.

If he came in with the cattle earlier, he’d taken the time to clean up. She appreciated that. His blueeyed gaze moved slow-like over her.

Puckering her lips, she leaned down, kissed his cheek, and wiggled against him one more time before breaking into a new verse. “Oh, Susannah, now don’t you cry for me. I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee.” Lifting the dress, she gave him a look at one leg.

Mae would stomp her good if she didn’t make all the men happy, so in leaving she dragged a hand across a few laps. The good-looking one’s fingers found the low-cut neck of her dress. He whispered

her name, tilted a glance toward the cribs where girls pleased their men. Nodded. “Later?”

Maybe this night she wouldn’t have to put up with a filthy beard. He even remembered her name. She smiled at him and moved on. When she finished for the evening, he was gone from the table.

Must’ve read him wrong.

HANK’S PLAN

A few die hard drinkers remained after the girls each followed a man toward the cribs. The piano player tinkled out a solo, then moved away. Time finally sent most of the customers home. Having caught a glimpse of his distraction, Hank slipped into the dark shadows in the far corner of the silent room. He needed to talk to the girl who’d made so much over him earlier.

A colored man brought out a bucket of water

and mop and scrubbed the floor from under the front windows and door. The bartender rinsed glasses in hot water drawn from the large stove’s reservoir. The girl called Julie moved from the shadows toward Hank and returned the smile he’d given her earlier. Without speaking she took his hand and tilted her head toward the darkness behind them. He went with her. Might as well wait there as anyplace.

Later, he led her to a table in the near-empty saloon. Could he trust this girl? For a silent moment he looked her over.

He’d waited as long as he could. “I need to talk to you.”

Not sure where to begin, he kept gazing at her. She had been nice to him. Looked awfully young for this life. He probably ought to let her be. Search for another idea. But she admitted she was leaving town the next day. That would work well for him. She had a complaint about men and their fuzzy beards, which made him happy he’d had a shave. She must’ve took kindly to that.

Seated, she picked at a fingernail and looked nervous. “What do you want?”

“Where are you going? And why?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, wanted to think of her later, after they both were gone from this place. Something about her would stay with him.

She shrugged. “Don’t care, just somewhere away from here.”

“Why don’t you go home?” He reached for her hand. It was fragile and cool in his callused fingers.

“I can’t. Wish I could go get my ma, and we’d go somewhere together. But Pa would kill me if I showed up at their door.”

“Oh, surely not.” Shock went through him.

“Yes. Just like he got mad at my sister, Sue, and dragged her out into the woods, and we never saw her again.” She gripped his hand tighter.

Too dark to see her expression, but he thought she might be crying. He never could say the right things when they cried.

She went on. “Ma got a black eye for asking, and I lit out in the middle of the night. I still feel bad

leaving Ma, but she wouldn’t come with me, and I had to be somewhere else before Pa took it in his mind to drag me into the woods. But I’m thinking it sure weren’t Dodge City.”

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t travel alone or work in a place like this. No matter where it was. No telling what could happen to you.”

She shrugged again.

“How old are you, Julie?”

“I’m, uh eighteen.”

“I would be glad to take you away from here. Escort you, so to speak.”

“Why should you do that? You already had me.”

“No, I don’t mean that way. The truth is, I need to leave town with someone on my arm. Like we’re a couple. So no one notices me—us.”

Her gaze hardened, and she pulled away. “What have you done? Who is after you? I’m no fool.”

“The truth? No, you aren’t a fool. If I tell you, please promise you won’t say anything. Whether you go with me or not, I need your promise.”

“You’ve been nice to me.” She hesitated and nodded toward the cribs. “I mean, in there you treated me as if you really liked me, and it wasn’t just for a poke and that’s all. I don’t often see men like you.”

Even as he tried not to speak, he spilled the story, and so she let him. “Wyatt Earp murdered my brother, and no one did anything about it. Him and his deputies. But it was him that did it.” His voice broke, and he cupped a hand over his eyes to hide the tears that fell despite his effort to hold back.

She slid tighter against him. Touched the crook of his arm. “Oh, I’m so sorry. But what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to kill the bastard. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No need.” She leaned into his shoulder and shivered. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard from my pa. That’s why I’m here. He killed my sister.”

Hank kissed her temple. “My God. Did they do anything to him?”

“No, of course not. Just like they did nothing to Wyatt Earp for his killings. Are you wanted?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never killed no one, ex-

cept in the war. Nor have I rode with outlaws. I’m gonna kill Earp, though. But, if I’m careful, no one will know I did it. Tomorrow, I need you to buy tickets for the stage out of here. You may have to go early to miss the crowd, but wait for me in the station, and after I shoot him, I’ll disappear and join you. With my hat on and a jacket over my shirt, I won’t look the same. Just a man and his wife as we board the stage.

“I will do no such thing.” She pulled away and stared into his face. “You shouldn’t kill him. They will never stop hunting you, and they’ll hang you from the nearest tree when they catch you. Besides, no one will ever kill Wyatt Earp. That’s crazy.” She grabbed his arm. “He’ll kill you, that’s certain.”

“He got away with killing my brother. They shot him and beat him to death out in the street.”

For ever so long her gaze remained on his eyes, then she stared out the window of the Long Branch. “Please think very hard about not killing Wyatt Earp. I’m so sorry about your brother. Even if you can draw your gun before he can draw his, and you shoot him, someone will kill you. Because it’s happened before here. I’ve heard some of the men talk about it. George Hoyt worked for Clay Allison at one time. Was he your brother?”

“That’s my brother. And everyone talks about it? But they do nothing. Just let Earp get away with it?”

“He’s the law. Nobody’s going to challenge him.”

“Some say Earp and his deputies shot George down because of the feud between Clay Allison and Wyatt Earp. That way, Earp avoided a gunfight with Allison, who everyone knows is a shootist. Others say that isn’t so and they made it up. It was really something to do with Doc Holliday gonna come into town.” She shrugged and leaned close to him. “You know how tales get to going like wildfire till no one ever knows the truth for sure.”

“I know this. Earp and his law killed my brother. Not only shot him, they beat him over the head after he was down.”

He started to go on, but she put two fingers over his lips. He let them rest there and closed his eyes for a moment. Her touch felt so good. Her skin

smelled like roses. He’d always imagined a woman like her wanting a man like him.

If only things were different. But they weren’t. He owed this to the brother he loved.

Without saying anything, she continued to sit with him. He waited as long as he could, then eased out of her touch.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to do it. I’ll figger out something else to get away with it. I don’t rightly want to be caught.”

“You going to sneak up on him, or what?”

“No. I’m calling him out. I can out-shoot him if I can get him alone in the street.”

Again, her pause, then she blew a strand of hair from her face with a loud noise. “That is about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. No way will you outdraw Wyatt Earp, and with the deputies close by like they’re tied together, if you did, they’d shoot you down right quick. You’d never make it to the stage station.”

“I can try. Got to do something. Got no family left.”

“And so you would be a wanted killer, too. Nice way to wipe out an entire family. You have to care about yourself so you can live. What would your ma and pa say if they were alive? Wouldn’t they want you to live?”

“Well, yeah, but they ain’t alive.”

“So what they might feel isn’t worth anything to you? I’d give anything if I could do something to make my ma feel better. It shore wouldn’t be killing my pa, though I’ve wished I could often enough. You said you never hurt no one, so why start now?”

“But I was conscripted into the Confederate Army, and I killed there. George stayed home to look after Pa. When I got back from the war Pa had passed, and George was already gone. And now he’s dead, and I’ll never get to see him again.”

“Well, then. I have an idea.” She rose from the chair. “Let’s the two of us go down to the station this morning and buy us tickets out of here. Neither one of us will have to think of killing anyone. You’re not a killer, I know you aren’t.”

What did he want? What would George want of him? Did it matter to Ma and Pa? Julie was offer-

ing him more than he’d ever had. But did he know her? He stared across the silent saloon.

He nodded and took her hand. It felt fragile and soft. “I’m sorry, Julie. I have to do this. It just ain’t right for Earp and his bunch to get away with murder, and they need to pay.”

“Maybe it is murder, but you shooting a lawman won’t change that.” Tears poured from her eyes.

As always, he had no idea what to do. He lay her hands back in her lap, rose, and fitted his hat on firmly. “When Orley told me George’d been killed by that no-good Earp, I made a vow to my dead brother to make this right. I have to do that one thing.”

“No, please.” She reached for him, but he backed off, shaking his head. He would never forgive himself if he let her talk him out of this. Ma died having him, and he adored George, grew up tagging along with him everywhere he went.

“I’m going to get some sleep. You be on the stage in the morning and go live your life somewhere you’ll be happy. Don’t worry about me. I’ll only be happy if I can keep my vow. I’d rather die in Front Street than not keep my vow to make this right.”

Tomorrow he would kill Earp, and so be it if he was cut down later. They could bury him in Boot Hill as the man who outdrew and shot Wyatt Earp.

“I’ll outdraw him. Will you wait for me?”

When she didn’t answer, he turned around, but she was gone.

JULIE’S RETURN

Twenty years later, Julie returned to Dodge City. Her son, Hank Jr., stepped from the train and reached up to help her down. Without speaking, she folded her arm through his, guiding him toward Boot Hill. He appeared not to notice her furtive glance. How would he take seeing his own father’s grave? Though she’d told him the story when he was old enough, he was so much like his father. What would he do seeing the gravestone? What might be engraved there? She’d never been back in all these years and only came now because Hank wanted to.

He stopped her. “Are you sure he’s buried here? I mean you told me you left before, uh, the gunfight. What if Dad won the fight? Or what if he chickened out and rode away? All these years and you’ve never been back here or tried to find out.”

“I chose a life with your grandmother. After your grandfather’s accident, she needed me as much as I needed her. Your father chose to die, simple as that. Neither of us knew I carried his child. You. Besides anyone who can read knows Earp moved on from here to Tombstone.”

Hank broke away. “There’s his stone.”

Moving through the wet grass, she joined him. Even after all these years, the fact of Hank’s death chiseled on that stone made her heart ache. Falling in love with a man and losing him, all in the same day, had been so hard. She placed her gloved hand on the top of Hank’s stone, remembering the blueeyed man in the Long Branch Saloon who had treated her like a lady so long ago. He had touched her with a gentleness she’d never known from another man.

Hank ran trembling fingers over his father’s name. Didn’t speak for a long while. Then he glanced at the stone next to him. Hank’s brother, George. “Father was the best brother a man could have.”

“To go out to kill someone is not the best way to show love, Hank. Please remember that.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I know that.”

HERE LIES HANK HOYT

Hekepthisvow

SHOT BY WYATT EARP

HERE LIES GEORGE HOYT

BelovedBrother

SHOT BY WYATT EARP

Strange. He had to’ve told someone about his vow to call out Earp, else why was it put on his tombstone? Probably what got him killed. But she would never know. a

VELDA BROTHERTON

VELDA BROTHERTON wrote for decades from her home perched on the side of a mountain against the Ozark National Forest. Branded as Sexy, Dark and Gritty, her work embraces the lives of gutsy women and heroes who are strong enough to deserve them. After a stint writing for a New York publisher in the late ’80s and early ’90s, she settled comfortably in with small publishers to produce novels in several genres.

While known for her successful series work— the Twist of Poe romantic mysteries, as well as her signature Western Historical Romances—her publishing resume includes numerous standalone novels, including Once There Were Sad Songs, Wolf Song, Stoneheart’s Woman, Remembrance, and her magnum opus, Beyond the Moon.

Following the tragic passing of her longtime writing partner, legendary Western author Dusty Richards, in early 2018, she took up her pen to finish several of his outstanding works, including the standalone novel Blue Roan Colt and the Texas Badge Mystery Series. Sadly, Velda passed away in early 2023, leaving behind scores of up-and-coming writers she’d mentored through the years.

BENEATH THE FULL moon, Rosalie studied the uneasy herd of longhorns amidst her trail boss’s low singing. Coyotes howled in the distance. An animal screamed, likely the coyotes’ meal. A shiver careened through her body at the eerie noises. She had been a fool—a damned fool to take on this cattle drive.

Stop it. Rosalie gritted her teeth. They would reach Dodge City by tomorrow evening, and once the boss man paid them, no one would be the wiser when a teenage boy disappeared. If she survived the challenges of the Great Western Trail with crossing the rivers and rugged terrain, riding the plains toward Dakota Territory would seem easy.

A rustle came from the brush nearby. Rosalie stiffened and gripped the butt of her six-shooter. She cleared her throat. “St-Stretch?”

Her trail boss had stopped singing, but the coyotes continued. Rosalie eased her revolver from the holster, forced a steady hand, and searched for the noise’s source. A twig snapped near her, and she whirled around.

“Whoa,” said Stretch, extending his arms to the side. “Ross, it’s me.”

Rosalie retorted through her clenched jaw. “You didn’t answer.”

“Put the gun down.”

As she lowered the revolver, her heart pounded. She could have killed him like she killed—Rosalie shook away the thought. A mutter escaped her lips. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been watchin’ ya throughout the cattle drive. And you ain’t got the experience like you said, but I think we’ll make you a cowboy yet.” Stretch stepped forward.

“Don’t.”

Stretch stared at her, then hooked a thumb in his gunbelt. His dark eyes narrowed.

Rosalie stifled a flinch as he appeared to scrutinize her. One more day, she recited. She had to convince Stretch she was a boy for one more day. Her innards shuddered at what would happen if she failed.

“Son, I’ma ask ya two questions. Did you run away from home? Or are you runnin’?”

Rosalie side-stepped his piercing stare and ground the toe of her boot in the dirt. She had done both. Distant talking carried through the humidity, and they glanced at the two men headed toward them. Rosalie gave a silent sigh. Their shift was finally over unless a storm came.

“Well… I guess you ain’t no cattle thief.” His gaze returned to her. “You could have stolen half the herd by now. But I’d like an answer, kid.”

Rosalie continued digging her toe in the dirt. She dragged the tip of her tongue over her dry lips and rubbed them together. Joe and Buck walked too slow. Rosalie glanced back and forth between the two men and Stretch. “I… I….”

“According to Boss Man, we’re to take the next watch,” Joe said and yawned.

“Watch for coyotes,” Rosalie said. When Stretch questioned her again, she fled from him and his barrage.

ROSALIE’S HEART THUNDERED like a stampede. They had reached Dodge City, a place where she’d fit in as another murderer. The law would leave her alone as long as she didn’t cross north of the railroad tracks with a gun. A shiver rippled through her. She would need to be careful if the stories about the red-light district were true.

As they drove the cattle toward the stockyard, relief trickled into Rosalie. She had concealed her sex since joining the drive outside of Austin, and her secrets remained undiscovered. Rosalie glanced over at Stretch, who rode on the opposite side of the herd. He was staring at her again. She swallowed hard.

An old habit, Rosalie’s fingers ached to twirl her once wavy, black locks. She clenched the reins and urged Maisy onward. Working for a cattle drive had been foolish. Yet, ninety dollars would jingle in her pocket, and she could use it to start a new life.

After they penned the longhorns and received their pay, Rosalie began climbing atop Maisy when someone clasped her shoulder. She

swore as she stumbled, nearly falling. When Rosalie steadied herself, she glared into the face of Stretch, who guffawed.

“Youse a jumpy lil fella.”

“What do you want?”

“I was wonderin’ iffen you’d come with us to the saloon later?” Stretch appeared to be studying her. “You ever seen the inside of a saloon?”

Rosalie folded her arms across her bound chest. “What’s it to you where I been?”

Stretch shrugged.

“I got my money, and I aim to keep riding.” Rosalie lifted her foot into the stirrup and paused when Stretch spoke.

“Join me and the others. After we’re done shoppin’ for new duds and had a bath, lemme buy you a drink as a thank you for puttin’ up with us old cowhands.”

Don’t do it. Rosalie squeezed her eyes shut and gave a sharp exhale as she opened them. Take the money and keep ridin’ before they learn what you are. You know what they do to women.

“Well?”

“One drink. Then I gotta ride.”

Stretch chuckled and slapped Rosalie on the back. “A couple of drinks with us, and you won’t regret it. Meet’cha at the Cattlemen’s Saloon.”

Rosalie parted ways with the others at the Dodge House Hotel and wandered through the busy town. Horses and wagons lined the streets in front of businesses, loading and unloading supplies. Nothing but men seemed to exist in the Cowboy Capital. She and they both knew the women were stashed away in the saloons, brothels, and dance halls south of the tracks. Stretch and the others had regaled her with their wicked stories.

An hour later, Rosalie waited outside of the Cattlemen’s Saloon. Her stomach roiled as she secured her horse. She stroked Maisy’s nose. Stretch and the others soon appeared, and she whispered to Maisy, “I won’t be long.”

Inside the saloon, the men’s din matched the volume of the piano player’s jaunty tune. Rosalie stifled a cough in the lingering acrid smoke and

perspiration. Working women hovered around the tables, sitting on men’s laps and flirting through their words and touches. She startled at shouts followed by a crash.

“Cheater!” exclaimed an older gentleman, pointing at a young man. He tipped the faro table upside down. The cards fluttering to the floor, glasses shattering, and chips scattering.

Another player pummeled the cheater. Soon, a fight broke out amongst the crowd, and bedlam ensued. Rosalie stared at the scene, aghast. She shouldn’t have agreed to a drink, for she seemed to have entered a den of hell. Poor decisions plagued her.

A shot pierced the chaos.

The saloon deadened as the deemed “cheater” gasped, covered the growing bloodstain on his shirt, then collapsed.

Stretch tugged at her shirtsleeve and pointed to an empty table. “Come on.”

Rosalie nodded, still gaping at the scene as she trailed Stretch and the others. Powder smoke and the blood’s coppery tang merged with the other overwhelming odors.

“Ain’t you ever seen a dead body a’fore?” Stretch said to her and sat as if no one had died. The rest of the saloon followed his cue.

Bile crept up in Rosalie’s throat. As she stared at the dead man, the memory of what she had done three months ago taunted her. She glanced around and observed all the men’s faces. He was dead. She was sure of it. Rosalie gave a silent sigh, but uncertainty niggled at her.

Tables and chairs scraped against the floor. Several women cleaned up the mess while their boss resumed pouring drinks behind the counter. Rosalie stared at him. His appearance was identical to the man she had shot.

“Ross,” Stretch shouted at her.

Freed from her stupor, Rosalie joined him and the others at the table. Stretch motioned over a woman with brunette hair. When she arrived at their table, Rosalie’s face warmed at the scantily clad woman. Rosalie averted her gaze toward the two men dragging the dead body outside. The others at

the table snickered. Boss Man ordered a round of drinks, his voice fading as Rosalie continued studying the saloon. Women had their quilt circles while men had a plethora of sins. She shook her head.

“I reckon you ain’t ever been with a woman, neither,” Stretch said.

Rosalie met Stretch’s gaze, her cheeks growing hotter. He would snatch those words back if he knew the truth. “N-n-no.”

Stretch pursed his lips, which seemed to twitch like he wanted to grin. “You stay with us, and we’ll teach ya the finer things of bein’ a man. Now, where you plan on ridin’ to?”

Rosalie shrugged.

The brunette brought their drinks and brushed up against Rosalie as she slid the glasses to each man. She must be around my age, Rosalie surmised. She mumbled a “thanks” and took a swig of the amber-colored liquid. The others stared at her.

Fire. She had swallowed fire. Rosalie wheezed. Laughter surrounded the table while tears streamed down her face from the burning.

“Anya.” The familiarity of the woman’s name rumbled from Stretch’s chest. When she approached their table, she knelt down beside his chair. He whispered in her ear. Their gazes landed on Rosalie. Stretch kissed Anya on the cheek, then she rose. “Thanks, darlin’.”

Bile threatened to choke Rosalie at his action. For a distraction, she fumbled through her pocket. “What do I owe for the drink?”

“Nothin’. I’m proud to have bought ya your first drink.” Stretch took a long swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I reckon yer pa never done the likes of this with ya.”

Rosalie tensed. “My pa died when I was ten.”

“Drink up. The boys and I got a surprise for ya when you finish.”

As Rosalie brought the glass to her lips, Stretch grinned and gave a wink. She forced down another mouthful. When she went to finish the foul-tasting beverage, Anya clasped a hand over hers on the glass and stopped her from guzzling the remaining liquid.

“You fellas oughta know better—gittin’ the boy drunk before his first time.”

“Aw, darlin’. We was enjoyin’ watching him,” Stretch said.

Anya caressed the back of Rosalie’s neck and down her arm. “Well, you ain’t gonna be watchin’ him and me.”

Stretch and the men groaned.

“Y’all wait yer turn.” Anya tugged at Rosalie’s hand. “Come with me, sweetie.”

Rosalie remained rooted in her chair, heart mashing into her stomach. Anya would discover her secret. Stretch narrowed his eyes at her. She had no choice. Rosalie yanked the glass free and gulped the remaining contents, then placed it on the table harder than she’d intended.

“Be careful, or that’ll come out of yer pocket,” Stretch snapped.

“Don’t be nervous, honey. I’ll teach ya what you need to know.” Anya patted Rosalie’s arm and

coaxed her into rising. As she led Rosalie away, the others jeered.

Rosalie stumbled on a step, and Anya caught her. They continued down a dim hallway and entered the last room. Rosalie staggered and fell onto the bed, a bout of giggles consuming her. Her disguise had worked better than she planned.

After three long months on the trail, the bed’s softness seemed foreign to her but a luxury. Rosalie sprawled out. Her bed at home was never this soft. Through bleary eyes, she noted the small room contained little other than a dresser with a pitcher and basin on top. She removed her hat and rubbed a sleeve across her face to mop the dripping sweat. The room was stifling hot despite the open window.

“Stretch shouldn’t have had a virgin like you drink,” said Anya, shutting the door. She sashayed toward Rosalie and stopped at the edge of the bed.

“If it’s all the same to ya, ma’am, I’m not interested in learnin’….”

Anya grabbed ahold of Rosalie’s boot and wiggled it off. “Stretch paid me to perform a service for ya. And I aim to fulfill it.”

Rosalie shoved the soiled dove backward with her foot. “I said no. Tell ’im I wasn’t up to the task.”

Anya glared as she straightened.

“How’s a gal like ya get here?”

“I….” Anya glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “I guess I could tell ya. Stretch ain’t as nice as he seems to be.”

Rosalie blinked hard, but the weight on her eyelids grew heavier. She shouldn’t have drunk that whiskey. Blackness beckoned her more than the urgency to keep riding north.

from last night was being in Anya’s comfortable bed. Wagons rattled past, and passersby talked, their loudness making her wince. As Rosalie stood, she snatched up her hat and slapped it against her leg, dust flying off of it. Thirst burned, and she searched for the nearest well.

After finding the well and quenching her thirst, Rosalie splashed water on her face. The Cattlemen’s Saloon sign loomed down the street. She hunched over and vomited. As long as she lived, she’d never touch another whiskey. Men lived to drink this fire?

Rosalie plunged the bucket below the water again. She took a drink and swished the water around in her mouth, then spat it out. The vile taste still stayed. She winced at another onslaught of her head throbbing. “I should have kept riding yesterday.”

ROSALIE SQUINTED, THE sun shimmering above in waves. She sat up with a groan and rubbed her forehead. Where was she? All she remembered

As Rosalie neared her horse, Maisy nickered. She untied the reins from the hitching post and caressed Maisy’s neck. No guns were allowed across the tracks where the stores were. She sighed and

unbuckled her holster, shoving it and the gun within a saddlebag. Perhaps she should stay another day.

“No….” she murmured. “Don’t make another bad decision.”

Rosalie rode Maisy along Front Street. When she spied Jacob Collar’s store, they stopped. She tied up her horse before walking through the door. The shopkeeper greeted her from behind the counter. While she surveyed the contents available to purchase, she acknowledged him with a nod. His gaze seemed to follow her around the store.

The store seemed to burst with its array of furniture, coffins, and dry goods. Rosalie contemplated buying beans, flour, and sugar. She spotted coffee but paused. With no cooking tools, she would be hardpressed to make anything like the chuckwagon.

“Can I help you find something?” the shopkeeper inquired several minutes later.

“I was thinkin’ what might all fit in my saddlebags that’ll tide me over to the next city.”

The man snorted. “You think you can ride without havin’ to hunt and forage for food?”

Rosalie flinched.

“My advice to you is go back to yer mama.”

“Mister, I rode in on a cattle drive that took three months. Either you help me, or I’ll buy my supplies elsewhere.”

“Then yer a fool. Did yer trail boss and the others take you out for a drink?” When Rosalie stiffened, the shopkeeper continued. “Better check yer pockets.”

Rosalie patted herself and searched through her pockets. The money she had earned working the cattle drive was gone. She took a step forward and stumbled. “This can’t be. No! No! Stretch wouldn’t do….”

Anya had told her not to trust him. Tears formed, and Rosalie blinked hard to staunch them. No more crying. She swore she was done crying. Rosalie gave a hard sigh and spoke in an even tone. “I’ma goin’ to get my money back.”

As she stormed out, the shopkeeper called after her. “Forget ’bout the money. They’ll kill ya.”

Rosalie halted. She squeezed her eyes shut,

and within a minute, she opened them and turned around. “I’m tired of bullies, and I aim to stand up to ’em.”

Stretch had requested Anya. They had to be partners, unless he pickpocketed her in the saloon.

Rosalie ground her teeth as the Cattleman’s Saloon appeared ahead. When they stopped in front of the building, Maisy stamped her hoof and protested. Rosalie reassured her while she got down from her saddle and secured the reins to the post. Maisy continued to protest.

“I don’t understand yer problem. We can’t leave till I get our money back.”

Maisy bobbed her head.

Rosalie burst through the saloon doors. Her jaw and fists clenched, she searched for Anya but did not find her. She marched to the prostitute’s room then threw the door open, banging it against the wall. Anya bolted upright in bed.

“My money. Give it back,” said Rosalie, stomping over to the bed.

Anya’s eyes widened, and she lowered her gaze. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hunched forward, speaking in a soft tone. “Stretch has it.”

The tension dissipated, and Rosalie unclenched her jaw and fists. Like her, Anya had fallen victim to a man. She slumped on the bed beside Anya, and when she grasped the girl’s hand, Anya flinched. “Stretch forced you into this life, didn’t he?”

Anya nodded.

“Who is he to you?”

“When she was on her deathbed, Mama made my stepfather promise I was taken care of, and he told her a half-truth.”

Rosalie sucked in air, held it in her cheeks for a second, then released them. “How long has he been forcin’ you into this scam of his? I need that pay to help me in Dakota Territory.”

“Take me with you.” As Anya met Rosalie’s gaze, tears shimmered. “Please. Yer my only way to git out of this life. If I help you steal the money back, Stretch will kill me.”

“Why?” Rosalie snorted.

“Please… if you don’t….”

“If I don’t what? What could you do to me you already haven’t?”

Anya whispered, “I know your secret.”

Rosalie stiffened, a chill rippling through her at what secret Anya dared blackmail her with.

“I wondered why you insisted.”

“You can leave with me.” Rosalie interrupted. “But I ain’t takin’ you to Dakota Territory.”

Anya stretched out on the bed. “That’ll suffice. I wish I would have been as clever as you, dressing as a man.”

Rosalie shook Anya’s hand with a harrumph.

“Now, here’s how I intend on getting yer money back.”

Anya delved into the details of what Rosalie should expect to happen tonight, what preparations needed to be made, and the roles they would play.

When Anya finished, Rosalie spoke. “You never asked for my name.”

“Do I need to?”

“I guess not.” Rosalie shrugged as she rose from the bed. “Time to get goin’ on those preparations. I’ll see ya tonight, then.”

ROSALIE FIDGETED. STRETCH and his men entered the Cattlemen’s Saloon like Anya had said they would. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made her heart pound louder and reopened them. What if Anya betrayed her? What if Stretch figured out the plan? “Ain’t no use frettin’,” she said softly.

The waiting seemed endless. After Stretch arrived, she was to wait for several minutes before going into the saloon. Rosalie cupped the revolver in her holster. She should have tossed it back in Austin. Rosalie sighed and dropped a hand to her side. She had waited long enough.

“Patience is a virtue,” her mother’s voice whispered in the wind.

“Not in a lawless place like this,” Rosalie said to herself. She headed toward the saloon. Mama’s quips hadn’t done nothing for her.

At the saloon’s doors, Rosalie paused and

pressed her shaky fingers against her pants. She exhaled. This was another mistake. Stretch and his men would chase them. Rosalie turned around then continued to walk past the saloon. Her stomach knotted. She’d have to find another job and delay going to Dakota Territory.

No. Rosalie halted. She didn’t go through hell on the cattle drive only to lose her pay to Stretch.

Rosalie whirled around and returned to the Cattlemen’s Saloon, marching inside. She spotted Stretch at the table they sat at previously. Her jaw clenched at the sight of him. The coward. As she headed to his table, her gaze met Anya’s.

“O-oh, it’s Ross. I thought youse were ridin’ outta here today,” Stretch said in a jeer. “Or did you decide to stay on with us?”

Rosalie resisted the urge to form fists and lowered her head. “A thief stole my whole pay. Now I got no money for supplies.”

Stretch stared as if studying her.

Anya glided over and brushed up against Rosalie, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She kissed Rosalie’s cheek. “You boys will be disappointed to hear your boy went through with last night.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t a thief, but Anya here that took yer money?”

Anya scoffed.

Rosalie shook her head. “No, sir. I-I-I swear it was in my pocket, and I never gave her more.”

“I told ya we’d make you into a cowboy yet.” Stretch grinned.

“You’d let me stay on?”

Anya pursed her lips. As Stretch replied, she removed her arm from around Rosalie and dallied toward him.

Rosalie swallowed hard, her heart thrumming against her eardrums. This was it. The plan. Anya started sooner than she had expected.

“Ross,” shouted Stretch, startling her. When Rosalie glanced at his narrowed eyes, Anya stood beside him. He took her hand as she slid onto his lap and caressed his jaw. “Did you hear me?”

“What?”

Stretch stared at her, then at Anya. A grin curled

on his face. “Now that youse got a taste of Anya here, you want more. Don’t ya?”

Rosalie gaped. The saloon grew warm, and she averted her gaze by staring at a glass filled with whiskey. Despite last night’s unpleasant experience, a drink to get through tonight tempted her.

“Here.” Stretch slid his glass over to her. Anya whispered in his ear, and as she stood, Stretch winked at Rosalie. He rose from his chair and clasped her hand with his. “I’ll let ya have my drink, but you ain’t havin’ my girl. We’re leavin’ for home in the mornin’. And if you ain’t there, we’re leavin’ without ya.”

“Where?”

Stretch cackled. “That’s for you to figure out.”

“Are you comin’? Or are ya gonna keep torturin’ the boy?” Anya glared at Stretch with a frown.

Rosalie collapsed into an empty chair, studying Anya and Stretch’s backs as they disappeared into the throng. She slammed her palm against the table and swore. The amber-colored liquid sloshed over the lip of the glass and onto the table, wetting her hand.

Rosalie lifted the glass and hesitated. Eyes were on her, like they were waiting to see what a naïve teenage boy would do. If they only knew. She needed a clear head for what was to come in a second. Her fingers trembled against the glass. Yet, perhaps a sip might help her with this nagging fear.

“You gonna drink that or what?” Buck leered.

Rosalie brought the glass to her lips. The whiskey wet her lips, but she still did not drink it.

A chorus of voices chanted, “Drink it.”

Rosalie set the glass down, pushed back her chair, and shoved the whiskey in the center of the table. She adjusted her hat. “I got me something to do before we leave tomorrow.”

With everyone gaping at her, Rosalie resisted a smirk as she marched out of the saloon. She glanced about to see if anyone outside was watching. People passed by her, seemingly without noticing her. As she waited, she paced.

Minutes had passed, or had it only been seconds?

Rosalie clenched her jaw. Mama always said waiting was worse than the doing. She’d rather be doing.

Rosalie slipped inside the saloon behind a

group of men and slinked to the hallway leading to Anya’s room. As she edged toward the last door, footsteps scuffled within the room, followed by a crash. She withdrew her revolver and flung open the door.

“Let go of me,” screeched Anya, tugging at her arm. When Stretch gawked at Rosalie, she yanked her arm free from his hold and dashed toward her dresser.

“What the hell you doin’ here, boy?”

Rosalie jabbed her six-shooter forward. “Didn’t yer mama teach ya to be respectful?”

Stretch sneered.

“You stole my money. Give it back.”

“Or you’ll shoot me?” Stretch guffawed. “Boy, you ain’t shot nobody.”

Rosalie glanced at Anya, who crept behind him and raised a pitcher. “Yer wrong.”

Anya walloped the pitcher against Stretch’s head. He collapsed onto the floor. Shards landed beside him. She knelt and rumpled through his pockets, emptying them. “Here’s yer money.”

Rosalie stared at Stretch lying on the floor, his lifeless body reminding her of what she had done. Her mouth dried. A clap startled her, and she gazed at Anya holding out the money. She replaced her gun in the holster, then retrieved the money. While Anya rose, Rosalie counted her stolen pay.

Drawers opened and shut. When Rosalie finished, she discovered Anya changing into pants. Her cheeks warmed, and she averted her gaze. “What are you doin’?”

“What’s it look like? I’m dressin’ like a man.”

Rosalie studied Stretch. “You sure he’s still alive?”

“He’s fine,” Anya hissed. She braided her hair and secured it atop her head, then covered it with a hat. “Let’s go before he wakes up.”

Rosalie nudged Stretch’s hand with the toe of her boot, but it flopped. “Are you sure he’s still alive? He don’t look like he’s breathing.”

Anya grabbed a pillowcase. “I didn’t kill him. Let’s go.”

The pair ambled down the dim hallway, keeping their heads low as they passed others. They reached the saloon and headed for the exit. One of Stretch’s men stood at the bar talking with a stranger. Rosalie gasped and ducked behind a taller patron. Had he seen her?

“What’s wrong?” whispered Anya, looking where Rosalie had glanced.

“That man at the counter.”

“Just keep walkin’. He’s too busy talkin’ with my boss.”

Rosalie complied, her heart thundering. The men were watching them. As the two women neared the exit, they sped up their pace and burst through the door. They sprinted down the street.

When they arrived at their saddled horses, Maisy nickered. Rosalie caressed her velvety nose. “I’m back, girl. Time to ride north.”

Rosalie dragged her fingers along Maisy’s neck, then climbed into her saddle. She and Anya rode out of Dodge City.

“So, who’d you shoot?”

“What?” Rosalie glanced at Anya.

“You told Stretch he was wrong ’bout you shootin’. That must mean ya shot somebody.”

“I shot my husband.”

KYLEIGH MCCLOUD

KYLEIGH MCCLOUD lives in Minnesota with her husband and fourteen-year-old cat. She attended Minnesota State University Moorhead and graduated with a BS in Mass Communications, emphasis in Print Journalism.

Although Kyleigh enjoys reading a variety of genres, her favorite is historical romance. She has always felt drawn to the 1800s time period. The Little House on the Prairie series introduced her to this era when she was in fifth grade. Ever since, Kyleigh has admired the people’s tenacity to survive back then.

Her short story, “A Cowboy’s Dream,” was published in the Winter 2020 issue of Saddlebag Dispatches.

aKyleigh has other short stories published or pending publication in various anthologies. Aside from writing westerns, Kyleigh writes modern women’s fiction and historical fiction. Her holiday novella, Her Mother’s Last Christmas Gift, debuted in November 2020. A second was released November 2021. Follow her on Facebook to learn more about her upcoming works.

LEGENDARY PRODUCER HOWARD KAZANJIAN.

SADDLEBAG FEATURE

JOURNEY FROM BOOKS TO FILM:

Superstar Producer

Kazanjian on Successful Collaborative Writing

GEORGE “CLAY” MITCHELL

Saddlebag Dispatches Features Editor

DODGE CITY HAS almost become a second home for Howard Kazanjian. Not just because of its importance to him growing up watching westerns on television and in the theater, but because of its story.

He’s been honored in Dodge City twice and was made an honorary marshal. “They gave me a badge. If I return to Dodge, I can legally carry a weapon there.”

Howard, a long-time producer, one of the original founders of Lucasfilm, who worked on some of the company’s early projects, and an author of 10 books with prolific western writer Chris Enss —said Dodge City, like many places, still has many stories to be found.

“If you like westerns, you think about Dodge City, Tombstone, Santa Fe, the famous marshals in those towns, and others. But Dodge City was an important city in America’s history,” Howard said.

“Hundreds if not thousands of famous people may have set foot in Dodge City at some point. The streets were loaded with people, animals, horses, and cattle. Trains were ready to take them east or west. It was an interesting wild city in its day.

“When we sat down to write our story that involved Wyatt Earp, we needed something different, but there had to be a story there, a McGuffin (a plot device in the form of a goal or desire of the main character). What are we writing about, and who are our characters? Dodge City was certainly its own character when it came to writing stories.

“Dodge City was just important to us in our history, but it became a focal point for many movies and television shows when I was growing up. Most of the programming was westerns. I love them and would rather see a western than any other show. This is why we write about them and why I’ve taken many trips to visit Dodge City.”

Howard

MEETING CHRIS ENNS

Chris was already a published author and was trying her hand at writing a script. Howard was on a committee to help mentor potential writers, and Chris submitted a screenplay about Roy Rogers and Dale Evans . Howard thought it was an “interesting” script and began a long-time collaboration with her.

There are similarities between a script and a novel, but the challenge of the book is that it’s much broader. When they began collaborat-

a 300-page book. Going about the other is a bigger challenge. You’re taking what may be a six-hour book and trying to reduce it into a two-hour movie.

“With a movie, you must get the point across with the least dialogue. Working with George Lucas, the stories moved fast, but there was less dialogue. The key was the story. You have to decide between dialogue or visuals to tell a story and have it done in two hours or less.”

Howard hopes some of their books will be turned into feature films. Thunder Over the Prairie is slated to be directed by veteran filmmaker

ing on Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, they went to Dusty Rogers (son of Roy and Dale). At first, Dusty hesitated to let them do the story because he was concerned it would have an edge. Once Chris and Howard convinced Dusty of their intentions, they expanded the screenplay into a novel.

“If it started as a screenplay, it’s much easier to adapt that into a novel than the opposite,” Howard said. “We had a 120-page script that expanded into

Walter Hill . The story is about some of the famous lawmen before they were famous, like Charlie Bassett, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, and Bill Tilghman , when they formed a posse to track a murderer and the bonds and friendships that were forged for a lifetime. Howard says Chris could write two or three books before a movie is

finished and distributed. He added that working with her helps keep his brain going.

“It’s interesting. When you publish a book, you’ve accomplished something,” said Howard. “You told a story. Maybe you got to dig into a bit of history, and in some respects, she and I have become teachers of history through books. I strongly believe there’s a place for young people to read history to understand better what is happening around them today.”

COLLABORATION

Chris does the writing for the duo, but both put in the work. Howard and Chris have collaborated on more than 10 books together, and they know where each other’s strengths lie in the collaboration.

One such collaboration was about the wives whose husbands died at Little Big Horn called None Wounded, None Missing, All Dead: The Story of Elizabeth Bacon Custer. Chris wanted to do a women’s story and one about the widows and what happened to them after the ill-fated battle.

“Chris thought of that story and pushed it through. She did almost all the work, and the collaboration was out of Chris’s heart,” Howard said. “We recently worked on a story about Margaret Dumont, the straight lady of the Groucho Marx movies. It was more Hollywood, more where I come from, but Chris was the one who put pen to paper. It would have been difficult if one of us had taken a chapter to write. If we were writing a script, and I knew the story, I would do that.”

Howard said there was no one way for writers to collaborate. They have to find what works best for them. For Return of the Jedi, he and George Lucas hired Lawrence Kasdan to help with the screenplay. They discussed the story and how it would be this trilogy’s third and final chapter. Lawrence wrote a draft, and George wrote a draft. They compared both. They discussed what they liked and

what worked, and both went out again and rewrote their own scripts.

Howard said it was easier for Chris to do the writing and communicate back and forth what needed to be changed or added.

They don’t start writing until they figure out the story. The writing duo will do traditional research and even watch period films. For one book, The Death Row All Stars, a story about death row inmates

marshal of Dodge City? There was a story that hadn’t been told. We had to figure out what it was.”

Howard noted that Chris would tend to travel to do her research, and for his research, he’d go to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Library. Later they’d share what was learned. One of the duo’s first collaborations was about Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, which was done as a coffee table-style book.

“She’s really the one who comes up with the ideas and runs them by me,” Howard said.

in Wyoming, they poured through the early days of newspapers and found quotes from the prison warden, the governor, and local police. They discovered one account where a prisoner had his execution delayed as long as the team kept winning baseball games. Another was about a man sent to prison for something he didn’t do.

“Once we got all the pieces, we had to flesh it out, said Howard. “A story on Wyatt Earp when he was a

STORYTELLING

For Howard, it doesn’t matter if it’s a film, book, or television show. It’s all about the story.

“If you don’t have a story, it’s just background. You have to ask and want to know what’s going on (on) that street and who those characters are. From a

creative standpoint, do you have a story, great characters, and an arc? Have we learned something? Are there changes? If you don’t have a story, you have nothing. I saw a movie years ago, and I had questions about characters and what was happening during the movie. I just ended up enjoying the visuals.

“The success of a movie is not if the audience walks out, goes home, opens the ice box, and takes out all the chicken. It’s when the audience goes home and thinks about it. I certainly thought about Star Wars, Close Encounters, and 2001: A Space Odyssey . The story, that is what makes a successful movie or book.”

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

Howard has always lived, at most, 20 miles from where he was born in Pasadena, California. With the exception of living in other places when he was working on a film project, he’s never strayed from Southern California. He’s worked for Four Star Productions and later Warner Brothers, and his commute was only 20 minutes. He says you can still make that commute if you leave early enough, but to get places like the old MGM lot, it will take an hour because of the traffic.

His first movie was the original King Solomon’s Mine, and he saw his first John Wayne movie a couple of years later.

“My parents loved movies. When I got a little older, I would go to the theater. I could take the bus, and at the time, Pasadena had 12 theaters, all close together, and I would sometimes see two movies a week,” Howard said. “I was too young to see the Saturday serials but would see them on television. That was the format we wanted for Raiders of the Lost Ark. That was the most fun I had making a motion picture. It was really enjoyable as a producer. For me, the fun was recreating the past with the costumes, the old buggies, and the wagons. That was the

fun… the challenge of creating something besides a story.”

HOLLYWOOD DAYS

Howard’s foray into storytelling began when his parents gave him an 8mm camera when he was 11. He and other relatives would begin experimenting by making an apple disappear and even try their hand at stop-motion action.

“The camera wasn’t something to shoot a family barbecue at home. I liked going to see these movies,” Howard said. “I wanted to be a filmmaker from my youngest days, and as a teenager, I decided that was what I would do.”

Growing up in Pasadena in the 1940s and 50s, Howard and his friends would often see limos that ferried the stars of Hollywood or even catch a glimpse of them. He recalled how the newspapers would be

HOWARD STANDS WITH GEORGE LUCAS DURING ON-LOCATION SHOOTING FOR RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK IN TUNISIA.

filled with stories about Hollywood celebrities and numerous magazines profiled their lives.

“Hollywood wasn’t just a city by this time. It was entertainment,” said Howard. “In high school, I convinced two teachers I could turn in term papers on film. I knew it was going to be my major in college.”

When Howard attended USC, there wasn’t a film school. You had to learn other subjects. He took a film editing class, but the professors said they would be learning things they would never have the opportunity to use. “They certainly don’t say that now,” Howard said.

He worked on a number of projects after college, from TV projects to The Great Bank Robbery to the storied production of Sam Peckinpah’s epic western The Wild Bunch.

“That was challenging. About 70 percent of the original crew was replaced but stuck with it,” Howard said. “I learned a lot. Sam yelled at me a lot. I could tell stories. It was a difficult shoot. There was a lot on Sam’s shoulders. His last two movies didn’t do well, and it was a huge crew and a big cast.

“It was a learning experience. I’m glad I got to experience it as a young man. Maybe at the age of 50, I would have walked off the film.”

Back then, Westerns ruled supreme on the big and small screens. Howard says the stories are still there. “I grew up on Hopalong Cassidy and The Lone Ranger. In many respects, those stories have morphed into today’s programs. The stagecoach is a bus; horses are cars; wagons are SUVs. Basically, the story is the same. It seems to be all space movies for the past 30 to 40 years.

“But those same stories exist, and people will find a new way to tell them and have a different perspective on a subject.”

—GEORGE “CLAY” MITCHELL is an award-winning reporter and photographer, as well as a founding partner of Saddlebag Dispatches and Executive Vice President and Chief Development Officer of its parent company, Oghma Communications.

IT WAS THE half-grown, half-dead mustang that got to him. Up until that day he had grudgingly obeyed the sergeant’s orders, but when he was told, “Gotta shoot that one,” he felt something new rise up in his gut.

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s goin’ to die, anyway. Ain’t eatin’ enough. Only one of that wild herd we brought in to do that. But never mind the reason. Just take him out, put a bullet in his skull, then kick him down the ravine. The coyotes and vultures will take care of the rest.”

The sergeant took a shiny revolver from the worn belt that squeezed his big belly.

“You can use my gun, but you better bring it back. There will be hell to pay if you should lose it. Savvy?”

“I savvy.”

“You know you and that horse kinda remind me of each other. Both a bag of young, ugly bones and pert near black.”

Grinning big, he gave Ky a shove that knocked him to his knees.

Bastard!

“And don’t be givin’ me that look! That look’s goin’ to get your head blowed off one of these days. Maybe I better send somebody with you to keep an eye on you. Stop by the commissary and tell Hernandez I said to get a couple of mules and ride with you to the ravine. He may be a sorry Mexican, but he’s dependable.”

Ky got up, shoving the gun into the belt that barely kept his pants up on his skinny hips. He didn’t mind Hernandez. He, the cook, and the general were the only ones who didn’t give him constant hell. Ky’s body was covered with bruises that resulted from “accidental” pokes, shoves, and kicks from the sergeant and his fellow soldiers.

But the abuse wasn’t just physical. They wouldn’t even call him by the name the missionaries gave him, John. The sergeant changed his name to Ky—short for Kiowa—the day the commander agreed to give him a place to stay and food to eat if he would join the cavalry. That was two years ago when Ky had just turned fourteen and decided he was fed up with

the Mission and its endless rules. He had run away in the middle of the night and kept running for three days. By the time he stumbled upon Fort Dodge, he was weak and starved down. He was willing to do anything for a plate of food and a place to sleep.

The sergeant voiced his disapproval of the general’s decision several times. “Craziest thing I ever heard of, acceptin’ a half-breed Kiowa into the ranks! We ain’t that hard up for men, and I don’t care what anybody says, I ain’t issuin’ you a rifle. Not when we’re surrounded by dirty Kiowas just like you, itchin’ for a chance to murder every one of us and all the folks in Dodge City.”

Ky found the cook peeling potatoes for the noon meal. He acknowledged Ky’s greeting with a curt nod and went back to his task.

“If you’re lookin’ for Hernandez, he ain’t here. Probably in the outhouse, purgin’ his guts from the rot gut whisky he got into last night. Told him to stay out of the sergeant’s sight today, or he would get another beatin’.”

“What am I supposed to do? Sergeant told me to take him with me to kill a horse.”

Sighing deeply, the cook looked up to meet Ky’s eyes. “Can you do it yourself?”

“Guess so.”

“Well, what the sergeant don’t know won’t hurt him, and it will probably save you and Hernandez both a beatin’. Just get it done and get back as soon as you can.”

The cook held out two cold biscuits. “Here. Boys like you are always hungry. Put some of that sugar you stole from the table on them, and they’ll make you a tasty bite. You know I had a boy like you once before the fever got him.”

Ky wrapped the biscuits up in a bandana he had in his pocket. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Say, before you leave, let an old man give you some advice. First good chance you get, leave this place. There ain’t no future for you here, and the sergeant is goin’ to kill you one of these days. All he sees is your skin color, and he hates all Indians. Heard tell his family was wiped out by Kiowas when he was just a little feller. That

ain’t no excuse for his behavior, but it explains why he does what he does. As for the others, they just do what he tells them to do. Just give it some thought.”

“I’ll do that.”

Ky walked back to the stall where the horse still lay. When he clicked his tongue, it raised its head before lying back down.

“Come here.”

The stallion eyeballed him but didn’t move.

Then he remembered their common origin. Ky hadn’t spoken his mother tongue since before he was carried off to the mission school when he was only eight. His mother had loved him, even though his father had been a white trader. She had cried when the soldiers carried him off, along with three other children.

He cried, too, his first night at the Mission. He stopped when a big boy called him, “Baby,” and gave him his first beating. It was the first of several until he learned to keep his tears and feelings to himself.

Ky shook his head to clear it. Finally, he remembered himself as little, riding behind his grandfather on a big black horse. What did he call it?

“Tsan!”

The stallion scrambled to his feet and tentatively approached him.

Reaching into his pants’ pocket, Ky pulled out the bandana.

“I had a feelin’ you was a tsan of the Kiowa and once belonged to them, just like me. Here, have some sugar. Might as well leave the world with a little sweet in your mouth.”

The mustang gobbled down the sugar and looked up for more.

“Sorry, that’s all I got.”

For a half-dead horse, the stallion put up a tremendous fight. Even when he was tied to a strong mule and on his way to the ravine, the mustang kicked and whipped his head around.

When they got to the edge, Ky stopped and looked at the stallion before untying him.

He reached down and plucked some new spring clover and offered it from his hand. The mustang ignored him.

“Come on, Tsan. It tastes real good.”

The horse’s right ear flicked at the familiar word. He bent down and sniffed before taking a bite. Once he got a taste, he gobbled the sweet grass down.

Ky chuckled and patted the silky neck. “Why don’t I let you get your fill?’

Grazing steadily, the mustang permitted Ky to stroke his nose, neck, and shoulders.

“You know what, boy? I don’t think you’re dyin’. I think you’re just sad because you miss bein’ with your own people.”

Sighing, he took out the revolver. “Still, I gotta work if I’m goin’ to eat.”

Ky stepped back from the grazing horse and aimed. His finger was on the trigger when the mule let out a loud bray.

Whirling around, he heard another sound, the deadly song of a timber rattler. The mustang jerked the rope from his hand, aimed his right hoof at the snake, and neatly decapitated it with one blow.

“Well, I’ll be! Thanks, Tsan. I owe you one. Trouble is I can’t go back to the fort without doin’ the job they gave me. That would give them an excuse to beat me to death, and they would. Nobody would stop them from killin’ a skinny Kiowa kid, and both of us will be layin’ in the ravine.”

Ky shivered. He bent down, picked up the rope, and drew the horse to him. In a few seconds, it would all be over.

Tsan nickered and butted Ky’s hand with his head.

“Careful. It might go off.”

He put away the gun. As he stroked his fetlock, Ky examined Tsan’s form. Except for being bony, the mustang looked sound. His mind replayed the cook’s words. “First good chance you get, leave this place.”

“Will you trust me, Tsan? There might be a way we can all get out of this alive.”

The stallion balked as he tied him back to the mule. “Sorry. If you will just put up with it for a while, I promise I will take you to a safe place. We’ll go back to our people. I have heard about where some of them still live. It’s not too far. They’ll be glad to see you for sure, and maybe, they will put up with me if I bring you, a mule, and a gun as presents.”

A couple of hours later, the mule suddenly let out a loud bray, and Tsan jerked his head nervously. Ky stopped riding and concentrated on listening. “They’re comin’. We’re goners unless we get real lucky.”

He galloped off the trail until he found a small hill to hide behind. He stroked the mule’s fetlock and whispered in Tsan’s ear. “Hush now.”

He held his breath as he heard the hoofbeats thunder on down the trail. Ky waited a few minutes until he thought it was safe to come out.

Just as he resumed riding on the trail, an arrow whizzed by his ear. He cried out and pulled off again.

Hiding amongst the brush, Ky caught sight of a lone rider a few yards away, loaded bow in hand, aiming for his head. A forgotten word materialized out of nowhere.

Ky cried out a greeting, “Hacho!”

The Indian lowered his bow and replied, “Hacho?”

Ky dismounted and lay his gun on the ground. He used sign language to convey his surrender.

The big man chuckled. “I know English, so just tell me who you are and what you’re doin’ in soldier clothes.”

Ky wiped his brow. “Thank God! I thought sure you was goin’ to kill me. I am Kiowa, but I was stolen away from my people when I was young and taken to a mission. I have been livin’ and workin’ at Fort Dodge for two years. I had no choice. It was join the cavalry or starve to death.”

“So, who do you choose now?”

“I choose the Kiowa. I was on my way to their camp when the soldiers almost caught me.”

The Kiowa picked up the revolver. “Nice gift. We better be goin’ before the soldiers figure out what you did and come back.”

Ky grinned. “Thank you, my friend.”

The Indian smirked. “Who said we are friends? For now, you are my prisoner. We’ll see what the others say.”

“That’s all right. I’d rather take my chances with you than a bunch of soldiers who hate me.”

They took a long, circuitous path away from the beaten trail. They only stopped once to water the

horses and mule. The Kiowa took some buffalo jerky from his saddlebags. then handed a portion to Ky.

He acknowledged Ky’s thanks with a grunt and scanned his form with his dark eyes.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. Why do you ask?”

He grabbed Ky’s chin and raised it so that he could stare directly into his eyes. “I ask the questions. Not you. You’re part white?”

“Yes, my father was a white trader.”

“Too bad for you.”

“I never knew him. My mother raised me to be a Kiowa.”

“I know. That is the only reason I let you live. Time to go.”

It was twilight when they neared the Kiowa camp. They were met by an armed guard who ignored Ky as he greeted his companion with a clap on the shoulder.

The two men talked and laughed together as they rode into the camp, with Ky following on the mule. They rode on ahead, taking the mustang with them.

Ky was soon surrounded by a group of jeering women and children. One of the tallest of the women jerked him off the mule and threw him to the ground. She and her companions laughed as they tore off his uniform and boots. Once Ky tried to get away but was soon overwhelmed by the crush of the crowd.

In a few minutes, he found himself lying on the ground, shivering in his small clothes. Were they goin’ to kill him now?

A sharp cry rang out, and a thin, middle-aged woman appeared by his side. Throwing a buffalo robe over him, her dark eyes flashed as she motioned for the other women to back off.

She leaned over until her forehead was touching his. Then she whispered, “Son.”

Ky had made it home.

REGINA MCLEMORE

R EGINA MCLEMORE is a retired educator and librarian whose familial research inspired both her fiction and nonfiction writing. Family stories, including her grandmother’s experiences at a Cherokee mission/boarding school and historical events, are all reflected in her “Cherokee Passages” series of young ddult novels, the first of which won a Will Rogers Medallion Award in the Western Fiction for Young Readers category in 2021.

aMcLemore’s writing portfolio is a diverse one, however. Not only is she a staff member and regular contributor to Saddlebag Dispatches, she has written many nonfiction articles for newspapers, magazines, journals, newsletters, and anthologies throughout Oklahoma and the Southeastern United States. She has also written three children’s books as well as a historical account of the Cherokee tribe. When she is not writing, she enjoys volunteering for the Adair County Historical and Genealogical Association in her hometown, traveling with her husband, Dennis, playing with her cats and dog, and visiting her family members and friends.

“She wasn’t a coward; she wasn’t a weakling; and she sure wasn’t average.”

LIBBY THOMPSON TWIRLED gracefully around the dance floor of the Sweetwater Saloon in Sweetwater, Texas. A banjo and piano player performed a clumsy rendition of the house favorite, “Sweet Betsy from Pike.” Libby made a valiant effort to match her talent with the musician’s limited skills. The rough crowd around her was not interested in the out-of-tune playing. Their eyes were fixed on the billowing folds of her flaming red costume. The rowdy men hoped to catch a peek at Libby’s shapely, bare legs underneath the yards of fabric on her skirt. Libby was careful to only let them see enough to keep them interested.

Many of the cowboy customers were spattered with alkali dust, grease, or plain dirt. They stretched their eager unkempt hands out to touch Libby as she pranced by, but she managed to avoid all contact. At the end of the performance, she was showered with applause, cheers, and requests to see more. Libby was not in an obliging mood. She smiled, bowed, then hurried past the enthusiastic audience as she made her way to the bar for a drink.

After a surly bartender served her a glass of ap-

ple whiskey, she headed off to the back of the room with her beverage. When she wasn’t entertaining patrons, Libby could be found at her usual corner spot by the stairs. A large, purple, velvet chair waited for her there along with her pets, a pair of prairie dogs. As Libby walked through the mass of people to her spot, she saw three grimy, bearded men surrounding her seat. One of the inebriated cowhands was poking at her animals with a long stick.

“Boys, I’d thank you kindly to stop that,” she warned the unruly trio. The men turned to see who was speaking, then broke into a hearty laugh once they saw her. Ignoring the dancer, they resumed their harassment of the small dogs. The animals batted the stick back as it neared them, and each time the men would erupt with laughter.

Libby watched the three for a few moments, then slowly reached into her drawstring purse and removed a pistol. Pointing the gun at the men, she said, “Don’t make me ask you again.” The drunken cowhands turned to face Libby, and she aimed her pistol at the head of the man with the stick. Laughing, the man told her to “go to hell.”

“I’m on my way,” she responded, pulling the ham-

—Thelma Thompson Wilson Squirrel Tooth Alice’s great granddaughter, 1999

LIBBY THOMPSON, THE MADAME FAMOUSLY KNOWN IN DODGE CITY AS “SQUIRREL TOOTH ALICE.”

mer back on the gun. “But I don’t mind sending you there first so you can warn them,” she added. The cowboy dropped the stick, and he and his friends backed away from her chair. One by one they staggered out of the saloon. Libby put the gun back into her purse then scooped up her frightened pets. She scratched their heads and kissed them repeatedly.

Libby Thompson was known by most as Squirrel Tooth Alice . Named for a slight imperfection in her teeth and for the burrowing rodents she kept that were often mistaken for squirrels, Alice was one of the most famous madams on the Western frontier.

Libby Thompson was born Mary Elizabeth Haley on October 18, 1855, in Belton, Texas. Her parents, James Haley and Mary Raybourne, owned a plantation along the Brazos River. Prior to the Civil War, the Haleys were a wealthy family. Libby, along with her three brothers and two sisters, were accustomed to the finer things in life. When the South lost the war, the Haley fortune went with it. James managed to hold onto his land, and his children helped him work the rich soil. He was never a considerable success as a farmer, but he did manage to keep his family fed. He was not able to protect them from hostile Indian parties that raided homesteads and stole their livestock, however.

In 1864, Comanche Indians raided the Haley plantation and took Libby captive. James and Mary searched for their daughter for three years. After locating the tribe that had taken Libby, a ransom was offered for her release. The distraught Haleys

agreed to pay the price, and Libby returned home in the winter of 1867.

Speculations as to how the Comanche Indians treated female captives ranged from forcible rape and torture to marriage and servitude. Thirteen-year-old Libby rarely spoke of the harrowing ordeal. Historians at the University of Texas note her behavior was indicative of most captives. Even if she had described the perilous ordeal to the curious Belton population, it would not have changed the way they treated her. Libby showed no physical signs of abuse, and the public took that to mean she willingly submitted to the Indian’s demands.

Libby was shunned by polite society and ostracized from the community.

Rejected by friends, neighbors, and some family members, Libby was driven to keep company with an older man who accepted her despite her experience with the Comanche. When Libby brought the gentleman friend home to meet her parents, she introduced him as her husband. James was so enraged at the idea of his teenage daughter being taken advantage of, he shot and killed Libby’s lover. The scandal further tarnished her already questionable reputation.

At the age of fourteen, Libby ran away from home to start life fresh in a new location. She chose Abilene, Kansas, as the spot to begin again. She took a job as a dance hall girl in one of the town’s many wild saloons. It was in one of these establishments that she met a cowboy gambler named Billy Thompson. Billy was ten years older than Libby. He swept her off her feet with his boyish good

looks, irresistible charm, and promise of an exciting life on the frontier. The two left Abilene together in 1870 and made way for Texas.

When Libby wasn’t following her man over the Chisholm Trail while he punched cows for any cattle drive crew that needed him, the pair holed up in a saloon. Billy would gamble, and Libby would dance. Dance hall girls were paid well and could earn even more if they engaged in acts of prostitution. Libby was not opposed to entertaining gentlemen in that manner if it brought in extra cash. As long as she shared her income with Billy, he didn’t object. The carefree couple drifted from town to town, staying long enough to tire of the place and then move on.

In 1872, Libby and Billy left Texas and headed back to Kansas. This time they settled in Ellsworth. Work was readily available there. Numerous cattle drives came through the area, and there was a lot of money to be made and won at the busy saloons. In less than six months, Libby and Billy had amassed a small fortune. Most of the pair’s wealth was lost after a few luckless nights of gambling. By this time, Libby was expecting their first child. Broke and desperate, Billy decided to join a drive heading south.

Cohabitation without the benefit of marriage was illegal in the Old West, so Libby and Billy lied about their marital status. They did so not only to get away with living together but also for Libby to go along on the cattle drives. As trail boss, Billy was permitted to have his family accompany him. Holed up in the back of a wagon, a pregnant Libby followed the herd from Kansas to Oklahoma. On April 1, 1873, she gave birth to a son and named him Rance. Three months later, in a formal setting, Billy decided to legally marry the mother of his child.

The Thompsons were vagabonds. It was not in their nature to lay down roots, and even having a son did not inspire the couple to settle down. They wanted nothing more than to drift freely from cow town to cow town plying their individual trades. A deadly, impulsive act ultimately robbed them of their uninhibited, wandering lifestyle.

On August 15, 1873, after an all-night drinking spree, Billy accidentally shot and killed a Kansas

sheriff. He was arrested, and the cattle company he worked for bailed him out of jail. Worrying about the reprisals from the sheriff’s friends and family and fearing for his life and that of his wife and child, Billy and Libby ran from the cow town. Their itinerant lifestyle then became a matter of necessity rather than choice.

Libby and Billy sought refuge from the law in Dodge City. Libby found work as a dancer, madam, and part-time prostitute. Billy gambled at the saloons around town. They befriended some of the area’s most famous residents, namely Wyatt Earp and his lover Mattie Blaylock. After Kansas, the Thompsons traveled to Colorado and then back to Texas. Along the way, Libby gave birth to three more children. One of those children died from fever.

By the summer of 1876, Libby and her family were settled in Sweetwater. She and Billy purchased a small ranch outside town and a dance hall on Main Street. Libby was the main attraction on stage, but the stable of women who worked for her behind the scenes brought in the lion’s share of the business. Billy protected his wife whenever he needed to but spent much of his time away from the saloon, leaving the daily operations to Libby.

Libby was not shy or ashamed of how she earned a living. She openly confessed her profession to anyone who asked. When the census was taken in the area, she boldly listed her occupation as “one who diddles and squirms in the dark.” Libby’s frankness drew customers, but that wasn’t the only reason. Her pet “squirrels” also garnered a lot of attention. The “squirrels” or prairie dogs were good pets. She took the small animals with her wherever she went.

Early in their relationship, Billy accepted and encouraged his wife’s profession. In later years, however, it was a source of tension between the two. Billy’s absence while on long cattle drives took its toll on the marriage as well. Both began to look to other people to make them happy and fill the voids. Each had a succession of lovers, but they never lost the connection that initially brought them together. They always found their way back to each other. During their twenty-four years of marriage, the couple had

nine children. History recorded that Billy was absent for much of their children’s upbringing.

In 1886, Billy returned to Sweetwater after having spent several months in Colorado gambling. During his stay in Cripple Creek, Colorado, he contracted consumption. When he arrived in Texas, he was dying from the disease. Libby was unable to provide care for her husband, so she sent him to his family in southern Texas. Billy passed away on September 6, 1887, at the St. Joseph Infirmary in Houston.

Libby didn’t stay single for long. She moved in with a man simply known as “Mr. Young.” Young was a cattle rustler who’d had several run-ins with the law. Historians suspect that Mr. Young was the father of Libby’s ninth child, not Billy Thompson as she led her deceased husband to believe. If that were the case, Mr. Young proved to be just as bad at parenthood as Billy. Libby was lacking in that department as well. In addition to the nine children she had with Billy, and possibly Mr. Young, she had three more children with two different men. Several of her sons chose a life of crime, and many of her daughters followed her into the prostitution trade.

Libby’s days as a madam ended in 1921. She retired at the age of sixty-six and alternated living with her children. The last month of her life was spent at the Sunbeam Rest Home in Los Angeles. Squirrel Tooth Alice died of natural causes on April 13, 1953. She was ninety-eight years old.

CHRIS ENSS is a New York Times bestselling author who has written about women of the Old West for more than thirty years. She’s penned more than fifty pubbooks on the subject and been honored with nine Will Rogers Medallion Awards, two Elmer Kelton Book Awards, an Oklahoma Center for the Book Award, three Foreword Review Magazine Book Awards, the Laura Downing Journalism Award, and three Western Writers of America Spur Finalist Awards. Enss’s most recent works are The Widowed Ones: Beyond the Battle of the Little Bighorn, Along Came a Cowgirl: Daring and Iconic Cowgirls of Rodeos and Wild West Shows, and Straight Lady: The Life and Times of Margaret Dumont “The Fifth Marx Brother.”

“PICK IT UP, Ratliff!”

Ratliff reached for the torn black vest with one hand, sneaking the other up his hip for a hidden knife.

Rainy snarled, “Stick it in your mouth.”

Ratliff sneered, “I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Taste my blood or taste yours. You decide.”

BORN AT NOON on a day so dark you’d think it was midnight, his mother had nothing more to wrap his tiny shivering body in except the borrowed black dress she wore to her husband’s funeral. Thomas Mills died the day his murderer violated her. Nine months later, she stood in a storm at an orphanage door, mustering up the courage to do the right thing.

Thunder clapped as the wind whipped her frail body. She peeled back the cloth for one last look. Lightning webbed across the sky. For a moment, her son’s face glowed like an angel’s.

She whimpered, “Lord forgive me,” as she gently placed the basket on the doorstep with the cooing infant wrapped in bloody black lace. She hammered her fist against the door. With a last kiss blown, she turned to leave.

The old preacher who ran the place snatched the door open before she could escape into the torrents of rain that pelted her pale cheeks.

“What’s this?”

“I can’t take care of him. Please take him in.”

“I’ve got more mouths than I can feed now.”

She thrust out a gold locket, a gift from her husband on their wedding day. “It’s all I’ve got.” In a few words, she shared her story.

The old preacher’s mouth cornered a sad smile. He couldn’t turn her down. “I’ll take the child. He’ll get the locket and his story when he decides to leave.”

She pulled her drenched blanket tighter. “Thank you, kind suh.”

“What’s this child’s name?”

“He ain’t got a first name, but my husband’s last name was Mills.”

The old preacher picked up the basket. “You choose a name for him. It’s not for me to do.”

His mother gazed into the swaying trees and then up into the pouring rain that washed away her tears. “Rainy. That’s it. His name is Rainy Mills.”

Without another word, she slipped away into the darkness. The blood trail told the old preacher she wasn’t long for this world. He sent for the sheriff.

When the sun peeked through the clouds the next morning, the sheriff found Rainy’s mother at the bottom of a gully where she had tried to climb her way back up the muddy bank. When he brought the body to the old preacher, he couldn’t help but hang his head and kick at the mud.

“Poor girl. She was clawin’ at the last bit of life she had left. It just wasn’t enough.”

The old preacher buried her in the graveyard with the other paupers.

AS RAINY GREW into a young man, the old preacher never spoke of his family or the circumstances of his birth. That time would come soon enough. Rainy clung to hope that one day his mother might return. On his darkest days, he sat beside an unmarked grave for hours, not knowing why he was drawn there.

In Rainy’s eighteenth year, the old preacher called to him, “Rainy, my son, I can hear the angels coming for me. I’ll soon cross the Jordan River. There are things you need to know before they take me to glory. I cannot go to my grave with you not knowing about your folks.”

Rainy shivered like he did in the cold rainstorm the day of his birth.

“That grave you sit by? That’s where I laid your mother to rest.”

Rainy had no words.

The old preacher propped himself up on one elbow and told Rainy a story that made him smile, cry, and seethe with anger. Finished, the old preacher asked, “Hand me that box over there. Will you, son?”

Rainy took the tattered box with faded, painted-on flowers from the shelf and blew dust off the lid. The preacher removed the top and pulled out a black dress trimmed with lace and a gold locket on a chain.

“This is all I have that says anything about who you are. You were wrapped in this dress when your mother brought you here.”

Rainy held it close to his cheek. He laid it on his lap and noticed brown flecks on his hands.

“What’s this?”

“The blood of your birth. I couldn’t bring myself to wash the garment.”

Rainy trembled as he opened the locket and read the inscription.

Loveyoualways,Epsie ThomasMills August7,1830

“Epsie was my mother’s name?”

The old preacher nodded but said nothing.

“And Thomas was my father’s name?”

Rainy looked up, hoping for more information.

The old preacher sighed. “Beside the fact you were born that same year, that’s all I know.”

Rainy studied the old preacher’s face. “Not true. You do know more.”

The old preacher closed his eyes. “I won’t lie to you son. I do, but—”

“Then tell me. Who murdered the man who should’ve been my father?”

“Some things are best left in the past. You’ve got the best classical education, a fine trade as a gunsmith, and lots of good living ahead of you. Don’t spoil it hating a man who’s probably dead, anyway. Don’t let it poison your soul.”

Rainy clenched the black dress and held up the locket. “My soul was poisoned the day of my birth. Look at me. I have no memory of my father or mother. All I have is a locket with their names and a funeral dress stained with the blood of my birth.” Heat rose in his face like a steamy summer sunrise. “Was there no justice for my folks?”

“No, there wasn’t.” The old preacher coughed and spit. “The murdering rapist and the judge were

friends. It seems the judge liked other men’s wives as much as your father’s killer did.”

“What’s his name?”

“Leave it alone.”

“I’ve got to know.”

“What you’re thinking could get you killed.”

“That’s on me.”

“He’s a dangerous man.”

“Enough! Tell me. Who murdered my father and raped my mother?”

“John Ratliff.”

“How did my father die?”

The old preacher winced. “Ratliff was good with a throwing knife.”

“And the judge?”

“Son, you don’t want to go there.”

“His name?”

The old preacher shook his head.

“Now!”

“Judge Jeremiah Waters. He’s retired now.”

“Where?”

“Shreveport, Louisiana, I believe. Ratliff went to Fort Smith some years back.”

“Arkansas?”

The old preacher nodded.

Rainy ran his thumb across the engraving on the locket and gripped the tattered black dress like he was trying to squeeze blood from it.

“Don’t do this, Rainy. Let it go.”

Rainy gritted his teeth. “How can I? I hold in my hands the only two things left of my family and my life. Ratliff and Waters took the rest. I mean to take theirs.”

“Son, revenge isn’t the way.”

Rainy chuckled. “Oh no, preacher, this is not revenge. You taught me better than that. No sir. This is balancing things out, making them even again. It’s the reckoning.”

“That’s the Lord’s work.”

“Yes, sir. And He’s gonna use me to get it done.”

“God has His own avenging angels.”

Rainy squinted with a glare. “Yes,, and I’m happy to be one.”

The next day, Rainy buried the old preacher be-

side his mother’s grave with the sheriff’s help. He whispered as he tapped a wooden cross into the ground, “The law didn’t help my folks back then, and I sure as hell don’t need the law to help me find Ratliff and Waters now. Avenging angel? That has a nice ring to it.”

Rainy gathered his belongings and tools of the gunsmith trade he’d acquired and watched Natchez disappear around the bend from a steamer northbound for Vicksburg. Before he left, he laid a single rose upon his mother’s grave.

figured a man who sold guns ought to know how to use them—and well. He got good with a six-shooter, but the wound in his soul continued to fester.

Often, he sat by the big river, staring over into Louisiana, trying to forgive his father’s murderer and mother’s rapist. Though peace never came, Rainy finally decided to put it all behind him until a gun customer on his way to Fort Smith bragged about a friend who’d violated over twenty-five women.

The braggart snickered. “Even left a bastard son behind in the children’s home down Natchez way.”

John Ratliff. Had to be.

FOR THE NEXT ten years, Rainy worked as a gunsmith in Vicksburg, trying to forget about John Ratliff and Judge Jeremiah Waters. Drinking, wearing fine clothes—always black—visiting houses of ill repute, and gambling could only medicate the sickness in his soul. Healing wasn’t to be had. Practicing with a pistol soothed his nerves a little. He

Over time, Rainy had saved enough money to buy a few guns to peddle and still have a bit of jingle in his pockets. He gathered his things and thanked the gun shop owner who’d helped him make his way. He bought a horse, then walked him onto a ferry to cross the Mississippi River. Repairing guns and selling a few to ne’er-do-wells along the way would get him into the right places with the wrong kind of people to find Ratliff.

Rainy edged his mount next to the braggart’s. He made him an offer as they crossed the river. “It’ll be safer if we travel together.”

The braggart squinted. “You headin’ to Fort Smith, too?”

“Yeah, I’ve got business there. I’ll provide the whiskey, if you agree.”

The braggart spit. “I got no problem with it. I like rye whiskey though.”

Rainy purchased several bottles when the ferry landed in Louisiana. After making camp the first night, the braggart turned up a bottle and boasted of his exploits. Then he spoke of Rainy’s blood father with a sickening pleasure in his voice.

“Yeah, ole Ratliff ought to run a damn cathouse the way he loves the ladies.”

Traveling west, Rainy’s companion told story after story confirming the rumors of lawlessness across the Arkansas River in the Indian Territory. Men like his father’s killer could hide just beyond the law’s reach there. It’d be the perfect place to end Ratliff’s worthless life. They stopped for a drink in Fort Smith.

His drunk traveling companion asked, “Where you goin’ now?”

Rainy peered over his shot glass pretending to sip. “To sell a few guns before moving on, I reckon. You?”

“I’m headin’ across the river to meet up with my friends in Skullyville. That’s Injun land, you know. They come to the agency in town to get their government dollars. The Choctaws say it means ‘Moneytown’ because it sounds like their word for money. There ain’t hardly a cent to be had there, ’cept what we take from ’em.” He chuckled. “The Injuns don’t say nothin’, and the law’s too scared to come after us.” With that, he passed out and slid from his chair onto the floor.

The barkeep yelled as Rainy left, “What about your friend? You can’t leave him like that.”

Rainy turned and glared with his hand on his pistol. “He’s not my friend.”

AT DUSK THE next day, Rainy tied his mount to a post in front of a run-down shack that posed as the only saloon in Skullyville. He eased through the batwings like a copperhead on the scent of a barn mouse. The dimly lit room smelled of unemptied spittoons and stale beer—a place where men didn’t want to be known.

Rainy tossed a quarter on the bar. “Whiskey, please.” He tipped the barkeep another quarter. He needed all the friends he could buy in this place.

Three men sat in a corner, cards in hand. A man with gray whiskers blew a smoke ring that traveled half-way across the room. He sat up to get a better look at the young stranger.

“That’s a fancy vest you’ve got on there, sonny.”

Rainy knew it was Ratliff the moment he opened his mouth. He gritted his teeth but didn’t look up from his shot glass. “It is.”

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“You haven’t.”

The man with gray whiskers tipped back his hat. “You seem familiar. Do I know you?”

He looked familiar to Rainy as well. Too familiar—like looking into a mirror.

“You don’t know me at all and never will.”

“A mite testy, ain’t you, boy? Guess I would be too, wearin’ a vest with all that sissy lace.” He elbowed his friend, laughing. “Makes you look prettier than the lady sittin’ on them quarters you tossed on the bar.” Ratliff leaned back in his chair, dropping his hand next to his pistol. “Where’d you get the cloth? I might want to get one made just like it.”

“You should know. My mother wore it to the funeral after you raped her and murdered my father.”

“Well, boys, looky here. Chasin’ the ladies finally paid off. My son’s come to find me after all these years. How’s that fine lookin’ momma of yours?” Ratliff cupped his hand on the side of his mouth and whispered, “She had the best lookin’ backside you ever saw, let me tell you.”

Rainy slammed his fist on the bar. “You couldn’t be so lucky as to call me son, Ratliff!”

“Cool down ’fore you burst into flames, boy. Come on over and take a chair. Let your old pa buy you a

drink. It’s been what, twenty-five, twenty-six years?”

Rainy tightened the grip on his shot glass. “Twenty-eight to be exact, you no good violator of women. Only a gutless yellow cur could do such a thing.”

Ratliff pulled his pistol, but Rainy wheeled around and hit him square in the forehead with his whiskey glass. “Drop the gun, or I drop you.”

Ratliff blinked in disbelief, wiping blood from his wounded brow.

“Do it now. Slow as honey dripping from a beehive in a black locust tree.”

Ratliff eased his pistol from its holster and let it drop.

“Kick it to me and get down on your knees.”

Ratliff kicked the gun and shook his head. Rainy cocked his pistol.

Ratliff grinned, his yellow-stained teeth catching the dim light. “You want me down on the floor like I had your mother?”

Rainy could take no more and squeezed the trigger. Ratliff went to his knees howling like a bit dog.

“You shot my knee!”

“That could’ve gone easier for you.” Rainy ripped off the black lacy vest and threw it to the floor. “Pick it up, Ratliff!”

Ratliff never broke eye contact, snatching the dress as he snaked his other hand up his hip.

“Stick it in your mouth.”

“I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Taste my blood or taste yours. You decide.”

Ratliff spat and slung the lacy vest across the greasy dirt floor.

When Rainy reached for the vest, Ratliff saw his chance. Snatching a throwing knife hidden in his belt, he buried the blade in Rainy’s thigh quick as a rattler strike. Rainy grimaced but made no sound. He hesitated at the shock of the wound, and Ratliff lunged for his knees, toppling him over. Rainy yanked the knife from his hip just as Ratliff knocked the pistol from his hand. Ratliff pounded the knife wound like a pugilist, sending Rainy into agony like he’d never felt before.

Ratliff wrestled himself on top of Rainy, forcing

the knife from his hand. He grabbed the blade’s handle and inched the edge toward Rainy’s face. Ratliff snickered as he drew a thin red line above Rainy’s ear. Rainy screamed. Ratliff yanked the knife up to strike a death blow.

Rainy threw a knee into Ratliff’s ribs, knocking him across the floor. He scrambled to his feet and head-butted Ratliff. Rainy picked up the other man, lifting him up over his head before slamming him down on the floor—hard. Rainy pinned Ratliff’s shoulders with his knees. He took a deep breath and reached for the tattered black vest. He held it close to his cheek, exhaling the foul air of the room.

“You murdered the man who should’ve been my father. Then you violated my mother. You have put me in a most uncompromising position. I now must end the life that began mine.”

“Don’t kill me. Your pa wasn’t supposed to be home. I didn’t want to hurt your ma. I just wanted to…. It all went wrong when—”

Rainy backhanded Ratliff’s jaw, splattering blood and spit across the floor. “It all went wrong when my father caught you attacking my mother. I knew you’d be a coward, even now.”

Ratliff grabbed for the knife, but Rainy knocked it away. One of Ratliff’s friends picked it up and stepped toward Rainy.

The barkeep leveled a double-barrel shotgun at him. “Take another step and I’ll decorate that wall with your guts. This man needs to finish what he started. I’m makin’ sure he does.” Ratliff’s friend dropped the knife and backed away.

Ratliff whimpered, “What are you gonna do?”

“Leave you like you left my folks, without a breath between ’em.”

Rainy crammed the black vest made from his mother’s funeral dress into Ratliff’s mouth.

“This is the last thing you’ll taste in this world.” Rainy shoved the vest deep into Ratliff’s throat, then covered his nose until he could breathe no more.

“Taste the blood of my birth as yours grows cold.”

Rainy sat on Ratliff’s chest until the light in his eyes went out. He stood, surveyed the room, then gathered up his pistol and Ratliff’s knife. No one

rose to challenge him. The deed was done, and he was exhausted.

The barkeep brought him a glass of whiskey with the scattergun in the crook of his arm.

Rainy held the glass high, then slowly poured the whiskey on the floor. “For Thomas and Epsie Mills. May they rest in peace.”

The barkeep cocked the rabbit ears on the shotgun and turned to Ratliff’s friends. “This man’s had enough. He’s evened a score you men had no part in. You’ll be stayin’ here at least an hour after he leaves. Drop your guns and belly up. First drink’s on me.”

Rainy downed a second drink the barkeep offered. “Thank you, kind sir. I’ll go now. I apologize for the trouble and the mess.”

Rainy yanked his mother’s blood-stained funeral dress from Ratliff’s lifeless throat. He held it close to his cheek for the last time then dropped it on Ratliff’s face.

Limping toward the batwings, Rainy whispered as he stuck Ratliff’s knife in his belt, “Even avenging angels get wounded sometimes, I reckon.”

He flipped the barkeep a double eagle. “Make sure the blood of my birth covers his face when they lay him in the dirt.”

The barkeep nodded and followed Rainy to the door with the shotgun trained on Ratliff’s former friends. “Good luck, son.”

Rainy slipped away into the same darkness from which he was taken by the preacher that day so many years ago. He patted his horse as he mounted. “Let’s go see us a judge in Louisiana.”

WATCH FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION, COMING ONLY IN OUR WINTER 2023 ISSUE!

ANTHONY WOOD

ANTHONY WOOD, a native of Mississippi and a new writer on the scene, resides with his wife, Lisa, in North Little Rock, Arkansas. He ministered many years in inner city neighborhoods among the poor and homeless, inspiring him to co-author Up Close and Personal: Embracing the Poor about his work in Memphis, Tennessee. Anthony is a member of White County Creative Writers, Turner’s Battery, a Civil War re-enactment company, and Civil War Roundtable of Arkansas. When not writing, he enjoys roaming historical sites, camping, kayaking, and being with family. He also serves as Managing Editor for Saddlebag Dispatches.

The Storm That Carries Me Home, the fourth novel in Anthony’s epic historical fiction series, A Tale of Two Colors, about life during the Civil War, was released in Spring 2023.

Anthony’s short story “Not So Long in the Tooth,” which appeared in the Winter 2020 issue of Saddlebag Dispatches, won a Will Rogers Medallion Copper Medal for Western Short Fiction in 2021.

SADDLEBAG POETRY

DOWN ON THE southern edge of Dodge City sat several barns owned by the man known only as the boilermaker. He was old at middle-age and Chinese. He once worked building the railroad but settled down, having an indispensable trade in Kansas. Besides maintaining steam engines for the Santa Fe line, he diversified. He made nitroglycerin for the Central Pacific railroad and whiskey for the town near the Arkansas River.

Since folks couldn’t pronounce his real name, whenever anyone asked to buy whiskey wholesale, they referred them to the boilermaker.

It was late in the year 1878, a cool evening, when the boilermaker sat with Curly Rawlins doing what he did best besides making boilers—minding the still. Curly, busy with a bottle, kept asking the boilermaker to join him in drinking some of the Chinaman’s finest.

“No, no, Mr. Rawlins, I thank ye again. No wheeskey for me while I’m working. It wouldn’t be right. You’re a gunslinger, yes?”

“You know I am, Boilermaker. What of it?”

“Well, you don’t stop to make bullets during a gunfight, do ye?”

“Don’t reckon I—”

The cocking of a Colt interrupted Curly. It even seemed to stop the drip, drip, drip of the still. Both men turned to the outlaw standing in the shadow of the barn door. Stray light reflected off the nickel of his pistol. “Give me your whiskey, Chinaman. All of it! Or I’ll shoot you dead.”

The boilermaker raised his hands, then shook them right and left repeatedly. “You don’t want to do that, Mister.”

“And what makes you think I won’t?”

“Boilermaker’s saying if you fire that gun in here, we’ll all die,” Curly added.

“Who asked you? ’Sides, if you help me with them crates, I’ll cut you in.”

“You’re missing the point,” Curly finished. “He’s saying this here barn’s filled with al-kee-hol vapor. You fire that six shooter in here, and the barn will explode. No lie.”

The outlaw in the black hat and chaps stood there in indecision, still holding the Colt pointed at the boilermaker. His long mustache seemed to curl up a little more at the ends as a tall shadow covered him from behind. The outlaw looked up at the shadow on the wall above the still.

Instead of a cowboy hat, the man, whoever it was, wore a British bowler. The outlaw looked like he was fixing to swing around and shoot the owner of that shadow until cold sharp steel slid up against his throat.

“Easy there, son,” a man said in the outlaw’s ear. “None of us want to die tonight. Especially not me. Now, lower that hammer real slow, and lower your gun even slower. I’m gonna take it from ya.”

The outlaw stank of the trail and too many days without a bath. Bat Masterson wrinkled his nose at the stench so close to the “stinker.” The outlaw tensed. Bat pulled the knife a little across his throat, so a trickle of blood soaked his already dirty red bandanna. He punctuated the cut with, “Don’t even think about it, son. I’m the sheriff of this here city, and killing you wouldn’t even interrupt my attending Sunday church services. Now, if you don’t mind….”

His answer was the snick of the revolver hammer settling back into place. The outlaw slowly lowered the gun. Bat grabbed it from his hand quickly while backing them out of the barn.

The boilermaker nodded his thanks to the sheriff. Their eyes met briefly until all he could see were four eyes, like coyotes, staring back at him from the street. He heard Bat say to the stranger, “I’ll be keeping this for ya until you get ready to leave town. Stop by the sheriff’s office then, and I’ll give it back. What’s your name?”

“Rudabaugh.”

“You kin to Dave?”

“Second cousin.”

“You a train robber like him?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep your nose clean, and you won’t end up like him. Now, I don’t see no reason to lock you up as nothing was stolen. But now you’ve been warned.

See the barber about that cut. Tell ’em Bat gave it to you. And get a bath, for heaven’s sake!”

“Will do, sir. G’night, Mister Masterson.” With that, the stranger tipped his hat and walked up the street, greeted by the sound of gunfire, hooting, and hollering.

Curly stumbled out the barn door and slurred, “Good thing you came along just then, Sheriff. What you doing at this end of town, anyway?”

“Got a job for the boilermaker.”

“MIGHTY CLEVER OF ya,” Bat said to the boilermaker. “Don’t shoot or we all die!” He laughed.

“Weren’t me. It was Curly there.”

Curly shrugged, winked, and walked back into the barn after taking a swig. In passing, he offered the bottle to the sheriff.

The sheriff shook his head. “Sorry, on duty.” Hen harrumphed. “Guess that kid didn’t spot the firebox under the still. Anyway, no one ever said outlaws were all that bright. By the way, how do you keep from blowing up the barn?”

The boilermaker answered, “See the slats missing at the bottom thar, all the way around?”

“Yup.”

“They let the weeskey vapor escape. It slides along the ground, see?”

Bat removed his bowler, scratched his head, then put it back on.

“So, you said something about a job,” the boilermaker said.

“That’s right. Got a kid, just came off the midnight train. Doesn’t speak a lick of English. All she does is cry and jabber at me in Chinese.”

“I can’t leave the still. Can you bring her here?”

“She’s right outside with my deputy.”

“Bring her in.”

Ed Masterson, Bat’s brother and unofficial deputy, dragged the girl by the hand toward the barn. Her wailing became screams. She resisted as best she could, waving a rag doll in her other hand, finally beating Ed with it ineffectually. The dep-

uty kept her at arm’s length, making a face like he smelled something bad. Which he probably did, as no doubt she’d soiled herself.

The ten-year-old girl on seeing the boilermaker began a high-speed rant in Mandarin. Curly and Bat looked at each other then back at the boilermaker, listening and nodding to the girl as tears rolled down her cheeks. The boilermaker listened attentively, nodding and asking some clarifying questions, which she answered rapidly before continuing on.

“What’s she saying?” asked the sheriff.

The boilermaker gestured for her to stop so he could translate. “Her name is Lin-yi Ersao. She and her mother were on a train heading West when she fell asleep. When she woke up, her mother was gone. She walked up and down the train, but she couldn’t find her. She started balling at the conductor, and he dropped her off here in Dodge City where you met her at the depot. I suppose the conductor signaled a lineman to telegraph ahead to

Dodge City for you to meet the train.”

“Did they think Bat was a babysitter?” Ed muttered, noting the girl was quiet for the first time since she got off the train.

“I reckon they wanted me to alert the stations up the line to look for her mother.”

Curly interjected, “Chances are someone kidnapped her. Ain’t never going to see her again.”

Lin-yi jabbered at the boilermaker again, clearly pleading with him. He answered reassuringly, but they both knew her chances of seeing her mother again were slim to none, which was when she broke down in tears and buried her head in his lap. The boilermaker, never having had kids, lifted his hands like someone pulled a gun on him. Slowly, he lowered one hand to pat her head.

“Well, I can’t stick her in a jail cell. Seems you’ll need to look after her while I look for her momma,” Masterson said to the boilermaker.

This so upset him, he yelled at Bat and Ed in Mandarin. It was their turn to hold up their hands.

While they couldn’t understand a lick of what he was saying, the message was obvious. In the end, the boilermaker settled down enough to speak to them in English, “Okay, okay. I’ll look after her, but I ain’t raising her if you can’t find her momma!”

“Fair enough.” The sheriff left before the boilermaker changed his mind, taking Ed with him.

Curly took another swig of whiskey. “Tough break, friend. But she sure is cute.”

After a while, Lin-yi stopped crying. She rubbed her eyes, sniffled, then sized up the boilermaker, watched him change out whiskey barrels, plugging the one that just finished filling. Placing an empty one under the spigot, he opened the valve again, listened for the dripping at the bottom, then checked on the firebox.

“I’m hunglee,” Lin-yi said in broken English. This surprised both men.

“Stay here, Lin-yi. Curly, look after the still, won’t ye? I’ll get her some rice and tea.”

“You don’t have no wife, Mista?”

The boilermaker shook his head. Then answered in Mandarin, “Dead a while ago.”

“I’m so solly, Mista,” Lin-yi answered in English. She ate like a starving bear cub, not bothering with chopsticks and using her hands and dirty fingernails. Then she gulped down the lukewarm tea. The boilermaker made a straw bed for her, and after a while of staring at them in silence, she lay down. Soon, she fell asleep. He threw a horse blanket over her, and they listened to her dream. It was sweet, especially when she cuddled with the rag doll.

“I best be getting off to bed, meself,” Curly said with a yawn.

“G’night, friend.”

With that, Curly donned his Stetson and vanished into the night.

put the kettle on, and set some oatmeal to boil. When everything was ready, she woke him up and handed him a cup of tea.

THE BOILERMAKER LOOKED around in amazement. He saw the steaming, fragrant oatmeal on the kitchen table and sniffed the air. It was late morning. He heard the stagecoach come in, men on trotting horses, and even the swish of twirling parasols on the street. Lin-Yi grinned at him, almost happy.

He sipped the tea and smiled. “You didn’t need to do all this.”

“I had four brothers. I did it every day. It’s a comfort for me to do it for you,” she answered in Mandarin.

“My name in Xinhui Taishan,” he said.

She gave him a full bow in deep respect.

“You may call me Xinhui when we speak Mandarin but the boilermaker when we speak English.”

She laughed. “Gweilo can’t pronounce your name.”

He nodded and finished the tea. “No time for breakfast. Must work. Engine number seven coming in at noon, and I have an order to repair from Big Boss before it heads East.”

“Then I must come. Maybe the conductor knows where my momma is?”

“Better you stay here.”

“Better I go,” Lin-yi insisted.

Xinhui scratched his scalp, then flattened down his hair. “Okay, you help. Follow me.” Xinhui got out of bed, pulled on his slippers, then walked to his tool barn. She followed, leaving the oatmeal on the table.

After pulling tools from the wall, he placed them in a rickshaw. Lin-yi looked at them with consternation. He kept tossing them in, including a kerosene torch with a hand pump.

“Why they all bent? Looks like snakes. Can’t you afford good ones?” Lin-yi asked in Mandarin.

LIN-YI WOKE ON another makeshift bed, made from a pad sitting on a steamer trunk at the base of the boilermaker’s bed. He slept on, while Lin-yi got up. She swept the floors, started a fire in the stove,

He laughed. “That there is a double-ended railroad wrench. That’s the way they come. I use it when I need to adjust the pipes, like for a steam brake. Now let me finish.”

In no time, the boilermaker had her pulling the rickshaw north to where the train was due to come in. Lin-yi struggled with the weight, pulling mightily, but making a fine job of it. The two of them made quite the pair, him four paces ahead, her dragging the rickshaw behind. Cowpokes hooted, shopkeepers shook their heads, and women scolded him for making the child work. The boilermaker ignored them all.

When they arrived at the empty track, he pulled out a twenty-dollar gold pocket watch to check the time. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

The whistle blew. Hunters were stacking up buffalo hides, getting ready to load them onboard.

The locomotive bell rang. Steam came from the brakes while conductors jumped off the passenger cars. They swung red lanterns as the train slowed coming into the station. The engineer stuck his head out the window and nodded at the boilermaker. Xinhui waved back. Men and women in fancy dress were lifting their bags to board, while the freight doors opened.

Lin-yi spotted Bat Masterson walking up to talk with a conductor, while the boilermaker climbed aboard the locomotive to inspect the damage and plan his repairs. The stoker waved to the Chinese man before dumping the steam from the boiler, cursing. He walked over to the water tower to swing the boom over and add water to the thirsty engine.

Xinhui was busy cranking on fittings when he looked down to where Lin-yi was staring downtrain. “You gonna help, or are you just going to stand there? Grab me that torch and come up here.”

“Coming, Boss,” she replied after a start.

The boys hanging around the tracks picked up rocks and threw them at her.

“Hey, you. Git!” Xinhui yelled at them.

“What you going to do, Chinaman? Beat me up?”

One kid spotted a burly man with his sleeves rolled up, heading their way. “Let’s go, Bill. There’s a bull coming.” The kids ran away, laughing and taunting the bull as they shot around the depot building.

“Okay, Lin-yi, you pump that thar. That feeds

the torch while I weld. Just keep pumping until I say stop.”

A few minutes later the stoker came and yelled up to them, “You done yet? I gotta get the steam back up. We got a schedule to keep!”

“Go ahead. Get started. I’m just finishing up,” replied the boilermaker.

Lin-yi jumped down and ran toward Bat Masterson, who was heading up-train on their way. “Any word on my momma?”

“Oh! You do speak English.”

“A rittel.”

“Sorry. Still lookin’ into it. Have to talk to one more conductor.”

Xinhui finished, tightening a fitting to the steam whistle, frowned, and looked down on them. “Bad luck, then.”

“Well, seeing as things turned sour, why don’t you two meet me at the saloon? I’ll treat you to dinner once you’re done.”

“Thank you kindly, Sheriff,” said the boilermaker.

Lin-yi and Xinhui were down, but they weren’t out. Still, Lin-yi looked at him with sadness in her eyes.

In Mandarin, Xinhui said, “It’ll be all right.” He followed that in English, “She will turn up.”

LIN-YI DROPPED THE rickshaw in front of G.M. Hoover’s saloon by the horse trough, then wiped the sweat from her brow. The whores upstairs jeered at the boilermaker and made come-ons to the cowboys walking by. She followed Xinhui inside, staying close while holding on to his leg. She stared wideeyed at the rodeo in progress inside.

Xinhui spotted Bat by the piano and headed his way. Bat kicked out two chairs for them, then they sat down. The barmaid, seeing Bat with his party, came right to the table.

“Howdy, Sheriff. What can I do you for?”

“Steaks all around, corn if you have it, a beer for me and my pardner, and milk for the little lady.”

Stella looked over at the girl, curiously, asking, “Well hey there, you new in town? Where you from, sweetie?”

The boilermaker took over. “Sorry, Stella, she doesn’t know much English. Probably didn’t understand a word you said. Came in on the train last night.”

“She kin, Boilermaker?”

“Nope, but I’m looking after her,” Xinhui said. “For now.” He eyed Masterson.

“Well, welcome to Dodge City! I’ll be right back with your dinner.” She sashayed away, swinging her hips.

Xinhui looked around the saloon. Noted the empty holsters. “Nobody’s packing. What gives?”

Bat checked around. “That’s right, you don’t get to the north side of town much. Earp made it a rule when he was sheriff. No guns north of the line. Everyone turns ’em in when they arrive and takes ’em only when they leave. Me and Ed are the only ones packin’ iron. Made a big difference, let me tell you.”

While Masterson was talking, Lin-yi was signaling Xinhui, begging to hear about her momma. He tried to ignore her and pay attention to Bat. That all ended when she kicked him under the table. Xinhui started and looked at Lin-yi like someone goosed him.

“What is it?” Bat finished, seeing his expression.

“She wants to know if ye got any news on her momma.”

He lit a cigar and chewed it for a second, which only made Lin-yi more impatient. Finally, he got around to saying, “Well, it’s not the problem of one missing Chinese woman. It’s a matter of too many coming and going, getting on and off the train. If there’s anything she can tell me about her mother that might help me better identify her….”

Although Lin-yi understood everything he said, she let Xinhui say it all again in Mandarin. She frowned for a moment before answering Xinhui in Mandarin.

He translated for the sheriff. “It seems she had an expensive jade bracelet her family gave her before she left China.”

Just then, Lin-yi jumped to her feet, and the blood drained from her face. At the bar, one of

Hoover’s bouncers dangled a jade bracelet at one of the working gals. He was talking and grinning, and the gal with red hair and a full bosom shook her head. She raised her hands, clearly not wanting the bauble. But he kept trying to entice her with it. He even pushed his cowboy hat up on his forehead, but she was not budging.

Somebody else was, though. Lin-yi was up and moving toward the bar, to the chagrin of Bat and Xinhui, before they saw the jade bracelet and made the connection. By then, Lin-yi was yelling in Mandarin at the greasy, black-bearded guy with rotten teeth and a dirty brown vest. Her words weren’t making a dent, and he started laughing as she took air swipes at the bracelet.

The cowboy bent his knees, dangling it closer to Lin-yi, teasing her with it. It was indeed her mother’s. The teasing continued, and the working gal tried to dissuade him. “Come on, Tex, quit teasing the little China doll. At least someone wants it. Maybe she’ll give you a thrust for it, ’cause I ain’t.”

Tex dropped a little lower, then started bobbing the bracelet like a piñata every time Lin-yi grabbed for it. Pearls of sweat collected on her upper lip, and her anger was plain for all the guys drinking at the bar to see. They started to laugh at her frustration. Then they saw something none of them would ever forget.

The girl leaped onto him. She climbed up him like a monkey going after a coconut. She grabbed the bracelet with her left hand, and her right elbow came swinging around for his chin. The look of surprise on his face was classic. Her elbow struck, blowing a couple more teeth from his mouth, and like a great oak, the big man fell over, hitting the deck, then passing out cold.

She leaped on his chest, babbling at him in angry Mandarin as he bled. But he wasn’t moving. About that time, Bat and Xinhui arrived, Bat pulling his Peacemaker. When the shock wore off around them, the other bouncers formed a circle around their fallen friend, menacing.

“Now boys,” Masterson began, “you don’t want any part of this.”

One cowboy answered, with more sun on his

face than brains in his head, “That little girl is stealing from Tex. That bit of shiny is his.”

“No, it ain’t. That there is from that girl’s momma. She went missing on the midnight train last night. I got questions for him.”

“Might’ve once been her momma’s, but it’s Tex’s now. And we aim to reconcile the sitchiation.”

“Come any closer, and you’ll get a belly full of lead. Who’s first?”

Ed moved away from the gal he was chatting up at the other end of the bar, pulling his gun to provide Bat with back up. The cowboys weren’t backing down, figuring the odds were in their favor. Things got tense. Gamblers stood up from the Faro tables and backed away.

A deep booming voice came from the back. “What’s the problem here, Sheriff? My boys are just doing their jobs. Now I don’t want a dust up over some coolie.” G.M. Hoover appeared out of the crowd, carrying a case of whiskey toward the bar on his shoulder, forearms like ham-hocks.

Just then, the saloon doors swung open, followed by the explosion of a Colt Buntline Special long barrel. Everyone turned, then froze. The .45 caliber bullet disappeared into the ceiling, stopping the music and conversation.

Wyatt Earp scanned the crowd. “That’ll be just about enough of that! Now that the odds are even, you boys clear off.”

Hoover’s bouncers scattered like leaves, while Lin-yi stood over Tex, still on his chest, holding her momma’s bracelet.

“I had it handled, Wyatt,” Masterson said.

“Sure you did, Bat. Ed, how are you?”

“Mister Earp, good to see ya. What brings you to Dodge City?”

“Just passing through, delivering an outlaw to justice. Now what’s this all about?”

Bat explained as he and Ed wrangled Tex, dragging him to jail. Everybody in the bar made way, not for the famous lawmen, but for the girl that took down that big oak of a man. She strapped

on her mother’s bracelet proudly. Even the boilermaker put a respectful distance between himself and her.

BAT RODE WITH Wyatt and his posse out to the end of the territory with the outlaws in his custody. Coming to the edge of Bat’s jurisdiction, Wyatt bid his colleague a fond farewell.

On the sheriff’s way back to Dodge City, buzzards circled about a mile from the nearest railroad crossing. He needed to investigate. Many an outlaw left bodies out in the wild beyond the city limits—cases of revenge, deals gone wrong, gambling cheats, or the victims of Indians—for the varmints. The Cheyenne, respecting the land and their people, would retrieve dead members of their tribe, but they left any white men to rot in the sun.

Bat set off through the brush to see what had attracted the scavenger birds. It was the sheriff’s unfortunate duty to collect and document those he could for the Federal Marshal. Even if they had a bounty on their head, as a lawman, Bat never received the reward. Coming up on the scene, he pulled his bandanna up over his nose as the stink was intense.

There were six bodies. After climbing off his horse, he poked them with his cane. Five males, one female, she being the only one lying face down. The others were face up. Four of the men were arranged in a half circle around the woman. The fifth was several paces back from her feet with a knife in his chest. All were clearly dead.

Twin circular blood stains on the woman’s back declared someone shot her. The man behind her had a Gasser pearl handle pistol just beyond the reach of his right hand. The four men in a half circle around her looked to have been beaten to death. Their faces broken and bloodied, limbs broken. While the woman wore a dress, she had on embroidered slippers.

Looking closer, Bat saw she was Chinese.

She put up a terrible fight against insurmount-

able odds. Fighting for her life, she no doubt gave worse than she got. In the end, though, flying feet and fists were no match for a few well-aimed bullets. Bat slid up the woman’s sleeves and checked her wrists. Besides her bruised knuckles, there was the impression of a bracelet once strapped to one of them. Removing his bowler, he placed it over his heart.

To his surprise, his eyes filled with tears.

He put his hat back on, mounted his horse, and headed back into Dodge City. He’d send the undertaker out for them in the morning... or what was left of them once the coyotes and buzzards finished, that is. Of course, he might have been wrong about the identity of the woman. The girl would need to decide.

Another task he wasn’t looking forward to.

aching for her. Even if it wasn’t her momma, witnessing a dead body leaves an indelible mark on a young girl, especially someone who died with her boots on.

Bat stuck a cigar in his mouth and lit it, not wanting to show them any emotion, though he choked up all the same.

The undertaker had the corpses all lined up in pine boxes in front of his place when the boilermaker, Lin-yi, and the sheriff arrived. Lin-yi climbed down from the whiskey wagon, her chin already quivering. Cautiously, she approached the coffins. After a long look, she spit on each of the men’s bodies.

Bat sat on his horse watching. When the girl came to the woman, he expected her to scream.

Instead, she stared and shook her head twice, three times. Big crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks as she fixated on the corpse in silence. Then she climbed into the coffin and snuggled up against the dead woman.

BACK IN THE sheriff’s office, Masterson leaned in to listen to what Ed had to say while Tex rattled the bars, demanding release. The stories didn’t match, of course. The questioning went as expected—a pack of lies. It only made the truth that much uglier. The sheriff would wait until the undertaker returned from the bush to summon the boilermaker and his charge.

“You’ll be fine right where you are, Tex. This might be all cleared up in the morning. Then again, you may have an appointment with the hangman,” Bat said, staring at his ugly face. That only brought more cage rattling. Finally, Tex gave up and lay down on the cot.

Stroking her momma’s cheek, she wrapped her body around her and wept silently.

People stopped in the street. Women pulled out hankies and dabbed their eyes. Even soldiers paused, still drunk from the night before, and stared.

The boilermaker climbed down, then went to Lin-yi. Gently he lifted her out of the casket.

Lin-yi tried to cling to her mother like she had her little rag doll two nights before. She wrapped her arms and legs around Xinhui burying her face in his shoulder.

He carried her back to the whiskey wagon where he lifted her up onto the seat above the feed box.

“Wait,” she said in Mandarin. She began taking off the jade bracelet.

THE BOILERMAKER AND Lin-yi were loading a wagon with cases of whiskey the next morning when the sheriff stopped by. He told them what he found and said, “Many apologies, but I have to ask the little lady to identify one body.”

Xinhui turned to Lin-yi, but her face had already collapsed. Crying, she ran into his arms. The boilermaker found his inner father, his heart

Xinhui stopped her and said, “No use burying her with it. It’s a keepsake. A memory of her you need to hold on to. Please.”

It surprised the sheriff. He spoke to her in English. It was even more surprising when the boilermaker said, “You’re my family now. I’ll take care of you. You can come home with me.”

Lin-yi responded by leaning over and hugging Xinhui again, weeping.

TWO WOMEN STOPPED on the boardwalk nearby, watching.

“Isn’t that just the sweetest thing, Mabel? The boilermaker taking on that orphan.”

Mabel shook her head, “Dang them outlaws! They got what they deserved. A one-way trip to boothill.”

“After what I heard the girl did to Tex in the saloon, it’s no surprise. If her momma was going down, she’d take the lot of ’em with her. And she did, from what I understand.”

“Hmm… mm.”

DR. KEITH RAYMOND

A MONTH LATER, Tex climbed the scaffolding heading up toward the noose. A crowd gathered around him. Some crying for blood, others jeering at the injustice of killing a white man for a crime against a coolie.

The boilermaker simply stood there in silence, stone faced.

Out from behind the crowd, a few of the cowpunchers heard something sizzling. Suddenly, Lin-yi raced around them and stuck a stick of dynamite underneath Tex’s belt buckle, the fuse burning down toward the leather. With his hands bound in back, Tex broke away from the deputy and ran up Front Street hollering like a banshee for help, but everyone backed away from him in a rush when they saw the dynamite.

When he blew up, there was nothing left but startled horses.

DR. KEITH RAYMOND is a Family and Emergency Room Physician. He has practiced medicine in eight countries in four different languages. He currently lives in Austria with his wife.

When not volunteering his medical skills, Keith is writing, lecturing, or SCUBA diving. In 2008, he discovered the wreck of a Bulgarian freighter while diving in the Black Sea.

Keith has multiple medical citations, along with publications in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Grief Diaries, The Examined Life Journal, The Satirist, Chicago Literati, Blood Moon Rising, Frontier Tales Magazine, Utopia Science Fiction magazine, and in the Sci-Fi anthologies Sanctuary and Alien Dimensions among others. He is also the fiction editor of Savage Planets magazine.

a“The Boilermaker” is his first story to appear in the pages of Saddlebag Dispatches. Another of his stories, “Playing the Loot,” appears in West of Dodge: Where the Legends of the West Begin, a new Saddlebag Dispatches Anthology.

DODGE CITY NEWSPAPERS CLAIMED DORA HAND’S BEAUTY CAUSED “MORE GUNFIGHTS THAN ANY OTHER WOMAN IN ALL THE WEST.”

FEATURE

MURDER OF A NIGHTINGALE

An Excerpt from Thunder Over the Prairie: The True Story of a Murder and a Manhunt by the Greatest Posse of All Time

HOWARD KAZANJIAN & CHRIS ENSS

New York Times Bestselling Authors

DORA HAND WAS in a deep sleep. Her bare legs were draped across the thick blankets covering her delicate form, and a mass of long, auburn hair stretched over the pillow under her head and dangled off the top of a flimsy mattress. Her breathing was slow and effortless. A framed, graphite and charcoal portrait of an elderly couple hung above the bed on faded, satin-ribbon wallpaper and kept company with her slumber.

The air outside the window was still and cold. The distant sound of voices, backslapping laughter, profanity, and a piano’s tinny, repetitious melody wafted down Dodge City’s main thoroughfare and sneaked into the small room where Dora was sleeping.

Dodge was an all-night town. Walkers and loungers kept the streets and saloons busy. Residents learned to sleep through the giggling, growling, and gunplay of the cowboys, consumers, and their paramours for hire. Dora was accustomed to the nightly

frivolity and clatter. Her dreams were seldom disturbed by the commotion.

All at once the hard thud of a pair of bullets charging through the door and wall of the tiny room cut through the routine noises of the cattle town with uneven, gusty violence. The first bullet was halted by the dense plaster partition leading into the bed chambers. The second struck Dora on the right side under her arm. There was no time for her to object to the injury, no moment for her to cry out or recoil in pain. The slug killed her instantly.

In the near distance, a horse squealed, and its galloping hooves echoed off the dusty street and faded away.

A pool of blood poured out of Dora’s fatal wound, turning the white sheets she rested on to crimson. A clock sitting on a nightstand next to the lifeless body ticked on steadily and mercilessly. It was 4:30 in the morning on October 4, 1878, and for the moment

nothing but the persistent moonlight filtering into the scene through a closed window marked the thirty-four-year-old woman’s passing.

Twenty-four hours prior to Dora’s being gunned down in her sleep, she had been on stage at the Alhambra Saloon and Gambling House. She was a stunning woman whose wholesome voice and exquisite features had charmed audiences from Abilene to Austin. She regaled love-starved wranglers and rough riders at stage and railroad stops with her heartfelt rendition of the popular ballads “Blessed Be the Ties That Bind” and “Because I Love You So.”

Adoring fans referred to her as the “nightingale of the frontier,” and admirers continually competed for her attention. More times than not pistols were used to settle arguments about who would be escorting Dora back to her place at the end of the evening. Local newspapers claimed her talent and beauty “caused more gunfights than any other woman in all the West.”

THE GIFTED ENTERTAINER was born Isadore Addie May on August 23, 1844, in Lowell, Massachusetts. At an early age she showed signs of being a more than capable vocalist, prompting her parents to enroll her at the Boston Conservatory of Music. Impressed with her ability, instructors at the school helped the young ingenue complete her education at an academy in Germany. From there she made her stage debut as a member of a company of operatic singers touring Europe.

After a brief time abroad, Dora returned to America. By the age of twenty-four she had developed a fondness for the vagabond lifestyle of an entertainer and was not satisfied being at any one location for very long. The need for musical acts beyond the Mississippi River urged her west, and appreciative show-goers enticed her to remain there.

In 1868, the theater troupe she was a part of was scheduled to appear on a handful of stages in the fastest growing railroad towns outside of Independence, Missouri. The first stop was Kansas City, Kansas. Settlers, trail hands, and ranchers were enchanted by Dora. She was showered with applause

VIEW OF DODGE CITY’S INFAMOUS FRONT STREET, CIRCA 1875.

and praise and sought after by eligible bachelors both young and old. Enamored suitors insisted they would “wade through hell for one of her smiles.”

Captain Theodore Hand, an attractive, athletically built Army cavalryman in his mid-thirties, was one such suitor. He called on Dora at the conclusion of one of her performances, and something in his manner so appealed to her that she agreed to see him regularly. Theodore and Dora’s relationship quickly grew from infatuation to love. A proposal of marriage followed a confession of their mutual feelings.

Though she adored performing, Dora left the theater to become an army wife. She and Theodore moved to Fort Hays, Kansas, and were wed in the spring of 1871. Fort Hays was initially built to protect stages and freight wagons from attacks by Cheyenne and Arapaho Indians. It was also a supply depot for other forts in the area. Captain Hand accompanied regiments traveling back and forth with provisions for soldiers and their families stationed south and west of Fort Hays. Consequently, Dora was regularly left alone.The captain’s infidelity and gambling habit made the long periods of separation unbearable. The Hands quarreled over Theodore’s roving eye and his inability to keep and manage their limited finances. After several ultimatums were made and subsequently defied, Dora decided to leave her husband and return to a way of life she knew to be dependable—the theater, according to the September 24, 1878, edition of the Ford County Globe.

In an attempt to further distance herself from her estranged spouse, Dora changed her name to Fannie Keenan and made her way to St. Louis, where she found work singing and acting in the finest dance halls in the city. The gifted artist was just as well received by audiences then as she had been before her brief departure from the business. Critics said she brought “a sense of glamour and refinement” to the sometimes rustic venues where she performed.

Men were enraptured by her voice and moved by the kindness she showed those who made a point of telling her how her smile and singing had won their hearts. By 1876, the itinerant entertainer had drifted into Texas, bewitching audiences across the Panhandle. An ambitious theatrical agent passing through the territory signed her to a performance troupe set to appear in the cattle communities of Abilene and Dodge City, Kansas. Both locations were “end of trail” towns for cowboys driving livestock north from San Antonio and points in between. Due in large part to its growing intolerance of the rowdy trail hands and its desire to become a respectable hamlet, Abilene had fewer overnight visitors than did Dodge City. As such, entertainers and their representatives preferred performing in the latter town, referred to by some as the “Queen of the Cowtowns.”

A hot wind ushered Dora into Dodge in June of 1878. The sun’s rays were like the flames of a furnace blasting down on the parched path leading into the city. Dust rose with each turn of the wheels of

the stage she was aboard, and sand swirled about the vehicle obscuring any view. Several of the city’s residents were eagerly anticipating Hand’s arrival. Among them was the mayor of Dodge City, James Kelley. Mayor Kelley had made Dora’s acquaintance at Camp Supply in Oklahoma.

Like everyone else who had the privilege of hearing her sing, he was inspired by her voice and intoxicated by her beauty. After becoming the proprietor of a local dance hall, he began soliciting her to perform there. Dora accepted his invitation, agreeing to appear at his establishment provided she would be permitted to entertain at other resorts in town.

The performer arrived in Dodge City with her housekeeper and a good friend, well-known entertainer Fannie Garrettson. When the three disembarked from the stage, they found the cow town a dizzying array of activity. Hack drivers spurred their vehicles up and down the street at a rapid pace, unconcerned with the pedestrians who were forced to jump out of their way. Harlots stood outside the doorways of their closet-sized dens, inviting passersby to step inside. Stray dogs wandered about barking and scrounging for food. Ranch hands led their bawling livestock into corrals or railroad cars. Disorderly drifters made their way to lively saloons, firing their pistols in the air as they went.

Dodge City, Kansas, was a community rooted in a military post. Fort Dodge, an army camp five miles from Dodge City, was established in 1865 to protect wagon trains from warring Plains Indians and to furnish supplies to soldiers fighting the Native Americans. The town, which was named after the fort, was founded in 1872 and quickly became a trade center for travelers and buffalo hunters. Its popularity increased with the coming of the railroad. Texas cattlemen drove their tremendous herds into the thriving burg and loaded the animals onto the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe rail lines heading east.

The numerous, and often times wild, residents who populated Dodge were from all walks of life. Ambitious businessmen, Indian scouts, soldiers, homesteaders, Chinese railroad workers, gamblers, and soiled doves added to the character of the whis-

tle-stop. An eclectic array of nocturnal entertainment was always available to hardworking pleasure seekers in Dodge. Whether it was attending bullfights, visiting brothels owned by such renowned madams as Squirrel Tooth Alice, or taking in a show at one of many variety theaters, there was something for everyone.

In Dodge City’s early days, law and order was more an abstract notion than a reality, and it was seldom, if ever, enforced. Fights broke out and guns were pulled at the slightest provocation. For a short time a man could do as he pleased without fear of legal reprisals. Between the summers of 1872 and 1873, twenty-five people were shot and killed in Dodge, and almost twice as many had been wound-

ed in saloon brawls and gunfights. An East Coast newspaper proclaimed the town to be as “rough a community as ever flourished under one flag.”

Part of the reason for the town’s riotous reputation is that the majority of the businesses at the whistle-stop catered to the rowdy trail hands. The financial growth of Dodge City depended in large part on the cowboys and their immoral conduct. The so-called respectable citizens of Ford County resented the violence and disorder but were willing to subject themselves to the unrestrained actions of these men for the sake of the fortunes to be made. Law enforcement officials were encouraged to overlook all but the most dangerous men and to essentially keep a lid on only the most violent crimes.

Mercantile owners, restaurant operators, proprietors of saddle and boot shops, saloon keepers, and gambling hall managers feared that if the atmosphere became too strict, the ranch hands would take their business and money to a more hospitable town. In an effort to maintain a sense of order, the sheriff and his deputies had to be part politician and part lawman.

Shortly after Dora and Fannie arrived at their raucous destination, they walked down the city’s main artery, known as Front Street, to the theater district. The pair had an engagement to play at the Comique Theatre. The women were signed to perform with a cast of entertainers that included cancan dancers, jugglers, cloggers, and magicians. Variety shows at the Comique went on all night, one act following another in rapid succession. Restless audiences weren’t always quiet and attentive each time another performer took to the stage, however. Many times drunk and impatient patrons shouted over the entertainers and even shot at them if they were dissatisfied with the performance. The decorative setting in front of which the players performed was filled with several bullet holes, as was the ceiling above their heads.

The Comique Theatre had the least number of incidents of violence against performers of all the theaters in Dodge City. That was due in large part to the caliber of entertainers that appeared there. According to the July 30, 1878, edition of the Ford County Globe, the Comique was the “favorite place of resort—offering its patrons the best show or entertainment ever given in Dodge.” Among the outstanding acts the paper listed as appearing at the theater were “ballad and variety performers Fannie Garrettson and Fannie Keenan” (better known as

DODGE CITY MAYOR JAMES “DOG” KELLEY, A FORMER ARMY SCOUT GIVEN HIS COLORFUL NICKNAME DUE TO HIS LOVE OF GREYHOUNDS, A GIFT FROM NONE OTHER THAN LT. COLONEL GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER.

JAMES “SPIKE” KENEDY, SON OF TEXAS CATTLE BARON MIFFLIN KENEDY, WAS ARROGANT ENOUGH TO BELIEVE HE COULD MAKE DORA HAND HIS OWN... WHETHER SHE WANTED TO BE OR NOT.

helping to take care of the homeless and sick. Her benevolence sometimes extended to cowboys who had lost everything at the faro or poker tables. More than once she grubstaked a destitute trail hand’s way home and out of debt. At night the dance hall singer thrilled audiences over and over again at a variety of venues. Engagements outside of town periodically took Dora away from the area for short periods of time, but the adoration of loyal bullwhackers and cowpunchers kept her coming back to the rough-and-tumble burg.

Dora Hand), “transformation dancer M’lle Cerito, and the musical comedy team of Foy and Thompson.” The article also added that “all the members of this troupe are up in their parts and considerably above the average ability.”

Dora followed her run at the Comique Theatre with a two-week benefit at Ham Bell’s Varieties. Bell, who knew the songstress used both the name of Dora Hand and Fannie Keenan on stage, asked her how she wanted her name listed for the playbill. “What is your real name?” he inquired. “Well, Mister Bell,” she said, “take your pick, one’s just as good as the other.” The August 10, 1878, edition of the Dodge City Times listed Dora Hand as one of the performers set to appear on stage along with celebrated actress Hattie Smith. The Times noted that the two women were “general favorites in Dodge and were sure to play to a full house.”

During the day Dora served the community by

On September 24, 1878, after more than six years’ separation from Theodore Hand, Dora filed for divorce. The Ford County, Kansas, petition read that “during the marriage and even since she has conducted herself as a true and faithful wife, fulfilling and performing all her duties as per the marriage contract.” The decree claimed that Captain Hand had “deserted and abandoned Dora for Gizzie Gataun, a woman residing in Cincinnati, Ohio.”

News of the impending dissolution of Dora’s marriage filled the hearts of would-be suitors with hope. James Kenedy , the handsome, overly indulged son of Texas cattle baron Mifflin Kenedy , was arrogant enough to believe he could make Dora his own. He had never met her, but rumors that circulated about her kindness and charm had captured his fancy, and he was determined to sweep her off her feet.

James Kenedy was a tall man with a strong build, and he was accustomed to getting his own way. He wore tailor-made clothes and carried himself with confidence derived mostly from his family’s sizeable bank account and land holdings. When James strutted into the Alhambra Saloon and Gambling House in September 1878, it was with the intention of introducing himself to Dora, marrying her, and escorting her back to his ranch.

A mesmerized crowd surrounded the stage where she stood serenading them with a touching tune. Lost in delivering a moving performance, she barely noticed James pushing his way through the audience to find a seat near the front. Grateful regulars rose to their feet at the end of her song. James followed suit.

Dora graciously took a bow and surrendered the stage to Fannie Garrettson. A bartender served Dora a cold drink as she settled herself at a table alone in the back of the room. While she was listening to the music, James strolled over to her and without invitation pulled up a chair and sat down. He placed a bottle of whisky and two glasses in front of her. His aggressive stance was met with polite indifference, and in spite of his attempts to engage her in conversation, Dora kept her focus on Fannie’s performance.

“My name is James Kenedy,” the persistent man offered as he poured himself a drink. “My friends call me Spike.”

“I know who you are, Mister Kenedy,” Dora responded coolly. A broad smile filled his face as he studied her hair, her face, her clothes, the way she held her hands. She didn’t dignify his boorish behavior with so much as a glance. Preoccupied with Dora’s delicate features, James did not see Mayor James Kelley walk up behind them and place his hand lovingly on the songstress’s shoulder.

Kelley was a formidable man in his mid-forties with a thick, droopy mustache and sparse, unkempt hair of indeterminate color. He was a former army scout who had worked with George Custer while they were stationed at Fort Dodge. When Custer left the area in 1872, he gave Mayor Kelley a number of his hunting dogs. The animals seldom if ever left Kelley’s side. His entourage of prized greyhounds had earned him the nickname “Dog.”

James and the mayor eyed one another carefully. Dora ever so slightly shifted her body toward Kelley, and he smiled a satisfied smile. James’s expression was grim. His history with the mayor was troubled. His family had sold Kelley a stolen horse some months back, and news of the sale had besmirched the Kenedy name. James was certain Kelley had told Dora that the Kenedys were a family not to be as-

sociated with and that that was the reason she was ignoring him.

James had doubled his alcohol intake and was feeling no pain when he started cursing his rival. The whiskey made him bold and loud. He accused Kelley of ruining his chance to woo Dora. He vowed to have her regardless of what she or anyone else thought. Assuming some of James’s riding buddies would escort their friend out of the saloon once his behavior became too obnoxious, Mayor Kelley tolerated the cowhand. When it was clear James would not be leaving, either on his own steam or with the help of his associates, Kelley jerked the man out of his seat and tossed him out of the tavern.

Once James sobered up, the memory of the humiliating events sparked his desire for revenge. Armed with dangerously wounded pride, a .45-caliber pistol, and the financial backing that would deliver him from any illegal act, James vowed that Kelley would pay for his offenses.

The following morning a relentless sun peered through a partly cloudy sky and revealed the carnage left by wild Dodge City inhabitants like James who had been celebrating the previous evening. Broken glass, beer bottles, human waste, and the occasional drunken cowboy lay in the streets and alleyways. The smell of cattle, gunpowder, straw, manure, and cheap perfume mixed with the scent of fresh baked bread from the bakeries and ham and eggs from the various eateries on either side of the railroad tracks that ran down the center of town. Dora maneuvered around the hurried and aromatic scene, chaperoned by the mayor, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm.

James stood outside one of the town’s numerous hotels, watching the pair interact. He was hung over and seething with anger. Disgusted and dejected, he turned away from the couple and took off in the opposite direction. Several loyal hands from his father’s ranch followed after him.

Dora and Mayor Kelley eventually concluded their outing and went their separate ways. The pack of dogs at Kelley’s heels happily paraded behind him as he walked toward his home, situated behind the

Great Western Hotel. Once inside the modest house, the mayor eased his frame into his comfortable bed in the front bedroom and attempted to take a nap. After a few moments he was roused out of his thin sleep by a noise in his yard. He listened, braced on one elbow. Glancing out the window and over the tops of the cannas and yucca plants that surrounded his residence, he spotted James coming up the gravel path leading to his front door.

Mayor Kelley jumped out of bed and grabbed his sixshooter from a nearby nightstand. When he heard James’s boots on the porch, he flung the door open and raised his gun level with the cattleman’s chest. James was taken aback, and for a quick second the two men stood staring at each other. Kelley was ready to fire if forced, and James, backed up by a handful of armed men, was ready to draw if the mood and nerve struck him.

Tense silence gave way to a barrage of profanity. The pair exchanged insults and threats. Kelley ordered James off his property, and persuaded by his hired hands, the hotheaded cattleman even-

tually gave in. He backed up along the walkway, surveying Kelley’s place as he went. His face was savage with the violent thoughts that he would act on later. Before he turned to leave, the wind stirred the curtains on the window in the front bedroom, and he caught a glimpse of the mayor’s unmade bed. He paused for a moment to think, then grinned tolerantly at Kelley as he left.

On October 3, 1878, Dora Hand entertained another standing room only crowd at the Alhambra Saloon and Gambling House. She courteously accepted the enthusiastic applause, thanked the piano player for accompanying her, said goodnight to the audience, and exited the tavern to retire for the evening. Men milling around the streets playfully whistled and called after her as she walked by them. She hurried along undisturbed to Mayor Kelley’s and entered the home as though she were expected.

Mayor Kelley was out of town and had invited Dora and her friend Fannie to stay at his place during his absence. The accommodations were infinitely more quiet and private than a hotel’s. The

DODGE CITY SHERIFF BAT MASTERSON (LEFT) ASSEMBLED PERHAPS THE GREATEST POSSE OF ALL TIME TO PURSUE DORA HAND ’S KILLER. ON THE TRAIL WITH HIM WERE FAMED LAWMEN CHARLEY BASSETT, WYATT EARP, AND BILL TILGHMAN.

performer tiptoed through the house making sure not to wake Fannie. After slipping into her bed clothes, she crawled under the covers and drifted off to sleep.

The shots that pierced the walls of Kelley’s home at 4:15 in the morning rousted Fannie Garrettson from her bed shortly after she’d heard them fired. An eerie stillness hung in the air—a quiet that begged her not to trust it. Fannie glanced down at the quilt across the bed and noticed a burn hole in the fabric. She knew it had been made by a bullet. Slipping her finger into the frayed material, she traced the path of the pistol ball to the wall opposite the bed.

Fannie raced out of the house, her eyes wide with terror, screaming. Shaking and hysterical, she sat down in the alleyway between Mayor Kelley’s home and a row of saloons that bordered the building in the back. When the law arrived moments later to investigate, they found Fannie Garrettson in her nightgown sobbing and rocking back and forth. Too upset to speak, she merely pointed at the house and shook her head. “Poor Dora,” she later told authorities, “she never spoke but died unconscious. She was so when she was struck and so she died.

—CHRIS ENSS is a New York Times bestselling author who has written about women of the Old West for more than thirty years. She’s penned more than fifty pubbooks on the subject and been honored with nine Will Rogers Medallion Awards, two Elmer Kelton Book Awards, an Oklahoma Center for the Book Award, three Foreword Review Magazine Book Awards, the Laura Downing Journalism Award, and three Western Writers of America Spur Finalist Awards. Enss’s most recent works are The Widowed Ones: Beyond the Battle of the Little Bighorn, Along Came a Cowgirl: Daring and Iconic Cowgirls of Rodeos and Wild West Shows, and Straight Lady: The Life and Times of Margaret Dumont “The Fifth Marx Brother.”

—HOWARD KAZANJIAN is an Armenian-American film producer best known for the Star Wars films The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi, as well as the Indiana Jones movie Raiders of the Lost Ark. Kazanjian was an originating member of Lucasfilm, Ltd., serving as its vice president for approximately eight years (1977 to 1984). Howard is also a New York Times bestselling author with his writing partner, Chris Enss, including Thunder On the Prairie: The True Story of a Murder and a Manhunt by the Greatest Posse of All Time.

DODGE CITY, 1880

THE TOUSLED-HEADED boy eased the door open a crack, then ducked inside, looking loose-limbed and trail-weary. He hadn’t even been to the barber shop to be shorn like the rest of them always did. He did look fairly clean, though. That was something, anyway, but he was still wearing his old trail-beat boots and trousers. Most of the boys driving those animals to the railhead went for new boots and trousers first off. So, this boy must be mighty eager.

He fumbled to snug the door tight, then turned his gaze to her. Sophie lazed back on her cot. A candle flickered and puddled on an up-turned wooden box. Its sputtering flame made shadows dance. The boy stepped closer. “I can’t hardly….” He cleared his throat. “Coming in from sunlight, it’s dim as a root cellar. Ain’t you got a lamp? Can’t even see your face.”

Sophie cut him a sidelong glance. She lay her stare down hard on him, then sat up, pressing her knees tight together, sitting prim as a preach-

er’s wife, though powder caked her face and paint rouged her lips and sharp-boned cheeks. She tugged at a ragged ruffled skirt. “I doubt you come for my face.” She sneered and crossed her arms.

He hauled his gaze away, working his mouth, likely struggling to find a clever word. “I’m supposed to come see one of you.” He shrugged and threw her another quick glance. “You know.” He thrust out one hand and uncurled his fingers. “I got a silver dollar and was told it’d be enough. It’s a whole day’s pay for me.”

She stayed silent for a while, but when she spoke, her words came low and slow. “I guess I know I’m a whore, and you’re here with money. Ain’t no mystery but seems like you can’t even say it. How you going to be doing it?” She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling bone-weary. “Go on, unbuckle and unbutton. Let me get at it. I been told how. Guess I have put worse things in my mouth.”

He stumbled back a pace, knocking up against the creaking door. “Girl, you are like some slinking animal. A weasel, maybe, or a fox. Like you’re holed

up in this cave.” He snorted a nervous chuckle. “Such an animal can get plenty riled with little goading. I’ve seen it happen. So, I don’t aim to do the riling. I don’t want what you said.” He stepped forward again. “I don’t want nothing. My pa says I got to, is all. I ain’t fixing to tell him no. The man is mean when he’s crossed.”

Sophie opened her eyes and flicked her gaze up and down “You think your pa is rough?” She gave the words a sneering twist.

“Ever run across him? If you did, you’d know it.”

“Ain’t been in this whiskey-soaked town long enough to be plowed by every son-of-a-bitch driving cows up from Texas.”

“You got a mouth on you, you know that?”

“Had me a good teacher. You can hear her coughing next door.”

“It just don’t sound right, coming from a girl.”

“Well, ain’t you just Mama’s little angel? A big boy like you, letting your pa call the shots. You a mama’s boy?”

He drew himself up. “Best you don’t speak nothing about my ma,” he said in quiet, slow-spoken words.

Sophie took in breath enough to let a string of words fly at him fast and all at once. “My ma died, and my pa sold me cheap two years past. I suspect mine beats yours for hard.” She gave a little nod as if something had been settled.

The boy pushed his hat back. “All right, all right. Easy does it. I just need to bide here a while. Pa is likely standing nearby, his pocket watch in hand.”

“In the alley? Naw, he’s likely whooping it up in Beeson’s fancy Long Branch Saloon.” She leaned a bit closer like she had a secret to share. “The old gal in the crib next to this says sprats like you give a quick poke and hardly a fare-thee-well.” She straightened and stared at her hands where they patted and pulled at her skirt. “Your pa likely knows as much. He’ll think you have done what he sent you to do, so get on out of here.” Then her voice broke on sharp words she hadn’t meant to say. “You think me nothing but trash? Think I ain’t even worth your silver dollar?” She felt the heat of color blossom on her chest and burn up through the face powder.

“I see I have given insult,” he said. “Though I can’t see how.” The boy’s own face burned red. “I can do it if I want. You’re as good as any, I expect. But you don’t want it, and I don’t want it, so let’s leave it be. I sure ain’t in no kind of mood for it, anyway.”

“Don’t make no never mind to me.” Sophie sang the words.

The silver dollar still lay in his sweat-slick palm, shiny in the candlelight. “I’ll leave this here.” Taller than most men, he bumped a rafter with his hat when he stepped closer, bringing down a rattle of gritHe lay the dollar down on the cot beside her. “I’m obliged for your time.” He backed toward the door, groped behind him for the latch with one hand, touching his hat-brim with the other.

Sophie whipped her head around, her eyes round as the silver dollar he’d just parted with. She strained toward him, stretching out one hand. “Wait,” she whispered. “Forget what I said. Do whatever it is you do.”

He stopped, watching her. “Now you’re seeming more like a lost cat than a cornered fox.” He drew close again. “You’re scared, ain’t you?” He grasped her fingers, and she let him. Her fingers lay long and white against his calloused palm, and he coughed as he chocked back a sob. He blinked and nodded once. “I ain’t here to hurt you. I’m guessing we’re both being made to do something we don’t want.” He tried to chuckle, but it came out strangled. “I can stay some longer, I reckon.”

“You see, if you go, some other bastard is sure to come along toting his own dollar.” She shuddered. “Mean, sick maybe. It ain’t like I can choose.”

“Is this the first time you ever...?”

“I wasn’t born with my legs spread.”

He colored slightly and looked down at their hands, still linked.

She raked her free hand through a tangle of yellow hair. “My pa sold me, like I said, two years back but not in Dodge. It was to an old bastard running a crummy old store along the trail. He lay down his money for me. Said he’d marry me. He didn’t. He fumbled and grunted, then beat on me for his failing. He did all the doing, not me. Never me.” She

held herself fierce for a second, then sagged. “He kept me fed, though. But he has died, and I am near to starving.” She clamped her teeth onto her bottom lip, let it free, then spoke again, a whisper. “I got nobody. There ain’t no work I can get but this, and I got to eat. I figured keeping to myself, and not signing on with the fancy ladies in town, I could stay a bit free, you know. But it don’t work that way.” She stared hard at him. “The old gal dying next door says it ain’t so bad once you get used to it….” Her voice trailed away to silence, but she kept her gaze fixed on his face, moving it from his eyes to his mouth and back again, searching for something, though she didn’t know what.

“I wish I could, you know, wish I had….” He took a breath. “As skinny as you are, you likely ain’t ate for days.” He eased down next to her on the cot. Still holding her hand, cautious. “You’re looking like one of those wild-eyed calves I’ve been driving. Won’t your pa…?”

“He’d just sell me again. I’d sooner cut my throat than give him the profit. No. If I got to truckle to men, I’ll get paid my own self. I’ll keep it, too. Save it and….” She crushed his fingers in her own and spoke in a clench-teethed hiss. “I wish to God I never had to smell another cow nor see another man. Not for nothing. Never yet run across a man who didn’t do me wrong.”

He smiled, just a bit. “Have I harmed you?”

Sophie squinted at him. “How old are you?”

“I could ask you that.”

She shrugged. “No secret. Fifteen last week.”

“I’m near about the same. Some older.”

“That’s why you done me no wrong. You ain’t hardly a man.”

He looked to be mulling those words over, sitting in silence. Sophie feared she had riled him, wondered what he’d do. She steeled herself for violence.

Instead, he smiled and cocked his head to one side. “I expect I will be someday.”

She closed her eyes, much more than relieved, if truth be told, cheered almost.

“My name is Will Martin. Me and Pa ran cattle up from Texas. Come in yesterday.”

Sophie turned a heated gaze on him, hoping to scorch his words away, so they’d be ashes in his mouth. “I don’t need to know nothing about it. I been hearing all the cowpunching talk I need to.”

He started again, quiet words. “Your eyes are so blue,” he whispered. “Like the sky at noon. You know? When there ain’t no clouds. The sky so bright.” He ran out of words.

“Sophie,” she whispered. “My name is Sophie. The other name is my pa’s. I don’t want it.”

“It’s a good name as it is, I guess.”

She shrugged.

He reached up to swipe at sweat trickling down his forehead and bumped a knuckle against his hat. He quickly pulled it off, then set it on the bed. “Sorry. I been raised better.”

“What do you mean?”

“My hat. Ma would skin me, wearing my hat inside a lady’s house.”

“A lady’s house,” she said, then moved her gaze slowly along each wall and into each corner.

His gaze followed. A cracked wash basin on a twisted iron stand leaned into one corner. Chinks between the warped planks of the walls let in little slivers of light as the sun set down the west end of the alley. Rusted, square-headed nails held a worn wrapper, a calico dress, and a straw hat. “That hat looks like it’s been mauled by a dog,” he said.

“I found it here. If I ever need a hat, it’ll do.”

“I passed two other places. They had windows. Why don’t yours?”

She shrugged. “I took what I could get.”

“I heard coughing from one place, and I believe more than one fella was at his business with whoever lives in the second.”

“Lives?” She sneered.

“Don’t nobody live there?”

“She works there, sleeps there, eats when she can, just like me. But she’s drunk most of the time. Can’t say I’d call it living.”

Will sighed. He untangled their fingers and lay his hand on the cot. “What’s this thing? It’s slick and cold. Ain’t no blanket.”

“Oil-cloth. I had my pick of red or brown. The red seemed most cheerful. It’s to keep the muck off the blanket.

He looked confused.

“From the boots,” Sophie said. “The old gal says nobody’ll take his boots off.”

He rose up and turned his back, nodding toward the wall. “Come winter, you’re going to be wanting to stuff something in them cracks between the planks. Does the stove work?”

“Never tried it.”

He squatted and poked at the rusted metal. “Likely just needs cleaning out. You’ll need some wood, some kindling. I can bring that and an axe to chop it.” He stood and eyed the stove pipe. “I could tighten those joints, dab a little tar, maybe fix something up so you won’t be setting on fire where that pipe feeds out through the roof.”

“What’re you thinking to get for all your work?” Sophie said. “Fixing things so I won’t ask for any more of them silver dollars?”

“You’re a suspicious girl, you know that?”

She shrugged. “I know what I know. I know I need money worse than repairs.”

“Not if the winter coming is as bad as the last one. Cattle froze to the ground where we come from. You will, too—freeze to death in here.”

She thrust a glance up high. “Maybe that’d be best. They say it’s peaceful, going that way.”

“That is just stupid talk. Things ain’t that bad.”

“I suspect you don’t know so much about what is bad, and don’t neither of us know how much worse it can get.”

Will cleared his throat and wrinkled up his nose. “What was it that was kept in this shack?”

“Something with a powerful stench like death is all I know. I scrubbed it out with carbolic the old gal give me. Now, it stinks of that, as well.”

A hush fell over them. Whoops and drunken laughter and cursing and the tinkling of hurdygurdy music trickled down the alley from the saloons

on the main street and nearly covered the constant coughing from the crib next to Sophie’s. “Stuffy in here, even with that sun slanting through the cracks like it’s doing,” he said. “I believe I’ll just prop the door open a bit and—”

“Don’t!” Sophie cried. “Some fool will take it as you being done. He’ll push his way in here.”

“Then I’ll just push him back out.” Will grinned and raised the latch.

“No! Don’t. I hear breathing.”

Before she could finish and before Will could brace himself, a man stumbled out of the setting sun and shoved through the doorway. He set his boots wide apart, swaying and weaving, squinting at Sophie, then at Will. “I been up on Front Street in a fine place, wondered where you got to. I only give you a dollar, boy. This one so dumb she takes so little for such a lengthy visit? But I been told she’s new.” He swiped Will aside like a bear would do a hound.

“Pa, I need more time—”

“Hah! You courtin’ her, boy?” He reached for Sophie where she still sat on the cot, grabbing her hair at the nape, then pulled himself tight against her. His belt buckle scraped her cheek. She yelped, twisted, and shoved at him with both hands.

“Pa! Stop it. You’ve cut her.” Will was tall, but only half as wide as his pa, yet it seemed the sight of her blood had crazed him. He snaked his arm around his pa’s neck and yanked him back. Will fell to his back, his pa on top. Sophie crowned the pile, reaching back to pry the man’s fingers from her hair, letting loose a string of curses.

She yanked free, then dove for her knobbed stick leaning in a corner. Upon standing, she straddled the men, holding the stick high.

“Don’t, Sophie! You’re likely to kill him.”

“I aim to if he ever touches me again.” She reached up and touched the smear of blood along her cheekbone. “Look,” she whispered. “Look what he done.”

“You got yourself a wildcat, boy!” The man was laughing, his face red from Will’s forearm pushing at his neck. “Let me up, now.”

“You got to go, Pa. Leave me be. Go on, now.”

The man kept laughing. Rolling off Will, swaying on his hands and knees, he crawling toward the door. “Get after her, son.” He used the doorjamb to pull himself upright. “When you’re done, I believe I’ll come back and have a try.” Wiping his eyes, he turned in what light was left from outside and squinted at Sophie. “Well, damnation. No wonder she thought nothing about bashing in my brains. I ain’t never erred in recognizing a damned Bohunk when I see one.” He backed out, stumbling when his boots hit the dust of the alley, stirring it into a choking cloud. “Them people from across the water are mean, boy. Big and mean.” He shook his head, hawked and spat, then turned to stumble away. “Never seen one of their women, though. Have at her, boy, but be careful.”

Will climbed to his feet. He held to the side of the doorway and leaned on both arms, to watch his pa stagger down the alley toward the street before turning slowly back toward Sophie. “Don’t know what to say. He’s—”

“Norwegian.”

“What?”

“Not Swedish or Danish or Finnish or German or any other thing he thinks he knows so much about. My ma and pa came from Norway.”

“I guess he thinks he’s never wrong about such things. I never would’ve known.”

“Are you like him? Make a difference? You feel that way about Swedes, too? Call ’em squareheads and worse?”

“Never heard nobody called that.”

Sophie lay the stick on the cot behind her. “Your pa is a son-of-a-bitch.”

“He’s just mighty drunk. That’s the only reason I bested him. He’s got years and weight on his side when it comes to fighting. He would’ve knocked me flat on my duff and kept at you, but he’s drunk and grieving.”

“What’s he grieving for? The loss of his mind?”

“We had a letter waiting for us here.” He paused and swallowed hard, like a river of spit had come rushing into his mouth. “My... well, my Ma died. Some kind of fever, I guess.” Will turned and closed

the door, stood with his head hanging down for a heartbeat, then whispered, “You know? It ain’t so bad in here.”

Sophie watched him sway on his feet, dazed-like.

“Kind of like a den or a nest or some such....” He turned back around. “I suspect Ma’s dying has made him crazy.”

Sophie stepped close. “I said stupid words about your ma and you being her boy and all, not knowing her. Not knowing she had passed. I take ’em all back.”

“Like you said, you didn’t know.”

She stepped closer. She’d never felt tender toward any male before, young or old. “So, she was good to you, your ma?”

“She was the best of all of us.” He looked like he was about to bawl but blinked himself from it. He reached out slowly and touched the blood on her face. “He cut you pretty bad.”

She reached to where he touched her. Their fingers met, and a kind of serenity rose through her. “Likely not so bad, really. I expect I’ll have far worse before I die.”

He turned his hand so their fingers linked and shook his head once, side to side. “No. No, you won’t,” he said, raising his chin high. “Not if I can keep you from it. I’m thinking I got no need to get back to Texas. I’ll find some work and bide here for a while.”

With no good reason, she believed him and nodded, smiling just a little. The how and the why had nothing to do with it just then. The belief was all there was. They were young and strong, and she in particular was sometimes too hard, just like Dodge City had grown to be. But strong, like the rest of the country. There wasn’t anything they couldn’t do or be. She listened to the screeching laughter, the music and hollering of men just so danged happy to be done with that cattle drive that could have killed them fifty different ways and smiled at this boy. The times they’d be together in the time yet to come wouldn’t ever be measured in silver dollars. That’s all she knew, all she needed to know.

BONNIE HOBBS

BONNIE HOBBS grew up in a reading family. She lived in the country, riding her horse in the rolling hills and beneath the oak trees of the central coast of California. Her father read western history; her mother enjoyed historical romances. Hobbs draws from both. She now lives in southern Oregon, east of the Cascades, where she raised Navajo-Churro sheep until moving to town.

Bonnie is a retired RN, first helping with birthing babies, then retiring from Hospice Nursing about 20 years later. She began writing in the 1980s with a pen and notebook, standing up in the kitchen at a dresser. The kids thought she was “busy” as long as she didn’t sit down and left her to it. Patient and understanding in her youth, she has added fortitude and impatience as the years roll on. She has three published novels. A short story comes first, and out of it evolves a novel. She is always working on another, after returning from her 4 a.m. walks with her dog.

a“One Silver Dollar” is Bonnie’s first story to appear within the pages of Saddlebag Dispatches.

THE LONG BRANCH Drink-Off was Henry Palmer’s idea. The faro dealer and parttime pimp made sure everyone who came through the tables recognized his genius for planning the event, even though all he did was slip the idea to Chalkey Beeson after five too many rounds of sour mash. The Drink-Off would be an ironic celebration of the new temperance law Kansas passed banning the sale and consumption of liquor, which everyone knew was unenforceable outside of Topeka. The Drink-Off would encourage boozers across the county to swarm the saloon for a night, and the proceeds would go toward the future monthly $100 fine Beeson would pay the state for breaking the law.

Palmer treated it as a de facto bachelor party. He scandalized few and surprised none with his engagement to Ms. Dora Vail, a marriage he boasted would save her from her life of whoring. Left unsaid was that he had been her procurer and chose to marry her out of a murderous jealousy that nearly killed a customer when he grew too

familiar. Dora was a young woman of twenty-two to Palmer’s thirty-eight, though she acted ten years his senior. She was aloof by the standards of sporting women, never initiating contact with her johns. She never turned down a client, but she never said more than two words to them and usually made them feel lonelier than they had been before they met her.

They felt the loneliness she felt. Even after two years, she still longed for Nate Hardin. The cowboy was her age, inexperienced with women, and over-experienced with life. She expected him to take her from her brutal pimp in Austin. He left with the rest of his company for Wyoming instead. She saved herself from Texas and landed in Kansas, hardly an improvement.

Palmer provided for her. Palmer cared for her. But marriage to Palmer would be a life condemned to lying about her feelings for him in order to have a roof over her head where she would bear his children and likely be left to raise them alone. She questioned whether the cost was worth it.

NATE HARDIN RACED sixteen-year-old Oliver

Allen to the Arkansas River alongside Dodge City and realized he was losing his touch with horses. Oliver’s widower father was a former Jayhawker who transitioned to small-time ranching after the war and purchased cattle from Nate’s company. Old Man Allen let him lodge there on his way south to Texas. Old Man had known enough desperate men on the run in his life to not question why Nate chose to leave Wyoming so close to Winter.

The increasingly icy weather postponed the remainder of Nate’s southward ride. The coming Drink-Off was the one benefit to being marooned in Ford County. Nate was a consummate drinker, but he kept the worst of his habit out of sight of young Oliver. He admired Nate more than he had any right to. Oliver hadn’t seen much outside of Kansas, and Nate was a window to a wild life

which he revealed to Oliver through stories of cattle raids along the Rio Grande that he himself had heard from old-timers at Oliver’s age.

Oliver reached the river first. Nate envied his youth, and concealing his low spirits with an arrogant grin, he caught up to the kid.

“You know, we did bet on that race,” Nate said.

“I’ll take your earnings from the Drink-Off,” Oliver said.

“So sure I’d win, huh?”

The Drink-Off was a week away. Neighborhood drunks had signed their names in the ledger. Heavy drinkers from nearby Caldwell braved the cold to set up in town. Those who weren’t participating in the Drink-Off were making wagers on the winners of the contest.

Nate pointed to a few boozers he knew from saloons in Abilene. “Half those men are gonna be rolling in the mud come Friday.”

“That’d be something to see,” Oliver said.

“It wouldn’t be nothing more than it is,” Nate said. Oliver’s father was dry but tolerated Nate’s tendencies so long as he kept it in the barn. His father’s extreme temperance fueled Oliver’s bizarre interest in the vices of other men.

“I’ll be in the Long Branch when you’re done with that order,” Nate said.

“I’ll meet you in there.”

“Like Hell. Your old man will hang me the first chance he gets.”

“I’m no boy.”

“But you’re his boy. You wait a while, then I’ll take you in next time we’re in town. Hell, you can watch me at the Drink-Off.”

That was enough for Oliver to agree to wait around while Nate stepped into the Long Branch. The saloon was nothing special. A few pictures hung from otherwise bare walls, and an unpolished mirror hung behind the bar. Nate leaned over and asked to register for the Drink-Off. The bartender

told him he’d be in a line of twenty other men still waiting for Chalkey to sign them up. He received his first drink on the house for the inconvenience.

He stared at the dirty mirror and lamented the lines on a face overexposed to the sun and soil. When a door opened behind him, he watched his past walk out of the room.

She floated across the floor like a ghost. His gaze followed her auburn curls, and she politely nodded to a few leathery men. Her strained smile dissipated when she noticed the cowhand at the bar approach her.

Nate’s words lodged themselves in his throat, and he swallowed them back into his heart. He never said a proper goodbye to Dora Vail before leaving Texas. He wasn’t sure he could say a proper hello. She lifted that burden for him.

“I thought you’d be in Wyoming.”

“I was.”

“Not anymore?”

“It was a little cold there,” he said.

“It’s cold here, too.”

“It just got a little warmer.”

Heads turned toward the two. No one had ever seen Ms. Vail say more than a few words to a man in public, even to her fiancé.

“Buy you the usual?”

Dora’s attention flew to the leering men against the wall. They quickly looked toward the saloon doors. “You’re two years too late.”

“Wyoming wasn’t no place for you.”

“Neither was Austin.”

“This ain’t no place for you, neither.”

“I’ve made it work.”

She stepped away.

He took her hand. “See you tonight?”

She pulled her hand away. “Good day, sir.”

He watched her walk toward the door and into the arms of a thin man with greased hair and a silver watch chain. The man whispered to her. He watched Nate with the flaming eyes of an angry bull before pulling her away.

Nate lingered around the saloon until Oliver called for him. He stayed quiet on the ride back to the Allen Ranch. Dora had been the only woman he desired the past two years despite leaving her for the north. He wouldn’t leave her behind this time. They arrived home, and Nate told Oliver he forgot something in town.

“You said you’d take me to the Long Branch next time,” Oliver said.

“It ain’t nothing you need to be a part of.”

“It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

“That obvious?”

Oliver had almost no experience with women beyond the few he saw in his sporadic trips to town. He had never been in proper love. But he recognized that it wasn’t the whiskey that made Nate’s cheeks rosy.

Nate returned to the Long Branch by sundown. He couldn’t see Dora among the crowd of patrons, but he saw the fiery-eyed man Dora left with dealing faro at the far tables. He caught Nate staring, and Nate averted his gaze for the mirror where he saw two men standing behind him.

“Problem?”

The smaller of the two men had a thick mustache and hangdog eyes. “My name’s Chalkey Beeson. I’m the owner of this establishment.”

Dora had pushed the Drink-Off to the fringe of Nate’s mind. Beeson pulled it back.

“I was hoping to sign up for your contest.”

“I’ll have to dash your hopes then,” Chalkey said. “We’re full.”

“I’ll pay double the fee.”

“Actually, we’re full tonight, as well, so I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“There’s standing room.”

“Not for you,” the doorman said.

“I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

Chalkey waved toward the faro dealer. “I know cowboying is lonely work. I’ve been there. But that doesn’t give you a reason to start chasing after a man’s fiancé.”

Nate stared at the faro dealer and put the puzzle together. He scoffed. “Is that what pimps call sporting women around here?”

“See, that’s the kind of remark that makes you unwelcome here,” Chalkey said. “I’m asking nicely. Mister Palmer there? He won’t ask.”

Nate didn’t respond before the doorman shoved him from the bar and towards the door. He pushed his weight into the last shove and tripped Nate over the steps. Nate ignored the jeers of the drunks and removed himself from the mud.

He lingered at a neighboring saloon until sunrise, watching the doors of the Long Branch. When the faro dealer left, he immediately waved him down.

“What the hell do you want, cowboy?”

He pulled out the standard rate for a girl.

Palmer glared at the cash in Nate’s hand. “She ain’t available.”

“When she is, here’s my offer.”

“Why don’t you quit while you still got your pretty little teeth?”

Nate opened his satchel further. He revealed its full contents, the reason for fleeing Wyoming.

“That’s to buy her off of you.”

Palmer struck him with enough force to knock

him backward. Nate charged, but Palmer’s wide reach held him back.

He grabbed the cowboy, slammed him against a nearby wall, then pushed his elbow against his throat. “I’ll say it only once. You come near me or her again, you step foot in this saloon, and I’ll kill you dead.”

Palmer stepped away with the eyes of Dodge City’s night owls and early risers fixated on the two men.

DORA SWORE THAT he was only an old customer. Palmer didn’t believe her. He told her to stay away from the Long Branch from then on and warned her that men reentering a whore’s life couldn’t be trusted. He knew that there had been love between the two.

She wished she had been less brusque with Nate. She expected a happier reunion. She found reality unromantic compared to dreams.

Palmer returned at dawn in a foul mood. He moaned that Chalkey treated him like some card cutter when he was proving the brains of the Long Branch, moaned that he missed Dodge’s glory days when he could have set up his own establishment. He moaned about everything except Nate, but Dora knew him well enough to understand the real source of his anger. He whined himself to sleep while she reassured him she wouldn’t leave, but she had never felt more distant from him than that moment. Her ambitions to leave Kansas behind reignited, ambitions left dormant from the security they provided her.

The cowboy wasn’t hard to find. He never wandered far from saloons in town, and the Saratoga wasn’t a far walk. When she entered, he was well soaked but far from the worst she had seen him.

He snorted when he saw her. “Will I get a wedding invite?”

“It would be a little awkward.” She pulled the next shot away and ordered him some coffee.

“I’d make a fine minister. Hell, even a flower girl.”

“I’d have preferred you at the altar,” she said.

“Still could have me there.”

“Be serious.”

“I am. You ran off once. You could do it again.”

“I can’t leave him.”

“Do you love him?”

“That ain’t got nothing to do with it,” she said. “I ain’t losing a roof over my head for love.”

“Do you love me?”

“Don’t do this right now.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Like we wanted to.”

“I ain’t going back to Texas.”

“I never said Texas.”

“Where then?”

He shrugged. “There’s work down in Arizona.”

“What else is down there?”

“Why don’t we find out?”

THEY MADE PLANS to hop a train during the Drink-Off, when most of the town’s wandering eyes would look toward the Long Branch. Nate avoided the Long Branch but couldn’t avoid Dora’s window in the late evening hours when Palmer was away at the tables. He tucked his gun between his belt and hid it under his jacket in the event of a confrontation, in defiance of the firearms ordinance.

He explained the situation to Oliver, who had been foolish enough to explain it to his father. Old Man Allen didn’t enjoy the talk of men running off with whores and despised the influence it would have on Oliver. He said as much to Nate, who brushed his concerns off.

“He ain’t a boy. He’s gotta know something of the world other than your few acres.”

But he still restrained his words around the kid. One morning Oliver saw him hiding his loot in his pillow. He didn’t ask the source. Nate shoved it back into his purse without a word. The revelation didn’t shatter Oliver’s image of Nate, but he learned there was another side to him that the joking and drinking didn’t reveal.

Oliver knew that Nate would leave soon and wished he could join him. His and the Old Man’s relationship strained against the weight of Nate’s presence. The Old Man realized he was losing his son and

prayed that as his son came into manhood the lessons of hard work and temperance he had tried imparting on the boy from an early age wouldn’t be dashed under the influence of ramblers like Nate Hardin.

SHE WATCHED NATE slip away into the rainy sunrise. It had been the longest he stayed with her that week, and that time, he took the risk of entering the house. With the contest set for the following night, Palmer would be up to his neck in preparations and wouldn’t arrive early to interrupt.

Palmer walked in soon after he left. He was tired and agitated as usual. He grumbled and ignored her questions. His eyes focused on the unlatched window and on the mud left behind from Romeo’s entrance.

“Smells like horse in here,” he said.

Dora revealed nothing despite the relentless strikes she endured from Palmer’s hands. Her cries for help were unanswered. The neighbors who heard knew better than to interfere with Palmer. His anger refocused from her toward that damned drifter, and he grabbed his Derringer from his dresser and left Dora inside to mourn her future.

NATE RETURNED IN time to watch Oliver storm away. Oliver mounted his horse without a word and threw her into a lope for Dodge City while Old Man Allen followed out the door. The Old Man had found a half-drunk bottle in Oliver’s room. He confronted his son and threatened to send him away. Oliver yelled at the Old Man for still treating him like a child and fled.

“I’ll go grab him,” Nate said.

“You’ve done enough,” the Old Man said.

“He ain’t gonna listen to you,” Nate said. “You going after him’s the worst thing you could do right now. He needs time away and a short breath, and I’ll bring him back.”

The Old Man glared at him. “You know I can’t keep you around here anymore.”

“Don’t worry,” Nate said. “I won’t be around here much longer.”

Oliver outraced Nate to Dodge City and ended up in the Long Branch. Nate saw the kid hunched over an untouched shot. He remembered Palmer’s warning and tried waving Oliver out. He decided it was worth the risk and stepped inside. Oliver stared into the shot glass like it was a mirror. Nate grabbed it from his spot.

“Finish it for you?”

“Take me with you and the girl?” Oliver asked.

“You already got a home. A nice one. Your pa’s tough, but that’s because he cares about you.”

“I wish he cared less. I can’t be stuck here.”

“You won’t be. You’ll get your chance to live. But don’t do it by following me. I ain’t no one to take after, being alone and on the run. You gotta live for someone else, someone to take care of and look after. They’re the ones that make all this worth it.”

He swallowed the bourbon and Oliver followed him from the bar. He noticed the large doorman enter, and he spun Oliver around the back to avoid him. He knew word would reach Palmer that he had been in the Long Branch. His feet moved fast toward the livery stable.

“Some guy’s following us.”

Nate didn’t look back. “Tall man? Skinny with a thick mustache and slick hair?”

“Yeah. He’s getting faster.”

Nate choked back air. “Go ahead of me.”

“What?”

“Get to your horse.”

He nudged Oliver forward. He spun around to face the faro dealer and reached for his belt. Palmer’s arm stretched towards him, and he saw a silver gleam in the faro dealer’s sleeve. He grabbed his gun, and he heard a small pop. Smoke billowed from Palmer’s sleeve, and Nate felt a searing burn between his ribs. He drew his gun and cocked it. He heard another pop and felt a fire erupt in his stomach.

Nate dropped his gun and stumbled towards Oliver. The kid stood frozen as Nate bled from his stomach and lost his footing in the mud. He told Oliver to go home, and he looked up at the gray sky while clutching his wound. He cried that he was shot, and a crowd sur-

rounded him. He watched the rain clouds above him and wished he could have died on a clear day.

THE OLD MAN found Oliver loading his old coach gun. He recognized the pain in the boy’s eyes. He experienced the same pain during the war and watched the bloody paths it took men down.

“They killed Nate,” Oliver said.

“And how is that gonna fix it?”

Oliver continued loading the weapons Old Man once made his trade from. He stood in the doorway to block Oliver from leaving.

“Let the law handle it.”

“You know they won’t.”

“So, you kill the man. Then what? You’re gonna kill the marshal when he tries to arrest you? Am I gonna watch my eldest boy get hung because of this?”

“I’m not a boy.”

“You’re my boy,” Old Man said. “And I’m not gonna lose you. Put the guns down.”

Oliver obeyed his father and embraced him. He set the guns aside and wept, again a young boy in his father’s arms.

They released Palmer quickly. The county attorney didn’t press charges since Nate pulled the gun first, and Palmer’s hand slipped gratuities to the city

marshal and the attorney. A fine for a concealed weapon was the heaviest punishment he received.

The news reached Oliver before it reached Old Man. Old Man said goodnight to Oliver with no response that night. The boy had slipped away with his horse and guns. Old Man Allen, who once lived for fighting, prayed forgiveness for his son’s sins.

Crowds flocked outside the Long Branch for the contest. He asked directions to Palmer’s house and found it at the north edge of town. He snuck along the perimeter with the shotgun and awaited his arrival, hand trembling over the hammer. He heard a noise inside the house and checked the window. He found a young woman inside who stared down the edge of a knife held close to her chest. He pounded the glass on the window. She looked at him but kept the knife close. He walked to the entrance, found the door unlocked, and invited himself in. He set the gun aside and approached her. She pulled away.

He offered his hand. He reached toward hers and held the knife. She slipped it into his hand, and he tossed it aside. She was pale, her eyes black, her mind in ribbons. He said her name and told her that he knew Nate. He helped her up and took her with him away from Dodge City.

They stopped at the ranch and left enough of Nate’s loot for Old Man, Oliver’s personal apology for fleeing. They had no time to reach the train and packed enough provisions to ride to Caldwell. They bonded over their shared love for Nate Hardin. He insisted on accompanying her until she was settled in a new place. He knew Nate wouldn’t have wanted her alone again. He would have someone to live for, someone to take care of and look after.

“I could at least try to take you where you two were headed,” he said.

“He mentioned Arizona.”

“What’s down in Arizona?”

She smiled at him while the sun rose and revealed the long and muddy trail ahead of them.

“Why don’t we don’t we find out?”

STEVEN MCFANN

STEVEN MCFANN is a writer born and raised in California. His lifelong passion for the history of the American West was sparked by childhood visits to the Autry Museum, his teenage love for the work of Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood, and the western-inspired art of his uncle Gary McFann, as well as the art of his grandfather’s cousin, celebrated western artist Don Crowley. He has written articles for the entertainment website ScreenRant and is the author of the Substack blog “Fool’s Gold,” which details the history of California from the Gold Rush to WWI. Counting the likes of James Ellroy, Hubert Selby Jr, and Larry McMurtry as his influences, he is currently working on a novel based on a real team of infamous train robbers in the San Joaquin Valley, an extended blog series on Gold Rush bandit Joaquin Murrieta, as well as a screenplay centered on Los Angeles in the violent days of the Gold Rush. When not writing or working as a stagehand, he loves reading, listening to music, and exploring the southwest’s majestic deserts. Find him on Twitter @SadCowboiVibes.

SADDLEBAG FEATURE

NO FORT DODGE, NO DODGE CITY

Before the Earp brothers and Big Nose Kate, a fort paved the way for the most famous town in the Old West

ANTHONY WOOD

Saddlebag Dispatches Managing Editor

THE AUGUST 11, 2022 Dodge City Daily

Globe headline declared, “ThereisnoDodge CitywithoutFortDodge.” The opening line captures the bold sentiment, “How the heck did everyone get here, if not for Fort Dodge?” Apparently that wasn’t important to one Hollywood filmmaker when the first real blockbuster western movie about the raucous cow town was produced.

As the film rolls and the music starts, movie goer anticipation builds. The opening frame announces, “The civil war has ended. Armies disband—the nation turns to the building of the west.” Next a steam locomotive barrels down the tracks at breakneck speed, symbolizing America’s booming industrial strength and fearless belief in Manifest Destiny. A simple caption reads, “Kansas—1866.” A stagecoach races the locomotive but loses, tauntingly declaring to viewers, “Out with the old and in with the new.” After the train arrives in town, rousing speeches are given, and on

a whim, the burg is named Dodge City for Colonel Richard I. Dodge, commander of Fort Dodge and charter member of the bustling town.

Directed by Michael Curtiz and filmed in Sol Polito’s fluid Technicolor, Dodge City was one of the highest grossing Warner Brothers movies in 1939. Swashbuckling Errol Flynn and the enchanting Olivia de Haviland starred in the “bangbang, shoot ’em up” style Hollywood movie in an era when film directors took significant historical liberties as they produced reels of entertainment for Saturday afternoon matinees. Watching Dodge City is a great way to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon but careful to not spill your popcorn— Dodge City falls short of being considered even loosely written historical fiction. Even so, the film has everything you want in a quintessential American fast paced “good guys versus the bad guys” classic western movie.

Dodge City’s roots began when Henry L. Sitler built a three-room sod home, soon to be frequented by traders and buffalo hunters. Businessmen from Forts Dodge, Leavenworth, and Riley organized the Dodge City Town Company in August 1872, and when they realized their chosen name for the settlement, Buffalo City, was already taken, they renamed the new town Dodge City in August 1872. The Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad arrived in Dodge City the next month, not in 1866 as the movie Dodge City would lead you to believe.

So before the Earp and Masterson brothers brought the law down on drover’s and outlaw’s heads, before Big Nose Kate plied her prostitute trade and dance hall singer Dora Hand was shot accidently, and before there was a Long Branch Saloon or even a Dodge City, a military outpost named Fort Dodge was built to provide protection for travelers on the Santa Fe Trail. Establishment of that U.S. Army post would pave the way for one of the most iconic towns in American western history. So, how does the story of Fort Dodge begin?

THE SANTA FE TRAIL

The history of Fort Dodge, Kansas, begins and ends with the Santa Fe Trail. Though the site of the town of Santa Fe was to some extent inhabited in 1607, the conquistador Don Pedro de Peralta made

the location a permanent settlement sometime in 1609-10. When Mexico gained its independence in 1821, the Spanish empire’s closed border policy ended, and the oldest European community west of the Mississippi River became the new capital of the recently formed province of New Mexico. With that, commercial trade opened between the United States and Mexico.

In the fall of that same year, William Becknell led a twenty-one man packtrain of goods from Franklin, Missouri, to open the 1,000 mile Santa Fe Trail. Before Becknell and thousands of other traders thereafter began supplying the isolated New Mexicans with coveted cloth, iron tools, and other manufactured goods in return for gold, silver, furs, livestock, and wool, Native Americans had long used trails that became portions of the route. Once Becknell and other traders established this link between the United States and the Province of New Mexico, Mexican merchants heartily joined in the commercial expansion. Until 1846, goods were traded, bought, and sold on the two-way economic highway used by both countries.

That same year, U.S. Brigadier General Stephen Kearney raised the stars and stripes over the Santa Fe Plaza during the Mexican-American War. When Mexico signed the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, ending the war in 1848, New Mexico and California were ceded to the United States. Commercial and military freight business boomed to unheard of new heights. The Santa Fe Trail became a federal road connecting the United States and the new southwest territories used by settlers moving west, stagecoach lines, California gold seekers, trappers, adventurers, missionaries, and New Mexicans traveling east. Except for a brief moment when Brigadier General Henry H. Sibley flew the Confederate flag over the city of Santa Fe, the U.S. enjoyed a permanent and safe

route west. That is, until the Plains Native Americans decided Anglo-Americans were becoming too greedy for their long-established territorial lands.

THE WAY WEST

As settlers and merchants flooded the western plains in their wagons, routes shifted depending upon the weather. One such path developed not quite seventy miles west of the famous sandstone landmark Pawnee Rock, the halfway point on the Santa Fe Trail. The towering edifice was once used by the Comanche, Kiowa, Arapaho, and Cheyenne Indians to spot buffalo herds, fight pitched battles, which included Kit Carson on one occasion, and hold councils of war and peace. Soon many travelers heading west stopped there to rest and carved their names in the natural landmark. One Santa Fe Trail traveler recorded, “Pawnee Rock springs like a huge wart from the carpeted green of the prairie.” As much as settlers and traders moving west enjoyed the stop, Pawnee Indians took advantage of the location to ambush unsuspecting wagon caravans.

Freighters, settlers, soldiers, and travelers trailed southwestwardly alongside the north bank of the

Arkansas River to Pawnee Rock where they found the trail divided into the Wet Route and the Dry Route. Both courses snaked along the Arkansas River, and depending upon the weather, migrants could choose the best route. Some believed the Dry Route was shorter, when in truth travelers could simply make better time on paths that were virtually the same distance. At a campground that developed just west of the divide, the site for Fort Dodge would later be chosen.

MILITARY PRESENCE INCREASES

With travel and commerce on the Santa Fe Trail expanding, various Indian tribes took the opportunity to trade but also plunder. It was only a matter of time when a heated conflict would arise. After three traders were murdered in 1828, fellow merchants requested a military presence be provided by the United States. With limited resources and unable to work together for a mutual protection pact with Mexico, U.S. military efforts to keep travelers safe on the route were inadequate at best. Native Americans continued to harass travelers.

When war broke out between Mexico and the United States, the route was used for conquest, and Fort Mann became the first military post on the Santa Fe Trail in 1846. Just west of the later site of Fort Dodge, Fort Mann primarily offered protection against hostile Indians. Barely able to defend itself, it was abandoned in 1847. Except for a special company of Missouri volunteers under the command of Major William Gilpin, nicknamed the “Indian Battalion,” that reoccupied Fort Mann until their term of service expired in 1848, no real military protection was available in the vicinity.

Once regular stagecoach service began in 1849 though, that all changed. New military forts were founded to protect the travelers—Fort Atkinson and Fort Union (1851), Fort Larned (1859), Fort Wise,

PAWNEE ROCK, A LANDMARK ON THE SANTA FE TRAIL IN KANSAS. PHOTO BY J.R. RIDDLE CIRCA 1875.

which became Fort Lyon (1860), Fort Zarah (1864), Camp Nichols and Fort Aubrey (1865), and Fort Dodge also that same year. All were established as safe havens and repair stations strategically located in hostile Indian territory.

HOSTILITIES INCREASE

Despite the influx of westward moving merchants, soldiers, miners, ranchers, farmers, town builders, preachers, lawyers, newspapermen, saloon proprietors, gamblers, prostitutes, and outlaws encroaching on the Plains tribes, the outnumbered and technologically inferior Native Americans refused to go quietly into the night. They fought back.

Although the buffalo-horse culture was a recent development in the history of the Plains Tribes, they had perfected hunting on horseback as well as a hit and run decoy-ambush style of warfare that included raiding and horse stealing. They were acclaimed to have been some of the finest horsemen in the world.

With the Santa Fe Trail running through their hunting grounds, small bands would target lesser protected wagon trains with little possibility of being brought to military justice. They simply melted back into the prairie once their deeds were done. Comanche, Arapahoe, Cheyenne, and Kiowa warriors resisted the intrusion on their lands with a vengeance of biblical proportions. For this reason, Fort Dodge was founded along with the other posts—to counter and eventually end the hostile Indian threat.

Relations between Native Americans and Anglo-Americans deteriorated rapidly as the Civil War heated up. Resistance became intensely violent in 1864 with raids that included 175 cattle being stolen from a government livestock contractor in the Colorado Territory. The Colorado territorial government sent Lieutenants George S. Eayre and Clark Dunn to punish the wrongdoers. The troopers wrongly attacked an innocent Cheyenne camp, and soon after, Lieutenant Eayre similarly attacked

INDIANS ATTACKING BUTTERFIELD’S OVERLANDS STAGE. ILLUSTRATION FROM HARPER’S WEEKLY, APRIL 21, 1866.

another Cheyenne village near where Fort Dodge would soon be located.

With no justifiable reason for the attack, Cheyenne warriors retaliated. They, and other tribes, were driven to become marauders who indiscriminately raided and preyed upon less than prepared settlers and merchants. Soon all travel along the Santa Fe Trail stopped. The troops could neither locate nor punish the tribesmen. They searched but simply could not find them. Those troops were withdrawn in the fall of 1864 to meet General Sterling Price’s Confederate attempt to capture Kansas City and Fort Leavenworth, which made easier targets of those traveling the Santa Fe Trail.

Obviously, the U.S. Army made several blunders that inflamed relations between the tribes and Americans, but lessons were not learned. Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle and other chiefs who sued for peace were sent into camp near Fort Lyon to await talks. There at Sand Creek, on November 29, 1864, Colonel John M. Chivington, commanding the 3rd Colorado Cavalry, slaughtered and mutilated

Cheyenne men, women, and children, despite the Indians raising a white flag. Tensions flared even more when Brigadier General Kit Carson similarly captured and razed a Kiowa village at Adobe Walls on the Canadian River just four days previous to the Sand Creek Massacre.

THE FOUNDING OF FORT DODGE

In December 1864, famed Union Major General Grenville M. Dodge was assigned the task of reorganizing the Department of Missouri, which encompassed the state of Kansas and the Colorado, Nebraska, and Utah Territories. Lamenting over the fact that nearly two hundred settlers and travelers had been murdered in Kansas that year alone, and with more violence expected, General Dodge recommended that a number of new military posts be built along the Santa Fe Trail for support and protection. He also quickly revoked the licenses of several Indian traders who were supplying hostile Indians with modern weapons and ammunition. Besides Camp Nichols and Fort Aubrey, Fort Dodge

FAMED MOUNTAIN MAN AND GUIDE KIT CARSON (LEFT), FIRST JOURNEYED THE SANTA FE TRAIL IN 1826. MAJOR GENERAL GRENVILLE M. DODGE (RIGHT) WAS ASSIGNED THE DAUNTING TASK OF ORGANIZING THE DEPARTMENT OF MISSOURI IN 1864.

was added to protect use of the Santa Fe Trail and the surrounding area.

Increased military presence helped, but little was accomplished to quell the persistent threat. A new peace initiative was offered in October 1865 by the federal government. A few tribal leaders accepted the terms and moved to reservations south of the Arkansas River, but more so than not, many chiefs vowed to stop westward migration and protect their ancestral lands, whatever the cost. With more settlements being established, the building of the railroad, and the slaughtering of the great herds of buffalo, the handwriting was on the wall for the demise of the Plains Native American horse culture that occurred less than two decades away. Fort Dodge became a part of that destruction.

The founding of Fort Dodge experienced a frigid beginning. On October 23, 1865, famed Civil War General Grenville M. Dodge sent a written proposal to Colonel James H. Ford, commander of the District of the Upper Arkansas, with orders to establish a new post west of Fort Larned on the Santa Fe Trail. With Henry Bradley as guide, Colonel Ford and a small detachment of soldiers left Fort Larned on October 28th to locate a site suitable for the new military post. Blizzard-like conditions sent them back to Fort Larned the next day. Two days later, Colonel Ford sent two companies of the 11th Kansas Cavalry, commanded by Captain Henry Pierce, to select a site near old Fort Atkinson and christen the new post Fort Wagoner. Ford rescinded that order. A location several miles east of the abandoned fort was selected and named Fort Dodge after General Greenville M. Dodge.

Fort Dodge was strategically situated between Forts Larned and Lyon to deal with hostile Native Americans near the start of the Wet and Dry Routes and where the Santa Fe Trail crossed the Arkansas

(TOP) COMMANDING OFFICER’S QUARTERS, FORT DODGE, KANSAS, 1869. (BOTTOM) A SKETCH OF THE NEW POST UNDER CONSTRUCTION BY THEODORE R. DAVIS FOR HARPER’S WEEKLY, ENTITLED “INTERIOR OF FORT DODGE.”

River. The garrison would soon offer escorts to protect stagecoaches and wagon trains on the Cimarron Route as well. Fort Dodge was officially established on April 10, 1865, when Captain Pierce, along with companies of the 11th cavalry and 2nd U.S. Volunteer Infantry, pitched tents and excavated dugouts in a twelve foot high clay bank along the Arkansas River until permanent quarters could be built. The seventy or so dugouts that could accommodate three to five men certainly served troops better than tents, which offered little shield against cold prairie winds. The floors were damp and susceptible to periodic flooding. The officers were quartered in three one room sod cabins roughly fourteen by twenty feet. Other buildings constructed of sod included a kitchen, quartermaster’s warehouse and commissary, and a hospital. During the winter of 1865-1866, dugouts were also hewn from riverbank earth to stable trooper’s horses.

That winter plagued the post with severe blizzards, piercing winds, and freezing temperatures. With little wood for fires or coverings for the dugout entryways and poor weather shutting down trail traffic, the troops were isolated and remained huddled in their meager quarters. General Dodge joked that the fort was named after him because of the suffering the soldiers experienced that trying winter.

Early on, soldiers built structures from sod, such as a livery stable and barracks. But rains and the sheer weight of the materials caused walls to bulge and collapse. Finally, with lumber made available and a stone quarry located five miles away, masons and a large contingent of laborers were hired to construct permanent structures. When construction finally was complete, the post boasted three company barracks for enlisted men, a commanding officer’s quarters, hospital, quartermaster and commissary storehouses, kitchens, a bakery, bath houses where the men could wash, latrines, and stables to round out the picture. A post trader’s store and saloon was built by a private owner sometime after 1866. Leo E. Oliva offers a detailed description of the post in his excellent volume, Fort Dodge: Sentry of the Western Plains.

Fort Dodge was constructed in the shape of a half circle on the north bank of the Arkansas River to bring peace to the Plains and protect growing interests in the area along the Santa Fe Trail. One large boulder blocked the path west though—Indians. Troops at Fort Dodge attended to a multitude of tasks besides keeping the tribes south of the Arkansas River—constructing post buildings, protecting commerce, stage stations, and settlements, as well as guarding the mails, escorting

In June 1865, several Indians disguised as soldiers brazenly attacked Fort Dodge and stole a herd of livestock. They returned four days later to steal the rest, killing two sutler store employees. In September, five Mexican men were murdered by Kiowa raiders not far from Fort Dodge. General Dodge planned to launch a major campaign against the hostiles in 1865 with Fort Dodge to be used as a supply base for the expedition. The effort was cancelled before it began.

stagecoaches and wagon trains, and the construction of the railroads. They made war only when it became absolutely necessary to enforce treaties made with the tribes. Troopers regularly scouted and patrolled with strict orders given not to pursue Indians across the Arkansas River. (For interested researchers—reports, journals, and memorandums by officers in charge, scouts, and soldiers recounting scouting patrols, marches, and expeditions from Fort Dodge for years 1873-1879 are available through the Kansas Historical Society: https://www.kshs.org/archives/220090)

All the while, the Plains tribesmen made the soldier’s job difficult with their “hit and run” tactics. This made punishing perpetrators and recovering stolen property and captured persons nearly impossible as raiders simply disappeared into the prairie with their plunder.

UNSETTLING TIMES:

MEDICINE LODGE TREATY OF 1867

A peace faction arose within the federal government mainly due to the Civil War ending and the blunder of the Sand Creek Massacre. The few chiefs who agreed to the terms made in the October 1865 peace treaty visited Fort Dodge and other posts to receive allotments of food rations and additional annuities. But this only brought them closer to the Santa Fe Trail and tempting opportunities to raid. And raid they did.

On February 21, 1866, four Cheyenne warriors wearing military hats and coats approached a wagon train led by Henderson Boggs. Though treated hospitably with gifts of food and tobacco, they stole three horses and murdered and scalped Bogg’s sixteen year old son. Agent Edward Wanshear Wynkoop

investigated the tragedy and reported that “Mr. Boggs went to the Indian camp without any authority... and whilst there traded an Indian Eleven One Dollar Bills for Eleven Ten Dollar Bills. The Indian found him out, came over for revenge, and unfortunately killed his son. I think this case needs no further comment.” Though Wynkoop ruled in the Cheyenne’s favor, it did little to ease growing tensions. The rest of 1866 remained peaceful, but military leaders believed it was simply a matter of time for a break in the peace to happen.

ing of goods for captives because it served only to encourage the Indians to seize more hostages. In a ruse, Sheridan lured a band of Kiowa Apache chiefs into the post and held them hostage until the rest of the Box family could be returned. It worked.

Despite this minor victory, military leaders, railroad corporations, and public officials believed the peace negotiations had failed. The press used the story of the Box family to stir public support for a first strike plan to deal with hostile Indians.

One great achievement attributed to Fort Dodge was the recovery of several members of the James Box family who had been captured by Kiowa raiders. The Kiowa finally agreed to free their captives in return for guns, powder, knives, tobacco, and a list of other items. Fort Dodge commander, Captain Andrew Sheridan , brought Box’s daughters, Margaret and Josephine , safely back to the post. Sheridan hoped the tribes who held remaining Box prisoners would follow suit. Not long after, it was reported that Margaret birthed a child sired by one of the Kiowa tribesmen, adding to the tension.

Meanwhile, General William T. Sherman, commander of the Military Division of the Missouri, changed the rules of the game. Visiting Fort Dodge October 6-8, 1866, he instructed General Philip Sheridan that there would be no more trad-

Wynkoop did his best to get the Plainsmen to stand down, but a new commander did little to help bring peace through treaty agreements. General Winfield Scott Hancock, famed Union leader at the Battle of Gettysburg and new commander of the Department of the Missouri in 1867, did not trust the Indians. His chosen strategy was use of force to deal with the “Indian problem,” causing more tension between the Plains tribes and the growing white population.

Yet, Hancock, along with General Sherman, determined reports of Indian hostilities to be exaggerated and that the call for an increased military presence served only the efforts of businessmen to make greater profit. Their suspicions were confirmed when it was learned that newspapers printed false reports of Indian attacks. Newspaper correspondent Henry M. Stanley, who later became famous for

VIEW OF THE COMPLETED FORT DODGE CIRCA 1879.

finding David Livingston in Africa, further confirmed Sherman’s suspicions that men like Kansas Governor Samuel J. Crawford fomented fear through false reports of an imminent general uprising. Meanwhile, traders like Charley Rath illegally sold whiskey to the Indians, and it was reported that he “armed several bands of Kiowas with revolvers and has completely overstocked them with powder.” Bureau of Indian Affairs licensed traders enabled the hostiles to stockpile many carbines, revolvers, powder, and lead which helped matters not at all. The situation became chaotic and the truth was elusive.

In February 1867, General Hancock learned the Kiowa Chief Satanta did not want war but in the same breath demanded that all military posts be closed, including Fort Dodge, the soldiers withdrawn, Santa Fe Trail traffic to end, and the railroad to halt all before the grass turned green.

Convinced that an uprising was imminent in the spring of 1867, General Hancock led an expedition on March 26th to intimidate the Indians with a massive show of force with a number of scouts, including famed pistoleer, James B. (Wild Bill) Hickock. Little was accomplished, save Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer’s burning of an abandoned village, which further enflamed hostilities. Agent Wynkoop protested Hancock’s heavy handed ways. Hancock relented, ordering his command, “friendly Indians must not be molested.”

After a series of talks between General Hancock and Arapaho Chief Little Raven and Kiowa Chief Satanta at Fort Dodge, a relative peace was agreed upon. Agent Leavenworth criticized what became known as “Hancock’s War,” saying, “little good, but a great deal of harm, has resulted from this expedition.” Boots on the ground agents like Leavenworth warned this would not be the last of hostilities.

Indian raids continued in close proximity of

DRAMTIS PERSONAE: FAMED CIVIL WAR GENERAL WINFIELD SCOTT HANCOCK (TOP) TOOK COMMAND OF THE DEPARTMENT OF MISSOURI IN 1867. KIOWA CHIEF SATANTA (BOTTOM) OPPOSED WHITE ENCROACHMENT ON ANCESTRAL LANDS.

Fort Dodge with a number of attacks made upon Mexican teamsters and wagon trains in which they plundered goods, stole livestock, and shot and killed a young Mexican boy with an arrow. Public opinion of the army waned, as an editor declared in the June 29, 1867, issue of the Junction City Union, “There does not appear to be enough soldiers to protect the Santa Fe Route, let alone hunt Indians… men are being butchered every day, and no attempt is made to bring the war to a close.”

Hancock discontinued his war. He improved trail defenses and increased troop numbers, though it did little to solve the “Indian problem.” Advocates pushed Congress to create the Indian Peace Commission, and several chiefs among more than five thousand Kiowa, Comanche, Plains Apache, Cheyenne, and Arapaho tribesmen agreed to the terms of the Medicine Lodge Treaty signed in October 1867—an agreement the U.S. government would soon not honor.

In the October 17, 2017, issue of Smithsonian Magazine, Lorraine Boissoneault correctly states, “…representatives of the United States never seemed to understand the political structure of tribes they negotiated with.... Although the document was ratified by Congress in 1868, it [the treaty] was never ratified by adult males of the participating tribes—and it wasn’t long before Congress was looking for ways to break the treaty.” This ensured that hostilities would return at winter’s end, which they did.

Many tribes stationed themselves near Forts Dodge and Larned to receive their promised government allotments, but with supplies limited due to bureaucracy, the nearly nine thousand Native Americans lay destitute. To make matters worse, white hunters violated treaty rules and crossed into reservation lands without authorization. With whites unwilling to keep treaty terms, the Indians felt free to violate treaty terms as well. General

NOTED CIVIL WAR CAVALRY COMMANDER GENERAL PHILIP SHERIDAN (TOP) TOOK COMMAND OF THE MILITARY DIVISION OF THE MISSOURI IN 1867. CHEYENNE CHIEF BLACK KETTLE (BOTTOM), WAS KILLED IN GENERAL GEORGE A. CUSTER’S ATTACK ON HIS VILLAGE IN THE BATTLE OF THE WASHITA THE NEXT YEAR.

Philip H. Sheridan, who replaced Hancock, refused to meet to hear the Indian’s plea for help. Chief Satanta of the Kiowas, after returning to Fort Dodge in February 1868, felt justified to attack, murder, and plunder in retaliation.

Reports flooded in from all over of men, women, and children being murdered, women being raped, homes burned, and large numbers of livestock and other property stolen. On August 24, 1868, Kansas Governor Samuel J. Crawford went above Sheridan’s head to personally seek help from President Andrew Johnson on the same day the General declared war on the Cheyenne and Arapahoe tribes. Fort Dodge served as the staging point for an offensive operation to begin September 1st.

As Lieutenant Colonel Alfred Sully, commander of Fort Dodge, prepared to take the field, Indians attacked a Mexican wagon train at Cimarron Crossing, murdering and mutilating fifteen men and women. The next day, four Fort Dodge troopers, while on a wood gathering detail, were attacked but rescued by fellow soldiers. This happened as General Sheridan met with Arapaho chiefs who declared they had nothing to do with the recent raids.

The following day, September 3rd, Comanche and Kiowa warriors fiercely attacked Fort Dodge with General Sheridan still present. Four soldiers were killed with seventeen wounded, but Indian casualties remain unknown. Cheyenne warriors attacked another Mexican wagon train near Fort Dodge that same day, murdering and scalping sixteen teamsters.

Finally getting underway on September 7th, Sully’s expedition amounted to little except to get several scouts and the unit’s surgeon killed in the Battle of Beecher Island. On September 15th, the Indians nearly ambushed the troops, and both sides experienced casualties. Sully retreated to Fort Dodge, claiming he was running low on supplies. The truth was he feared another attack.

Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer replaced

LT. COLONEL RICHARD IRVING DODGE COMMANDED THE FORT AND WAS INSTRUMENTAL IN THE FOUNDING OF DODGE CITY, WHICH BEARS HIS NAME.

Sully at Fort Dodge to start a winter campaign, being advised that casualties during Sully’s effort, white and Native American, were about the same. In the meantime, raids on Fort Dodge continued, including the murder and scalping of local citizen, Ralph Morrison, who made the mistake of hunting alone just a mile from the post. Tensions came to a head when Custer attacked Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle’s village in the Battle of the Washita, November 27, 1868. Custer had 36 casualties, but he burned the village, killed 800 horses, and took fifty-six prisoners.

Fort Dodge served as a major supply depot in support of the winter campaign which ended Spring 1869, with General Custer camping a night at Fort Dodge as he passed through April 2nd. The winter campaign successfully decreased Indian attacks along the Santa Fe Trail. Except for a few hiccups, by 1870, western Kansas no longer suffered the “Indian Problem.”

Buffalo were slaughtered nearly to extinction, railroads crisscrossed the landscape, and settlers scattered across the Plains in droves. Soon, several Fort Dodge soldiers who mustered out of the Army joined by a number of civilian employees became citizens of a newly chartered town five miles away, originally named Buffalo City. After the railroad arrived in 1872, the town was christened, Dodge City.

Lieutenant Colonel Richard Irving Dodge commanded Fort Dodge and was instrumental in the founding of Dodge City, for who the town was ultimately named.

1872-75 witnessed a few Indian atrocities that kept Fort Dodge on the alert, serving as a supply depot and staging point for troops. After the Cheyenne were defeated on Sappa Creek April 1875, ending the Red River War, the traditional Plains tribes horse culture had all but come to an end. In September 1878, Chief Dull Knife and three hundred Cheyenne escaped from their Indian Territory reservation. They raided and foraged as they made their way north to their ancestral home in Montana, only to be either returned to the reservation, killed, or in the case of Dull Knife, be tried at Dodge City

in 1879. The need for Fort Dodge diminished, and the last small detachment of troops left the garrison in June 1882. With the “Indian Problem” considered resolved, Fort Dodge was abandoned, though to the consternation of Dodge City citizens still fearing possible Indian attacks.

A NEW BEGINNING FOR FORT DODGE

With Fort Dodge’s purpose fulfilled, General Sheridan proposed that the facility be closed, despite protests from locals and the press alike. Officially closed and abandoned in October 1882, some original buildings were destroyed, removed, or repurposed. Fort Dodge experienced a land rush on the military 12,000 acre reservation in 1886. Later, the remaining land surrounding the post was sold at public auction in November 1906—but not before a large tract was set aside by the State of Kansas to develop a soldier’s home. President Grover Cleveland signed a bill granting 126.7 acres and the remaining buildings at Fort Dodge for the project in March 1889. Citizens of Dodge City raised funds to purchase the property, and by New Year’s Day, 1890, the site was ready to receive qualified applicants.

Though the long and difficult history of the military post known as Fort Dodge’s purpose to protect travelers on the Santa Fe Trail ended, the post was refitted to serve retired Kansas veterans as a nursing facility and retirement community. The Kansas State Soldier’s Home continues her legacy of providing peace, stability, and care for those in need. The story of Fort Dodge remains a point of pride in annals of Kansas and Dodge City history.

ANTHONY WOOD grew up in historic Natchez, Mississippi, fueling a life-long love of history. He is the author of A Tale of Two Colors, a series of Civil War historical novels based on the real-life wartime journey of his ancestor, Columbus Nathan “Lummy” Tullos. His writing has won a number of awards, including a Will Rogers Medallion for his Western short story “Not So Long in the Tooth.” He serves as Managing Editor of Saddlebag Dispatches.

FEVER RIVER RED

POETRY BY

FEVER RIVER RED RICKEY PITTMAN

On the edge of the Indian nations, Once a violent no man’s land, Spirits move along the river’s banks, Ghosts of lost and desperate men.

Whores and Comancheros Wanted men and half-breeds, Jayhawkers, scalpers, and outlaws, They once made this valley bleed.

Hidden by the thickets, Logjams, quicksand, and foods, They killed and thieved and raged, Until the river fowed with blood.

And the river whispered secrets Into their souls each night, Dark and cruel and bloody things, And they listened with delight.

Infected with a fever that Boiled their blood and brains, The demons of the valley Made men violent and insane.

The demons only set them free, When the river’s work was done, The fever’s only cure was death, By rope or knife or gun.

Red River fever’s gone they say, But still the blood-red waters fow And whispers yet its secrets, To the dark and lost in soul.

SADDLEBAG POETRY

BESTSELLING AUTHOR ROBERT RANDISI.

SADDLEBAG FEATURE

PROLIFIC MIGHT BE AN UNDERSTATEMENT

A Candid Conversation with Legendary Western Author Robert Randisi VELDA BROTHERTON

Saddlebag Dispatches Senior Features Writer

ROBERT RANDISI TOLD me the one thing I didn’t ask was why he writes. Not why he writes what he writes but simply why he chose to write as his life’s work. His reply is as simple as the question. His answer is, “I never had a choice. Writing was all I ever wanted to do, which is probably why I never allowed for failure.”

If you’ve ever read a Western novel or a Western pulp novel, you probably read at least one or six or ten written by Robert Randisi. The same can be said for mysteries as well. Often you might not have known it. That’s because of the over 650 books he’s written in his long career, many did not have his name on the cover. That’s the way things often went for writers early on in the publishing business. For a while he wrote many of his books under his own name. He also wrote under a large collection of pseudonyms.

While very young he spent a lot of time writing stories in his head, long before he put pen to paper.

He explains how having the opportunity to join a book club in school was fascinating for a kid who’d only read comic books up to the sixth grade. He had never heard of the idea of ordering books every month and having them delivered.

“Soon reading shifted my TV watching from cartoons to live action shows. Sky King and Roy Rogers, then The Hardy Boys soon began an interest that would one day lead to my earliest published books. Still, I wasn’t quite finished following a path to the various series I write today.”

But how does an ordinary kid, raised in Brooklyn, grow up to be a popular writer of so many books? Well, first he does what Robert did.

“After joining the book club in school, I became fascinated with writers, the first being Edgar Allen Poe.

“Then along came a growing interest in TV series like 77 Sunset Strip and Hawaiian Eye.” But what turned the corner and put him on the path to writing his own stories? Lots of kids watch television shows, but they don’t become writers.

“It was 1966,” Randisi continues, “I saw the movie Harper with Paul Newman . From then on everything that happened continued to lead me to a writing career.

“My older sister’s boyfriend left a typewriter at my house. That turned the trick. It called to me, so I put a piece of paper in it and started typing. I began with a Hardy Boys story, then moved on to A Man from UNCLE novel . Then my own private eye book.

“No, it wasn’t reading the highly popular Mickey Spillane or Carter Brown of the day that influenced my writing. Here’s what I really credit. In the front of the book from which the Harper movie was taken, I read that the movie was based on a Ross MacDonald book called The Moving Target.

“I was fifteen and hooked by the combination of character, film, and author. So, I made a vow. I would write private eye books for a living when I turned 30. By the time I graduated from high school at sixteen, I had been writing in earnest for a year.”

Robert spent the first 40 years of his life in Brooklyn, New York. But as far as he is concerned, where or how he grew up has nothing to do with his desire to become a writer, or for that matter, where he sets his stories. While many writers place a lot of their tales where they live, it never occurred to him to do that.

When asked how enjoying mysteries like Harper led him to write so many westerns, he tells the story of the birth of his first popular Western series, The Gunsmith.

“In 1981 I was contacted by Charter Books and asked if I could write westerns—specifically Adult westerns. At that time, I had spent years watching Westerns, television shows and movies. Up to that point I had never considered writing in the genre. My first love was writing mysteries. But in those days when asked if I could write something, I NEVER said

no, so my answer was, yes, of course. I was asked to create a series, and The Gunsmith was born.

“From that point on I became interested in writing all kinds of westerns as well as mysteries. In 1999 I wrote a Death in Dodge City #4, a giant in the Gunsmith series.

“I’ve written about gunmen, lawmen, mountain men, outlaws. In 2007 I decided to do the series, The Gambler , because I hadn’t yet featured a gambler. Butler the Gambler the first in the series— opens in Wichita, then moves on to Dodge City which seemed the natural location for a gambler.

“As for using historical characters, I enjoy writing westerns both ways, completely fiction where I create all my characters and mixing fiction with factual characters. I enjoy the research almost as much as the writing.

“In reading about Bat Masterson, I became convinced that I am a reincarnation of Bat, as I enjoyed everything he did—boxing, poker, writing—probably the only thing I didn’t do that he did was hunt buffalo. I even worked in law enforcement.

“Living for so long in Brooklyn, New York, meant a lot of traveling and reading for research. Since then, I’ve lived in Florida and Missouri and now can be found in Nevada, anywhere there’s a casino.”

When asked if he weren’t a writer what career would he choose, this was his instant reply:

“This is easy. I’d be a singer. Before I was a writer, I was a musician—guitar, piano, and cello—but realized I’d have to pick one and give it my all to succeed. I never had another career, only jobs, since I knew I’d be writing for a living by the time I was 30. No career, no retirement plan, no IRAs. No fallback plan. I painted myself into a corner and HAD to succeed. But I just as easily could have put my all into music.”

—VELDA BROTHERTON was an award-winning nonfiction author, novelist, and a founding partner of Saddlebag Dispatches. She passed away in March of 2023, leaving behind not only a legion of fans of her writing, but scores of writers she mentored over the course of her three decade writing career.

AHAVEN FOR exhausted cowboys, unscrupulous cardsharps, painted ladies, and fast guns, Dodge City has been called “The Wickedest Town in the American West.” It is easy to forget that, without the creation of a military presence in the form of Fort Dodge, Dodge City would likely not have survived to play a part in American history.

The namesake for Fort Dodge was Grenville Mellen Dodge, originally a railroad construction contractor, as well as one of General Ulysses S. Grant’s most successful generals during the Civil War and a well-known Indian fighter. Dodge’s particular expertise led to the construction of several military forts to protect trails and projected railroads across the plains. He established Fort Dodge in 1865 on the Santa Fe Trail, primarily to protect the trail and the area’s inhabitants from Indians.

Of course, the problematic Indians who had ridden the plains around the fort for hundreds of years operated from a different point of view. Several tribes camped and hunted along the Santa Fe Trail, such as the Kansa, Osage, Pawnee, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Kiowa, Apache, and Comanche. One well-known leader, Satanta, a chief of the Kiowa, likely spoke for all Plains Indians when he said, “I have heard you intend to settle us on a reservation near the mountains. I don’t want to settle. I love to roam the

prairies. Then I feel free and happy, but when we settle down, we grow pale and die.”

Satanta was a frequent visitor to Fort Dodge. Other chiefs making appearances there included the Arapaho Chief Little Raven, the Cheyenne Chief Dull Knife, and Kiowa chiefs Atalie, Stumbling Bear, and Kicking Bird. Serving as the Kiowa spokesman during the Medicine Lodge treaty meeting in October 1867, Satanta warned that the whites must stop killing buffalo and cutting wood. He demanded that all military posts be closed, the soldiers withdrawn, traffic on the Santa Fe Trail stopped at Council Grove, Kansas, and the railroad halted at Junction City, Kansas.

Satanta’s demands were ignored, but the government agreed to provide the Indians with annuities, schools and teachers, hospitals and doctors, blacksmiths, agricultural implements, and seed. In return, the Indians would cease hostile acts, surrender all claims to lands between the Arkansas and Platte Rivers, and promise not to interfere with the railroads. Indians who violated the treaty would be punished.

The peace was temporary, and tension in the plains grew to a critical point in April of 1868. At the time, there were 8,600 hungry Indians roaming western Kansas and eastern Colorado. Food distribution had been delayed at Fort Dodge because Congress had not appropriated funds for new annuities.

In June, the Cheyenne attacked the Kansa Indians near Council Grove and raided white settlements. In July, more Kiowa and Comanche arrived to collect their annuities, which were, unfortunately, still not available. More violence ensued, and the Kansas Governor, Samuel J. Crawford , complained to President Johnson saying, “Last week they killed and wounded thirty men, women, and children, ravished seven women, and carried away one young lady—burned a number of houses and captured a large amount of stock and other property….”

General Philip Sheridan, another favorite general under Grant, had been brought in to take care of the Indian problem. Sheridan estimated the combined tribes’ total to be about six thousand warriors, and his troops amounted to about fourteen hundred infantry and twelve hundred cavalry soldiers. All he could do was concentrate his men to defend the main supply route from the railroad at Hays City to Fort Dodge, scatter the rest through the various forts in the area, and wait for reinforcements.

Before the additional men could arrive, the Cheyenne and Arapaho turned up the heat, attacking and robbing wagon trains and white settlements. On August 21st, a large group of Arapaho camped a mile west of Fort Dodge and sent word that the Cheyenne were preparing to attack the fort. Although the report proved to be false, General Sheridan declared war against the Cheyenne and Arapaho for “the recent open acts of hostility… embracing the murder of twenty armed citizens of the State of Kansas, the wounding of many more, and acts of outrage against women and children, too atrocious to mention in detail.”

Sheridan instigated a campaign to destroy Indian villages and drive the Indians back to the reservations. He believed if he could destroy their ability to sustain their way of life, they would be forced to become dependent on the government and stay on the reservation.

SATANTA, A KIOWA CHIEF, WARNED THE WHITES OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF FURTHER ENCROACHMENT ON ANSCESTRAL LANDS.

On September 3rd, a party of desperate Comanche and Kiowa attacked Fort Dodge. Battling fiercely, the Indians killed four soldiers and wounded seventeen before they were driven away from the fort.

Lieutenant Colonel George A. Custer arrived on October 9th to assist Sheridan with his war against the Indians. He and his troops camped about ten miles below Fort Dodge and began drilling continuously to prepare for the winter campaign. Custer attacked the Indians several times during the winter, but the most famous of these engagements was the Battle of the Washita, November 27, 1868. In this attack, Custer captured the Cheyenne village and killed the peaceful Chief Black Kettle, along with more than one hundred others. He also took fifty-three prisoners and destroyed some eight hundred horses. Custer was implementing Sheridan’s plan to force the Indians out of their homes and into the reservations.

The government’s winter campaign ended in the spring of 1869. Most, but not all, Indians grudgingly surrendered their freedom and accepted life on the reservation. In the 1870s, the extermination of the buffalo completed the destruction of the Indians’ way of life. They had always used every part of the buffalo for food and shelter, and without this basic staple, the tribes suffered. The buffalo hunters slaughtered millions and were encouraged to do so. General Philip Sheridan was named as the commander of the Military Division of the Missouri. In 1875, he said that the buffalo hunters “have done more in the last two years and will do in the next year more to settle the vexed Indian question than the entire army has done in the last thirty years.”

Sheridan hoped that the loss of the buffalo would be the final act needed to force the Indians to become completely dependent on government annuities to survive. Fort Dodge served as a distribution point for these annuities, which included food rations and other supplies for members of the Comanche, Kiowa, Apache, Cheyenne, and Arapaho tribes. Sheridan was not above withholding annuities from tribes he deemed to be troublesome.

Dodge City was the center of the buffalo slaughter, supplying the hunters with what they needed

and providing a means of transporting their goods. From 1872 through 1874, an estimated 850,000 hides were shipped from Dodge City.

By September 1878, the northern Cheyenne had tired of reservation life in Indian Territory. Led by Chiefs Dull Knife and Little Wolf , three hundred Cheyenne set off across the plains to their hunting grounds in Montana. They ran into some trouble in Kansas.

While foraging for food within twenty miles of

Dodge City, the Cheyenne attacked several cattle camps, killed men, and butchered cows. A mail carrier was slain, and two ranches were robbed of horses and cattle. This was enough to throw the citizens into a panic, which was helped along by the exaggerated accounts of the Dodge City Times, such as “news brought almost hourly of murder and depredations by the straggling bands of northern Cheyenne.”

When a fire broke out on a homestead just four miles westward, which was thought to have been set by the Cheyenne, one of Dodge City’s most famous citizens, Wyatt Earp , led a party to put out the fire. Earp’s actions were reported in the September 21, 1878, issue of the Dodge City Times. Later, it was said that both Bat Masterson and Doc Holiday assisted Earp in safeguarding the area and protecting the townsfolk in Dodge City from the fearsome Cheyenne.

women and children. The soldiers from Fort Dodge and Fort Riley pursued the Indians northward across the rough terrain, finally catching up with them at Punished Woman’s Fork near Scott County, Kansas. Somehow the Cheyenne eluded them.

In Decatur County, Kansas, the party killed nineteen citizens to avenge the killing of twenty-seven Cheyenne by soldiers at Sappa Creek in 1875. Riding on, the party reached Nebraska where they split into two bands. Dull Knife surrendered his followers at Camp Robinson in Nebraska, but Little Wolf’s group reached Montana.

After Dull Knife’s group escaped Fort Robinson on January 9, 1879, they were chased through the snow, losing nearly half of their number to soldiers’ bullets. Some of them were sent to Dodge City for trial but were released on technicalities. Later, many of them made their way to Montana where they rejoined Little Wolf and his band. They had finally made it home and were eventually allowed to remain there.

The military’s engagements with the Cheyenne in 1878 and 1879 are considered to be the last major Indian raids. By the early 1880s, with the eradication of the Indian threat, Fort Dodge had served its purpose. On September 16, 1882, General John Pope issued the order to remove the garrison and abandon the post. On February 7, 1890, the fort, which was now a soldiers’ home, admitted its first occupants.

Never again would the grounds reverberate with the commanding voice of a general, the peals of a bugler sounding reveille, or the fearsome battle cry of an attacking warrior. The sights and sounds of the past could only be discerned in the stories told by the aging men who had once soldiered at old Fort Dodge.

Despite their ferocity, the Cheyenne party included only seventy-five men, with the rest being

—REGINA MCLEMORE is a retired educator of Cherokee heritage. Her great, great grandmother, Susie Christie Clay, survived the Trail of Tears in 1839.

LT. COLONEL GEORGE A. CUSTER, (LEFT) COMMANDER OF THE 7TH CAVALRY REGIMENT, WIPED OUT A PEACEFUL CHEYENNE VILLAGE IN THE BATTLE OF THE WASHITA IN 1868. TEN YEARS LATER, NORTHERN CHEYENNE CHIEF LITTLE WOLF (RIGHT), LEFT THEIR RESERVATION IN INDIAN TERRITORY AND SET OFF FOR MONTANA, ATTACKING DODGE CITY ALONG THE WAY.

DODGE CITY, KANSAS, and Gunsmoke. The words seem to fit together like cow boys and cattle drives.

Everyone knows about the television show. The longest-running western on network TV ran for twenty years in various incarnations. There was also an anomaly, Gunsmoke, the radio show.

RADIO DAYS

Norman MacDonnell and John Meston con ceived the radio show, which ran from 1952-61 and had over four hundred episodes.

William Conrad, known for his later TV roles in Cannon and Jake and the Fatman, was given the role of Matt Dillon due to his powerful, distinctive voice. He later directed two episodes of the TV series, “Panacea Sykes” (1963) and “Captain Sligo” (1971).

Howard McNear portrayed Dr. Charles Adams . In the radio version, his real name was Charles Moore . He was a doctor on the run from a mistake in his past and used the alias to hide from the people searching for him. He appeared in six episodes of the TV version and played shopkeeper Howard Rudd on three occasions. Some folks may remember him more as Floyd, the barber on The Andy Griffith Show.

Parley Baer played Chester Wesley Proudfoot. After the radio show ended, he guest-starred in several TV shows and made appearances in movies. He played Mayor Stoner on The Andy Griffith Show.

Georgia Ellis was the original Kitty Russell She had worked in a number of radio dramas for many years prior to her involvement in Gunsmoke and continued her radio work until the mid-1960s. Ellis had a few roles in television as well.

TELEVISION RUN

The TV show premiered on Sept. 10, 1955, and ran until March 31, 1975, for 695 episodes. The show was No. 1 from 1956-61. Gunsmoke was one of the few series that transitioned from black-and-white to color when CBS made the change in 1966. It was rarer still to have its format change from 30-minute to 60-minute episodes during the final 15 years of its run. There were also five Gunsmoke movies that premiered from 1987-93.

To put in perspective how rare it is for a TV show to have that many episodes, Gunsmoke is only surpassed by the cartoon series The Simpsons (700-plus episodes). Lassie (591 episodes) is a distant third.

When the idea for a TV version of Gunsmoke came into being, all the radio stars were given token interviews. Conrad didn’t fit the image the producers had in mind. McNear lost out on the role of Doc to Milburn Stone, and Baer was hardly considered as Chester. Georgia Ellis didn’t quite have the eye-catching looks needed for television’s Miss Kitty Russell.

Between 1955-70, the series earned 15 Primetime nominations and won four. In 1957, it had its most nominations in a year (five) and won Best Dramatic Series that year, and Mike Pozen won Best Editing for the episode “How to Kill a Woman.”

During its 20-year run, 30 other western shows debuted and were canceled. Western Writers of America, TV Guide, and Entertainment Weekly recognized the series as among the greatest TV shows of all time.

The show’s star, James Arness, was nominated for best actor in a drama in 1956-58 but lost to Rob-

ert Young (Father Knows Best, 1956-57) and Raymond Burr (Perry Mason, 1958).

Dennis Weaver and Milburn Stone earned Primetime Emmys in the Best Supporting Actor category in 1958 and 1967, respectively.

The show spawned one spinoff, Dirty Sally, which starred Jeanette Nolan and Dack Rambo and lasted for a single season.

THE STARS

JAMES ARNESS

Matt Dillon

Arness appeared in all 635 episodes of Gunsmoke. Charles Warren, one of the first directors and producers for the series, knew what he wanted in the television version of Matt Dillon. In addition to interviewing Conrad for the role, Warren also interviewed Denver Pyle and Burr. Pyle did not fit the image of Dillon that Warren had in his mind, and Burr had some of the same issues that plagued Conrad.

Hollywood legend had it that John Wayne was offered the role, but according to the producers, Wayne was never seriously considered. He did recommend James Arness for the role and recorded the intro for the series in 1955.

Arness was born in Minneapolis on May 26, 1923, to Rolf Cirkler Aurness and Ruth Duesler Aurness. Actor Peter Graves was his younger brother. He enlisted in the U.S. Army and trained as a rifleman at Fort Snelling. He was part of the landing at Anzio Beach (the Italian campaign) on November 11, 1944, and was wounded. The injury would affect him for the rest of his life. After he was discharged from the military, he worked as a radio announcer at station WLOL in Minneapolis and later hitchhiked to California to become an actor.

He made his movie debut with Loretta Young in The Farmer’s Daughter. James co-starred in films with Humphrey Bogart, Gloria Grahame, Spencer Tracy, Jimmy Stewart, Robert Taylor, and Victor McLaughlin . He was also the titular character in the sci-fi film The Thing from Another Planet.

He appeared with Audie Murphy in Sierra and co-starred in four movies with John Wayne—Big Jim McLain, Hondo, Island in the Sky, and Sea Chase.

Arness made his last theatrical movie appearance in the 1959 western comedy Alias Jesse James, starring Bob Hope and Rhonda Fleming. Glenn Strange and Gloria Talbott also appeared in the film. Arness appeared in character at the end of the film as one of several cameos by famous western movie and TV stars. Among them, Fess Parker, Gail Davis, Ward Bond, Roy Rogers, Gary Cooper, Jay Siverheels, and Hugh O’Brian.

After Gunsmoke ended, Arness starred in a string of TV movies. He was in The Macahans, which became How the West Was Won. Following the movie was a miniseries, and that led to a weekly series that ran from 1978-79. Arness played mountain man Zeb Macahan, and the series also starred Eva Marie Saint, Fionnula Flannagan, Bruce Boxleitner, and Kathryn Holcomb.

He married Virginia Chapman in 1948 and ad-

opted her son, Craig. They had a son, Rolf, and a daughter, Jenny Lee. The couple divorced in 1963. James married Janet Surtees in 1978.

Arness was honored as the Man of the Year at the Annual International Broadcasting Committee in 1973.

Kathleen “Kitty” Russell

Amanda Blake was born Beverly Louise Neill on Feb. 21, 1929, in Buffalo, New York. She was the only child of Jesse and Louise Neill . She was a telephone operator and briefly attended Pomona College before she began acting. She signed a contract with MGM in the late 1940s.

She appeared in Duchess of Idaho (1950) with Ester Williams . Blake shared screen time with Jon Hall and Liza Ferraday in China Corsair (1951). This was also the debut of Ernest Borgnine In A Star is Born (1954), she appeared with Judy Garland and James Mason.

Blake played Miss Kitty Russell in Gunsmoke

AMANDA BLAKE

from 1955-74 for 425 episodes and left before the series’ final season. She was nominated for an Emmy Award for Best Supporting Actress in a Drama in 1955. Amanda received the Best Actress in a Drama Golden Globe nomination for three consecutive years but lost each time. She would go on to play Miss Kitty in the first of the made-forTV movies.

She was the third performer inducted into the Great Hall of Western Performers in the Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Museum in 1968. In 1985, Amanda was awarded the Golden Boot for her work in the western genre.

Following Blake’s departure, Fran Ryan was added to the cast as Miss Hannah , the new lady in charge of the Longbranch , for the final season of the show. Ryan would also reprise her role in Gunsmoke: Return to Dodge. It would be the only time Ryan and Blake played their respective roles in the movies.

Off-screen, she had multiple marriages, including her third husband, Frank Gilbert (196782), with whom she shared her devotion to animals. The couple had an animal compound at their home in Arizona and successfully became one of the first to breed cheetahs in captivity. She helped form the Arizona Animal Welfare League (1971) and financed the start of the Performing Animal Welfare Society in 1982 to care for former circus, movie, and television animals. She later became a one-time board member of the Humane Society of the United States.

Her own battle with cancer led her to become a supporter of the American Cancer Society. She received the society’s Annual Courage Award from President Ronald Reagan in 1984.

After her death in 1985, Blake was honored in 1997 when the Amanda Blake Memorial Wildlife Refuge opened at Rancho Seco Park in Herald, California. The refuge provides sanctuary for free-ranging African hoofed wildlife. Most of the animals have been reclaimed from wild animal farms and hunting preserves.

MILBURN STONE

Galen “Doc” Adams

Hugh Milburn Stone was born on July 4, 1909, in Burton, Kansas, to Herbert and Laura Stone. He was a vaudeville star in the 1920s and went to Los Angeles in the 30s to begin his screen career. He appeared in over 150 movies from 1935-55, from short appearances to co-starring and starring roles.

He appeared in feature films with Fred MacMurray and Carole Lombard in The Princess Comes Across, Pat O’Brien and Humphrey Bogart in China Clipper, Tyrone Power and Dorothy Lamour in Johnny Apollo, Lou Abbott and Bud Costello in Buck Privates Come Home, John Wayne and Robert Ryan in Flying Leathernecks, and Charlton Heston, Jack Palance, Katy Jurado, and Brian Keith in Arrowhead. He starred in 604 episodes of Gunsmoke from 1955-75.

Aside from winning an Emmy in 1968, Stone was nominated for a Golden Globe in 1972. In 1975, he received an honorary doctorate from St. Mary’s of the Plains College in Dodge City, Kansas. He also has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

He was written out of seven episodes in 1971 due to heart surgery and was temporarily replaced by Pat Hingle as Dr. John Chapman. Hingle appeared in six episodes.

Stone married Ellen Morrison in 1925, and they had one child together. Stone married again in 1940 to Francis Jane Garrison, five years after Ellen’s death. Stone and Francis divorced in 1941 but remarried in 1946.

He died in 1980 and was inducted into the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Museum posthumously in 1981.

THE SIDEKICKS

WILLIAM DENNIS WEAVER

Chester B. Goode

Dennis Weaver was born on June 4, 1924, in Joplin, Missouri, to Walter Leon “Doc” and Lenna Leora Weaver. He studied at Joplin Junior College, where he was a basketball and football standout. He left school for over two years to join the Naval Air

Corps. While in training, he set new records in speed and agility testing.

After he was discharged from the Navy, he transferred to the University of Oklahoma in hopes of a football scholarship but became a track star. He competed in 12 different track and field events and set individual records at the time. He led the Sooners to a Big Six championship in cross country and won the heptathlon at the Colorado Relays in 1948.

After some stints in off-Broadway productions, Weaver was accepted into Lee Strasberg’s Actor’s Studio, where performers like Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, and Shelley Winters honed their craft.

In Hollywood, Weaver had some small success, but his role as John Brown, Jr., in Warren’s film Seven Angry Men got him the audition for his now iconic role. In 1955, Weaver became the first revolving sidekick on Gunsmoke, where he played Chester Goode from 1955-64 (290 episodes). When he started on Gunsmoke, he was earning $300 dollars a week. When he left after nine seasons, he was making $9,000 a week. Weaver was last seen as Chester in the episode “Bentley,” aired on April 11, 1964. At the end of the show, he rode out of Dodge City, searching for a murderer. His character was never mentioned again.

He left to star in his own show and had six. He headlined Kentucky Jones (1964), where he played a single father. The series also starred Ruby Der and Harry Morgan . Weaver reprised his theatrical role of Tom Wedloe from the film Gentle Giant in Gentle Ben, which had a two-year run and 56 episodes. Beth Brickell and Clint Howard also starred in the series.

His most popular role was the titular character in McCloud, which ran on NBC from 1971-77 with 45 episodes. It was a rotating wheel series (rotating movies of the week) that featured Peter Falk’s Columbo and Rock Hudson in McMillan & Wife. As Sam McCloud, Weaver played a lawman from Taos, New Mexico, who collaborated with detectives in New York City. The series also starred J. D. Cannon and Terry Carter. Dennis received two Emmy nominations for McCloud.

Weaver also starred in Stephen Spielberg’s earliest film, Duel, and made Duel at Diablo with James Garner and Sidney Portier. He recorded seven albums and formed a singing trio with Gunsmoke costars, Stone and Blake. Weaver was also the president of the Screen Actors Guild (1973-75) and was inducted into the Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Museum in 1981.

He met his wife, Geraldine (Gerry) Stowell, at Joplin Junior College, and they were married from 1945-2005.

As an environmentalist and activist, Weaver took up many causes, including the support for alternative fuels, and founded L.I.F.E. (Love Is Feeding Everyone), which provides meals and food for folks in Los Angeles.

Comanche half breed blacksmith. Burt was born in Lansing, Michigan, on February 11, 1936. His parents were Burton Milo and Harriette Fernette Reynolds. He was a star running back with Florida State University and might have had a career in pro football, but an injury derailed those plans. He won the Florida State Drama Award in 1956 and graduated college in 1958.

He appeared in several TV shows in guest starring roles. In 1959, he landed the role of Ben Frazier on the series Riverboat. The show starred Darren McGavin as Captain Grey Holden, a man who won a riverboat, named The Enterprise, in a poker game and fought to keep the boat afloat and making money. Burt quit after twenty episodes. He stated he couldn’t get along with McGavin or the executive producer and thought he had a stupid part. He returned to appearing in other shows as a guest star but stated that work was hard to find after he walked away from Riverboat. He married English actress Judy Carne in 1963. They divorced in 1965. He had a relationship with Dinah Shore, who was twenty years his senior, which lasted from 1971 to 1975. He casually dated Tammy Wynette and had a relationship with Sally Field that lasted from 1976 to 1982. The pair made four movies together. In 1988, Burt married Loni Anderson. They adopted one child, Quinton, and divorced in 1994.

Burton Reynolds was the second revolving sidekick. He joined the show in 1962 and stayed till 1965 appearing in 50 episodes as Quint Asper, a

His first episode was “Quint Asper Comes Home” in 1962, and his final appearance was in “Bank Baby” in 1965. Three sidekicks appeared together in the 1964 episode “Prairie Wolfer.” It included an early appearance of Ken Curtis as Festus Haggen . Burt was fired at the end of the 1965 season and told that he couldn’t act. Burt went on to star in the series Hawk in 1966 as Native American detective John Hawk . The show lasted for seventeen episodes. He next played police detective Dan August in the 1970/71 TV season. The show was a Quinn Martin production but failed to find an audience. Burt had more success than any of the other actors that appeared on the series, but he also fell the farthest. He was the number one box office draw in motion pictures from 1978 to 1982.

BURT REYNOLDS Quint Asper

Burt’s success bloomed after he posed for the nude centerfold in Cosmopolitan Magazine. He appeared in Deliverance, The Longest Yard, Smokey and the Bandit, Semi-Tough, and Hooper. He appeared in films with Raquel Welch, Jim Brown, Jackie Gleason, Clint Eastwood, Dolly Parton, and several others. He was nominated for a Golden Globe in 1975 for The Longest Yard and in 1980 for Starting Over. At one time he was a minority owner of the USFL Tampa Bay Bandits football team.

He made a series of bombs in the late 80s and returned to television. He starred in the detective drama B L Stryker as part of the ABC network wheel shows from February 13, 1989, to May 5, 1990. The show ran for two seasons and co-starred Ossie Davis, Dana Kaminski, and Rita Moreno . Burt directed three episodes. Burt starred in EveningShade from 1990-94. The show co-starred Marilu Henner. He won a Golden Globe and an Emmy for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy. His divorce from Loni Anderson and subsequent bankruptcy led to the cancellation of his show. He managed to get smaller character actor roles in films, and in 1997 he made the movie Boogie Nights. He was nominated for an Oscar and a Bafta for his role in the film and won a Golden Globe and a Satellite Award. He also co-authored a children’s book in 1997 Barkley Unleashed: A Pirates Tail. Burt died of a heart attack on September 6, 2018. His body was cremated, and the ashes given to his niece.

episode thirteen on December 8, 1962, in “Us Haggens.” He played lowlife Kyle Kelly in the episode “Loverboy” in season nine, episode two on October 5, 1963. He joined the main cast as Festus in the episode “Prairie Wolfer” in season nine, episode sixteen on January 18, 1964.

He met his first wife, Lorraine Page, at Universal Studios. They married in 1943 and divorced in 1952. His work as a singer led to movie appearances with John Wayne. He appeared in Rio Grande, The Searchers, The Quiet Man, On the Wings of Eagles, The Horse Soldiers, The Alamo, and How the West Was Won. He also appeared in three John Ford movies that didn’t feature John Wayne—Mister Roberts, Cheyenne Autumn, and Two Rode Together. He produced two monster movies in 1959, The Killer Shrews and The Giant Gila Monster. His last appearance in his Festus outfit was in How the West was Fun: A Western Reunion in 1979. He appeared with James Arness that same year in the series, How the West Was Won. He played Sheriff Orville Gant. He was offered a role in the movie Gunsmoke: Return to Dodge but felt he was getting a lowball offer and declined.

Ken Curtis was born Curtis Wain Gates on July 2, 1916. His parents were Don Sullivan and Nellie Sneed Gates. He had two brothers, Chester and Carl. He played quarterback at Bent County High School. He was the third revolving Gunsmoke sidekick, appeared in 304 episodes of the series, and stayed until the end. He made his first appearance in “Change of Heart” as an unnamed cowboy in 1959. He first appeared as Festus Haggen in season eight,

KEN CURTIS Festus Haggen

Ken appeared as James Buckley in the series Ripcord with Larry Pennell as Theodore McKeever from 1961-63. The pair made seventy-six episodes of the series. After Gunsmoke ended he played Hoyt Coryell in the primetime soap opera The Yellow Rose. The series also starred Sam Elliott, Cybill Sheppard, David Soul, Edward Albert, Noah Beery Jr, Chuck Connors, Jane Russell, and Will Sampson.

Ken married Barbara Ford on May 31, 1952. He was director John Ford’s son-in-law. Ken and Barbara divorced in 1964, amid rumors of abuse. He never worked with John Ford again. In 1966, he married Torrie Connelly , and they remained together until his death. Ken died of a heart attack in 1991 in Fresno, California, after he completed the filming of the TV movie Conagher. The TV movie starred Sam Elliott and Buck Taylor. His body was cremated, and the ashes were scattered over the Colorado Flatlands.

Ewing made his first appearance as Gunsmoke’s fourth of the revolving sidekicks in 1965. He appeared in thirty-six episodes and is one of the only two actors from the series that is still living. Roger was born on January 12, 1942. When his character of Thad was brought into the series, CBS executives and James Arness were at odds over salary and part ownership of the series. Thad was their backup plan in case it became necessary to replace Matt Dillon. His first appearance was in the episode “Clayton Thaddeus Greenwood.” His final appearance was in “The Prodigal.” He didn’t receive any billing at the beginning of his final appearance, nor was his character acknowledged at the end of the show. Ewing appeared in four movies and a handful of TV shows during his career. He appeared in Ensign Pulver in 1964, and his final movie was Play it as it Lays in 1972. He retired from acting in 1972 and pursued a career in photography. He currently lives in Morro Bay, California.

ROGER EWING Clayton Thaddeus Greenwood

BUCK TAYLOR Newly O’Brien

Buck Taylor was born Walter Clarence Taylor III on May 13, 1938. His parents were Dub Taylor and Florence Gertrude Heffernan Taylor. He served two years in the United States Navy. He played gunsmith Newly O’Brien from 1967-75. He appeared in 173 episodes. He was inducted into the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Museum in 1981. He appeared as Leonard Parker in “Vengeance Part I” in 1967. He first appeared as Newly in “The Pillagers” that same year. His last episode was “The Sharecroppers” in 1975. Buck appeared as Newley in the TV movie Gunsmoke: Return to Dodge in 1987. He also appeared as Colorado Smith in the TV mini-series The Alamo: Thirteen Days to Glory. The miniseries was directed by Burt Kennedy and focused more on Jim Bowie than Davy Crockett. It starred Arness as James Bowie, Brian Keith as Davy Crockett, Alec Baldwin as William Barrett Travis, Raul Julia as Santa Anna, and Lorne Green as Sam Houston He is the other surviving Gunsmoke cast member and was recently part of the cast of Yellowstone, playing Emmitt Walsh. The modern-day western tells the tale of the Dutton Family and stars Kevin Costner, Luke Grimes, and Wes Bentley.

He has worked steadily since the cancellation of Gunsmoke and has appeared in several movies and TV shows. He shared the screen with Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer in Tombstone. He appeared with Chris Pine, Ben Foster, and Jeff Bridges in Hell or High Water, and he also appeared in Cowboys and Aliens with Daniel Craig and Harrison Ford. He is a noted artist and prefers to work in watercolor and acrylic.

He married Judy Nugent in 1961. They divorced on November 13, 1983. They had three children, Matthew, Cooper , and Adam . He married Goldie Ann Maudlin in 1995. At one time Anne Lockhart was his daughter-in-law. He was awarded the Golden Boot in 1993 for his work in the western genre. He received two Western Heritage Bronze Wranglers—one in 1972 for being part of the ensemble cast of Gunsmoke, the other for the movie Truce in 2007. He also received the Cowboy Spirit Award in 1998.

Sam the Bartender

Burtis Harwood “Bert” Ramsey was the first Sam the Bartender and appeared in seventy-five episodes from 1955-59. Sometimes he was uncredited, sometimes credited as Longbranch bartender, other times as simply bartender, and finally Sam the bartender. His first episode was “Hot Spell” the second episode in season 1, and his final episode was “The Boots” in season 5. He died in Bellaire-Clearwater, Florida, on June 6, 1968, from lung cancer.

George Glenn Strange played Sam the Bartender in 247 episodes. He was born on August 16, 1899, in Weed, New Mexico territory, thirteen years before statehood. Glenn had a lengthy career in westerns. He played Butch Cavendish , the man responsible for killing all the Texas Rangers save one in the TV series The Lone Ranger . He played The Frankenstein Monster in three movies— The HouseofFrankenstein in 1944, The House of Dracula in 1945, and Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein in 1948. He first appeared on Gunsmoke in 1959 and returned as Sam Noonan the bartender from 1961-73.

He married Flora Hooper on April 29, 1920. They had two daughters, Wynena and Juanita. He married Minnie Thompson in 1937, and they had one child, Janine Laraine Strange. He once fought professional boxer Primo Carnera.

His first episode as Sam the Bartender was “Old Faces,” episode twenty-six in season 6 in 1961. His final episode was “The Hanging of Newly O’Brian,” episode eleven in season 19 in 1973.

—TERRY ALEXANDER and his wife, Phyllis, live on a small farm near Porum, Oklahoma. They have three children, thirteen grandchildren, and four great grandchildren. If you see him at a conference, though, don’t let him convince you to take part in one of his trivia games—he’ll stump you every time.

BEFORE THE CIVIL War, the U.S. government spent much of its military resources suppressing large Indian populations in the east, going so far as physically relocating the socalled Five Civilized Tribes into a loosely designated Indian Territory. Plans were also in the works to restrict the movement of indigenous people west of the Mississippi and confine them on reservations. Those activities didn’t come to a stop with the Civil War, but they slowed dramatically.

During the war, both the Union and the Confederacy courted the Indians. The South recruited almost 8,000 indigenous troops by holding out the possibility of a sovereign state governed by the tribes. The Union attempted to secure agreements that would ensure the tribes of the western territories would remain neutral.

Thousands of native warriors saw no advantage in negotiating treaties that history had shown would not be honored. For them, the Civil War was an opportunity to take up arms to defend traditional land and regain territory lost to white settlement. But when the war between the states ended on April 9, 1865, those warriors had the full attention of the U.S. military.

One year after Robert E. Lee surrendered to Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox, Congress passed the Army Reorganization Act of 1866. Among oth-

er things, this piece of legislation authorized the enlistment of up to 1,000 Indian Scouts to aid troops in tracking and fighting hostile tribes. The army was given a great deal of discretion concerning how those scouts should be chosen and how they would be used. It’s not surprising they had mixed results.

THE LITTLE BIGHORN

A large collection of Native American bands— Dakota, Lakota, Nakota, historically known as the Sioux—had formed an alliance with the Cheyenne and Arapaho and lived in a territory that included the modern-day states of North and South Dakota, most of Wyoming, and part of Montana. They were the largest, most aggressive group of hostiles in the Northern Plains and continued to clash with the U.S. military even during the Civil War.

Washington hoped the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie would end hostilities with the Sioux. The new treaty clearly defined boundaries of land set aside for the tribes, and an increased number of troops assigned to the region demonstrated what might happen if warriors left the reservations. That combination might have ended the battle for the Northern Plains if not for the Black Hills Gold Rush that began in 1874.

White prospectors and settlers traveled across land with little regard for reservation boundaries.

They engaged in destructive mining and smelting practices that enraged the barely pacified Sioux. There had always been renegade hostiles in the region who refused to settle on reservation lands, but their numbers grew as the gold rush approached its peak in 1876-77. Most of the hostiles were believed to have taken refuge in northern Wyoming deep in the Bighorn Mountains. They were thought to be loyal to Chief Sitting Bull.

When it became obvious that Sitting Bull’s renegade faction was growing, Divisional General Philip Sheridan decided to reduce the Indians to subjugation. Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer was assigned to the region as part of that operation. The colonel’s command consisted of fewer than 500 regular troops and some forty Indian Scouts. That seems an incredibly small number of soldiers to put up against the thousands of battle-hardened Sioux he would encounter, but Indian agents had been consistently underreporting

the number of renegade warriors, and no one believed Custer would face more than 800 hostiles. It was also generally believed that Sitting Bull’s warriors would have few rifles and little ammunition and would scatter when faced with a well-armed professional army.

CUSTER’S INDIAN SCOUTS

Custer’s scouts had been recruited from regional tribes that were traditional enemies of the Sioux. That seemed a reasonable practice in the Indian Wars, but there was little effort to select scouts with common tribal affiliations, cultural similarities, or even a common language. The scouts on the Little Bighorn expedition came mostly from the Arikara (who spoke a Caddoan language), the Mandan (who spoke a Siouan language), and the Gros Ventre (who spoke a dialect of Arapaho).

Custer also brought along six Crow scouts, including Curley, who became famous as the first to describe what happened at Little Bighorn. Much of what is known about Custer’s last stand comes from journalists’ interviews with Curley. The scout’s English was so poor, he described the battle using sign language and drawings. It’s no surprise that information collected in this manner was often contradictory.

When Custer first took charge of his scouts, there was no consensus among the Indians about what they were expected to do. According to an Arikara scout, Young Hawk, they were originally told their primary purpose would be to locate gold. Sometime after Custer’s arrival at the Black Hills, the colonel put a yellow nugget in Young Hawk’s hand. He told him it was gold, and the scouts should look for more of it.

He told Arikara scout, Bloody Knife, to

LT. COLONEL GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER,. THE BOY GENERAL WHO WOULD MEET HIS FATE ON THE BANKS OF THE LITTLE BIGHORN RIVER IN THE SUMMER OF 1876.

expect a battle with the Sioux but not a big one. Custer said he was counting on a victory. Any victory would do, even though it were against only five tents of Sioux, and he planned to turn back as soon as that was accomplished. The colonel bragged that a win against the Sioux would make him president and promised to take Bloody Knife and possibly some other Arikara with him to Washington.

Custer was said to be close with Bloody Knife, but his relationship with other Indians under his command left much to be desired. The scouts on the Little Bighorn expedition traveled and camped on the flanks and in advance of the regular troops so they would be the first to encounter hostiles. In addition to their tracking and advance warning duties, they supplemented their pay by hunting game and selling meat to the white soldiers. There were no opportunities for the scouts and the regular soldiers to develop bonds of loyalty.

General Sheridan valued the army’s alliance with

the Mandan and Arikara and had instructed Custer to protect them as if they were white, but he made no such stipulation for the Gros Ventre. According to Arikara scout, Red Star, Custer told them, “While you are out on scout duty, should you see a party of Indians coming to visit us, and you find out that they are Gros Ventre, shoot them down and kill them. If one or more of this party that comes are Mandans, you will divide your provisions and ammunition with them, for they are probably hunting.” This obviously did nothing to cement trust between the tribes.

Scouts under Custer’s control were armed but were not expected to fight alongside the regular soldiers. They traveled in very small groups, and their weapons were meant to be used to defend themselves if they came under attack in the process of completing their duties, but they were never expected to take part in battle.

HOW LITTLE BIGHORN WENT WRONG

Realistically, there was no conceivable way fewer than 500 army regulars could have defeated the 3,000 Sioux, but Custer’s battle plan made matters worse than they had to be. The colonel divided his force into three companies. He commanded 210 men, Captain Frederick Benteen commanded 125, and Major Marcus Reno commanded 140. They each took a different route to Sitting Bull’s suspected location.

Custer’s soldiers moved faster than Reno’s and Benteen’s. He had no idea how far ahead of his support troops he was when he ordered the Arikara to travel all night and locate the hostiles’ camp. Twelve scouts set out immediately and found a Sioux encampment at daybreak. Without exploring further, they sent word back to the colonel.

At that point, different groups of scouts argued about what Custer should do next. The Crow were

HUNKPAPA LAKOTA CHIEF SITTING BULL, THE MAN WHO WOULD LEAD THE PLAINS INDIANS TO THEIR MOST AUDACIOUS VICTORY OVER U.S. MILITARY FORCES AT THE LITTLE BIGHORN.

sure the Sioux knew they were coming and advised him to attack immediately. The Arikara and Gros Ventre wanted to gather more intelligence and wait until Reno and Benteen’s troops arrived.

Custer decided to move ahead with the attack.

THE ARIKARA SCOUTS’ POINT OF VIEW

The Arikara went for the horses while Custer’s soldiers moved on the Sioux camp. This contingent of hostiles wasn’t large, but the warriors were armed with Henry’s model and Spencer repeating rifles. Custer’s troops carried army issue single shot Springfield Model 1873 carbines and couldn’t return fire quickly enough to advance. The soldiers suffered heavy losses as they fell back.

The Sioux divided their attention between the Arikara scouts and the army. They killed Bloody Knife, Bobtailed Bull , and Little Brave as they ran for cover. The surviving Arikara watched, stunned, as hundreds of warriors from a larger Sioux camp swarmed over the middle of a ridge and pursued the retreating soldiers. Sometime before noon on June 25, 1876, the hostiles overtook Custer’s position.

The scouts were not expected to join the fight. They had been told to regroup with the packtrain under the command of Captain Benteen, and that is what they tried to do. Even the Crow scouts who remained with Custer at the time of the attack were ordered away from the battle and watched the army’s defeat from a distance.

Benteen had joined with Reno and approached the field of battle too late to save Custer. They too lost their battle with Sitting Bull’s warriors, although with fewer losses.

Both Benteen and Reno survived.

The surviving Arikara scouts didn’t stick around for Reno and Benteen’s part of the Little Bighorn battle. An officer gave them government horses and a message to carry to safety so everyone would know what happened.

AFTER THE LOSS AT LITTLE BIGHORN

There was much discussion concerning the usefulness of Indian Scouts after Little Bighorn. Certainly, there were questions about how they were used and the lack of useful intelligence they provided Custer. But regardless of the failure of the expedi-

SURVIVORS. CURLEY (LEFT), A CROW SCOUT WHO LIVED TO TELL THE TALE OF WHAT WENT WRONG. CAPTAIN FREDERICK BENTEEN (CENTER) AND MAJOR MARCUS RENO, THE 7TH CAVALRY REGIMENT’S SENIOR SURVIVING OFFICERS..

tion, the army maintained and protected reservation lands for the cooperating tribes.

Today, the Arikara and Mandan have been combined with the Hidatsa as a single federally recognized tribe known as the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara Nation. They are settled on the Fort Berthold Reservation in North Dakota.

The Gros Ventre are enrolled in the Fort Belknap Indian Community of the Fort Belknap Reservation of Montana. Their federally recognized tribe now includes the Assiniboine People and the Nakoda People, who were their traditional enemies.

The Crow continued to live on the Crow Indian Reservation, which had been established in 1868. The reservation, the largest of the seven Indian reservations in Montana, is located in the south-central part of the state.

THE TEXAS INDIAN WARS

General Randolph B. Marcy wrote in 1871 that the population of white settlers in southwest Texas was declining due to attacks by hostile tribes. “…if the Indian marauders are not punished, the whole country will become totally depopulated.”

In addition to Apache, Comanche, and other nomadic tribes typically the targets of the Indian wars, bands of Creek and Seminole (two of the five so called civilized tribes) had settled south of the Rio Grande River. The Creek had emigrated to Mexico in the 1830s to avoid relocation to Indian Territory. The Seminole organized a second wave of emigration in the 1850s, after most of the tribe had already been removed from Florida. The Seminole (then considered part of the Creek tribe by the Bureau of Indian Affairs) had traditionally welcomed large numbers of runaway slaves into their tribe. They fled Indian Territory when it was clear that black tribal members were in danger of being sold into slavery.

The Mexicans had accepted Creek and Seminole on the condition the warriors would help the government defend settlements against hostiles. The relationship between the tribes and the Mexican Army had deteriorated over the years but was

still strong enough that the U.S. feared the Indians might join with Mexico in an attempt to re-annex Texas. To forestall this possibility, Washington lobbied the tribes to relocate to Indian Territory.

Despite previous difficulties with the U.S., indigenous members of both tribes were amenable to resettling on assigned lands, but there were serious concerns about how the so-called black Indians would fit with this plan. The Creek had kept blacks as slaves. Black Creek were free once they’d migrated into Mexico where slavery was illegal, but their relationship with the tribe was strained by their history.

The Seminole had traditionally incorporated blacks in a sort of feudal system. That affiliation had come under strains when they moved from Florida to Indian Territory and approached to the breaking point after they migrated to Mexico.

Both black and indigenous Seminole and Creek were anxious to come to an agreement with the U.S. government, but land was limited in Indian Territory. Indigenous groups didn’t want to share it with blacks, who they believed had questionable loyalty. Blacks wanted a safe homeland but wouldn’t willingly place themselves under the control of tribal governments that didn’t recognize them as equals.

The U.S. Army offered a temporary solution. They recruited black Creek and Seminole from an interior region of Mexico known as Hacienda de Nacimiento. The black Indians agreed to work as scouts in exchange for rations and housing for their families. The new collection of recruits was named Detachment of Seminole Negro Scouts and was formally established on August 16, 1870. They were moved to land near Ft. Duncan and Ft. Clark, Texas, until a suitable permanent homeland could be established. Congress had created six all-colored regiments with the Army Reorganization Act of 1866, but it is doubtful they anticipated using Negroes as Indian scouts.

Most Indian Scouts were issued old pattern uniforms from surplus stock, and uniform codes were loosely enforced. The unit of black Indian Scouts wasn’t issued uniforms at all but continued wearing what they had worn in Mexico. Their mismatched

clothing gave them a ragtag appearance not much different than the hostile tribes they were hired to fight. One recruit affected a plains Indian style buffalo horn war bonnet, with no complaints from the regular military.

Unlike Custer’s scouts, most black Indians spoke English in addition to their tribal language. They had a common cultural background and shared a bond that came from their rejection by their tribes and by the vast white power structure of the U.S. government. The army wanted them when no one else did, and that created a high degree of loyalty.

The detachment started off guarding livestock and participating in escort duties, but in 1873 (two

Under Bullis’s leadership the scouts embarked on a decade long period of savage border war against hostile tribes on both sides of the Rio Grande. The black Indian scouts were not bound by typical army notions of discipline and demeanor, but they were expert in traversing the vast distances of Texas and providing intelligence and were expected to engage hostile Indians in combat. Within a few months after Bullis’s arrival, his scouts played a key role in Colonel Ranald S. Mackenzie’ s Red River War.

Lt. Bullis gained the respect of his men by forming a special relationship with their families. It was said that, within a few days after any of his men

years before Little Bighorn), Lieutenant John Lapham Bullis volunteered to take command of them. The lieutenant was a decorated veteran of the Civil War. He had fought in several key battles, including Harper’s Ferry and Gettysburg. He’d been wounded twice and held as a POW in the notorious Libby Prison in Virginia. After being released in a prisoner exchange, he saw action as a white officer in the 118th Infantry, Colored and understood the potential of black soldiers.

had a child, Bullis would inspect the infant. If male, he would take the newborn into his arms and announce with great relish, “Fine baby! Fine baby! Going to be mighty fine scout someday—mighty fine scout!”

The lieutenant didn’t ride with a separate group of regular white soldiers. He rode with the detachment, camped with them, and participated directly in the fighting. When it came to pursuing hostiles, he didn’t let diplomatic niceties like borders and international treaties stand in the way of his black de-

THE DETACHMENT OF SEMINOLE NEGRO SCOUTS, FORMALLY ESTABLISHED AUGUST, 16, 1870. THE UNIT WOULD GO ON TO SEE MUCH ACTION AND EVEN GREATER GLORY.

tachment. Under his leadership, the scouts proved their worth by tracking down and decimating a Kickapoo band forty miles inside Mexico. They performed with such efficiency that they were able to carry out the attack and withdraw without provoking a Mexican response.

Colonel Ranald Mackenzie was so impressed that a year later he used them as trackers and combatants in his campaign against the Kiowa, Southern Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Comanche tribes that had left their reservations and were hiding in Palo Duro Canyon. With the help of the black Indian and Tonkawa scouts, the army was able to destroy the hostiles’ camps and capture or kill most of their ponies, leaving them on foot without supplies in late September in the Texas Panhandle. Mackenzie recommended Black Seminole scout, Adam Payne, for the Medal of Honor for his contribution to the battle.

After the Battle of Palo Duro Canyon, Indian threats in West Texas consisted mainly of small renegade raiding parties that left the reservations to go on short war parties. The renegade groups were small in number but were skilled in guerilla warfare tactics and extremely dangerous.

One fight at Eagles Nest Crossing on the Pecos River earned the Medal of Honor for three scouts— John Ward, Isaac Payne, and Pompey Factor for saving Lt. Bullis’s life after he was separated from the detachment and surrounded. His scouts received four of the sixteen medals of honor awarded to the several thousand Native Americans who eventually scouted for the army. They were incredible marksmen, skilled with horses, and willing to take on hostile tribes that significantly outnumbered them.

The thing that set the black Indian scouts apart from all other soldiers and trackers in Texas was their uncanny ability to find and interpret the almost invisible trails hostiles left behind when they crossed the desert.

An impressive example of a Black Seminole scout’s tracking ability was documented by Captain Orsemus Bronson Boyd. He wrote:

At four o’clock one morning, a scout attached to the command brought me intelligence that six hours previously six horses, four lodges, one sick Indian, five squaws, and several children had descended into the canyon one mile above us and were then lost to sight.

I asked, “Had they provisions?”

“Yes, corn and buffalo meat.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw corn scattered upon one side of the trail, and flies had gathered upon a piece of buffalo meat on the other.”

“How do you know that one of the Indians is sick?”

LIEUTENANT JOHN LAPHAM BULLUS, THE CIVIL WAR VETERAN WHO VOLUNTEERED TO TAKE COMMAND OF THE SEMINOLE SCOUTS.

“Because the lodge poles were formed into a travois, that was drawn by a horse blind in one eye.”

“How do you know the horse was half blind?”

“Because, while all the other horses grazed upon both sides of the trail, this one ate only the grass that grew upon one side.”

“How do you know the sick one was a man?”

“Because when a halt was made all the women gathered around him.”

“Of what tribe are they?”

“Of a Kiowa tribe.”

And thus, with no ray of intelligence upon his stolid face, he stood before me and told all I wished to know concerning our new neighbors, whom he had never seen.

Two hours later, Boyd found a small band of Kiowas. They were just as the unidentified scout had described them.

THE END OF THE BLACK SCOUTS

Most blacks who joined the Detachment of Seminole Negro Scouts never intended to become professional soldiers. The army was meant to be a stopover while the U.S. government decided where this outlier population could live in peace.

As the period of service dragged on, it wasn’t surprising that many scouts would drift away and find places to settle on their own. During the entire active combat period (1870-1881) the detachment of Creek and Seminole blacks continued to make up about two thirds of the approximate one hundred members. But after the first three years, other ethnicities began to replace members who left. From 1873 through 1877, about half of the new enlistments were non-tribal blacks. From 1878 to 1880, most who joined had Mexican names. The scouts during the 1878 to 1880 period included three Apache and one Comanchero.

By the end of their active combat period, the hostile tribes were keeping their raids south of the border. The army continued to send the black scouts after them, but there was less incentive to maintain the group or to honor the promise of land where

they could settle. White citizens around Brackettville and Ft. Clark, Texas, were lobbying the army to remove scout families from their temporary settlement and open it to public sale.

The bargaining position of the blacks was further weakened when their champion, John L. Bullis, was transferred to Indian Territory in 1882. He, Col. Ranald Mackenzie, and even General Sheridan used their influence to try and secure a title for the scouts to keep their land near Fort Clark, but they were unsuccessful.

The Seminole Negro Scouts appealed to the government to grant them land in Indian Territory, but no formal grant was ever given. Meanwhile, John Jumper, principal chief of the Indian Territory Seminoles and a former Confederate officer, firmly rejected the idea of allowing more blacks to rejoin his tribe. He said, “We are informed by the report of General Sheridan that these negroes are a turbulent lawless band.”

Sheridan promptly rebuked Jumper. “I have never made any such statement. These people, on the contrary, are in my opinion, law abiding, well-disposed, and worthy of consideration.” Still, his strong endorsement did not advance their prospects for acquiring land in the Territory or elsewhere.

In 1884, the scouts were about to be discharged en masse. Lieutenant Colonel Tasker Bliss, who knew them well, advised his superiors about their plight, claiming that they were “in an almost helpless condition, with many widows and orphans.” Despite the colonel’s pleas, the government essentially abandoned the Seminole Negro Scouts after the Indian wars were finished.

—JOHN T. BIGGS is an Oklahoma regional writer who has published both fiction and non-fiction in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies. Some of his stories have won regional and national awards including Grand Prize in the Writers Digest 80th annual competition, third prize in the Lorian Hemingway short story contest, a Storyteller Magazine’s People’s Choice Award, and three Oklahoma Writers Federation Inc. Crème de la Crème Awards.