Saddlebag Dispatches—Winter 2023 by Oghma Creative Media

Meet Some Famous and Infamous Women who Called Cochise County Home MRS. EARP The Wives and Lovers of the Earp Brothers, First Edition By: Sherry Monahan 9780762788354 • December 2013 Paperback • $16.95 • TwoDot

When most people hear the name Earp, they think of Wyatt, Virgil, Morgan, and sometimes the lesser known James and Warren. They also had a half-brother named Newton, who lived a fairly quiet, uneventful life. While it’s true these men made history on their own, they all had a Mrs. Earp behind them—some more than one. One could argue some of these women helped shape the future of the Earp brothers and may have even been the fuel behind some of the ﬁres they encountered. This book collectively traces the lives of the women who shared the title of Mrs. Earp either by name or relationship. Visit www.sherrymonahan.com to learn more about the author, her past and upcoming books, and more!

ACCORDING TO KATE The Legendary Life of Big Nose Kate, Love of Doc Holliday By: Chris Enss 9781493037735 • October 2019 Hardcover • $24.95 • TwoDot

Doc Holliday’s paramour Big Nose Kate could never get a publisher to give her the big bucks she demanded to tell the story of her life, but that didn’t mean she didn’t collect material she wanted to use in a biography. Over the fifty years Mary Kate Cummings, alias Big Nose Kate, traversed the West she saved letters from her family, musings she had written about her love interests, and life with the notorious John Henry Holliday. Using rare, never before published material Big Nose Kate stock-piled in anticipation of writing the tale of her days on the Wild Frontier, the definitive book about the famous soiled dove will finally be told. Visit https://chrisenss.com/ to learn more about the author, her past and upcoming books, and more!

Order yours today from your local bookstore, amazon.com, or barnesandnoble.com

COCHISE COUNTY FEATURES 32

THE RISE OF GERONIMO

EST. 2014

CATHY WILLIAMS: BUFFALO SOLDIER

Our mission at Saddlebag Dispatches is to keep the spirit of the frontier alive by fostering interest, discussion, and writing in the history and legacy of the American West.

BON TON AND TONY

RAWHIDE JAKE GETS A RAW DEAL

SPIRITS OF THE WILD WEST

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GEMS OF COCHISE COUNTY

120

A WOMAN OF THE WEST: J.A. JANCE

138

LOZEN: WARRIOR SHAMAN

146

BATTLE OF THE PLAZA & TOMBSTONE TROUBLES Bill Markley

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WINTER 2023 • VOLUME 9, ISSUE #2

EDITORIAL PUBLISHER: Dennis Doty MANAGING EDITOR: Anthony Wood COPY EDITOR: Staci Troilo FEATURES EDITOR: George “Clay” Mitchell POETRY EDITOR: John McPherson ENTERTAINMENT EDITOR: Terry Alexander CONTRIBUTING EDITORS: Waynetta Ausmus, John T. Biggs, Paul Colt, W. Michael Farmer, J.B. Hogan, Regina McLemore RESEARCH DIRECTOR: Barbara Clouse BOOK REVIEWER: Doug Osgood POET LAUREATE: Marleen Bussma PHOTOGRAPHER: Patricia Rustin Christen ART DIRECTOR: Casey W. Cowan ILLUSTRATOR: Victoria Marble CONTRIBUTORS: JD Arnold, Benjamin Henry Bailey, Scott M. Brents, JoAnn Chartier, Doug Hocking, J.A. Jance, Joan Leotta, Bill Markley, Sherry Monahan, Michael Norman, Gary Rodgers, Manuela Schneider, James A. Tweedie, Linda Weller

BUSINESS BUSINESS MANAGER: Amy Cowan ADVERTISING MANAGER: Chris Enss SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER: Rachel Patterson For advertising rates and schedules, contact Advertising Manager Chris Enss gvcenss@aol.com For business-related questions, contact Business Manager Amy Cowan amy@saddlebagdispatches.com CONTACT INFORMATION Saddlebag Dispatches, LLC 2401 Beth Lane, Bentonville, AR 72712 479.657.3894 WEBSITE www.saddlebagdispatches.com Dedicated to the memory of our late co-founder, Dusty Richards, and our dear departed friends and partners, Velda Brotherton and Bob Giel.

120

Bill Markley

Chris Enss & JoAnn Chartier Sherry Monahan JD Arnold

Manuela Schneider Doug Hocking Joan Leotta

Chris Enss & JoAnn Chartier

SHORT FICTION 21 51 69 93 109 129 155

A DEATH OF CROWS—Michael Norman FINDING FORTUNE—W. Michael Farmer A HOLDUP ON THE TOMBSTONE STAGE—James A. Tweedie JUDGED AND FOUND LACKING—Anthony Wood MY FRIEND TOM—Benjamin Henry Bailey THE GREEN GUARDIAN OF A YELLOW GOLD SUBMARINER— Scott M. Brents JUSTICE FINDS WHALEY—Gary Rodgers

WESTERN POETRY BAD BLOOD AND BULLETS—Marleen Bussma 18 TOMBSTONES IN TOMBSTONE—Benjamin Henry Bailey 80 162 TOMBSTONE’S OTHER SHOOTOUT—John McPherson

PERSPECTIVES 6 7 8

BEHIND THE CHUTES THE PUNNY EXPRESS WILD WOMEN

14 164 168

THE BOOK WAGON TALKING WESTERNS TRIBAL PASSAGES

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BEHIND THE CHUTES Dennis Doty PUBLISHER

Bringing Home the Hardware Celebrating Some Top Authors and Another Great Issue.

elcome to the Winter issue of Saddlebag Dispatches magazine. This issue is themed around Cochise County, Arizona. You’ll likely recognize the authors of most, if not all, of our features. We are extremely pleased with the recognition that some of our authors and staff have received since the last issue. Sherry Monahan received a Will Rogers Medallion Award Gold Medal for The Tombstone Cookbook: Reci-

Michael Norman (left) and Saddlebag Dispatches Managing Editor Anthony Wood accept a Will Rogers Medallion Copper Medal for Michael’s short story “Lozen’s War.”

pes and Lore from the Town Too Tough to Die; Chris Enss won a silver medal for The Widowed Ones: Beyond the Battle of the Little Bighorn, co-authored with Howard Kazanjian; Chris also received a Copper Medal for Along Came a Cowgirl: Daring and Iconic Women of the Rodeo & Wild West Shows; Michael Norman received a Copper Medal for his short story, “Lozen’s War” published in Saddlebag Dispatches; Timothy Lange won Silver for Galaxy: The Best Friend a Cowboy Ever Had; P.A. O’Neil received Copper for her great article on the annual Ellensburg Rodeo, “Northwest Passage,” also here in Saddlebag Dispatches, and Manuela Schneider won a Silver Medal for her western film, Miner’s Candle. Over at Western Fictioneers, JD Arnold was a Peacemaker Award finalist for Best First Novel with Rawhide Jake: Learning the Ropes, and Ben Goheen was a finalist for short fiction with “On the Trail with Packer,” which is another one you may recognize from right here at Saddlebag Dispatches. Finally, Chris Enss also won the WILLA Award from Women Writing the West with The Widowed Ones: Beyond the Battle of the Little Bighorn.

Our heartiest congratulations to all of these talented authors. If you haven’t read their work yet, you really need to. Now on to this issue... First off, please excuse our dust while we do some remodeling around the old ranch house. As you flip through the pages, you’ll notice some changes to our signature style, perhaps none larger than the front cover you’ve already seen. After five years in our previous format we decided to liven the place up a bit. Similar changes will be coming to our website soon, as well. Don’t worry, though, we’re the same old Saddlebag Dispatches, just a little better looking for our big Tenth Anniversary celebration in 2024. So what else do we have in store for you this year? Well, I’d say quite a bit. For one thing, we’re proud to announce the winner of our Inaugural Longhorn Prize for Western Short Fiction, the one and only Michael Norman with his fantastic short story, “A Death of Crows.” Michael will not only take home $300 and even more bragging rights, he’ll also receive a trophy belt buckle from Montana Silversmiths to commemorate the occasion. Next up, we have a history and exploration of the Arizona’s beautiful Karchner Caverns by award-winning author Doug Hocking. There’s a masterful treatise setting the record straight regarding the legacy of lawman/detective Jonas V. Brighton—known in some circles as Rawhide Jake—by JD Arnold. The inimitable Chris Enss teams up with JoAnn Chartier to bring you the stories of both Cathy Wil-

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liams, a female Buffalo Soldier, and Lozen, the Apache Shaman Warrior who rode with Geronimo. Award-winning food writer Sherry Monahan covers the dining choices in old Tombstone in her article, “Bon Ton and Tony,” while Manuela Schneider takes you on a tour of the Haunted Bird Cage Theatre. Finally, noted historian Bill Markley checks in with a pair of great Cochise County-related articles, one featuring Apache leaders Geronimo and Cochise, and the other chronicling some of the Tombstone adventures of Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Luke Short, among others. As always, we also have a great lineup of western short fiction for your reading enjoyment. W. Michael Farmer takes you on an emotional journey when a modern-day border vigilante must listen to his heart instead of his head. Gary Rodgers offers a town marshal trying to keep the

Young Dragons publisher Amy Cowan (left) and author/illustrator Timothy Lange (right) accept the Will Rogers Medallion Silver Medal for the Children’s Book Galaxy: The Best Friend A Cowboy Ever Had.

lid on a feud between ranchers amid hostile Apache jumping the reservation. Scott M. Brents offers up a modern-day Western when a man with a metal detec-

tor hobby finds himself suddenly immersed in a gangland-style slaying, Benjamin Henry Bailey brings us a unique look at the famous gunfight at the O.K. Corral, and James A. Tweedie’s colorful stagecoach driver tells the story of the botched robbery he somehow managed to live through. Rounding out the roster this time is Will Rogers Medallion winner Anthony Wood with “Judged and Found Lacking,” the second installment in the Story of Rainy Mills he began with “Blood of My Birth” in our last issue. So, as usual, pull up a log, sit yourself down and pour yourself a cup of coffee from the camp pot, because you’re in for some great Western reading, courtesy of Saddlebag Dispatches, the Award-Winning Home of All Things Western. Until next time!

Dennis Doty

THE PUNNY EXPRESS

George “Clay” Mitchell & Victoria Marble

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WILD WOMEN Chris Enss

ADVERTISING MANAGER

Sarah Herring Soren An Attorney and Teacher on the Frontier.

mong the many short news articles included in the October 5, 1886, edition of the Daily Tombstone was the announcement of a new teacher to the well-known Arizona town. Miss Sarah Herring, her four siblings, and mother, Mary, arrived in Tombstone in 1882 to join her father, mine owner and lawyer Colonel William Herring. Born on January 15, 1861, in New York, Sarah acquired her father’s desire to teach. The colonel was employed as a public schoolteacher for many years prior to moving his family west. She believed teaching children reading, writing, and arithmetic was crucial to providing stability and opportunity to their lives and by extension bringing respectability to wild frontier communities. A year prior to Sarah riding into Tombstone, the boomtown witnessed its most notorious event, the shootout near the O.K. Corral. She was convinced Tombstone’s rough and rugged reputation would improve by educating the youngsters who lived there. Sarah was among several aspiring teachers summoned by the Board of School Examiners in December 1885 to take a test to determine their qualifications. She was one of four teachers that

Sarah Herring became a schoolteacher in Tombstone, Arizona, in 1882.

day who obtained a territorial certificate necessary to work at the school. Sarah began her career at the Tombstone school teaching first grade. The February 21, 1886, edition of the Tombstone Daily Epitaph included a note about her accomplishment. “Miss Herring is an excellent teacher, who has been tried in this city, and in her selection the Board of Trustees have acted wisely, and their appointment will be approved by every parent in this city.”

The Tombstone school board provided Sarah with the books she was to use in her classroom. Among the limited materials supplied were Appletons’ School Readers, the Elementary Spelling Book by Noah Webster, and Ray’s New Primary Arithmetic. Tombstone residents were urged to financially support the local school so educators could purchase additional books for students and upgrades could be made on the school building itself. Sarah wasn’t shy about sharing with residents how crucial it was to fund such efforts, but not everyone agreed. Articles in the Tombstone Epitaph focused on residents against the venture. One letter to the editor of the paper on the matter outraged not only the teachers and the Board of School Trustees but students, as well. I have read an article in the Tombstone Epitaph of January 19th a letter to the paper which reads “We are called upon to vote a special tax of $8,000 to beautify our schoolhouse in the Tombstone school district and for the young ones who care nothing for it,” a schoolgirl wrote the editor of the Epitaph on February 22, 1886. “Why expend money upon such a lot of thoughtless monkeys?” The author went on to ask why there was a necessity of building fences, etc., that the children do not live or feed on lumber and ends by insulting our teachers. Now what is his meaning? He pretends to be opposed to the tax in question. Yet he seeks to criticize us children and our teacher in

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the manner above stated. As a school child, and I presume one of the children the writer pleases to call a monkey, I desire to show the public the aims and objects of the writer. First, if the school tax is carried, the writer perchance has a wife or a friend who is looking for a school. Second, the writer is of the opinion that by calling us school children monkeys our parents will flock to the polls and vote for the tax to benefit that unscrupulous person. Now, Mr. Editor, if the writer wishes to compare his own child to a monkey, why, I have no objection, but he should have included himself with his child. Mr. Editor, I am but a school child and cannot do this subject justice. I will rely upon you to unmask the person above referred to. Now you can see the anxiety of that person. He may feed his child on lumber, if he so wishes, or I would suggest that shaving would be more appropriate for himself. I am, sir, respectfully yours, A School Girl The special tax was ultimately approved, and notorious lawman John Behan, Sheriff of Cochise County, was made the collector of the tax. Conditions at the Tombstone Public School improved because of the renovation to the building and the purchase of new textbooks. Sarah used those books, one of which was the Aldine

Grammar Guide, to help her class learn to write proper sentences. By 1889, Sarah had been moved from teaching first grade to second grade. Her class consisted of fifteen students. In addition to teaching, she also served as the school’s principal for a short time. She helped organize teacher conferences and gave lectures on the methods for instructing children in understanding fractions and punctuation. Outside the school, Sarah was involved in civic clubs, such as the Dairymaids, and was a member of

dentist gave him a hypodermic shot of cocaine to anesthetize him for the procedure. Howard immediately went into convulsions and, in less than an hour, died. Sarah submitted a letter to the school announcing her intention to vacate her job on Friday, November 20, 1891. “Miss Sarah Herring, who has taught so long and satisfactorily in the Tombstone public school, has sent in her resignation, which was reluctantly accepted by the trustees,” a report in the November 29, 1891, edition of the

A WOMAN OF STRONG CHARACTER, SHE WAS INTERESTED IN THINGS WORTHWHILE AND GAVE FREELY OF HER TIME TO USEFUL PURPOSES...

the Tombstone Baptist Church choir. She also helped found an organization to stop the cruelty to animals and assisted in establishing the town library. If not for the sudden tragedy that struck Sarah and her family in October 1891, she might have been content to remain an educator for the rest of her life. The death of her older brother, Howard, prompted her to leave the profession and pursue a different line of work. Howard was a well-respected attorney in Cochise County, Arizona, with a thriving practice he shared with his father. On October 8, 1891, he went to see a dentist about some work he was having done. The

THE ARIZONA REPUBLIC October 20, 1985

Tombstone Weekly Epitaph read. “Miss Herring will assist her father, Colonel Wm. Herring in his office. In the loss of Miss Herring’s services, the public have cause for regret. Her scholars lose a friend and an instructor which time or circumstances will not efface from their memories.” Sarah studied law under her father’s tutelage and, after a year working as Colonel Herring’s assistant, chose to take the strenuous test to become a lawyer. The challenging oral examinination was held in open court in early December 1892. “Miss Herring answered all questions propounded in an intelligent manner and was warmly congratulated

Everybody has a Story, Big Nose Kate has a Legend.

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Enjoy a brave and adventurous blend of Big Nose Kate Whiskey today, now served at Big Nose Kate’s Saloon, Tombstone, Arizona, as well as other fine establishments across the Country. Read about her life and times in According to Kate: The Legendary Life of Big Nose Kate, Love of Doc Holliday. Available at bookstores everywhere.

VIP Special Event! March 2024. Plan To Attend! Mosey into Tomstone’s Big Nose Kate’s Saloon and don’t miss New York Times Best-Selling Author Chris Enss as she talks about her bestselling book, According to Kate, while you savor the brave and adventurous blend of Big Nose Kate Whiskey! BigNoseKateWhiskey.com @BigNoseKateWhiskey

ChrisEnss.com gvcenss@aol.com

BigNoseKatesTombstone.com

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of cases including representing honor as a lawyer and pedagogue by the members of the bar and a individuals accused of cutting of recognized ability, possesses large number of prominent cititimber on surveyed government many virtues of worth; her exzens who were present,” the Deland and petitioning the court to tremely agreeable nature, supecember 8, 1892, edition of the Los compel the Board of Supervisors rior mind, and amiable character Angeles Times reported. “A brilof Cochise County to consider a endearing her to all, and winning liant career as an attorney awaits bid for a new newspaper to begin for her favor and prestige. Mr. Miss Herring whose many unexprinting in town. Sarah’s clients Sorin is a gentleman well known celled qualities will crown her efregarded her as “keen, shrewd in mining circles throughout the forts with success.” and quick, and thoroughly comterritory. He is popular among Having officially passed the his large circle of friends because petent to handle the defense of bar, Sarah became the first feof his sterling qualities, intellecbig cases alone.” male attorney in Arizona. She then returned to Tombstone for a nine-month period to work alongside her father. The first case of Sarah’s career as an attorney was before the probate judge in the case of Walsh vs. Haberhn in which a will was sought to be broken. A decision was given in her favor, and the case was appealed to the district court by Allen English, attorney for After attending New York University Law School, Sarah returned to Tombstone in 1894 and became a successful attorney, eventually becoming only the twenty-fifth woman to argue a case in front of the U.S. Supreme Court. Walsh. The judge upheld the ruling of the tual acquirements, and with a Between trying cases, Sarah lower court and found in favor of character and reputation that is met and began courting Thomas the prospector in the case Sarah at once appreciated.” Sorin. Thomas was from Tombrepresented. According to the July 20, stone, was a mining expert and In September 1893, Sarah 1898, edition of Tucson Citithe Arizona commissioner at traveled to the East Coast to atzen, the Sorins planned to make the World’s Fair. The two were tend the New York University Law their home in Tombstone where married on July 24, 1898, at the School. Her father accompanied Thomas, cofounder of the TombCongregational Church in Tucher as far as Benson, Arizona, and stone Epitaph, managed mining son. “The couple are well and faat that point she was on her own. interest in the Dragoon Mounvorably known in Cochise County Sarah completed her course work tains, and Sarah maintained her which has been their home for at the university in May 1894, law practice. The pair did spend years and are held in the highest finishing in the top ten of a class a brief time of their marriage in regard and esteem,” the July 24, of one hundred. She returned to Tombstone but eventually relo1898, edition of the Tombstone Tombstone on June 17, 1894. cated to Tucson where Sarah and Weekly Epitaph noted. “Miss During her time practicing her father joined forces at the Herring, besides attaining profeslaw from the summer of 1894 to firm of Herring and Sorin. 1898, Sarah handled a variety sional prominence and deserved

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On April 16, 1906, Colonel Herring made a motion for admission of his daughter to practice before the United States Supreme Court. The unusual scene of a father making such a motion made the front page of many prominent Arizona newspapers. The motion unanimously passed, making Sarah the twenty-fifth woman admitted to practice in the court. During her career, she argued four cases in front of the United States Supreme Court. Between 1906 and 1912, Sarah and her father worked diligently representing individuals and corporations throughout Arizona. The law firm of Herring and Sorin was highly respected. In addition to practicing law, both Colonel Herring and Sarah gave lectures at various schools and churches about their work. When Sarah’s father passed away at the age of seventy-nine on July 10, 1912, she assumed full responsibility for the firm. Shortly after Colonel Herring’s death, the Sorins moved to Globe, where Sarah became the chief council for the Old Dominion Copper Company and took on a controversial case involving the United Globe Mines. In the fall of 1913, an itinerant prospector named James H. Work hired an attorney to file suit against the mining corporation claiming he owned two of the mines the company was prospecting. The case was heard by the United States Supreme Court on November 6, 1913. The matter of James H. Work vs. United Globe Mines made headlines not only because of the nature of the case, but because of the rare occurrence of a female attorney appearing as the

sole representative of a major corporation. “The country was given something new to talk about the other day, and it was a Tucson woman who furnished the topic,” the November 16, 1913, edition of the Arizona Daily Star reported. “This widely-heralded incident was when Mrs. Sarah Herring Sorin, formerly an attorney of this city, appeared alone and unafraid before the Supreme Court of the United States to argue a case. “Women have appeared before the highest tribunal in the land before, but they have appeared only associate counsel and hardly ever have been given a chance by their vain male associates to say, ‘If the court pleases,’ and all that sort of stuff. They have usually been content to look wise and charming. “With Mrs. Sorin, however, it was different, and that’s what all the talk is about. Mrs. Sorin appeared before the court in the interest of clients and argued her case alone. But that’s not the best of it. She won. “Mrs. Sorin also disproved that women and logic are strangers, or at least she proved that she and logic are intimate acquaintances. Several times in her argument she was interrogated by Mr. Justice Pitney about certain points in the case. Did Mrs. Sorin answer ‘Because?’ She did not. She explained them lucidly and to the entire satisfaction of the high court.” The Supreme Court officially announced the decision in favor of Sarah’s client on January 4, 1914. Four months after the decision was rendered, Sarah became ill and died of bronchial pneumonia. The May 8, 1914, edition of the Copper

Era and Morenci Leader reported that she had taken ill on Friday, April 24, but that her condition was not considered critical until four days later. At that point she was taken from her home to the local hospital. She was fifty-three when she passed away on April 30, in Globe, Arizona. Her funeral was held on May 3, and she was laid to rest at Evergreen Memorial Park in Tucson, Arizona. “Mrs. Sorin, although she had invaded a field thought peculiarly to belong to the masculine sex, was universally liked by the attorneys on account of her dignity and tact,” an article in the Arizona Daily Star from May 1, 1914, read. “She was wholly wrapped up in the study of her profession and was in no sense of the word a society or club woman. She was a steadfast opponent of women’s suffrage, curiously enough, and appeared to look at her activity as a woman lawyer as something entirely different from the participation of women lawmaking and elections. Sarah was universally respected and admired for her common sense and intellectual gifts, and, in her death, many remembered her as a brilliant woman who gave up her promising career as a teacher to aid in the running of her father’s law firm. . 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 books 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, and the Laura Downing Journalism Award.

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O DISC VER

VICTORIAN DINING

and lore in the cosmopolitan silver boom town of Tombstone THE TOMBSTONE COOKBOOK

Recipes and Lore from the Town Too Tough to Die By Sherry Monahan

9781493053865 | Paperback February 2022 | $21.95

Tombstone was one of the last great boomtowns of the Old West—a small city that grew up overnight and has a larger-than-life presence in the mythology of the frontier. In its heyday it was full of saloons, dance halls, and fancy eateries, a cosmopolitan oasis in territorial Arizona. The Tombstone Cookbook is packed with more than 120 recipes inspired by Tombstone’s historic eateries and adapted for the modern home cook. Readers will also enjoy learning more about the region’s history and lore through sidebars and historic photos.

Visit www.sherrymonahan.com to learn more about the author, her past and upcoming books, and more!

Order yours today from your local bookstore, amazon.com, or barnesandnoble.com.

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A Sidewinding Twister

THE BOOK WAGON Doug Osgood BOOK REVIEWER

Cochise County Barnburners We Ain’t Pullin No Punches When it Comes to Tombstone. The Master at Work Brendan Early and Dana Moon had been friends since Moon scouted for Lieutenant Early’s 10th Cavalry. Together, they chased the Apache all over southeastern Arizona Territory and into Mexico. Now, Moon is employed by the government as an agent at an Apache sub-agency situated in the Rincon Mountains. Early has been paid a princely sum upfront to work for the LaSalle Mining Company—the same company conspiring with the government to steal the Apache land, believing it to be rich in copper. Journalists swarm the town to egg on the coming brouhaha—because the Apache, led by Moon, aren’t leaving without a fight. Written in Elmore Leonard’s characteristic combination of sentence fragments, dialogue summaries, and fast reading prose, Gunsights (William Morrow,

1979) keeps the reader on the edge of their seat. A master storyteller from the pulp era, Leonard mixes the drama of relationships, plenty of western action, and rising suspense to create a tension that builds through the entire story. He employs early flashbacks with point-of-view switches, mostly between Early and Moon, to set the stage. Later, as tensions rise, he utilizes other characters, including occasional jumps to the gathered journalist pool, if only to remind the reader of just what exactly’s at stake for everyone. Ever the storyteller, Leonard executes some nifty sleight-of-hand to surprise the reader as the events reach their climactic ending. As with most of Leonard’s stories, Gunsights is a fun, easy read. The plot runs as straight as a wagon train with all the action driving to the end—where the reader finds the toy surprise. This is a Cracker Jack of a story worth reading multiple times.

Kate London’s gunshot husband struggled over hundreds of miles to reach her only to die in her arms—but not before telling her about the treasure of gold he’d found and where it was cached. She couldn’t retrieve the treasure by herself, but who could a woman alone trust to help? Frank Sanderson was a down-on-his-luck former lawman who’d hooked up with a couple of rough men looking for work and unconcerned about on which side of the law they found it. When Kate hired Frank and his companions to escort her into the Rincon Mountains to find the cached gold, she failed to tell them one thing—other men wanted the gold, too and would do anything to get it. In The Moonlighters (Avon Books, 1968), Ray Hogan infuses Kate with measures of both love and greed in a manner that exposes her humanity and tugs at the reader to sympathize with her, even if not all her decisions have been approval worthy. The Moonlighters has plenty of action

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to satisfy the western lover, but the gun fights never take over the story or relieve the carefully crafted tension. Hogan’s effective use of backstory leads to revelations and twists which create additional tension as the story builds to the final surprising but inevitable ending. With characters rich in humanity and more twists than a sidewinder slithering across the desert, Hogan proves he can tell a story and keep the reader engaged in the characters from page one. This one is worth savoring like a glass of fine rye.

trail into Mexico and back into the Arizona Territory through some of the most hostile, inhospitable terrain of the American Southwest. Hardships, desertions, and bad luck followed the expedition. At one point Wood was bitten by a tarantula, a misfortune that nearly cost him his life. He recovered, much to the

Stringy and Dry In 1886, Leonard Wood, a recently commissioned army physician stationed at Fort Huachuca in Cochise County, Arizona Territory, was assigned to accompany Captain Henry Lawton’s expedition to capture Geronimo. Chasing Geronimo: The Journal of Leonard Wood, May-September 1886 (Bison Books, 2009) tells that story. The expedition followed Geronimo’s

relief of Lawton, who had come to rely heavily on Wood as a regular officer. On July 13th, it seemed they had Geronimo and his band of followers trapped, only for the Apache to escape.

Wood’s journal offers a regular—though not daily—examination of not only the events of the expedition, but also a first-hand account of the rigors of traveling through some of the roughest, driest country in North America. In addition, the editor’s footnotes provide tidbits of interesting facts and biographies of individuals who pop up in Wood’s account. Some prove to be scoundrels, playing both sides against the other. Wood’s insights into these individuals, oblivious as he is regarding their duplicity, provide interesting reading in places. The journal of Leonard Wood is more of a factual presentation than an outpouring of deep thoughts or emotions. It isn’t without merit for those interested in the execution and logistics of extended military campaigns, the history of the Apache wars, or General Leonard Wood himself, but for everyone else, this one’s tough as a stringy jackrabbit and drier than a desert drought. Doug Osgood

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MARLEEN

BUSSMA

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Bad Blood &

Bullets

A snarl of rocky chaos, granite spires, and tall sheer cliffs look down on shaggy grassland where a kangaroo rat sniffs the pungent smoke from campfires of Cochise and his bold band. They torment stymied cavalry to live on tribal land. Seductive copper, gold, and silver lure men to the slopes. One prospector is told he will get nothing for his hopes, except discovery of his tombstone as he seeks a claim. A mother lode will give his mine and nearby town this name. Saloons are fancy, strumpets brazen, while the money flows. Bad blood between the residents of Cochise County grows. Large numbers of the rural folk resent the influence of townspeople and business owners. Grievances are tense. Confederate sympathizers clash with those from northern states. Fierce friction of their cultures grows. A reckoning awaits. Bold cattle rustlers thieve at will supplying local beef. The outlaws, labeled Cowboys, give the honest cowmen grief. The Cowboys move like weather out across the open land with no regard for county lines, state borders, or a brand. They raid across the U.S. border into Mexico. Resentful international claims of rustling start to grow. McLaurys and the Clantons face down Earps and Holliday in Cochise County’s infamous corral-encountered fray. This killing doesn’t stop the hatred built up over time. John Slaughter brings the peace as sheriff as he cleans up crime. The flooded mines are quiet. The San Pedro River flows. A fabled history walks the streets of Tombstone where it shows a city that’s notorious like Boothill where culprits lie. Unlike nefarious outlaws, it’s the town too tough to die.

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MICHAEL NORMAN

A DEATH OF CROWS A SHORT STORY

Winner of the 2023 Inaugural Saddlebag Dispatches Longhorn Prize for Western Short Fiction CHAPTER ONE Lt. Charles Gatewood sat outside under the shaded portico with his boots propped up on a rough, weather-worn wood railing that ran the length of the post’s command building. The spring temperatures were ratcheting higher with each day, reminding him of the unmerciful, furnace-like heat of the impending fighting season. Camp Apache was as remote a posting as any place in central Arizona’s Apache lands. In his present assignment, Gatewood served as the commander of the White Mountain Apache Scouts. It was lonely and dangerous duty, not only because of the camp’s isolated location, but because he lived with eighty-six restless Apache and one half-breed civilian scout and interpreter, Jess Cochrane, a man who had married into the Lipan Apache tribe. His chief of scouts, Sergeant Alchesay, bounded up the command building steps, “Bay-chen-daysen, riders come.” Bay-chen-daysen, or long nose, was a name affectionately given to Gatewood by the Apache as a sign of their trust and respect. “Who are they and how far out?” asked Gatewood. “The rancher, Singleton, and one other, meebe two miles.” “Get Cochrane over here. Singleton’s surely not droppin’ by on a social call. When they arrive, Sergeant, bring them into the office,” said Gatewood, as he stood and headed inside. Clay Singleton ran one of central Arizona’s larg-

est cattle operations. He was stubborn, cantankerous but well-respected by military and civilian leaders alike. And he hated Apache with a vengeance. He and Gatewood had clashed in the past over what Singleton believed was the lieutenant’s lenient treatment of his Apache charges. In turn, Gatewood viewed Singleton, and others like him, as men who refused to consider Apache human beings and who believed the extermination of all Apache should be the proper course of government policy. Gatewood didn’t know the purpose of today’s visit but figured it had to involve complaints about something. Gatewood and Cochrane stood as Singleton and his ranch foreman, Buck Grimes, entered the office. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged, before the four men turned to business. An annoyed-looking Singleton wasted no time. “This morning one of my men was out doin’ a cattle count when he came across two recently butchered steers. This isn’t the first such incident, and I’m here to tell you it’s gotta stop and stop now. If you won’t do something about it, I will.” “I’m not sure exactly what you have in mind, Mister Singleton, but I must warn you not to take any hostile action against the Apache. That, sir, is Army business. Now, show me on the map where the butchered cattle are located.” Gatewood stood and turned to a large, wall-mounted map of the Arizona Territory which

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included the boundary of the White Mountain Apache Reservation. “Buck, show the lieutenant where we found the carcasses,” said Singleton. Grimes studied the map momentarily and then pointed to a spot that appeared to be on reservation land. “I’d say about here.” “Thanks,” said Gatewood, shaking his head as he returned to his chair. “I must say, Mister Singleton, you and I have had this conversation before. You continue to graze your cattle on reservation land, and the Apache don’t like it. Now, I’ve been thinking about it, and I have an idea that might help resolve the problem. I’m willing to approach the Apache leaders and ask if they would grant permission for you to graze your cattle on reservation land in exchange for some kind of compensation, be it direct payment, or if that’s unacceptable, payment in beeves they can use to supplement the paltry food allotment the government provides. There’d be advantages for both sides.” Singleton frowned. “Let me make myself perfectly clear, Lieutenant. I believe that if you were doing your job properly, this problem wouldn’t exist. Why aren’t you doing more to protect settlers and ranchers like me? I believe your well-known, overly sympathetic view of the savages interferes with your ability to carry out your duties.” “Mister Singleton, my views of the Apache people have never interfered with our efforts to protect white settlers, be they poor homesteaders or wealthy ranchers like yourself. We do have our limits. We do the best we can with the limited resources at our disposal. Now, what about my offer to mediate with the Apache chiefs for grazing rights?” Singleton shook his head. “I wouldn’t spend a plug nickel to save the life of any Apache, and I have no desire to negotiate any form of compensation for the use of land that rightfully should belong to white men working to help civilize this wild country. To me, the only good Apache, and I mean man, woman, or child, is a dead Apache. Just know I intend to take up my concerns directly with your superiors including General Crook.” “Well, I think you’ve made your position perfectly clear, Mister Singleton.” Turning to Jess Cochrane, Gatewood said, “Mister Cochrane, grab a couple of the boys, ride out, and have a look at the site Mister Singleton described, then report back to me.” Glancing at Singleton, Gatewood said, “We’ll

be in touch when our investigation is complete. Remember what I said about not taking any action against the Apache, or you’ll force me to take action you’re not going to like. Unless you got something else, I believe we’re done here.” With that, Gatewood abruptly stood and walked out of the office. On the ride back to the Diamond S ranch, Clay Singleton and his foreman hatched a new plan. Singleton ordered Grimes to move a small herd of cattle onto reservation land. “Then Buck, bring out a couple of the boys to keep watch over the herd. Tell ’em to kill on sight anybody trying to steal or butcher our cattle.” “Okay, Boss. If it’s all right with you, I’ll assign Griffin to the job. He ain’t worth much working cattle, but the old buffalo hunter is still hell-on-wheels with that .50 caliber Sharps of his.” “More than one way to skin a cat,” said Singleton, a broad smile decorating his weathered, pockmarked face. Later that afternoon, Cochrane and the Apache scouts returned from the site where the cattle had been butchered and immediately reported to Gatewood. “What’d you find out, Jess?” “Pretty much what Singleton and his foreman told us. Two head of cattle killed and butchered— lota good meat left on them steers. Two sets of unshod pony tracks leading away from the site and straight back to the village. We lost ’em as we neared the main village—too many tracks headed in every which direction.” “No suspects?” asked Gatewood. “Alchesay thinks it looks like it might be the work of a couple of youngsters. Older warriors would have stripped those cattle to the bone.” Gatewood sighed. “Let’s contact our informers in the villages and see what they can find out. Maybe they can identify those responsible.” “Already done. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything,” said Cochrane.

CHAPTER TWO One week later, as full dark approached, two Apache boys sat on their ponies on a hill overlooking a scrub oak meadow watching a small heard of grazing cattle. Dutchy and Big Belly had been warned by their elders not to kill any more cattle after having butchered two head the prior week.

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Hunger was a constant on the Arizona reservation, and the boys believed their recent behavior served to elevate their status among the People. At ages thirteen and fourteen respectively, the boys stood on the cusp of becoming warriors, and providing fresh meat for hungry reservation families was appreciated by everyone. After watching and listening for several minutes, the boys slowly rode down to the edge of the herd, careful not to spook the animals. They dismounted, walked quietly among the herd until they had spotted two small yearlings, perfect for the kill. As they readied their bows, suddenly, several quail burst into the air from a small stand of cottonwoods some thirty yards away. Both boys stopped and dropped to one knee, glancing nervously at each other and then to the trees, before mistakenly concluding that whatever had scared the birds did not represent a threat to them. In the next instant, a flash followed by a thunderous boom destroyed the dusky quiet and sent the frightened cattle stampeding in every direction. At the same time, a bullet tore through the face of Dutchy, blowing away most of the back of his head. Big Belly glanced at his friend and knew there was nothing to be done for him. The boy dropped his bow and ran for his horse, jumping on the blue dun from behind and running for home. The dust cloud and the stampeding cattle may have saved the boy’s life as the sound of thunderous rifle fire echoed through the night sky. Big Belly felt a burning pain strike his upper right arm as a bullet tore through tissue and muscle almost dislodging the boy from his pony. Big Belly reached the village alive but had lost a lot of blood. Within minutes, a dozen armed, horseback-mounted Apache were on their way to the scene of the shooting. They found the body of Dutchy exactly where he had fallen and his grazing horse a short distance away. Several of the Indians scattered and began looking for sign. In a nearby grove of cottonwoods, one of the Apache discovered the tracks of two shod horses and several spent cartridges lying on the ground. The ambush of the boys had occurred from this spot. Tracks of the shod ponies showed they had driven a small number of cattle south from the reservation back onto land belonging to the white-eye rancher, Singleton, before the tracks broke off and headed east. On a moonless night, total darkness prevent-

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ed the warriors from tracking the two killers. They would be hunted down at first light and made to suffer Apache-style retribution.

The next morning just before dawn, Gatewood, a light sleeper by habit and necessity, awakened to the sound of a quiet footfall in the narrow hallway of the squat adobe building that served as officer sleep quarters. He reached for the Dragoon pistol resting at his side and waited. The door opened a crack and a voice said, “Tente, do not shoot.” Gatewood watched as Apache scout, Sergeant Alchesay, entered the room, accompanied by Tomas, an Apache who sometimes provided information to Gatewood about activities on the reservation. “Tomas, it is good to see you, my friend. How is your family?” “Hola, Bay-chen-daysen, muy bien, gracias,” replied Tomas. “What information do you bring?” “Big trouble—two young boys try butcher cattle belonging to white-eye rancher. One boy shot dead, other wounded. Boys ambushed by whiteeyes guarding herd.” Sergeant Alchesay added, “Dutchy, boy killed, was grandson of Chief Nana. War party leave reservation before dawn. Nana lead.” “Damn,” said Gates, “that’s gonna be trouble. How many went with him?” “Fifteen, maybe few more,” said Tomas. “Sergeant, roust Cochrane and muster Company A of the scouts,” said Gatewood. “Five days’ food rations and extra munitions for each man.” Alchesay nodded and hurried from the room. Twenty minutes later Cochrane, Gatewood, and twenty-two Apache scouts departed the fort. When the patrol reached the ambush site, they discovered the fresh tracks of two shod horses pushing a small herd of cattle south off reservation land until the tracks of the suspected killers turned abruptly eastward away from the herd and the Singleton ranch. At least a dozen unshod Apache mustangs were in close pursuit of the two riders. When the trailing hostiles realized the two whites’ they hunted had deserted the cattle, they broke into two groups, sending a half-dozen fighters after the gringos, while the larger force continued in the direction of the Singleton Ranch.

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Gatewood called a brief halt to rest the horses while he conferred with Cochrane and Alchesay. “Mister Cochrane,” said Gatewood, “think these two cowboys have any idea just how much trouble they’re in?” “Damn fools if they don’t,” said Cochrane. “Anyone have an idea how many hands work for old man Singleton?” “It’d be a guess, Lieutenant, but I’d say somewheres around a dozen, maybe a few more. It’s a large spread.” “I wonder if he realizes he’s really kicked the hornet’s nest this time?” said Gatewood. “Hard to say, but I’d bet old man Singleton set the whole thing up, so he damn sure ought to be expectin’ trouble.” “You’d think,” replied Gatewood, “yet, from the trail, it looks like the bushwhackers are riding away from ranch headquarters.” “Mebbe them frightened and try run away,” said Sergeant Alchesay. “Possibly, or maybe Singleton ordered them to go into hiding someplace away from the ranch till

things quiet down a bit,” said Gatewood. “What we know is that Nana has split the war party, with the larger force headed toward the Singleton Ranch and the smaller one going after the two cowhands. I’d like to know whether Nana intends to attack the Singleton Ranch.” The scouts’ consensus was the larger group of hostiles wanted the pursuing cavalry to believe they intended to attack the Singleton ranch in an attempt to draw the column into chasing them, when, in reality, they never intended a frontal attack against ranch headquarters. “A delaying tactic then, Mister Cochrane?” “Think so, Lieutenant. The Apache pick their targets mighty careful and won’t usually attack a well-fortified target straight on. They just can’t afford to lose men. Alchesay says that we’ll find Nana leading the smaller war party in pursuit of the killers of his grandson.” “All right,” said Gatewood. “Jess, pick two men and head over to the Singleton ranch and warn them.” “And if the ranch is already under attack?” asked Cochrane.

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“Once you’ve located the Apache, send a runner back to me on the double. Then do whatever you can to assist Singleton. In the meantime, I’ll continue in pursuit of Nana and the bunch chasin’ Singleton’s boys.”

Gatewood led the column forward cautiously throughout the day placing scouts out front, to the sides, and the column’s rear. Soon after departure, he noticed that Alchesay had separated from the column, riding ahead, probably searching for sign. The troop moved ahead through rolling terrain covered by scattered stands of scrub oak, pinyon pine, and juniper. Granite and sandstone rock formations etched in colors of orange, yellow, and gray frequently towered over both sides of the narrow trail, providing many opportunities for ambush. Gusty winds blew intermittently throughout the afternoon raising dust and alkali particles, reducing visibility and sound. Carbines were held at the ready, and each man continually scanned the rocky outcrops for any sign of the hostiles. Gatewood knew that Apache liked surprise attacks against outnumbered foes, and, while they were skilled horsemen, they often preferred fighting on foot. Late in the afternoon a forward scout, Santo, raced back to Gatewood with news. By then Gatewood had spotted several circling crows likely hovering above the dead or dying. A short distance farther, a thin column of smoke became visible, rising lazily into a cloudless blue sky to the southwest. “Apache find white-eyes. They just ahead,” reported Santo.

CHAPTER THREE Gatewood motioned to Santo. “Lead the way.” A couple of hundred yards farther on came the acrid smell recognizable to all men who hunted Apache—the sweet stench of burning human flesh. The odor grew stronger until the patrol ascended a low hill and emerged on to a mesa. There stood the burned-out remains of a small line shack smoldering in the early evening sun, the structure reduced to simmering ashes. Clearly, this had been a line shack used by wranglers employed on the Singleton ranch. Equally disturbing was a set of new unshod pony tracks that had come from the north, apparently

joining the half-dozen hostiles pursued by Gatewood’s column. “How many?” Gatewood asked Santo. “Twelve, maybe few more,” replied Santo. That meant the group of hostiles they would now pursue was larger than the one headed directly toward the Singleton ranch. Gatewood ordered Santo to follow the Apache and report back on their movement and direction of travel. A short distance from the line shack sat a small privy. An old wagon wheel had been attached to it, and the body of one of the cowboys was hung upside down from it. A fire had been lit under the man’s head, and it had burned his shoulders, face, and neck, until he was unrecognizable. It would have been a slow, painful death. The second wrangler had been tied facing the afternoon sun to a lone pinyon tree and bound around his ankles and wrists by rawhide straps. His tongue had been cut out and his eyelids removed, allowing the hot sun to do its torturous work. After the hostiles grew tired of this game, they used the man for target practice with over a dozen arrows scattered across his legs and torso. Both men had been made to suffer what the Apache would have considered appropriate retribution for the ambush of young Dutchy. “Private Messai, take two men and cover these boys with rocks—no time for a proper burial. We need to move.” An hour later, Santo returned from his scout and reported the hostiles were indeed traveling quickly in the direction of the Singleton ranch. Damn, thought Gatewood. Maybe we were wrong about the willingness of the hostiles to attack the ranch. The combined Apache force now stood somewhere around thirty fighters, enough for old Nana to at least consider an attack. But would he try it? Gatewood was uncertain, and it didn’t help that he hadn’t received a report from Cochrane regarding what was happening at Singleton’s place. Again, Gatewood moved the column forward toward the Singleton ranch, ever conscious of the danger of ambush while pushing into the growing darkness. He intended to cover as much ground as possible until the rapidly receding sun dipped below the black mountains. As the landscape turned from sunlight to shadowy gray and the sky turned to hues of pink and pale orange, Cochrane and the scouts finally returned from the Singleton ranch accom-

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panied by Sergeant Alchesay. Gatewood halted the command and ordered a short rest for horses and men. He huddled with scouts Alchesay, Santo, and Cochrane. Experience had taught him to listen carefully to his Apache scouts as their information was often accurate. “What’s the current situation at the Singleton ranch?” asked Gatewood, “The Apache managed to light a barn on fire and run off a few head of horses, but that was about it,” said Cochrane. “The wranglers managed to get the fire under control quickly, and that limited the amount of damage.” “Good. No need for us to push on in the dark trying to reach Singleton. The question is what does Nana plan to do next?” said Gatewood. “My guess is the cagy old bastard will make a run for the border, cross into Sonora, and vanish into the Madres.” Cochrane nodded his agreement with that sentiment. Alchesay and Santo conferred briefly using a mix of Apache, Spanish, and broken English before Alchesay turned to Gatewood. Pointing to a dark canyon a couple of miles in the distance, he said, “Baychen-daysen, Nana waits for you there.” Gatewood knew this canyon well. It was deep, narrow, with high rocky walls and many places to hide—perfect for an ambush. “How do you know that?” asked Gatewood. “Me find Nana. One group wait for you in canyon. Others hide where you enter. Kill all who go in canyon.” “So, Nana has split his forces,” said Gatewood. “One group will be hidden above us along the sides of the canyon wall while the other one waits for us to enter the canyon and then closes the door behind us. Clever. Very clever. All right, here’s what we’re gonna do. Sergeant Alchesay, I want you to pick your best three shooters and slip into the canyon while it’s still dark and prepare to strike the hostiles waiting for us there. I will lead the troop into the canyon, and once the shooting starts, it will be our job to attack the Apache who follow us in. I’m counting on you, Sergeant, to raise hell with the hostiles already there. Are we clear?” “Mister Gatewood,” said Cochrane, “I’d like to be one of the four who goes in with Alchesay. “Permission granted, Mister Cochrane. To help give you an advantage, I want you to go back to the pack mules where you’ll find four new Winchester

Model 73 repeating rifles. The new model includes a magazine that holds fifteen .44 caliber cartridges. Let’s use ’em to give old Nana hell, boys.” The rapid-firing Winchesters should provide a clear advantage to the mostly single-shot Apache rifles, thought Gatewood. While he would like to have added several additional scouts to the advance party, Gatewood knew that Nana would have dispatched his own men to surveil the approximate size of the column. Troop totals that didn’t match the Apache head count would have drawn immediate suspicion and might have led the Apache to abandon the ambush altogether and run for the border. For the plan to work, the four scouts must enter the canyon in darkness and not be spotted by the waiting hostiles. Just ahead of dawn, Gatewood would march the remaining column into the canyon and allow the Apache coming in behind them to close the door. If everything worked according to plan, old Nana would be in for a very nasty surprise. And, if it didn’t, well….

Cochrane, Alchesay, and two additional scouts waited until midnight before leaving on foot. Gatewood wanted to give them plenty of time to reach the canyon and locate the most advantageous firing positions before he moved the remaining column into the canyon. If the advanced scouts were discovered, the column would hear the shooting and know their plan had failed. An hour before daylight, Gatewood led the column forward toward the canyon’s mouth, everyone on edge, nervously watching for any sound or movement that seemed out of place. As they neared the canyon entrance, Gatewood stopped and listened. The only sounds he heard were the bark of the crickets and the occasional blow from one of the horses. Everything stood deathly quiet. Despite the cool early morning temperature, Gatewood felt sweat forming in his armpits and dripping down his sides. He knew that the hostiles were watching them as they entered the canyon. About halfway in, the serene calm of the predawn morning was shattered by an explosion of gunfire just in front of the column. Shots rained down from everywhere, and initially, Gatewood was unable to determine which shots were coming from his scouts and how

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many from the hostiles. His scouts dismounted and took up firing positions at the base of the canyon walls. Gatewood ordered three additional men to reinforce the original team of four who were already laying down a brutal field of fire on the hostiles who appeared surprised and confused by the sudden turn. Gatewood and his remaining scouts faced their rear ready to confront the expected horseback charge of the remaining hostiles. A minute later, they came side-by-side, whooping and hollering, expecting to find a decimated and confused group of U.S. soldiers. Instead, they were greeted by a barrage of heavy rifle fire from more than a dozen Apache scouts. Screaming horses were hit and went down, some dead, others dying, while their riders were thrown unceremoniously to the ground. Several were shot down as they scrambled to their feet and raced for cover. The fighting ended as abruptly as it had begun, with a gradual reduction in firing as the retreating Apache made a hurried withdrawal from the canyon. In the aftermath, the bodies of five Apache warriors were discovered, three dead and

two wounded. The body of old Nana was not found among the casualties. Gatewood realized that a true casualty count would never be known as the Apache never left the bodies of dead and wounded unless absolutely necessary. Among his own scouts, Gatewood determined that four were wounded but only one seriously. The wounded were treated in the field as best they could before their return to Fort Apache. Nana’s remaining Apache fighters did what Apache always did—split into small groups and disappeared. Gatewood and his remaining scouts chased the largest Apache group as they ran south toward the Mexican border until they vanished like the wind into Arizona’s harsh, desert landscape. Five days after it had begun, Gatewood led a weary group of Apache scouts back to Fort Apache. As for the rancher, Clay Singleton, he denied any knowledge of the ambush of the two Apache boys and further denied employing either of the two cowboys responsible for the violence. While Singleton faced no legal consequences for the ambush, Gatewood found some satisfaction in re-

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minding the man that Chief Nana would never forgive or forget the murder of his grandson and that the Apache were a patient people who always took the long view when it came to seeking retribution from their enemies.

AUTHOR’S NOTE Why write a 19th century historical fiction story centered on the life of an arguably obscure U.S. cavalry officer, in this instance, Charles Bare Gatewood? It’s a fair question. Here’s the answer. I first became aware of Lieutenant Charles Gatewood after watching the 1993 movie, Geronimo: An American Legend. While the film was entertaining, it contained many historical errors. That aside, I began to wonder whether the character of Charles Gatewood was real or merely Hollywood fiction. Thus began my personal journey into the history of the Apache Wars. Not only did I discover that Charles Gatewood was real, but that he had played an important—if at times, controversial—role during the last decade of the Apache Wars (circa 18781886). In particular, Gatewood was most prominent in the last Apache war, a war historians frequently refer to now as the Geronimo Campaign. Leading a party of six men, Gatewood, while seriously ill, departed Fort Bowie, Arizona, on July 16, 1886. He had been ordered by General Nelson Miles to enter Mexico and locate and convince Geronimo and his small band of followers to sur-

render to Miles on U.S. soil. This was no small feat since Geronimo had eluded some 5,000 U.S. Army soldiers for months, troops that Miles had spread to points all over the American Southwest. When Gatewood finally found Geronimo, several days of tense negotiations ensued in which the Apache vacillated between surrender and fighting to the death. Many historians believed that the trust and respect the Apache people held for Gatewood was ultimately responsible for their decision to surrender. That surrender did not come without conditions, however. Geronimo insisted that Gatewood personally escort his followers out of Mexico into southern Arizona. Further, Geronimo refused to surrender their weapons until safely across the border and in the custody of General Miles. Gatewood later wrote the return trip was tense and often dangerous. He and his prisoners had to avoid contact with the Mexican Army as well as roving detachments of U.S. troops still hunting for Geronimo with orders to kill him on sight. Despite several close encounters, Gatewood successfully delivered Geronimo and his followers to General Miles on September 4, 1886, at Skeleton Canyon in southern Arizona. This action brought about an end to the Apache Wars. Sadly, General Miles took the lion’s share of credit for the capture of Geronimo and took steps to ensure that Gatewood was kept from receiving the credit he deserved for Geronimo’s surrender. Gatewood served the remainder of his military ca-

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reer in obscurity and without promotion. In 1895, Gatewood was nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor, however, the acting Secretary of War denied the request. Gatewood died of cancer a year later at age forty-three, leaving behind a wife and two children. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. After graduating from West Point in 1877, Gatewood became a member of the U.S. 6th Cavalry Regiment and was ordered to Fort Wingate, New Mexico in 1878. He quickly immersed himself in studying the culture, religion, and language of the Apache people. His reputation spread quickly, and within a year, General George Crook transferred him to Fort Apache, Arizona, where he assumed command of the White Mountain Apache scouts. Crook recognized that Gatewood was fast becoming one of the premier Apache men in the U.S. Army. Gatewood’s duties required him to lead his Apache scouts in the field often in pursuit of renegades who had jumped reservation boundaries. Other responsibilities included managing the dayto-day lives of hundreds of Apache confined on the reservation—again no small feat. These duties frequently placed Gatewood in conflict not only with his Apache charges but with ranchers, homesteaders, and local community leaders. Gatewood had little tolerance for corrupt Indian agents and government contractors who became adept at stealing from the reservation Apache. The above story, while a fictional account of a conflict between an influential Arizona rancher and the Apache living on the Fort Apache reservation, typified the kinds of problems that beset Gatewood throughout his career in the American Southwest. While working to grasp the essence of the frontier life of this heroic historical figure, I included the following source material: Lt. Charles Gatewood & His Apache Wars Memoir, by Charles B. Gatewood, Edited by Louis Kraft, 2005, University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln, NE.; Indeh: An Apache Odyssey, by Eve Ball with Nora Henn and Lynda Sanchez, 1980, Brigham Young University Press, Provo, UT.; Gatewood & Geronimo, by Louis Kraft, 2000, University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque, NM. {

THE AUTHOR Michael Norman has written five mystery novels and three western short stories. His mystery novels are from two different series. The Sam Kincaid novels are The Commission, named by Publisher’s Weekly as one of its 100 best books of 2007, Silent Witness, and Slow Burn. The second series includes two contemporary western mysteries set in Utah, On Deadly Ground and Skeleton Picnic. Recently, Michael has written three western short stories devoted to the Apache Wars. The first, “Lozen’s War,” was published in the Summer 2022 issue of Saddlebag Dispatches and received a coveted Copper Medallion from the Will Rogers Medallion Awards. “A Death of Crows” is the second in this series, and “Following the Vengeance Trail – Gouyen’s Story,” is awaiting publication. Michael has also been a frequent contributor to the Salt Lake Tribune. A former police officer and state parole board member, Michael spent 25 years as a university professor teaching in the Department of Criminal Justice at Illinois State University and later at Weber State University in Utah. Michael and his wife, Diane, live in beautiful Lake Chapala, Mexico, with their pit bull, Kady.

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The Legendary Geronimo.

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THE RISE OF GERONIMO An excerpt from Bill Markley’s book Geronimo and Sitting Bull: Leaders of the Legendary West published by TwoDot in 2021 and winner of the Silver 2022 Will Rogers Medallion Award in Biography. STORY BY

BILL MARKLEY

eronimo was unknown to the White Eyes until the 1870s. He and his band of Bedonkohe remained independent, at times associating with Juh and his Nednhi in Mexico as well as with Cochise and his Chokonen in Arizona. From the winter of 1870-71 until the spring of 1872, they recovered from the U.S. army attack, staying with Victorio and his Chihenne at Ojo Caliente in New Mexico. Government officials had earlier led Cochise and his Chokonen to believe they could settle at Ojo Caliente. However, the Indian agent, Orlando Piper, and the new military commander for the Department of New Mexico, Colonel Gordon Granger, told Cochise, Victorio, and other leaders that the Chiricahua must move seventy miles to the northwest to the cold, desolate Tularosa Valley. This infuriated all the Chiricahua. They believed Tularosa was haunted with evil spirits. At the end of March 1872, Cochise and his Chokonen began their return to Arizona.

Geronimo and his Bedonkohe most likely left at the same time with the Chokonen. Victorio held a four-day feast and dance for the departing Bedonkohe. Geronimo later said, “No one ever treated our tribe more kindly than Victoria [sic] and his band. We are still proud to say he and his people were our friends.” By mid-May, the Chokonen and Bedonkohe had left Arizona for Mexico, joining Juh and his Nednhi outside Janos where they attempted to negotiate a peace treaty and receive rations from the Chihuahua government. However, Sonoran troops crossed the state line in early July, attacking and destroying Juh’s rancheria. This convinced Cochise and most of the Chiricahua to return to Arizona where Cochise established his rancheria in the Dragoon Mountains and from which his warriors resumed their raiding and killing. Geronimo and his Bedonkohe must have joined them at some point that summer. Many in Arizona, including [Lieutenant Colonel George] Crook, doubted Cochise was sincere about

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General George Crook (left), known to the Apache as Nantan Lupan—Chief Gray Wolf—and Brigadier General Oliver Otis Howard (right), who negotiated a peace settlement with Apache Chief Cochise that established the Chiricahua Reservation in 1872.

desiring peace. Crook had wanted to hunt down all Apache not on reservations and had sent out notices that any Apache not on their reservations by the middle of February 1872 would be considered hostile and attacked. However, President Grant took matters out of Crook’s hands and ordered him to suspend his attacks. Grant had appointed a commissioner to negotiate peace with the Apache. The commissioner was Brigadier General Oliver Otis Howard. Howard had seen lots of action during the Civil War, losing his right arm in battle. After the war, President Andrew Johnson had appointed him head of the Freedman’s Bureau tasked with protecting the rights of freed slaves in the South. Howard, a devout Christian, was nicknamed “Christian General.”

Howard outranked all other officers in Arizona and New Mexico and was given full power to do what was necessary to preserve peace between the government and the tribes and to convince them to go to permanent reservations. Howard believed his main objective needed to be “to make peace with the warlike Chiricahua under Cochise.” After spending the summer trying to locate Cochise, Howard met with Tom Jeffords at Fort Tularosa, New Mexico, on September 7, 1872. Jeffords, who was Cochise’s friend, agreed to take Howard to Cochise, but he told Howard he could not take along an escort of soldiers if he ever wanted to see Cochise. While Howard was at Fort Tularosa, he met with Victorio and Loco who complained about conditions

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at Tularosa and wanted their reservation relocated to Cañada Alamosa. Howard agreed to let them return, thinking it would be easier to convince Cochise to go there for his reservation. It took several days for Jeffords and Howard to select the men to accompany them. By September 19, the party consisted of Jeffords and Howard, Chie and Ponce both relatives of Cochise, Zebina Streeter, who was closely associated with the Chihenne, Howard’s assistant Lieutenant Joseph Sladen, Jake May, a Spanish interpreter, and J. H. Stone, a cook. Meeting Nazee, a Chokonen leader, he told them Cochise was in the Dragoon Mountains, and if they wanted to have a chance to meet him, they needed to reduce their party, so Howard sent Streeter, May, and Stone to Fort Bowie with a note to the commander stating not to send any patrols in the direction of the Dragoon Mountains. Howard and his party reached Cochise’s camp in the Dragoons on September 30. Cochise was not there, however, he arrived the next day. Cochise was willing to talk, but first he wanted to call in all his leaders for the discussions, and he wanted Howard to go to Fort Bowie to make sure no soldiers would be attacking his men as they traveled to the conference site. Howard rode forty miles to the fort, issued those orders, and returned to Cochise’s camp with his entire party and gifts for the Chiricahua—2,000 pounds of corn, sacks of coffee, sugar. and flour, and cloth. After most of the leaders and warriors, about fifty, had arrived, the talks got underway. Geronimo acted as Cochise’s interpreter translating from Apache to Spanish. Howard said the Chiricahua could have their reservation at Cañada Alamosa. Cochise dropped his bombshell—he wanted his reservation in the Chiricahua Mountains. The discussions went on for a long time, finally Howard gave in and said yes to the Chiricahua Mountains reservation. On October 11, Cochise insisted Howard send for Captain Samuel Sumner, commander of Fort Bowie, and his officers to be present at the conference, which Howard did. As Sumner and his three officers rode out to the Dragoon Mountains the next day, Howard, Cochise, and his warriors prepared to ride out and meet them. Howard agreed to ride double with Geronimo. He later wrote, “…as I was willing, he [Geronimo] sprang up over my horse’s tail and by a sec-

ond spring came forward, threw his arms around me, and so rode many miles on my horse. During that ride we became friends, and I think Geronimo trusted me…” After Howard and the Chiricahua rendezvoused with Sumner and his men, they continued their negotiations at the Dragoon Springs Overland Mail station ruins and came to an agreement. The reservation boundaries were immense, stretching from the western foothills of the Mule and Dragoon Mountains at the Mexican border north to Dragoon Springs, then northeast to Stein’s Peak, then south along the New Mexico border to the Mexican border. Fort Bowie would remain within the reservation boundaries. Cochise also wanted Jeffords to be his agent, and Howard agreed although Jeffords was not too keen on the idea. Cochise made peace with the Americans. He would stay on the reservation and protect the Tucson Road. In return, the Americans would give him food and supplies. Howard told Cochise his people needed to stop raiding into Mexico. However, in Cochise’s mind, he did not make peace with the Mexicans, and since the southern border of his reservation was the Mexican border, the Chiricahua would continue to raid into Mexico, and Mexicans would continue to chase them into the United States. Geronimo later said, “He [Howard] always kept his word with us and treated us as brothers.” He went on to say, “We could have lived forever at peace with him.” Lieutenant Joseph Sladen had noticed Geronimo was wearing a high-quality shirt, one that would not have been found in a trader’s store. He got close enough to Geronimo to see there was an embroidered name at the bottom of the shirt—“Cushing.” Could it be Geronimo was Lieutenant Howard Cushing’s killer? [Cushing was ambushed and killed near the Babocomari River on May 5, 1871.] President Grant would issue an executive order on December 14, 1872, officially establishing the Chiricahua Reservation and setting its boundaries. Jeffords went to work immediately establishing the agency in a small building rented from Nick Rogers at his Sulphur Springs Ranch, ten miles east of the Dragoon Mountains. From there, he distributed rations to the Chiricahua. The agency would remain at Sulfur Springs until August 1873 when it was moved to San Simon, then moved again to Pinery

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Canyon that November, and finally on May 14, 1875, to Apache Pass near Fort Bowie. Jeffords’s management style was easygoing compared to other Indian agents at other reservations. Although they were restricted to the reservation, the Apache could go wherever they wanted within its boundaries, where at other reservations, Indians were required to live close to the agency building so the agent could count them daily. Jeffords did not force them to wear identity tags or appear in person to receive their rations. He did make frequent trips to their rancherias to count the members. Crook agreed with the citizens of Arizona—Cochise’s Chiricahua could not be trusted. They were sure Cochise would soon break the peace. However, he and his warriors did keep the peace—in the United States. On November 15, 1872, Crook, who would become a brigadier general in 1873, began his offensive against western Arizona Apache, attacking their rancherias to force them to their reservations. They learned even though he was relentless in warfare, he was true to his word and began calling him Nantan Lupan, Chief Grey Wolf. After Cochise and Howard’s peace council, Geronimo returned to Mexico and arrived at his rancheria outside Janos where Juh and his rancheria were located. Late in November, Geronimo and his Bedonkohe and Juh and his Nednhi, totaling roughly three hundred people, traveled to the Chiricahua Reservation. After meeting with Cochise and Jeffords, they settled there. In late December 1872, there were 1,244 Chiricahua—700 were living at Cochise’s reservation and 544 were at Tularosa, New Mexico. In the spring of 1873, the Chihenne leader Nana, who was married to Geronimo’s sister Nahdos-te, and other Chihenne and Bedonkohe leaders left the Tularosa Reservation with 150 people to visit their relatives and friends on the Chiricahua Reservation. Most set up their rancherias near Geronimo and Juh’s in the Chiricahua Mountains. Things were quiet until mid-June 1873, when a combined force of Chiricahua, including Geronimo and Juh, left on a month-long raid through Chihuahua and Sonora, Mexico. Geronimo returned to the Chiricahua Reservation with a captive Mexican boy, Panteleon Rocha. Jeffords learned about the boy and rode to Geronimo’s rancheria where he negotiated with Geronimo

for Panteleon’s release and eventually reunited him with his parents. Nana and his people returned to Tularosa at the end of July 1873. Sometime during that time period, Mexican troops crossed the border and attacked Geronimo’s rancheria, but he and his warriors repelled them. The Mexican government was pressuring the United States to stop Apache raiding into Mexico. The U.S. government in turn demanded Jeffords put an end to it. He convinced Cochise if the raids did not stop, the government would remove him as their agent and disband the reservation. In early November 1873, Cochise held a council with all the Chiricahua leaders. He told them he was in charge of the Chiricahua Reservation, and all raids into Mexico must stop. If any of them did not like that, they would have to leave the reservation. Geronimo and Juh would not give up raiding. They led their people off the reservation and into Mexico. Traveling south along the Sierra Madre Mountains, Geronimo’s Bedonkohe would either kill or take prisoner anyone they came upon so no one could tell the Mexican troops their whereabouts. They set up their rancheria in the Sierra Madre Mountains near Nacori in Sonora, and from there they began their raids on villages, never having any major encounters with the Army. They would remain south of the border for a year. Meanwhile back in Arizona, Cochise, who was now about seventy years old, had been sick with stomach ailments. His family believed a Chihenne witch had cursed and poisoned him. He had two sons, Taza and Naiche. Knowing he was going to die, Cochise told the tribal leaders he had selected Taza, his older son, to take his place. He made Taza and Naiche agree to keep the peace with the White Eyes. On June 8, 1874, Cochise died in the East Stronghold of the Dragoon Mountains. The prospects for the continuation of the Chiricahua Reservation were dismal. Only about half the Chiricahua on the reservation accepted Taza as their leader. The Mexican government continued to complain to the U.S. government about Apache raids from the reservation. The U.S. government wanted to consolidate the Apache on fewer reservations. It wanted the Chiricahua Reservation eliminated to open it up for settlement. The government was just waiting for the right excuse.

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In September 1874, the government abandoned the Tularosa agency and allowed Victorio and the Chihenne to return to Ojo Caliente and Cañada Alamosa for their reservation. Government administrators believed this would be a good place to consolidate all the Chiricahua. Jeffords said if the government tried to force his Apache to move, they would fight. Another Apache reservation the government was interested in moving the Chiricahua to was to

Geronimo and his band returned to the Chiricahua Reservation a year after he had left for Mexico, which would make that sometime in the fall of 1874. He claimed he remained in Arizona for about a year. During 1875, the Indian Office began consolidating reservations in Arizona and New Mexico for administrative efficiency. General Crook was against consolidation, but it did not matter. In March 1875,

The Attack, a painting by artist Herman W. Hansen

the northwest, the White Mountain Reservation with an agency at San Carlos and Fort Apache to the northeast. On August 8, 1874, twenty-two-year-old John Clum became the agent at San Carlos. Clum began feuding with the army and trained his own Apache police force so he would not have to rely on soldiers. He believed there was only one right way to do things, and that was his way. Clum believed the Chiricahua needed to be moved to San Carlos where he could better manage them than Jeffords.

the army transferred Crook to the northern plains where he would take command of the Department of the Platte. On March 22, 1875, Colonel August Kautz took command of the Department of Arizona. Then on April 16, 1875, a special commissioner from Washington proposed to move the Chiricahua from their reservation to the Ojo Caliente Reservation, but the Chiricahua leaders said no. In November 1875, a federal Indian Inspector, Edward Kemble, toured the reservations and also

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Geronimo in his later years following his surrender.

recommended the Chiricahua removal to the Ojo Caliente Reservation. Apache raids in Mexico would continue into the spring of 1876. Geronimo said, after a year in Arizona, he returned to Mexico for a year. However, it would have been less than that, as he was known to be back on the Chiricahua Reservation the first part of June 1876. Juh had returned to the reservation in early April, so this is probably when Geronimo returned, too. While in Mexico, Geronimo and Juh’s people joined together establishing their rancherias in the Sierra Madre Mountains near Nacori as before. They were organizing their first raids when their scouts discovered two companies of Mexican cavalry approaching their camps. Taking sixty warriors, Geronimo and Juh left their rancherias and attacked the troops five miles away. The troops retreated to a hilltop where they dismounted and took up positions, firing on the Chiricahua. The fighting lasted for hours. No warriors had been hit, but the Mexicans had lost a few men. Geronimo led his men in a charge up the hill, overwhelming the Mexicans and killing them all. That night, Geronimo and Juh moved their ranche-

rias eastward, crossing from Sonora into Chihuahua. The rest of their time in Mexico, they were not attacked by troops. Geronimo most likely returned to the Chiricahua Reservation in early April 1876. On April 6, Pionesenay, a Chokonen who’s half-brother, Skinya, was an opposition leader to Taza, and a companion rode to Nick Rogers’s ranch at Sulfur Springs. They had learned Rogers had a barrel of whiskey, and he was selling the liquor. They had been raiding in Mexico and bought several bottles of whiskey for ten dollars’ worth of stolen gold dust. Pionesenay returned the next day with a nephew for more whiskey, which Rogers sold to him. After consuming much whiskey, Pionesenay picked a fight with Skinya. Two of their sisters tried to stop the fight. Pionesenay shot and killed them both. He and his nephew returned to Rogers’s ranch for more whiskey. Fred Hughes, one of Tom Jeffords’s assistants, later claimed Geronimo was with them. Rogers refused to sell him more. Pionesenay and his nephew shot and killed Rogers and his partner, Orisoba Spence on the spot, then ransacked the building taking all the whiskey, food, and ammunition. They next killed Gideon Lewis and raided along the San Pedro River.

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Arizonans were outraged. Tucson newspapers called for slaughtering the Chiricahua. On May 1, 1876, Congress passed legislation mandating the removal of the Chiricahua from their reservation to San Carlos at the White Mountain Reservation, and later that year on October 30, the reservation would be dissolved by executive order. On May 3, 1876, John Quincy Smith, Commissioner of Indian Affairs, sent a telegram to John Clum telling him to take charge of the Chiricahua Reservation and “if practicable” take the Chiricahua to San Carlos. On June 5, Clum arrived at the Apache Pass agency with fifty-six Apache police and five companies of the Sixth Cavalry to escort the Chiricahua to San Carlos. The first thing Clum did was relieve Jeffords of his duties. Clum next met with Taza, telling him the Chiricahua had to leave. Taza was reluctant and said many of the people would not want to go, but Clum convinced him it was for the best. When Geronimo and Juh heard Taza had agreed to the removal to San Carlos, they said Taza, a Chokonen leader, could not speak for them. They said they needed to meet directly with Clum himself. On June 7, Geronimo, Juh, and anoth-

er Nednhi leader, Nolgee, rode into the agency at Fort Bowie. They met with Clum who insisted they must go with him to San Carlos. Geronimo spoke for the three of them, saying they needed twenty days to gather their people who were away from the rancherias. Clum was suspicious and gave them only four days, which they agreed to before riding away. The next day, Clum’s Apache police paid a visit to Geronimo, Juh, and Nolgee’s rancherias. They were deserted. The Bedonkohe and Nednhi were gone, taking only what they could carry. They had killed the dogs so their barking would not give them away, and they had killed any horses left behind so they would not whinny to the departing horses. The Bedonkohe and Nednhi trail led south to Sonora. Bill Markley’s Geronimo and Sitting Bull: Leaders of the Legendary West won a Will Rogers Medallion Award Silver Medal in the Western Biography category for 2022. A long-time Western Writers of America member, Bill has written for True West and Wild West and published ten historical books and one novel—Deadwood Dead Men. In 2015, he was also sworn in as an honorary Dodge City Marshal.

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One of the only known photos of Private William Cathay, U.S. Army—a.k.a. Cathy Williams.

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CATHY WILLIAMS: BUFFALO SOLDIER Disguising Herself as a Man, She Served and Fought as a Buffalo Soldier... and Made History Doing It. STORY BY

CHRIS ENSS & JOANN CHARTIER

cold sunrise greeted the soldiers stationed at Fort Cummings, New Mexico, on the first day of 1868. An eager bugler sounded a call to arms, and members of the 38th Infantry hurried out of their barracks to line up in formation, their rifles perched over their shoulders. The enlisted African-American men who made up the regiment pulled their army-issued jackets tightly around their necks in an effort to protect themselves from a bitter winter wind. Among the troops falling into place was Private William Cathay. Cathay proudly stood at attention, willing and ready to do battle with the Apache who were raiding villages and wagon trains heading west. The determined expression the private wore was not unlike the look the other members of the outfit possessed. The 38th Infantry was just one of many black units known as the Buffalo Soldiers, a dedicated division of the U.S. Army that seemed to consistently wear a determined expression. Cathay was not unique in that manner. By all appearances, Private Cathay was like the other 134

men who made up Company A. What set this soldier apart from the others, however, was her gender. Cathay was a woman disguised as a man—anxious to follow orders to overtake the Chiricahua Apache warriors. Cathay stomped her feet to warm them and allowed her eyes to scan the faces of the troops on either side. She’d been with this regiment for more than a year, and no one had learned her secret. No one knew the extremes to which she was willing to go to defend the country that had saved her from a life of slavery. Fort Cummings’s commander, James N. Morgan, and his entourage approached the soldiers from the headquarters office and looked over the armed men assembled on the parade field. “The Apache are less mobile in the dead of winter,” Lieutenant Morgan announced. “In fact, this is the only time of year they are even remotely vulnerable.” Private Cathay and the other soldiers hung on every word their commanding officer said. They knew this would be a dangerous mission. Many of the Buffalo Soldiers would die trying to overtake the Indians.

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“The Apache won’t be expecting us to attack,” Morgan added. “Using three columns, we will come at them from more than one direction and trap them.” The bugle sounded again, and Private Cathay adjusted the cartridge box and gear strapped to the pack on her back. The march deep into the Apache homeland would be long and arduous. Cathay and the other Buffalo Soldiers were up to the task. She was determined to prove that she was a good soldier and worthy of the uniform she wore. As she marched out of the post with the troops toward the snowcapped mountains where the Natives had last been seen, she marched into history. Private Cathay would be the first and only African-American woman to engage in active operations against the Apache. William Cathay was born Cathy Williams in 1842 in Independence, Missouri. Her father was a free man, and her mother, Martha, was a slave on a plantation owned by a wealthy farmer by the name of William Johnson. At the age of six, Cathy began working as a house servant, performing menial tasks and assisting the Johnsons with their every need. In 1850, the Johnsons relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, taking with them all their possessions, including the house servants. Cathy’s mother was a field hand and would be left behind. She would never see her mother again. Cathy’s position as a house servant was considered “privileged” by most slaves, but she made no distinction between those who toiled in manual labor and those who worked in the “big house.” Historical records indicate that she resented her owners as much as the slaves who worked the land did. Cathy knew that in the eyes of the law she was nothing more than mere chattel owned by another human being. Like all slaves, she longed to be free. Freedom meant an opportunity to be educated, something for which Cathy ached. House servants working alongside the young woman taught her to read, but she never learned to write. At

4:30 a.m. on April 12, 1861, Confederate gunners in Charleston Harbor fired on Fort Sumter. The Civil War had begun, and Cathy Williams’s life changed forever. William Johnson passed away shortly after the first exchange of gunfire between soldiers from the North and South. Within a few months, Union troops had taken over the Jefferson City area and seized the plantation owner’s property, including his slaves. “United States soldiers took me and other colored folks with them to Little Rock,” Cathy later recalled in an interview with the St. Louis Daily Times. “Colonel Benton of the 13th Army Corps was the officer that carried us off. I did not want to go.” Cathy became a free woman in the summer of 1861. It was a dream come true, but it was not without complications. She was at a loss as to what to do or where to go—she’d never known any life other than that of house servant. In her former master’s care, she’d had a place to sleep and food to eat. The question of how to provide for such basic necessities on her own made her freedom bittersweet. As an uneducated former slave, her job options were limited. She reluctantly accepted a paid position with the 13th Army Corps as a cook. It was a job she was not eager to accept because she knew nothing about cooking. The corps commander soon realized that her culinary skills were lacking, and after a few months she was let go. She then took a job as laundress for the officers of the 8th Indiana. She followed the unit on various campaigns throughout the South and was witness to the mass liberation of fellow slaves. Cathy settled with the 8th’s encampment near St. Louis, Missouri. Many of the troops were suffering with dysentery and needed time away from battle to rest and recover. Although many Hoosier farm boys died from the disease, Cathy was spared even the slightest illness. She stayed with the regiment with her two twenty-five-gallon wooden tubs, soap, scrub boards and buckets, starch, laundry sticks, and other necessities. Once

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During her service as a cook and washwoman during the Civil War, Cathy Williams was assigned to the headquarters of General Philip Sheridan during his Shenandoah Campaign late in the conflict.

the 8th Infantry was on the mend, the company was dispatched to Pea Ridge in Arkansas. There the soldiers engaged in a skirmish that ended any Southern hopes of taking Missouri back from the Union army. Cathy’s duties shifted from laundress to nurse and medical assistant. She bandaged soldiers’ wounds and washed down operating tables. Five members of the 8th were killed, their bodies torn apart in a hail of cannon and gunfire. Cathy was deeply affected by the ravages of war. The horrors to which she was exposed included more than the deaths of young men. She also witnessed the destruction of hundreds of acres of crops and the obliteration of homes and bridges. “I saw soldiers burn lots of cotton and was at Shreveport when the rebel gunboats were captured and burned on Red River,” she remembered. One hot August afternoon, as Cathy was washing bundles of clothes, she noticed a pair of black soldiers walking toward the camp. They were wearing Union blue uniforms, tan gauntlets, and canvas hats with wide brims. Not far behind the pair marched hundreds of identically dressed black troops. The sight of the Army of the Southwest, or the Buffalo Soldiers as they would later be known, left a lasting impression upon the young woman. It sparked a desire within her to one day put on a blue uniform herself. Fighting for the Union was viewed by blacks

as a holy crusade. Cathy wanted a chance to fight for the liberation of all African-Americans. As a civilian employee of the Union army, Cathy served wherever she was needed. Her work fluctuated from cook to laundress and back to cook several times. At one point she was ordered from the regiment and dispatched to Little Rock to learn how to be a mess chef. Once her training was completed, she returned to the 8th Indiana, moving with the troops through Arkansas and Louisiana, and then up to the Atlantic Coast to the nation’s capital. There the 8th Indiana became part of the 4th Brigade, a unit that would soon be under the command of General Phil Sheridan. Cathy was assigned to serve Sheridan and his troops. From the general’s headquarters, she was exposed to many hazards and bloody battles along the Blue Ridge Mountains. “At the time General Sheridan was making his raids in the Shenandoah Valley, I was cook and washwoman for his staff.” On the morning of October 19, 1864, Cathy found her life in danger when fifteen thousand Confederates advanced on Sheridan’s army. It was 5:00 a.m., and most of the thirty thousand troops were sleeping. The camp was awakened to the sound of gunfire and Rebel yells. Because the headquarters was a prime target, Cathy was caught in the turmoil of the assault. She hurried away from the scene along with

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a flood of other retreating Yankees. Not only did she want to escape death, but she needed to escape capture as well. If the Rebels caught her, they would surely force her back into a life of slavery. Cathy, the other camp followers, and troops made it out of the valley, vowing never to return. The 8th Indiana regrouped in Baltimore, Maryland, and was then dispatched to a fort in Georgia. Cathy remained with the company until the unit was mustered out of service in August 1865. After three and a half years of bitter fighting, the Civil War was finally over for Cathy Williams. She left the 8th Indiana with a heavy heart. She had grown to love army life and could not imagine where she would go once the unit disbanded. The soldiers in Sheridan’s unit recognized her plight, took pity on her, and purchased a ticket back home for her. “I was sent from Virginia to some place in Iowa and afterwards to Jefferson Barracks [in Missouri], where I remained for some time.” The locomotive transporting Williams to Missouri departed a sleepy station in Iowa, belching huge plumes of smoke into the air. Cathy stared out the window next to her seat. The car was filled with Union soldiers who had turned in their uniforms and were on their way back to their wives and families. Very few veterans had allowed themselves to contemplate until now what the future held for them once the fighting had ended. Cathy pondered the same predicament. Overhearing two men discussing the need for troops on the western frontier planted a seed of hope in her heart. She could travel west with the army. Laundresses and cooks are always in demand, she thought. That notion was quickly dispelled when she heard the men add that only military personnel would be allowed to accompany the soldiers in the field. Once Cathy reached her home state of Missouri, she quickly found work as a cook for a white family near Jefferson Barracks. While in their employ, she learned that African-Americans were being enlisted in the U.S. Regular Army. The news brought a surge of hope for her future. Her prospects as a single black

woman were disappointing. As a black male, however, she could serve her country as a professional soldier. She began making plans to disguise herself and enlist. She said, “This is for the best… I want to make my own living and not be dependent on relations or friends.” Transforming her look was not difficult for Cathy. Since her early days with the 8th Indiana, she had worn men’s clothing, purely out of necessity. Years of close association with soldiers helped her pattern her speaking style and mannerisms to pass as a man. She was physically fit and tall, standing over five feet, nine inches. Most women at the time were petite and frail by comparison. She was certain her height and stature would fool the brass. On November 15, 1866, Cathy Williams marched into the recruiting depot at Jefferson Barracks and enlisted for three years of service in the U.S. Army. She told the officer on duty that her name was William Cathy. Because she did not know how to write,

I PERFORMED ALL THE DUTIES EXPECTED OF A SOLDIER… I WAS NEVER PUT IN THE GUARD HOUSE; NO BAYONET WAS EVER PUT TO MY BACK…. CATHY WILLIAMS the officer signed in for her, misspelling her new last name. Her age was listed as twenty-two and her occupation as cook. She requested an assignment with an infantry unit. She believed serving in such a regiment was essential to concealing her gender. All was well, but she still had to pass a medical examination by an army surgeon. A hurried doctor looked the athletically built recruit up and down. He sized her up to be an excellent candidate for service and, with only a cursory examination, waved her through the process. Cathy, now a Buffalo Soldier, was filled with pride as she took the required oath: I, William Cathay[,] desiring to enlist in the Army of the United States, for the term of three years do declare, that I am twenty-two years and two months of age; that I have neither wife nor child; that I have never been discharged from the United States service on account of disabil-

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ity or by sentence of a court-martial, or by order before the expiration of the term of enlistment; and I know of no impediment to my serving honestly and faithfully as a soldier for three years. Private Cathay was ordered to Fort Cummings, New Mexico, to serve under the command of Captain Charles Clarke. The objective of the unit was to face the Apache force and bring the renegades to order. Cathy would be paid $13 a month to make the western frontier safe for pioneers and gold rushers. In addition to the uniform—which consisted of a dark blue blouse, lighter blue trousers, an oval U.S. belt buckle, and brass “eagle” plates on the shoulder belt—she was issued a Springfield rifle. Upon Cathy’s arrival at Fort Cummings, she was greeted by more than two hundred African-American soldiers stationed at the post. In the short time the Buffalo Soldiers had been in existence, the unit had earned a solid reputation for being reliable and resourceful. The name Buffalo Soldiers was first bestowed upon them by the Cheyenne braves who saw them. The troops’ curly hair reminded the Indians of the mane on a buffalo. During the post–Civil War period, these men were the roughest riders in the cavalry and hardest marchers of the infantry in the Old West. In the interview she gave to the St. Louis Daily Times in 1876, Cathy indicated that she was honored to be counted among them. The hot southwestern sun felt good on Cathy’s head as she marched around the outside of the fort, her eyes on the lookout for warring Apache. Prior to her transfer to Fort Cummings, she had contracted smallpox, and her body and face had been covered with small red blisters. The illness had passed, but the chill from her stay in the cold, damp dispensary in St. Louis lingered. The New Mexico heat warmed

Buffalo Soldier, painting by Frederic Remington.

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Buffalo Soldiers of the 25th Infantry Regiment in 1890. Note the Buffalo robes and hats several of them wear over their standard-issue Army uniforms.

her bones and helped shake off the memory of the sickness. By the time Cathy had arrived at Fort Cummings, she had become an expert at hiding her gender. During her stay in the hospital, she had gone to great lengths to keep from being thoroughly examined by doctors and nurses. While marching to her new post, she drank as little water as she could so she wouldn’t have to go to the bathroom often and run the risk of being found out. Cathy had two close friends stationed with her at the post who helped keep her true identity safe. They patrolled the outer perimeter of the post with her, assisting in guard duty and the protection of the fort. During the winter of 1867, the entire post was on heightened alert. A Buffalo Soldier had been killed in the New Mexico Territory by Apache only a month before Cathy arrived in the area. More trouble was expected. Members of the 38th Infantry were ready for whatever lay ahead. On a few occasions, Apache would sneak into the fort and steal horses. Cathy’s job, in part, was to thwart any further thefts. One of the most dangerous duties assigned to Cathy was that of wood detail. Members of the party sent out to collect the daily wood put their lives at risk because they were forced to travel long distances across the desert in search of fuel. These wood details were vulnerable not only because they went well beyond the

safe confines of the fort but also because they consisted of only small parties of soldiers. By the fall of 1867, wood details were traveling as far as twenty-five miles west of the fort to cut trees along the Missouri River. Unless she was feeling poorly, Cathy was dedicated to fulfilling her responsibilities to the troops to the best of her ability. “I was bound to be a good soldier or die…. I carried my musket and did guard and other duties while in the army.” Cathy served her country across a wide expanse of the western frontier, including forts in Kansas and Colorado and throughout New Mexico and the Southwest. Yet, her service at Fort Cummings would prove to be the most dangerous of all. In January 1868, Cathy, along with the other members of the 38th Infantry, prepared to launch an assault on the Natives who had made their stay in New Mexico so perilous. The time had come to deal with the Apache’s attacks on army outposts. A raid on nearby Fort Bayard, a remote outpost at the base of the Santa Rita Mountains in New Mexico, had been the last straw for top military leaders in Santa Fe. During the surprise attack on the garrison, several Buffalo Soldiers were killed while horses, mules, and cattle were stolen. Orders from the New Mexico Military District headquarters in Santa Fe instructed troops to destroy the Natives’

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The 10th Cavalry: The Desert Showing. Etching by Frederic Remington.

camp, along with all adult male inhabitants who refused to surrender. The plan called for several columns of infantrymen to converge on a designated site and overtake the Natives. The infantry marched over snowcapped mountains, through frigid desert, and across the icy Rio Grande to the area where the Apache were encamped. The regiments were not dressed for such harsh weather conditions. They did not have heavy coats, robes, trousers, or overcoats, and they were not allowed to light fires to warm themselves because commanding officers were afraid that a blaze might betray their position. Many of the soldiers were taken ill before they reached their objective. Finally, the Buffalo Soldiers gathered around the base of the canyon where the Apache camp was reported to be and peered down into the valley. Nothing stirred. A strange quiet filled the air. The Indians had abandoned the site, and their location was unknown. Not knowing what else to

do and out of concern for the lives under his command, the company lieutenant ordered the troops to return to Fort Cummings. Tensions among the Buffalo Soldiers ran high. The troops speculated that the Natives might have slipped in behind them, planning an ambush. By the time the Buffalo Soldiers made it back to Fort Cummings, many of them were exhausted and suffered with colds and flu. Cathy suffered from severe exposure to cold and was admitted to the post hospital. Doctors suspected she had rheumatoid arthritis brought on by the harsh weather endured in the field. The extent of her illness was not fully discovered by the Army physicians because Cathy always refused examinations in which her gender could be discovered. After three days in the infirmary, she forced herself to return to duty in an effort to avoid detection. The 38th Infantry was transferred to Fort Bayard, which had a reputation for being one of the most dangerous posts in the West. Native unrest

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endless masquerade, no doubt, took its toll on her emotional health. After nearly two years of service, she marched over to the hospital determined to end the charade. The post surgeon met her as she walked into the building. “I got tired… I played sick, complained of pains in my side, and rheumatism in my knees.” Cathy made no attempt to hide her gender on her final visit to the post infirmary. During a routine exam, her gender was finally revealed. The discovery would have swift and immediate repercussions. “I got my discharge. The men all wanted to get rid of me after they found out I was a woman. Some of them acted real bad to me.” In October 1868, Cathy Williams became a civilian again. She resumed the garb of a woman and traveled to CATHY WILLIAMS Fort Union, New Mexico. For two years she worked as a cook for a colonel and killed with arrows. It was unsafe to leave the post then moved to Pueblo, Colorado, where she was without an escort.” Cathy’s health continued to employed as a laundress for a businessman and his decline. Within a few weeks of returning to duty, family. There she was introduced to a local miner she was hospitalized again. This time she was diagwho asked her to be his wife. “I got married… but nosed with neuralgia. Round-the-clock attention, my husband was no account. He stole my watch a proper diet, and good drinking water eventually and chain, a hundred dollars in money, and my helped her recover. team of horses and wagon. I had him arrested and After a month, she was on her feet again and put in jail.” After her divorce, she left Pueblo and ready to take orders from the fierce Army leader moved to Trinadad, Colorado. She liked the town she had served under in the Civil War, General Phil and the people and decided to make the growing Sheridan. Sheridan had lost patience with the Nasettlement her home. She continued working as a tive attacks against civilians heading west, and, in laundress and periodically served as a seamstress October 1868, he unleashed a merciless type of warand a nurse. Cathy hoped to obtain a land grant fare on the Apache. Sheridan would employ all the from the Homestead Act of 1862. She had plans powers at his disposal to “hunt the Plains Indians to take her land near the depot after the railroad down like wolves.” came through. “I expect to get rich,” she told the Private Cathay joined the hostilities but only St. Louis Daily Times. Her dream was partially for a short time. Lingering poor health kept her realized in Colfax County, New Mexico, when she from doing her job to the best of her ability. She relocated to the area and became a businesswomwas physically drained and began to tire of Army an, running a boardinghouse. A St. Louis reporter, life and the endless rules and regulations. The who had heard rumors that Cathy served with the problem of racism within the Army as a whole conBuffalo Soldiers, sought her out for an interview. tributed to her change in attitude as well. “I perAfter his article was published, Cathy Williams beformed all the duties expected of a soldier… I was came the focus of local curiosity. No one suspected never put in the guard house; no bayonet was ever this quiet, hardworking African-American woman put to my back…. Finally I got tired and wanted to had had such an adventurous past. After she had get off.” Historians speculate that Cathy was tired saved enough money, Cathy returned to Trinidad, not only of military life but also of living a lie. The was on the rise at Bayard, and the unit was sent as reinforcement. Cathy was weak, but wholeheartedly participated in the move and subsequent scouting and reconnaissance missions. Cathy’s life, as well as the lives of the other Buffalo Soldiers, was in constant jeopardy. One of the soldiers wrote, “The Indians would come down through the pine forests close to Fort Bayard and fire into the post, and the sentinels at the haystacks were often found

...I GOT TIRED AND WANTED TO GET OFF... I PLAYED SICK, COMPLAINING OF PAINS IN MY SIDE, AND RHEUMATISM IN MY KNEES.

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A bronze bust of Cathy Williams stands outside the Richard Allen Cultural Center in Leavenworth, Kansas.

One of several plaques dedicated to Cathy’s service around the country, this one stands in Trinidad, Colorado.

where she purchased a farm. She grew vegetables and flowers and in so doing broke another barrier. This former slave woman actually owned the land she worked. Cathy’s long-standing health problems resurfaced. Cathy Williams grew ill again in late 1890, and she had to be hospitalized. Unable to make a living for herself, she filed for military disability, hoping to get some help with her expenses. An Army doctor was sent to Trinidad to examine the ailing ex-soldier and judged her to be fit. “Apart from a few amputated toes,” his report read, “I do not find she is suffering from rheumatism, neuralgia, or any other illness that might be [attributed] to her service.” Her disability pension was denied. Attorneys worked on her behalf but to no avail. Her case was repeatedly denied. Military historians speculate that Cathy Williams died sometime in the early spring of 1892.

Rheumatism had crippled the former Army private, who also had developed diabetes. According to historical records, complications from diabetes most likely caused her death. No record can be found in the small town of Trinidad of the final burial place of Cathy Williams. She was more than likely buried in an unmarked grave in the Black cemetery. She was fifty when 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 books 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, and the Laura Downing Journalism Award. JoAnn Chartier is a former broadcast journalist and talk-show host whose writing had earned regional and national awards. She now lives in Oregon.

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W. MICHAEL FARMER

FINDING FORTUNE A SHORT STORY

here was a time when volunteers took their turn to help slow the rush of migrants with no papers from the south across the U.S. border. Now those days are gone. John Fortune is a guardian of the gateway to paradise, an angel with a flaming sword at the entrance to Eden. He sits on a campstool in the shadow of a camouflaged sunshade. A big Bailey panama pulled toward his brows shadows his bronze face from the unblinking sun blazing in the distant, gray haze. A beetle races from a rock’s shade toward the cover of another. Too slow, it’s covered with a splat of tobacco juice. Nothing passes this point unchallenged, nothing. There is no breeze, no sound. Every living thing has gone to cover from the brutal, fiery sun. The edge of the Promised Land wavers in mirage distorted images of light green mesquite, patches of rusty red and light brown sands, scattered pieces of black basalt, desiccated prickly pear, and creosote bushes barely more than dry twigs with roots. The heat surrounding Fortune makes him drowsy. His consciousness drifts, and he gently nods into the large military surplus binoculars mounted on a sturdy tripod before him. Jerking awake, he snaps his head erect and stares into the eyepieces. Mesquite limbs quiver at the edge of a distant arroyo. A roadrunner? Javelinas? Illegals? His jaw muscles ripple at the thought of illegals. They leave trash all over his fields, steal anything they can get their hands on from his yard or barn or sometimes even his house, and cut through his fences to let his animals scatter all over Arizona. He lifts his radio

to call for a pick-up bus but takes his finger off the transmit button. If it’s just an animal, and he calls in a false alarm, he’ll be teased unmercifully. Better to check first. Vibrating in a low hum, the radio comes to life. Without taking his eyes from the mesquite, he answers holding the receiver’s blazing frame just off his ear. “Station twenty-one, Fortune.” “Radio check. How’s your water?” “Still have two full canteens.” “Copy. Any business?” “Negative.” “Roger that.” The radio jabbers a moment in static before he clicks off. Silence returns. Reviving from the flood of nicotine filled juice falling from a clear blue sky, the beetle staggers to its feet. It’s hit again. Sliding a canteen strap over his shoulder, checking the cartridges in a Colt Python, and pulling the Bailey lower over his eyes, Fortune steps into the bright glare. He picks his way past the prickly pear and cactus and avoids loud, crunchy patches of gravel. At the edge of the wash, his rough, gnarled hand glides over the holstered Colt’s grip, and his thumb flips off the hammer loop. He looks through a crack in the green wall of mesquite along the top edge of the arroyo and sees nothing. Squeezing past the mesquite’s thorns, he eases down a steep sandy bank. The arroyo, ten or twelve feet deep, curves out of sight in the direction he saw the mesquite shake. He carefully walks along the bottom of the arroyo,

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his eyes missing nothing. The wash grows wider and shallower as he rounds the curve. Gasping for air, a man in a dirty white shirt and Levi’s sprawls in the sand in front of him. His mouth forms a big circle, making him look like a dying fish. A second man wearing a green and yellow John Deere baseball cap heaves in agony on his hands and knees just behind and to the right of the first one. A plastic milk jug, probably used to carry water, lies between them. Fortune draws the Colt, cocks it, and points the barrel toward the sky. He steps forward, contempt in his squinting eyes. It’s time to use the radio. For reasons he’ll never be able to explain, he leaves it in his pocket. Neither man notices as he approaches. The milk jug is dry, the top missing. White Shirt has brown, sunburned arms, close-cropped jet-black hair, and wears old, ragged running shoes. The crown of John Deere’s cap has a circle of dirt and sweat from long hours of hard labor under the sun. His hands are calloused and rough. He wears ancient boots, their leather scratched and torn, heels rounded from long use.

Fortune kneels by White Shirt and rolls him over. White Shirt brings his hand up to shield his bloodshot eyes and burned face from the sun’s glare. In his late twenties, he croaks through cracked lips, “Por favor, señor, agua… agua por mis muchachos.” Letting the hammer down on the Colt, Fortune slides it in his holster. Glancing around the wash he sees no sign of children. He opens the canteen and gives White Shirt a couple of swallows. Coughing and sputtering, he mumbles, still trying to catch his breath, “Gracias, muchas gracias. Por favor… agua por mis muchachos… por favor?” Leaving White Shirt, Fortune crabs over to John Deere. He’s also sunburned and laboring hard to get the furnace-like air into his lungs. His voice cracks, starved for moisture, “Por favor… señor… agua por mis niños… por favor….” Giving John Deere a couple of swallows from the canteen, he again scans both sides of the wash for children, but sees none. White Shirt staggers to his feet. He turns all the way around, swaying, almost losing his balance, his eyes searching first one and then the other bank. Fortune motions toward a big mesquite on the top

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of the bank nearest his sunshade. Nodding, the Mexican staggers toward the shady spot. Helping John Deere to his feet, Fortune points him in the same direction, giving him a little push forward. Clearing the top of the bank, White Shirt falls to his hands and knees. He races toward the mesquite’s shade and the two sets of black marble eyes staring at him. The sun has pounded the children, but it’s obvious who drank most of the milk jug’s water. Two little boys, one not over four, the other maybe six years old, don’t move or make a sound, rabbits waiting for the fox to pass. Clearing the top of the arroyo bank behind John Deere, Fortune sees them and holding out the canteen, motions them toward him, “Agua, muchachos!” They pause a moment and then crawl forward to take the canteen and long swallows of life before handing it back to him. “Bueno!” Fortune looks the two men over, shaking his head. “Hablas Inglés, señors?” White Shirt nods. “Sí, señor. Speak the Eenglees.” “You birds are loco trying to cross this desert on foot, much less with two youngsters. If I hadn’t found you, you’d all be dead before sundown. Which one of you is their padre?” White Shirt, smiling, raises his hand. “Mi, señor! They are mis niños!” John Deere, his eyes wide, shakes his head in quick little jerks and speaking through lips so cracked they nearly bleed. “No, señor, they are mine! I am padre of these muchachos!” Fortune scratches the back of his head, pushing the Bailey further forward. “I don’t know what kind of game you boys are playin’, but it don’t make no difference cause you’re heading back south pronto.” He spits a brown stream from the quid in his cheek to emphasize his disgust. “Whichever of you idjits took these babies out across this desert ought to be shot. I don’t understand it. It can’t be so bad working in Mexico that you’d risk your babies coming here across that desert.” White Shirt scoots over to the little boys and leans back on his arm nearest them. They stare at him, too tired to laugh or cry. He pats his chest, “Mis muchachos, señor! I bring theem to their madré. Juanita… she… works en una casa grande en Los Angeles. Weeth the wood I am muy skilled. Mi cabinets en casas are muy linda… vera beautiful. I think mucho jobs come to mi pronto en the United States.

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Mis niños never again have empty bellies because I cannot earn enough pesos en Mexico. Sí, sí, I know ees hard en the United States, but here ees a mañana por mi niños, en Mexico ees nada… nothing.” He shakes his head and motions toward John Deere. “Thees hombre ees a coyote. I pay heem to bring mi and mis muchachos to the United States. He agrees to get us across the border before I pay him all the dinero. Teen kilometers from the border he demands all hees money and mucho mas or he weel no cross the border. I know he weel leave us to the sun, anyway, so I take my niños and run. When he sees we go, he chases us to take all my dinero. He finds us when we can run no mas.” John Deere shakes his head saying over and over, “No es verdad, no es verdad… not true, not true!” Anger burns in his eyes. His cracked lips are set in a straight, hard line, his hands curled into fists. White Shirt sighs, his eyes studying the ground at his feet. “The border policia, they throw coyotes een the jail, sí? Usted send mi and mis niños back to Mexico, sí?” Fortune stares at the two men and nods his head. “That’s about right. I think it’s a little cooler under that sunshade over by my binoculars yonder, and there’s plenty of water. Vamos!” The men, still shaky, stand up. White Shirt reaches for the youngest boy’s hand, but the child shakes his head and jerks it away. John Deere speaks soothingly to the children and nods toward the sunshade. They follow him. Under the sunshade, Fortune has them sit down and gives them water and aloe to put on their lips and sunburns. The boys sit on John Deere’s lap while White Shirt rubs the lotion on their faces. They don’t like it at all, wiggling and squirming to avoid being touched. Fortune clicks on his radio. “Central. Station twenty-one.” “Central. What’s happening Fortune? “I have passengers.” “Roger. It’ll be an hour or two before the bus can get there. There’re so many today, it’s like rush hour in Tucson.” “Copy. We’ll be here.” John Deere malovently eyes White Shirt and then looks pleadingly at Fortune while the boys play in the sand. “Señor, como se llama… how are you called?”

“John Fortune. Why?” “Señor… Fortune, I beg you. Let me and my muchachos go. Give thees coyote to the Border Patrol. Mi and mis muchachos will work hard and be a credit to our new country.” It was White Shirt’s turn to look angry and shake his head. He roars through clinched teeth, “Thees hombre ees a liar! He has no truth!” Fortune tips back his Bailey and frowns. “Why should I help either one of you birds? There’s way too many of you here now. This ain’t no illegal immigration we’re seein’. It’s an uncontrolled migration, and it’s got to stop—today. But, we got us a long wait, and there’s time to hear it all. Go on and tell me. What’s your story?” John Deere nods, his brown face dark and angry. “My story, Señor Fortune, is the same as that hombre, but he is the coyote. He pretends to be me. He already takes my dinero—check his pockets, you’ll see. He tries to murder me and keep my muchachos to sell in Mexico. My wife, she has a carta verde… how you say… a green card. She is… legal immigrant. Señor Fortune, we both ask for a green card at the same time. Hers, it takes seven years to come. Seven years of waiting and hoping, señor! Seven years! The emigration jefe says he cannot find my… green card. I must fill out the paper and start all over. I write the new papers again for the jefe. “We wait another year, still no card. We work hard, still we starve and live in the dirt. There is no dinero. This is no good. I tell my wife to go to the United States. I come with the niños when my carta verde… my… green card… comes. She sends me all the dinero she can from her job. With her dinero, our life in Mexico is better. At least our muchachos have no hunger. She is gone for two years now. Three years and still there is no green card for me. I have waited ten years for thees green card.” John Deere sighs and makes a sad, earnest face. “It is not right, señor. The green card leaves me without my wife and these muchachos without a madré. I can stand it no mas. I sell all we have to pay this coyote. We go to find my woman en Los Angeles…” Eyes wide, White Shirt trembles in rage while John Deere speaks. The little boys, unafraid, stare at him. “No ees verdad! No ees verdad! He lies, Señor Fortune! He lies! I tell him all thees when I give heem part of the dinero he wants for bringing us to the United States. Sí! I have dinero. Eet

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ees mine! I save it for ten years. I am the one who waits for the carta verde ten years. Ees no justice here? Send us back to Mexico. I weel keel this hombre who steals my life, and I weel come back again weeth mi muchachos.” Fortune crosses his arms and stares them into silence. “You boys do what you want to do in Mexico. There ain’t gonna to be no killing here. Now shut up! The bus will be along in a while, and that’ll be the end of this day.” An hour passes—two. The boys play with one man, then the other. They seem to favor John Deere until the day falls heavy on them, filling their eyes with sleep as they lay side-by-side on the sand under the sunshade. The sun paints the sky a gauzy vermillion, and the shadows are growing long when Fortune sees a distant dust streamer lifting off the road toward his position. He pulls the Colt. The men, round-eyed, stare at him before following his nod toward the road. Fortune turns to White Shirt. “Señor, take your muchachos over yonder behind that thicket of big

mesquites, climb in the jeep, keep quiet, and wait for me. I’ll be along in a little while, and then we’ll take us a little ride to see if we can’t find that wife of yours.” “Gracias, señor! Muchas gracias!” The boys, still sleeping when he picks them up, don’t struggle as he runs for the jeep. His face twisted in rage, John Deere glares at Fortune and then toward White Shirt. “Señor Fortune, what about me? What about me! You give the coyote my children? You do not send them back?” “No, I ain’t sending ’em back, but you’re getting on the bus. You’d better not come back through my part of the border again either, or this pistola’s gonna fill you full of more holes than a screen door. Comprende? Now give me that roll of cash in your pocket.” The bus rolls up, heavy gauge wire netting covering the windows. A guard gets off and cuffs John Deere while he rails about Fortune not turning over the others. As the guard is climbing back on the bus, Fortune grins. “Poor devil. He’s been out of his head all afternoon.”

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The guard nods. “Yeah, I can tell.” A smile fills White Shirt’s face as Fortune hands him the roll of cash. “Muchas gracias, señor! But how did you know thees muchachos reely belong to me, Tomás Espalin? Why are you doing thees thing grande?” Fortune shrugs. “When I found you, you had fallen in front of old John Deere. No doubt he was chasing you and not the other way around. As for sending you back… you tried mighty hard to get in legal and waited a long time. The government is screwed up, but the people ain’t. Now hold on and let’s find those boys their mama.”

The Sunday morning sun chases the last gray shadows of dawn. Red and orange streaks wash a pale blue sky as a pickup pulls to the curb on a wide street lined with red-tile-roof villas surrounded by high stone fences. Across the street hangs a gate in the fence that hides a villa. Tomás stares at it, eager to rouse his sons, jerks open the truck door,

and sprints across the street. “Ees theese the place, Señor Fortune?” “That’s what this here GPS says. It’s the right place if the address on that paper you gave me is good. Relax. Either she sleeps here with the family or catches a ride to work. It’ll be all right. If she doesn’t show in a couple of hours, I’ll knock on the door and ask how to see her.” Tomás’ shoulders sag. “Gracias, señor. Sí, we must wait a little longer as you say.” Minutes pass that feel like weeks. The boys open their eyes to the new day’s light but stay still and huddled together in the cool air. In the truck’s big side mirror Fortune sees a bus turn a corner far down the street. It stops twice coming up the street. Tomás, chewing his lip, watches it approach and pass them. Disappointment fills his eyes as he slumps back in the seat only to see it stop fifty yards ahead. Gently rubbing the boys’ hair, he tilts his head up to watch over the edge of the dashboard. Four women get off. Two cross the street, one heads up the street, and one comes toward them.

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“Thank you for this award. I accept it, not simply for myself, but also for the cast and crew who enabled the screenplay to come to life. This award puts us in association with the name of Will Rogers, which is a signal honor, given his history in the entertainment field and his contribution to the history of the West.” Walter Hill, Will Rogers Gold Medallion Award Winning Screenwriter of the Film Dead for a Dollar

Now accepting entries for the 2024 Will Rogers Medallion Awards View guidelines and submission deadlines at www.willrogersmedallionaward.net

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Tomás’ eyes lock on and follow her as she unlocks the gate to the house, goes in, and closes it behind her. He frowns, confusion filling his eyes. “No ees Juanita, Señor Fortune. Where ees Juanita?” Fortune shakes his head. “I don’t know. Stay here while I go find out.” Stiff from the long overnight ride through the backcountry, he climbs out of the truck, crosses the street, and pushes the gate buzzer button. Tomás watches again, chewing the bottom of his cracked lip. It takes a long time before the woman comes to the gate. Fortune asks questions. She nods or shakes her head. A couple of times, Fortune points over his shoulder with his thumb, and she looks around him to look at Tomás and the boys in the truck. Finally, she shrugs, shakes her head, and closes the gate. As he approaches the pickup, Fortune’s teeth are clinched, his jaw muscles rippling. He climbs in the truck and shakes his head. “The lady says her name is Juanita Espalin, she’s worked at the house for three years, and she says she’s definitely not the mother of two little boys and is not married to anyone named Tomás Espalin. Got any idea what’s going on amigo?” Tomás’s eyes are the size of quarters. “No, señor. The mail from Juanita always comes from thees place. I have a letter from her mailed no more than two weeks ago. Who ees these woman who says she ees Juanita? What can I do? I must talk with thees woman.” “Just take it easy for a little while more. We’ll figure this thing out. In the meantime, I’m gonna park around the corner back behind us where we can still keep an eye on that gate.” Fortune pulls the truck around the block and parks behind a stand of flowering bushes on a side street. Tomás gives the little boys their burritos and orange juice from a fast-food drive-thru while he and Fortune sip coffee from a thermos bottle and discuss what to do. Half an hour after they park, a well-groomed woman in a white bathrobe opens the gate, steps to the entrance way, and looks up and down the street. She turns, says something over her shoulder, looks both ways again, and then closes the gate. Fortune scratches his chin, a thin smile cracking his lips. He reaches in the glove box, finds the Colt, and lays it on the seat beside him. Tomás stares at him in sur-

prise. “We attack thees casa grande and geet Juanita back, Señor Fortune?” “No need for that. Just wait a few minutes and you’ll see.” “Sí, señor. We wait as you say.” Twenty minutes pass, thirty, forty. The gate opens. The woman claiming to be Juanita Espalin, wearing dark glasses and a shawl over her head, steps through the gate. Walking fast, she practically runs for the bus stop. Fortune cranks the truck and pulls into the street behind her. Tomás stares at him. “What you do, Señor Fortune?” “Just watch, keep those boys quiet, and don’t say anything unless I ask you. Comprende?” “Sí, señor. Nada.” The truck rolls up to the bus stop even with the woman who is huffing and puffing. She looks in panic in the truck window and sees the big barrel of Fortune’s Colt pointed straight at her. She hears, “Open the door, Tomás! Señora! En the camino, por favor! Rapido!” Hand over her mouth, she climbs in, her hands trembling. Tomás pushes her over by Fortune. The little boys stare at her saying nothing. Tomás glares at her, teeth clenched. She begins sobbing. Fortune, keeping the Colt out of sight below the window, drives the truck around the block and parks once more behind the bushes. He cocks the revolver so she hears it click. Her eyes grow wide as she shakes her head. “Now, señora, por favor, we know you are not Juanita Espalin, wife to Tomás here and mother of these little boys. Let me see your carta verde.” With trembling hands, she digs around in her threadbare bag, finds it, and hands it to him. Fortune passes the card to Tomás. “Is that your Juanita?” Tomás stares at the card, tears welling in his eyes. “Sí, señor. She ees mi Juanita.” Fortune stares at the woman through hooded eyes. “Juanita! Where is she?” The woman’s tears are in full flow. “No sabe, señor, no sabe. She goes back to Mexico.” Tomás stares at her. “She lies!” He shouts. “She lies, Señor Fortune!” Fortune holds up his hand and puts his finger to his lips. “When did she leave?” The woman holds up two fingers, “Dos dias.” “Why do you have her carta verde?” She wipes her eyes with a wadded-up tissue from her raggedy bag. “Juanita, she loses it en la

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casa grande. She is afraid the policia come and put her en the jail without it. She misses her familia. She goes back to Mexico. The patron, he finds it. He says if I work for a little less dinero, he gives me her carta verde. I take it.” Fortune stares at her, certain she’s telling the truth, anger burning in his guts. Tomás stares out the windshield, holding his sons, his face framed by despair. “Tomás, where was your casa in Mexico?” Tomás smiles at the irony and shakes his head. “En Casas Grandes—Chihuahua—” “Okay, señora, here’s the deal. I keep the carta verde. You keep the job and say nothing to the señor who gives it to you. If you tell him I have it, I will come back with my pistola. Comprende?” Relief floods her face. “Sí, señor. Comprendo muy bien. I say nada. Muchas gracias. Muchas gracias.” “Bueno!” Fortune opens his door and steps out of the truck. He motions to her with a flick of his hand. “Out! Go get your bus.” At the bus station, Fortune stares at the schedule and makes some guesses. If Juanita quit her job two days ago, she probably packed, said goodbye to her amigas, and took a bus for El Paso–the same crossing she used when she emigrated into the United States. The bus she most likely took left last night at midnight. If she were headed back to Mexico without her green card, she’d be caught at the first check point open on I-10 and put in a holding pen for a free ride back to Mexico. He calls a friend on the Border Patrol and asks which of the crossing check points are active on I-10 beyond San Diego. He listens to the computer clicking in the background and then hears a whispered, “Damn!” The Border Patrol has shuffled personnel to some demonstration for a congressional committee on the border near Tijuana. The first active checkpoint is within twenty miles of Fortune’s ranch. Fortune makes another call to a Border Patrol friend near Tucson and asks a favor. There’s a long pause before the voice on the other end of the connection says, “…okay, but the best I can do is hold her for twenty-four hours. Is that enough?” Fortune smiles. “We’ll be there in about twelve.” “I’ll be looking for you.” Fortune thanks his friend, cranks the truck, and pulls away from the bus station parking lot.

Tomás nervously cuts his eyes to Fortune. “You find Juanita, Señor Fortune? You find her, sí?” Fortune shrugs. “If we’re real lucky. If she goes back the same way you told me she came in, we may find her pronto. If I’ve guessed wrong, then you may have to wait until she gets back home. Let’s just hope she doesn’t try to sneak back across on foot or puts herself at the mercy of the same people you used.” It’s nearing midnight when Fortune drives up the access road to the old, renovated hotel the Border Patrol uses to hold illegals until a bus carries them back to Mexico. The niños, exhausted from the long day and night drive cooped up in the truck cab with two men lost in their thoughts, are curled up sound asleep in the middle of the seat. Tomás, slumped in the seat, strokes their hair and nervously eyes every Border Patrol vehicle that passes them. Fortune’s eyes feel like half the desert has been poured in them, and he’s caught himself starting to doze off, the sudden rush of adrenaline making his heart pound. Holding his ID out the window as his truck rolls into the lights at the gate of the tall wire fence surrounding the hotel grounds, Fortune grins at the guard who waves them through without even looking inside the cab. He parks in front of the lobby doors. Tomás studies every face inside the lobby and cuts his eyes back to Fortune in disappointment. “You stay here with the niños. I’ll check inside. If she’s here, we’ll find her.” The dejection in Tomás’ eyes is palpable. He feels as if he is running from the coyote again and is about to be caught. “Sí, we wait here, Señor Fortune.” From the truck Tomás watches Fortune stop at a desk inside, exchange pleasantries with the man on duty, and then follow a pointing finger through a hall doorway off to the left. The next twenty minutes are the longest Tomás Espalin spends in his life. A thousand fantasies, all of them bad, pass through his imagination. He asks himself what he will do when Fortune comes out the door without Juanita. After a while, a big school bus with heavy lattice-work steel screens over the windows pulls into the parking lot. A driver with a clipboard gets out and goes inside. Soon the lobby empties of men in Border Patrol uniforms who form a corridor to the open bus door. In five minutes, a long line of weary, sullen men and women are marched out the door and guided down the human corridor toward the bus. Soon loaded, the bus closes its doors and be-

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gins making its way toward the gate. Tomás eyes follow its every move. He is sad for the people on it but very relieved that it doesn’t carry him and the boys or Juanita back to Mexico—back to square one to start all over again. At the sound of the driver’s side door opening, he whips around. Juanita stands there, tears catching the light, Fortune standing just behind her. “Madre de Dios! Juanita! Eet ees you!” She nods. Saying nothing, she slides up on the seat, taking the still sleeping children in her arms and hugging them while she stretches to kiss her joyful husband. Fortune slides up on the seat beside her, closes the door, puts the idling truck in gear, and drives off toward the gate. He has a story ready to cover the little family if the guard stops him, but he’s busy with a vehicle coming in and waves him out without so much as a glance. Bouncing down the dirt road toward his ranch, Fortune’s mind is filled with all he must do to get the immigration problems of the little family straightened out, but he’s certain he can make the system work. He has too many IOUs from the Border Patrol agents for it not to. Excited whispers in Spanish fill his truck, and although it is spoken too fast and with too much excitement for him to follow, he hears the words “coyote” and “Señor Fortune,” several times. He glances at the little family. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, Juanita and Tomás, each holding a sleeping child, have their fingers entwined. For the first time in days, Fortune smiles. {

THE AUTHOR W. Michael Farmer combines fifteen-plus years of research into nineteenth-century Apache history and culture with Southwest-living experience to fill his stories with a genuine sense of time and place. A retired PhD physicist, his scientific research has included measurement of atmospheric aerosols with laser-based instruments. He has published a two-volume reference book on atmospheric effects on remote sensing as well as fiction in anthologies and award-winning essays. His novels have won numerous awards, including three Will Rogers Gold and five Silver Medallions, New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards for Literary, Adventure, Historical Fiction, a Non-Fiction New Mexico Book of the Year, and a Spur Finalist Award for Best First Novel. His book series includes The Life and Times of Yellow Boy, Mescalero Apache and Legends of the Desert. His nonfiction books include Apacheria, True Stories of Apache Culture 1860-1920 and Geronimo, Prisoner of Lies. His most recent novels are the award-winning The Odyssey of Geronimo, Twenty-Three Years a Prisoner of War, The Iliad of Geronimo, A Song of Blood and Fire, and Desperate Warrior: Days of War, Days of Peace, Chato’s Chiricahua Apache Legacy

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BON TON AND TONY Step into 1880s Tombstone’s culinary tapestry, a vibrant mosaic of flavors and contrasts. From opulent feasts to humble fare, explore the diverse dining experiences that mirrored the city’s rich social fabric. STORY BY

SHERRY MONAHAN

ochise County was created in 1881 when a portion of Pima County was annexed, which included the exploding silver boomtown of Tombstone. Ed Schieffelin discovered silver in 1877, and in 1878 the first mine started work. Tombstone quickly became a thriving silver mining community, and its mines peaked between 1879 to late 1882. During this pinnacle, the mines produced, on average, over five million dollars annually in silver and gold. Some of the larger mining companies paid an average of six hundred thousand dollars in dividends annually. Despite its high-desert location with dusty wind and dry conditions, thousands flocked to the bustling town. First were the miners, prospectors, and investors. Once word got out that silver was plentiful, tents popped up along the mines, and many fortune seekers descended upon Tombstone. The tent city quickly Allie Earp. Photo Courtesy of Scott Dyke.

turned into a town with adobe brick and wood buildings. A cosmopolitan town began to emerge as houses, hotels, banks, mining offices, saloons, gambling halls, brothels, and dry good and mercantile stores. Once women started calling Tombstone home, churches, schools, and millinery shops opened. Some of those women carried the last name of Earp. They included the “wives,” some with proven marriage records and others who claimed to be married and went by Mrs. Earp. Despite a piece of paper—or lack thereof—these Earp women were considered wives during the Victorian era. They acted no differently than other housewives of their day. They cooked meals, washed and ironed clothes, made beds, swept floors, played games, wrote letters, and took care of their husbands. They didn’t involve themselves in politics or their husbands’ business affairs. For the most part, they followed their husbands from town to town and did what they were told. It’s easy to imagine all of the Mrs. Earps as glorified madams or gun-slinging sidekicks to their husbands. It’s

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City of Tombstone circa 1880s. Photo courtesy of the Western Heritage Museum.

true a couple did fit that profile, but most were just ordinary women looking for love and stability. The Earps ended up in Tombstone because of Virgil. While in Prescott, A.T., Virgil sent letters to Wyatt and James in Dodge City, Kansas, and to Morgan, who was in Montana. Allie remembered the fall day in 1879 when Virgil’s brothers arrived in Prescott. Virgil came running into the clearing to see Wyatt and his wife Mattie and James and his wife Bessie, along with her teenage daughter Hattie, from Bessie’s previous marriage. They were told that Morgan and his wife Louisa were coming in from Butte. Since space was limited in the wagons, the brothers and sisters-in-law spent two days planning and discussing what could be taken and what had to stay behind. From horse tack to basic household items, sacrifices had to be made. Items like Allie and Bessie’s rolling pins were laid side by side so the best one could be selected. Even though Allie’s was made of fine-grained hardwood, and made by hand from a neighbor, it wasn’t as symmetrical as Bessie’s, so Allie’s was left behind. Bessie had a large commode, and Allie remembered it taking up a lot of space and “not bein’ any good.” Allie’s prize possession was the sewing machine Virgil had given her and the first one she ever owned. It was large, so Virgil told her she had to leave it behind. Allie being Allie said, “All right,

Virge. Leave it behind. I’ll stay with it.” She recalled there being a long silence at that moment until Wyatt broke it. He came over and said, “Oh, we can get it in some place.” Allie also recalled him saying under his breath, “but I don’t know where.” It turns out Allie’s fight for her sewing machine proved financially beneficial. When they got to Tombstone, the town’s population was exploding. In June 1880, Tombstone’s population was about two thousand, which was a little more than double from the previous year. Items like water, food, and cloth were expensive. Allie recalled, “Everything was nice if you had money, but we didn’t, so it wasn’t.” Allie, along with Wyatt’s wife, Mattie, put Allie’s sewing machine and their skills to good use. Since Allie was one of a handful of people who had a machine in town, she began sewing for people in Tombstone. They charged one cent per yard and even made a large tent from a canvas for one of the new saloons. Allie said, “With double rows of stitching on that, we like to got rich.” While Allie and Virgil never got rich in Tombstone, they did manage to earn some money. They attended an occasional play at Schieffelin Hall, but mostly the women stayed home. Allie recalled a hot summer day when she and Mattie went to town alone, “Good women didn’t go anyplace. Me and Mattie, Wy-

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His restaurant was located in the area known as the att’s wife, wanted to go down and peek into the nice Mill Site, the Arizona Weekly Star reported on Dehotels and restaurants. So, on a terrible hot morning cember 12, 1878. when the men was away, we went and had a good “Tombstone Mill Site is now the scene of activity. time lookin’. Then we met a friend who gave us a sip Houses, shanties, and jacals are going up rapidly, and of all different kinds of wines, some real fine. We got several families are on the ground. A restaurant has home and in bed all right, and everything would have been opened by Mr. Isaac “Ike” Clanton.” been jim-dandy, but Wyatt and Virge came home for Clanton placed an ordinner for the first time der with Lionel M. Jacobs during that hot spell. in Tucson on December All I remember is wak22, 1878. He sent one ing up and seeing Virge hundred and fifty dolsittin’ by the bed stiff lars cash with his courier, as a poker and Mattie J.E. Bailey, to buy three spillin’ the coffee Wyatt hundred and fifty dollars’ was makin’ her drink. I worth of groceries and just said, ‘Mattie. Let ’er the balance to be put on go and come on to bed,’ his account. His letter inand went back to sleep.” structed, “I will pay only A neighbor of Allie in greenbacks and wish and the Earp wives said, you to sell to me at green“The line was pretty back price…. Yours very well drawn those days. respectfully, Isaac ClanOrdinary women didn’t ton.” Some of the items mix with the wives of he ordered included dried gamblers and saloon apples and peaches, lard, keepers and bartenders coffee, canned tomatoes, no matter what pretty raisins, salt, pepper, syrdresses they had or how up, flour, dishes, glasses, nice they were. The Mrs. towels, cream of tartar, Earps were all good, but sugar, and corn meal. they were in that fix, and During its heyday, we just naturally didn’t the town glittered with have much to do with nice hotels and gaslit them.” Being a gambler restaurants that were was a respectable occubeautifully decorated pation in the Victorian and often compared to West, but being a wife of the finest in San Francisa gambler was not. co. Tombstone’s restauTombstone was a rants advertised, “the town that offered every- Cosmopolitan Restaurant Menu most elegantly appointthing and anything that Photo courtesy of the Western Heritage Museum. ed restaurant in the city” was “bon ton and tony,” and the “best cooking and polite attentive service.” which meant trendy, once the silver was booming. Many were decorated with shimmering crystal It even had an inground swimming pool made of chandeliers, plush Brussels carpeting, and shiny adobe and is still used to this day. One of the first walnut tables that were adorned with imported chirestaurants to open was the Star, owned by none na, sparkling cut glass, and stylish silver cutlery. other than Joseph Isaac “Ike” Clanton, an anti-Earp Imagine Doc Holliday or Johnny Ringo sitting down participant in the infamous gunfight near the O.K. to a meal of salmon with Hollandaise sauce, ribs of Corral, Despite that, he was a literate businessman.

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New York Restaurant Bill for Prisoner Meals, Signed by Virgil Earp. Courtesy of the Arizona Historical Society.

beef, chicken fricassee, baked oyster pie, gumbo, potatoes, green peas, tomatoes, or blackberry pie. Even though the patrons of these establishments ate elaborate meals in beautiful settings, weather and nature often interfered with the experience. Hot and cold temperatures, pesky flies, and unbearable dust swirling from the streets added to the dining expe-

rience. Tombstone sprinkled the streets with excess water from the mines, but when water was in great demand, none could be spared for the streets, and meals were served with a side of grit. The meals themselves reflected the trends of the 1880s and did not include today’s popular southwestern fare. This was, after all, the Victorian era, when

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classic French cuisine and oysters were trendy, and the menus were often printed in French. In late 1881, Tombstone’s Grand Hotel restaurant finally changed the menu to English and the Epitaph newspaper reported, “They have taken a new and very sensible departure by publishing its bill of fare in English, instead of French.” Not all of Tombstone’s restaurants served French food. Many of the restaurant owners hailed from Europe because Tombstone’s mines attracted a large influx of immigrants. The owners and cooks were from various ethnic backgrounds, and their cooking often reflected their heritage. Tombstone’s restaurants and chophouses also served English, German, Italian, Irish, Creole, and New England cuisine. Even back in the day, a restaurant’s chef made all the difference, and it was common for a restaurant to brag that their new cook was from the Pacific Coast, San Francisco, or New Orleans. The Maison Doree restaurant in the Cosmopolitan Hotel offered, “Chicken for breakfast and dinner, only $1, including wine; without wine the same as usual.” A typical miner’s wages were three dollars per day, so many of them chose to eat at friend’s houses, over an open fire, or in their tents rather than in the glittering dining rooms. But it appears that the people of Tombstone ate well, whether it was in the dining room of a restaurant or behind bars in a jail cell. In addition to preparing meals for the patrons who dined at their establishments, several restauranteurs provided meals for prisoners staying in Tombstone’s jail. Tombstone’s new arrivals and guests enjoyed pleasant accommodations, too. In 1880 the Grand Hotel was opened by Lavinia Holly. An Epitaph news reporter was given a preopening inspection of the Grand and its restaurant. The headline of his article, “Tombstone’s New Hotel—The Most Elegant Hostelry in Arizona.” He wrote, “the first thing to strike the eye is the wide and handsome staircase, covered by an elegant carpet and supporting a heavy black walnut baluster… a heavy Brussels carpet of the most elegant style and finish graces the floor; the walls are adorned with rare and costly paintings; the furniture is of walnut, cushioned with the most expensive silk; and nothing lacks, save the piano, which will be in place shortly. The Grand’s dining room shimmered with its three elegant chandeliers that hung from their center pieces and walnut tables that were

covered with cut glass, china, silver salt and pepper shakers, and the latest style of cutlery. Messrs. Devern and Whitehead oversaw a kitchen that contained an elegant Montagin range with a broiler, sinks with hot and cold water, and ‘all the appliances necessary to feed five hundred persons at a few hours’ notice.’” On September 15, miner and diarist George Parsons dined at the Grand Hotel and wrote, “it is the best place I’ve been thus far in the territory. Something like a hotel. Best meal yet and best served. Popular prices, too—only four bits.” Tombstone prospered until about 1886 when the pumping machinery in the last remaining mine, the Contention, caught on fire. When the pump failed, the mine began to fill with water. The people of Tombstone could only speculate what would become of them and their town. The Daily Tombstone wrote, “...but the people of Tombstone are brave and courageous, and have successfully outlived several drawbacks, and will do so in this case.” In August 1886, silver dropped again to ninety-one cents, which caused the Tombstone Milling & Mining Company to shut down their operations. George Cheyney, the company’s manager, said that if the price of silver trended up again, enough for the company to make money, mining would resume. By December 1886, silver had risen to $1.02, but the larger mines remained idle. The mines did resume operations for a while during the early part of 1887, but by April, the price of silver began to fall again. It was just a matter of time before Tombstone’s population hit its lowest point. The 1900 census revealed only 646 hearty souls remained in town, when in 1883 there were 7,000. The remaining population largely supported county courthouse activities, and Tombstone remained the county seat until 1929. Sherry Monahan is an award-winning culinary historian who enjoys researching the genealogy of food and spirits. While there’s still plenty to explore about frontier food, she’s expanding her culinary repertoire to include places and foods from all over America and beyond. She holds memberships in the James Beard Foundation, the Author’s Guild, Single Action Shooting Society, and the Wild West History Association. She is the past president of Western Writers of America (2014-2016), a professional genealogist, and an honorary Dodge City marshal. One of her latest titles, The Tombstone Cookbook: Recipes and Lore from the Town Too Tough To Die, won the 2023 Will Rogers Medallion Award Gold Medal for Best Western Cookbook.

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JAMES A. TWEEDIE

A HOLDUP ON THE TOMBSTONE STAGE

A SHORT STORY

here’s more stories about stagecoach robberies than you can shake a stick at, and some of them might even be true, but though I don’t want to bore you with another one, I’m going to tell it to you anyway only because of Frederick Mead who got a bad reputation for doing what, at the time, seemed to be the right thing. It was early June 1883—mebbe it was the third or mebbe it was the fourth, I can’t recall, but it was a Tuesday—and I’d been driving a stagecoach with passengers and the Wells Fargo money box between Tucson and Tombstone for near two years, getting the job when Joe Harper up and quit after getting shot in the arm during a holdup that went wrong when the six-horse team bolted at the shot and pulled the coach straight over the bandit who was supposed to be holding the reins. The bandit what shot Joe took off, and by the time Joe and his shotgun messenger got the horses and passengers settled down, he’d lost so much blood the doc up in Tucson near had to take off the whole arm to save the rest of him. In the end he got to keep the arm, but he quit driving the stage, and that’s how I come to get the job. But I wasn’t meaning to bore you about old Joe Harper ’cause you can find him in Tucson, and he’ll be happy to tell you a whole heap of stories straight out, so I don’t need to tell those stories anyways. And that’s why I was going to tell you about Frederick Mead because it’s Fred’s story, but he won’t tell it even if you ask him, but since it’s also my story, here’s how it played out.

Now, Robert Burt had been my shotgun messenger for two years, and he was good at it. During those two years he’d been shot at six times, fought off four holdups, killed two robbers, and wounded at least three others and only lost the money box once when one of the passengers riding on the roof turned out to be one of the gang and thumped poor Bob on the back of his head before he knew it was coming. Anyways, when he comes to, he says he feels dizzy, and he’s stayed dizzy ever since. He’s so dizzy he can’t ride on the top-side of a coach or shoot a gun straight anymore, so Wells Fargo fires him, and he moves to Colorado, and as far as I know, he’s still dizzy all the time. And that’s how Fred gets hired as my new shotgun messenger and that seventeen-hour Tuesday ride from Tucson to Tombstone back in June of ’83 is his first day on the job. Now Fred’s a good man, and I take a liking to him right off, but he’s making me nervous because he keeps talking about what if “this” happens or what if “that” happens, and I want the man with the shotgun to be sure of himself and not hem and haw when things happen because they happen all the time, and when they do, they happen right quick, and that’s not the time for the man sitting next to me with the gun to start asking questions. But that’s how it is with Fred, and since he and me are now a team, I’ve got to trust that he’ll come through when the highwaymen show up—which they do three or four times a year or close to it.

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So, off we go from Tucson with I-don’t-knowhow many thousands of dollars in gold and silver coins fresh off the press from the Carson City Mint that we’re taking to the Wells Fargo office in Tombstone where they’ll exchange the coins for somewhere near six thousand dollars in silver bullion, which is all they put in because elsewise the box would be too heavy to move. Fred’s already been trained on the route, so he knows where the dangerous places are when we slow down up a steep hill or drop into a deep place where men can be standing ten feet away and you can’t see ’em till they step out with guns pointed at your head. But today the training is over, and it’s the real thing, and Fred still doesn’t seem sure of himself, and it’s making me nervous since my life is more or less in his hands, and if he does something stupid, it could turn out bad like it did for Joe and Robert, not to mention Bud Philpot, who wasn’t stupid at all, but was killed two years ago in March when he was driving ten passengers and a Wells Fargo box out of Tombstone. Some say it was Doc Holliday what shot Bud and that the Earps covered for him and that the Tombstone shoot-up had to do with the Clantons knowing all about it and the Earps wanting to shut ’em up once and for all before they had a chance to use it against them. I knew—or know—all those men and figure it could have been either one way or the other, but all I can say is that I felt safer when Johnny Behan was Sheriff than I ever did with Virgil Earp as marshall or with his gang of brothers. Well, it turns out we get to Tombstone without any trouble, and when we pull up at the Wells Fargo Office on Allen Street our eight passengers get off while the Tombstone agents heft the money box from the front boot and take it inside for the night so they can make the exchange and do all the paperwork that goes with it. Once the box is out, we take the coach to the company corral three blocks west at Third and Fremont and check in across the street at Fly’s Boarding house where there’s a room Wells Fargo leases for visiting bankers and folks like us who ride the stage. After dinner we head off to the Oriental Saloon for some cards and a drink or two. Fred comes along but says he doesn’t play cards and doesn’t drink liquor, so it doesn’t turn out to be as much fun as I’d hoped.

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While we’re there I notice three men sitting at a nearby table nursing their drinks for the longest time while every so often sneaking looks in our direction. Whether they have anything to do with what happens the next day or not, I can’t prove it, but there’s no doubt in my mind that they do. The next morning we’re up before breakfast. We get the coach and six fresh horses from the corral and head back to the office where the agents refill the money box with silver bullion, and we load up nine new passengers to take back to Tucson. The coach holds six folks comfortable or nine if they’re friendly, but any more than that and someone has to sit on the floor or on the roof, which some men prefer anyway because it’s less stuffy and because they’re more comfortable with having me and Fred as company than the folks underneath. So, with the sun just up and two men on the roof we start off on the ride back to Tucson. Near on to Benson, we climb up the same slope where Bud Philpot’s stage was shot up, and there in front of us is a cowboy riding a horse down the hill like he’s on his way to Tombstone. Now Fred, he knows the history of the spot near as well as I do, what with his training and all. “What if he’s a bandit?” “You shoot him afore he shoots you,” I say. Fred does not look comforted by my reply. As the coach continues to slow on the uphill grade and the man draws closer, I would swear—even with the scarf he’s wearing over his mouth—that he’s a twin brother to one of the men I saw lookin’ us over at the Oriental Saloon the night before. So I yell out, “Hold on tight!” and whip the horses to move as fast as six can go while pulling a heavily-loaded stagecoach up a hill. It turns out that there are bandits waiting for us, but our sudden speed throws their timing off as we blow past the rider and two men who step out of the rocks with pistols drawn. As we leave them behind in a cloud of dust, I hear Fred ask, “Now what?” And here I am near to death with straining every muscle I’ve got trying to keep these dang horses under control so the coach doesn’t go off the road and tip over, so I get all impatient and start yellin’ at Fred. “If I have to tell you what to do, you’re no good, and if you’re no good, I’m gonna throw you off the

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wagon for dead-weight, so just shut up with the damn questions and do what you gotta do!” So, Fred, he crawls onto the roof with the shotgun and tells the two up-top passengers to keep their heads down and move up to where he was sitting, and then how he manages to hold on with all the bouncing and swaying I have no idea, but he lies down and keeps the shotgun pointed at the road behind the wagon in case the bandits come after us. There’s five men, two women, and a child down below, and I can hear the kid screaming and crying while the women try to hush him up by telling him to be brave, and I know the horses will be winded long before we get close to Benson, and, to be honest, at that moment I’m not feeling very brave myself. “Here they come,” Fred yells. And sure enough, I look back and see them gaining on us until they come up to shotgun range, and then they pull up and follow us at speed. So, Fred’s shotgun’s keeping ’em back, but he can’t do anything about them following us. Pistols are no good at this distance, either, but when I hear a bullet whizzing by my ear, I know that at least one of them’s got a rifle. I think of the passengers below with the women and the kid, and I’m thinking those rifle bullets might be aimed at Fred and me, but at this distance and from a horse, one of them bullets is as likely to hit the kid as it is to hit me. I remember that Bud wasn’t the only person to die when his stage was bushwhacked because what with all the shooting that went on that day, one of the up-top passengers was killed too.

We’re going so fast that the wind near takes my hat off, but Fred turns around and crawls over, and even though I told him to stop asking questions he asks the same one I’ve been asking myself for the last ten minutes. “How long can the horses keep this up?” “Five minutes or less,” I say, knowing full well what that means. “Then the hell with it,” says Fred. “Unless the cavalry shows up over the next hill, they’ve got us dead and done, and my shotgun’s not gonna do anything more than get me killed and maybe you, too— and maybe some of the folks ridin’ with us. I say we quit and let ’em take what they can and leave us be.” One of the men next to me is as white as a sheet and says, “Do what he says, please! Don’t let ’em keep shooting. For God’s sake, I’ve got my sister and nephew in the coach and….” That was enough for me, and in any case, if Fred wasn’t gonna shoot, there wasn’t any reason to keep on going anyhow. So, I pull back on the reins, and the horses are more than willing to slow to a trot, to a walk, and then come to a stop altogether. On the top of the coach, Fred, he stands up straight with his shotgun pointed at the sky, and then he slowly bends over, empties it, and drops it onto the road stock down so the bandits can see it. Then he stands up again with his hands in the air, and me and the two men next to me do the same. I want the passengers to know what’s going on so I call out, “We’ve stopped, and we’re going to be robbed.” Then, after thinking about it for a bit I

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shout, “Don’t anyone try to be a hero. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Cries of “Yes” and “Yes, sir” ring out from under my feet, and the kid starts bawling again. Two of the bandits come up on each side while the third unbridles the horses from the coach. One holds two pistols pointed in my direction while his partner opens the door to the coach and orders everyone outside. The two women and the kid are told to sit on a nearby fallen tree, and the men are told to turn their backs and raise their hands while the bandit removes two pistols and a hunting knife the men are wearing. The man with the guns pointed at me orders us four top-siders to climb down one at a time and stand with the others. When we’re all lined up, one stands guard while the other two locate the Wells Fargo box and try to pull it free, but at near five hundred pounds, it weighs too much for them to lift. One of them pulls out a knife and tries to break off the lock, while his two partners start acting all nervous and trigger-itchy as they search the road for trouble.

The man with the knife starts cussin’ up a storm, and when he gives up on getting it open, he starts firing his pistol at the big padlock on the front of the box. When that doesn’t do anything, he starts shooting at the box with his other pistol, and wooden splinters and bullet fragments start flyin’ everywhere, and when one of them hits his partner in the neck, there’s even more swearin’ and yellin’ until the third bandit shouts, “Leave it! It’s too heavy to carry on a horse, and since we can’t get it open, I say we’ve gotta give it up and take what we can get afore we go.” So, two of them takes a hat and fills it with whatever money and jewelry they can find on the passengers. Then the baggage gets thrown down from the wagon, and when everything inside gets strewn all over the ground, it leads to some embarrassment for the ladies. The bandits are just starting to divide up the loot when a string of supply wagons comes down from the north, so the three men jump on their horses and head south so fast they leave the pistols, shotgun, and knife lying on the ground between the rear wheels of the coach.

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Fred warns the wagon drivers about the bandits while I re-harness the horses and the passengers repack their bags. When we get to Benson, I send telegraph messages to Tucson and Tombstone telling what happened, and when that’s done, we change horses, climb back onto the coach, and finish the trip without being robbed a second time. In Tucson, when those boys from Wells Fargo hear what happened, they ask old Fred if he’s not going to protect their stuff, then what’s the use of paying him to hold a shotgun on his lap that he’s not going to use? So, they up and fire him on the spot—which I don’t think is fair—and that’s why I’m telling you this story in the first place, so if you hear someone say that Frederick Mead’s a coward or some such thing, you can set them straight because now you know better. The only funny thing about the story is that the money box and the padlock were shot up so bad that the Wells Fargo boys in Tucson couldn’t open it to get the silver out. They were so hot about it that they were ready to blow it up with a stick of dynamite, which was something I’d have given up a week’s pay to see, so I was mighty disappointed when I heard they got it open with a crowbar. Now I’m waiting for them to hire and train a new shotgun messenger to ride with me, and to tell the truth, I can’t decide whether I’d rather have one more like Bob or more like Fred. {

THE AUTHOR James A. Tweedie has lived in California, Utah, Scotland, Australia, Hawaii, and presently in Long Beach, Washington. He has published six novels, four collections of poetry, and one collection of short stories with Dunecrest Press. His award-winning stories and poetry have appeared in regional, national, and international print and online anthologies. He has twice been honored with a Silver Certificate award from Writers of the Future and was awarded First Prize in the inaugural Edinburgh Festival Flash Fiction Contest. He is a regular contributor to Frontier Tales and Saddlebag Dispatches. He recalls moving from San Francisco to Logan, Utah, in 1979 and being both baffled and amused when he was asked, “What made you decide to move out West from California?” In that moment, he learned that “the West” was not just a direction, but a cultural space infused with traditions and tales embracing a heritage of mountain men, pioneers, Native Peoples, cowboys, homesteaders, prospectors, ranchers, railroads, and a host of conflicts that stretched and expanded the United States into the country it is today. His favorite corner of the West is the Sierra Nevada, where he has hiked and fly fished since he was old enough to walk.

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Detective Jonas V. Brighton, the man who sent infamous rustler Ike Clanton to meet his maker.

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RAWHIDE JAKE GETS A RAW DEAL Demystifying the constroversial life and legacy of Detective Jonas V. Brighton, the man who killed Ike Clanton.

STORY BY

JD ARNOLD

t seems that among knowledgeable Old West aficionados and historians, the general understanding of the character of Jonas V. Brighton, aka J.V. Brighton and allegedly aka Rawhide Jake Brighton, runs from boastful loudmouth to a slippery, underhanded, double dealing, dishonest culprit who shot first and asked questions later. He is credited with sending to his maker the infamous outlaw of Cochise County, Ike Clanton, who, when Wyatt Earp went out on his vendetta ride, fled north, along with his brother Phin, to Safford in neighboring Graham County. They lived there for a while before relocating to Nutrioso in Apache County where their sister and her husband owned a small ranch. Clanton brought with him his thieving and desperado ways, and just like in Tombstone, when cornered, he ran. That got him killed. Well, as I moved through the research for my three-volume historical fiction on the life and times of Detective Jonas V. Brighton, I reviewed close to two hundred separate pieces of evidentiary material and kept a pretty sharp eye out for any evidence

of that notion. Other than possibly the interview of Jeff Milton by J. Evetts Haley, I found only opinion and no third-party factual corroboration. Therefore, hopefully, this article will help strip the fiction from the history. I think the bad rep might have all begun in an article on the Clantons by Alford E. Turner that appeared in the March 1979 issue of Real West magazine. Several allegations were made by Turner that are either unverified or flat-out false. First, he states: “A former rustler friend of theirs, [the Clantons] J.V. Brighton, better known in Apache County as ‘Rawhide Jake,’ had taken a correspondence school ‘detective’ course and had obtained a mail-order deputy U.S. marshal’s badge.” Turner’s tone is definitely derogatory, and although, several years prior, he served time in prison for grand larceny, it is highly unlikely that Brighton was a rustler in Apache County, Arizona Territory. He was a married man who owned two businesses in Springerville, Arizona, was the district constable, and he sat on juries—hardly

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rustler activity. All the former is verified through public record. As Rita Ackerman says in her book, O.K. Corral Postscript: The Death of Ike Clanton, page 155, “None of the contemporary sources use this name. Rawhide Jake, and where the information originated is not known.” All the court records, County Supervisor Minutes, tax rolls and newspaper articles I looked at referred to him as J.V. Brighton. Nowhere was there mention of Rawhide Jake. Surely, at least the newspapers would have jumped on such a sobriquet. I suspect the name Rawhide Jake is an invention of Turner’s. Although, from my perspective, it is a good invention because it plays heavily into the theme of my novels. It is more dramatic. So, I went with it and am also guilty of perpetuating the myth. Incidentally, Ackerman’s book is an excellent source of references to contemporary newspaper articles regarding her subject matter. It is from J. Evetts Haley’s book, Jeff Milton: A Good Man With a Gun, published in 1948, wherein he reports his interviews with Jeff Milton in his last years, that Milton said he met J.V. Brighton (note: not Rawhide Jake) in St. Johns, Arizona, and Brighton told him he had taken a detective correspondence course and showed him a mail-order badge—not a deputy U.S. marshal’s badge. It seems that almost all, if not all, who have written about Brighton as a sub-

ject have commented on Haley’s quote of Milton as if it is an example of weak character or an underhanded approach to entry into the investigative profession. He probably did take a correspondence course after he was released from prison in 1879 when he was learning the biz under Virginia Hudson in Kansas and Missouri. I don’t see any tongue-in-cheek here. Unless one was a Pinkerton intern, detectives of that day learned more or less as they went along. Furthermore, Turner accuses Brighton of having a “two-faced approach to law enforcement” and “knew the hills and every possible camping place firsthand from his rustling days and easily located Renfro.” If Brighton knew so well the mountains where Clanton was hiding, why did he and Deputy Miller enlist one of the Horton brothers, who was well acquainted with the mountains, to accompany them when they were searching for Ike Clanton in Graham and Greenlee Counties? (Ackerman, page 338, quoting the Apache County Critic, Holbrook, AZ, June 18, 1887, verified). Or, why did Brighton need three men from the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation to accompany him on his search for Renfro? (Ackerman, page 151, quoting the Apache County Critic, July 30, 1887, verified). It appears that he did not know “the hills and every possible camping place firsthand” and therefore did not engage in rustling. The man, Renfro, was a wanted murderer, cattle rustler, and horse thief for whom Brighton had an arrest warrant and was out to arrest him, not just question him as Turner states. The fact is that Brighton was a strict enforcer of the law as made evident by his attempt to induce both Clanton and Renfro to surrender. Lastly, Turner avows that Phin Clanton “was captured alive by ‘Rawhide Jake.’” In fact, per the St. Johns Herald, May 5, 1887, on April 30, Phin was arrested and jailed by Deputies George Powell, Albert Miller, and their posse. He was in jail when J.V. killed his brother. Albeit embellished for storyline, except for the last half of Learning the Ropes and all of Lone Star Fame, Brighton’s verifiable history is set forth in my trilogy on his life and times. Except for his marriage to Mary Jane

Ike Clanton was a rustler, an outlaw, and likely the man who lit the fuse on the legendary shootout between the Earp Clan and the Cowboys at Tombstone’s O.K. Corral.

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in Wichita Falls, Texas, Lone Star Fame is all fiction. But, since he was in Texas, it could have happened as narrated. Another angle is that he could have been a railroad detective as alluded to by a San Francisco Examiner reporter in an article in the February 23, 1894, issue. Maybe he was headquartered in Wichita Falls where he met and married Mary Jane. However, the facts as reported in the Examiner article have serious issues with validity and probably should not be taken seriously. Brighton really only had three claims to fame: the Dr. Talbott patricide case; the Ike Clanton killing; and the Chris Evans case. Chronologically, except for his time in Springerville, there are long periods with no information between those three events, so realistically one can only measure Brighton’s character today in terms of those events. However, there is abundant public record and newspaper information involving Brighton during his time in Springerville, including his appointment as a special deputy U.S. marshal. The Brightons probably left Springerville sometime between the end of 1887 and the last half of 1889. Per the U.S. Census of 1900, his daughter Nellie Bly Brighton was born in California in January of 1890. Now, I am not saying he was any kind of an angel, as court testimony in the Talbott case, for example, seems to indicate when both his and Virginia Hudson’s characters were soundly attacked. But, in general he doesn’t seem to deserve descriptions like “shadowy figure” such as that by Robert Carlock, The Hashknife, page 332 n. 3 or “hired killer.” There is no insinuation of the sort anywhere in the historical record, a substantial amount of which resides in the archives of the Arizona Historical Society. It is true, however, that he killed at least two men, Clanton and Renfro. Although there are some omissions in the biography, a very good article by Harold Edwards entitled “The Man Who Killed Ike Clanton” appeared in the October 1991 issue of True West magazine. Edwards devoted a lot of ink to Brighton’s time in California. Rita Ackerman’s book also contains a decent biographical outline. Another mystery in the J.V. Brighton story is the question of where and how did he learn cowboying and the stock detective business? If he ever did. To my knowledge there is no historic record to answer the question. By the time I realized this, I was well into the storyline of “Rawhide Jake,” and I had to run with that motif. So, I created the whole fiction of his

stock detective adventures to provide an answer to the question and bridge the three-year gap of his whereabouts from the time he was last arrested in Kansas City to the time he showed up in Springerville where he is first referred to as a stock detective. But even that is loosey-goosey because, after J.V. killed Renfro, the Apache County Stock Raisers Association publicly denied any involvement with J.V. as an undercover stock detective (St. Johns Herald, August 25, 1887). So, as near as can be determined, in actuality, he was just a plain old detective until someone, or maybe even he, called him a stock detective. Furthermore, there could be more to the story of J. V. Brighton as alluded to in specific terms attributed to Will C. Barnes in the book Apaches & Longhorns: The Reminiscences of Will C. Barnes, edited by Frank C. Lockwood, Los Angeles, Ward Ritchie Press, 1941, pages 133-135. However, I was not able to discover any material to corroborate his assertions of any Brighton stock detective activity in northeastern California. Add to the mix Barnes’s hyperbolic reputation and one begins to wonder (see Carlock’s assessment of Barnes as a chronicler). Barnes’s narrative never named Brighton as the subject of his inuendo. He claims the detective he recommended to the cattlemen’s association in Northern California “… had taken a very active part in ridding the state of California of Messrs. Sontag and Evans….” Brighton was a key player in the Chris Evans case but not Sontag, who was killed by a posse. But, except for the 1900 Census record of his daughter Nellie’s birth, January 29, 1890, in California, I was not able to find any evidentiary matter of Brighton’s whereabouts between November 1887 and April 1892. So, maybe he was in Northern California. Someday, some interested party may ferret out the facts. In summary then, given the tone of Turner’s article and the assertions he made that are suspect at best and in some cases false, it appears that he painted an undeserved grim picture of J.V. Brighton and gave him the name “Rawhide Jake.” And, as the saying goes, once in the article, always in the legend. JD Arnold watched plenty of Westerns on TV back in the day, read a few books, and always wanted to be a rancher. As it turned out, he never got there. Instead, he is a veteran Army combat aviator, former deputy sheriff, death investigator, and longtime CPA. Now he sort of lives a rancher’s life vicariously through the stories Western he writes.

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TOMBSTONES IN TOMBSTONE BENJAMIN HENRY BAILEY

The tombstones in Tombstone tell the story of how many men and women met their fate. Some were by sickness, some by accidents, and some were killed by those fueled by hate. The gravel and rocks placed ever so carefully, lays out each final resting place in rows. The markers tell the grim tales, that leaves morbid imagination of their death throes. Death comes in many ways, to the young, old, short, and tall. If one is a gambler, the only thing to bet on is that it comes for us all.

“Lynched By Bisbee Mob 1884” “Killed By Indians 1882” Vast descriptions left behind, making sure there is nothing to misconstrue. Some of those buried here died to be born again in legend. The thought never crossing their mind as life gave out and the darkness beckoned. The gunfight in the lot behind the corral, erupted and caused blood to spill. History alluded to both right and wrong. All can agree though that it sent three to boot hill. I stand here now among the graves, wondering what dreams and fears they all had. The tombstones in Tombstone evoke such emotion, as death comes for us all, the good and the bad.

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EERIE SECRETS OF TOMBSTONE’S ICONIC BIRD CAGE THEATER

MANUELA SCHNEIDER

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FROM EARLY IN IT’S HISTORY, TOMBSTONE’S BIRD CAGE THEATER WAS KNOWN AS THE MOST WICKED NIGHT SPOT IN THE SOUTHWEST. IT WAS A PLACE WHERE THE LIQUOR FLOWED DAY AND NIGHT, AND THE CARDS AND THE LADIES OF THE EVENING COULD GET A GRIP ON A MAN’S SOUL HE JUST COULDN’T SHAKE. AND WHEN THAT HAPPENS, ONE DOESN’T HAVE TO WAIT LONG FOR TRAGEDY TO FOLLOW...

uring the heyday of the thriving mining camp known as Tombstone, Arizona, a married couple hit on the idea that the citizens, the miners, and the cowpokes needed more entertainment than the countless saloons in town. They wanted to offer the best possible diversions in the Southwest. Why not? Mr. William “Billy” Hutchinson and his wife Lottie had plenty of experience working cabaret shows in other cities. When the Bird Cage Theatre opened its doors on December 26, 1881, Hutchinson had missed the mark in thinking that decent, married women would set foot into premises where rough entertainment and hard liquor were part of the amusements. To his shock, the couples who were supposed to spend their hardearned money in his theatre to watch dancing and singing didn’t show up. Even free-of-charge ladies’ nights failed utterly. But other people did frequent the establishment. The so-called soiled doves of Tombstone’s red-light district along Toughnut Street quickly declared the theatre as their new, favorite stomping ground. Along with them, women of easy virtue, miners, and cowboys walked through the front door, and Hutchinson remade his entire concept overnight. He allowed the shady ladies to ply their trade in his building and added gambling, as well as a yet-unknown variety of liquors to his business. The shows included various theatre acts and groups of traveling

circuses along with cancan dancers wearing imported, daring costumes from Paris. Rumor had it that numerous celebrities performed on the stage of the Bird Cage Theatre. According to urban legend, world-famous Enrico Caruso is said to have fascinated the audience with his incredible voice during a stopover on his way to California. One of the first acts was Mademoiselle de Granville, the female Hercules. Cornish wrestling exhibitions took place on a regular basis. Crossdressing masquerades featured men in women’s clothes singing bawdy songs. It didn’t take long before the Bird Cage Theatre achieved the reputation of being the most notorious honky-tonk in the Wild West. People as far away as Saint Louis heard about this rowdy place. The main room of the theatre offered fourteen cribs arranged like a horseshoe around the theatre room, which were not only boxes for a better view of the stage area. They also contained a cot, a lamp for dim light, and velvet curtains, which could be closed for more privacy. The privacy led to rather sinful behavior with soiled doves behind those drapes. The women of easy morals in those cribs wore costumes which revealed a tantalizing expanse of skin. They decorated their dresses and pinned-up hairstyles with colorful feathers. The onlookers must have been reminded of birds in cages hovering right below the ceiling, therefore renaming the place Bird Cage Theatre made sense. Even the song “A Bird in a Gilded Cage” was inspired by the composer’s visit to

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the famous theatre, although one co-composer asked the other to change the lyrics so it was clearly about a married woman. The gambling area in the basement of the Bird Cage achieved its own fame as the site of the longest poker game of all time. It is said that it was played over eight years, five months, and three days. According to historians, the incredible sum of ten million dollars—over two hundred and seventy million dollars in today’s currency—changed hands among the gamblers. Luckily for Hutchinson, the Bird Cage kept ten percent. Famous characters like Bat Masterson, Diamond Jim Brady, Adolphus Busch (co-founder of Budweiser), future Californian senator George Hearst, and of course, famous Doc Holliday played at that very poker table. It cost the gamblers an unbelievable one thousand dollars in the currency of the day to buy into the game and shuffle those cards. The Bird Cage developed into the most wicked night spot in the entire Southwest. But where liquor flows day and night, and gambling as well as prostitutes get a grip on a man’s soul, one doesn’t have to wait long for tragedy to follow. Many lamentable events were documented, although others weren’t, over the eight and a half years of operation, but historians believe that twenty-six people lost their lives one way or the other inside the theatre. One couple is said to have committed suicide inside one of the prostitution chambers by using their potbelly stove to trigger carbon monoxide poisoning. They were madly in love, but he didn’t have enough silver to free his beloved soiled dove as demanded by the owner, who was more of a box herder, or pimp, by now. Not being able to marry and live happily together, they chose to die together. Countless people were shot or stabbed over a lousy deck of cards or during a heated argument under the influence of too much corn juice. The killings often happened right inside the saloons, and the Bird Cage must have seen its share of brutal murders. One of those legends describes the tragedy that

Adolphus Busch (top right), John Henry “Doc” Holliday (middle right), and Bat Masterson (bottom right) were among the famous and infamous characters to have played at the Bird Cage’s notorious poker tables.

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took place between German-born Little Gertie, nicknamed Gold Dollar, and the tall, slender Margarita, a Mexican beauty. Both were women of easy morals, but unfortunately, Margarita developed a crush on Little Gertie’s live-in partner, Billy Milgreen. Little Gertie was a former Bird Cage dancer who worked at the competing Crystal Palace saloon at the time of the murder. Billy Milgreen claimed to be faithful, but Gold Dollar decided to have a looksee herself. She walked into the Bird Cage Theatre and discovered beautiful Margarita sitting on the gambler’s lap. Raging with fury, Gold Dollar yanked Margarita away from her lover and stabbed her to death with the stiletto blade she kept hidden under her skirt. The stiletto turned up behind the theatre a century later and now is displayed in the museum. Gold Dollar fled the scene of the crime, and despite numerous eyewitness accounts, was never charged with murder. A grave with Margarita’s name on it can be viewed in Boot Hill Cemetery to this day. Another death was reportedly an accident. A sandbag used to pull up the curtains fell on a stage helper’s head. The rope unexpectedly gave way, and the sandbag broke the unfortunate fellow’s neck. Over one hundred and forty bullet holes in the walls, floor, and ceiling speak of the dangerous and violent environment in the Bird Cage Theatre. It’s easy to believe that most of these killings really took place in the notorious night spot.

he Bird Cage changed hands in 1882 when Hugh McCrume and John Stroufe bought the building. They hired former San Francisco theatre director Bignon and his wife Minnie. They refurbished the building and renamed it the Elite Theatre. The Bignon couple performed at the theatre themselves. Sadly, more deaths occurred during their management. An act called The Human Fly involved women in scandalous outfits walking on the ceiling upside-down thanks to special shoes and clamps fitted to the ceiling. Sadly, the clamp on the shoe of one of the girls broke and the poor soul fell headlong onto the stage, dying instantly. The mines stopped making money in the late nineteenth century. The pumping station burned to the ground, and the mines flooded in 1886. When

Little Gertie Gold Dollar is said to have stabbed another dancer by the name of Margarita to death in the theater in a fit of jealous rage over a man.

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the price of silver dropped to ninety cents an ounce a few months later, many residents left overnight. As a consequence, the Bird Cage Theatre closed in 1889 and stood abandoned for over three decades. As one of the rare buildings that never burned down in the two big Tombstone fires, it has endured at the corner of Allen and Sixth Street like a silent witness since the founding days of Tombstone. It changed hands twice more and served as the mayor’s storage building. However, town folks often avoided walking on the boardwalk in front of the old adobe building. They thought of the Bird Cage as haunted. The rumors spread as early as 1921, when students at the school across the street from the old theatre claimed to hear weird noises coming from inside the structure, even in the daytime. Countless citizens of Tombstone said that they heard piano music, women laughing, and the clinking of whiskey glasses from inside the building when they walked by the boarded-up doors. They often mentioned the smell of cigar smoke drifting through the broken windows. How could it be? Was it possible that the rowdy audiences and customers of Tombstone’s heyday had never left the premises of the most wicked night spot of pioneer days?

he Bird Cage was in a sad state when the Hunley family bought it, and William Hunley took it over in 1967. Boarded up with broken windows and rainwater seeping into the adobe structure, it stood there as if it awaited guests who would never return. The furniture and artifacts had been left in place. When the Hunley family walked into the building, they must have taken a journey back in time to the glorious days of silver mining. When the Hunley family took over the Bird Cage Theatre, they must have been surprised to see that the inside and its furnishings looked as if the pioneers had walked out of the building only a few days before. Poker cards still lay on the table, unopened whiskey bottles stood behind the bar, and stacks of glasses waited to hold drinks. I would have given everything to have walked into the untouched building after so

many years like they did. What an amazing excursion into the past that must have been. The Hunley family turned the building into a fascinating and well-known museum. But it didn’t take them long to realize that sounds occurred, strange shadows wavered, and items moved when nobody was around. These unusual incidents happened too often to be ignored. The family decided to keep an eye on events that couldn’t easily be explained. They asked visitors to the museum to share their unusual experiences while they walked through the different rooms. People pro-

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Prior to its purchase by the Hunley family in 1967, the Bird Cage had sat neglected and unoccupied for decades.

duced photographs of transparent cowboys, light orbs, swaying beverages in untouched bottles, even a white transparent figure of a woman in a long dress walking down the stairs to the basement. A mannequin dressed as Wyatt Earp graced one of the theatre loges under the ceiling. Many mornings when the staff came to work, they found Wyatt’s cowboy hat on the floor of the main theatre room. However, employees avoided walking around in the cribs, as the floor wasn’t stable enough to hold the weight of an adult. There was no explanation of how the hat could have been tossed down from the upper level into the

main room. One morning, the mannequin was turned around completely, its back toward the main theatre room and the face towards the wall. After six months of the hat being thrown into the theatre, Hunley asked historians for help. The theatre box where they had displayed the mannequin of Wyatt had been reserved for the Clantons, Wyatt’s sworn enemies, during the theatre’s glory days. The employees placed Wyatt in the box that the historian believed had been his, and the uncanny occurrences stopped. After a while, the Hunley family agreed to hold paranormal séances and investigation tours. The

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Two photos of the author taken within seconds of one another during a visit to the Bird Cage Theater. A camera malfunction? Or something more, perhaps?

owner, William Hunley, invited a famous medium, and she organized a séance at the basement poker table. But the session went wrong and almost ended tragically. People at the séance reported that spectral hands seized Hunley around the throat and choked him. The other attendees at the séance experienced sensations and bruises as if they were being beaten with invisible fists from nowhere. Only when the commotion awoke the medium from her trance did the attacks stop. Severe bruises remained on Hunley’s throat for a full six weeks. In another bizarre incident, the dice table weighing several hundred pounds had been moved during the night and placed in front of the theatre room door. A sign on it read Don’t Disturb Our 26 Resident Ghosts. Eight men were required to move the table back to its original position. No one could explain how it was moved, but its new position would have made it impossible for visitors to enter or to “disturb” the theatre’s inhabitants. As word of paranormal encounters inside the Bird Cage Theatre spread—along with more open thinking about the subject—television shows filmed

footage inside the building at night when all visitors were gone. The camera teams often faced problems such as fully-charged filming equipment batteries— which normally are supposed to work for days—being emptied within minutes. There was no technical explanation for it. Some people might think those videos and the stories of ghosts are a hoax. When I started my research for various novels about Tombstone’s red-light district and its silver rush, I entered the Bird Cage Theatre with a neutral opinion. Since then, I’ve visited the museum and former theatre countless times in twenty-six years of regular travels to the town too tough to die. The more often I visited the building, the more I came across similar stories from people experiencing eerie things, hearing strange sounds, and capturing inexplicable footage with their cameras, mobile phones, and on videotape. During the past few years, especially, I began collecting the stories people told me along with the strange things I witnessed myself. I’ve questioned tourists from all over the world as well as locals. It’s a little scary to see how many people describe similar events.

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The most famous ghost of the Bird Cage is the White Lady. Judging by the long white dress and bonnet she wears, ghost hunters assume she was a proper townswoman who likely was attached to the funeral hearse displayed in the museum. According to historical documents, the “Black Moriah” carriage was most people’s last ride out to Boot Hill Cemetery. The hearse is said to be one of the most active spots in the building for paranormal encounters. Please allow me to share some of my own paranormal experiences from the Bird Cage. I can confirm that I’ve seen the transparent shape of a cowboy who appeared to be yelling. In certain corners of the building, I smell the aroma of cherry tobacco, as if someone were smoking right next to me—quite strange consider that the entire building has been strictly non-smoking for years. Hearing the giggle of women when I walk through alone without other tourists happens quite often, as well as catching a whiff of rose perfume. I can also hear loud footsteps and banging and see items moving—especially the mortician’s table hanging over the famous “Black Moriah” funeral hearse in the backstage area high out of the reach of visitors. In addition to my own experiences, all these

things have been reported by countless tourists and employees, as well. Whether one believes in ghosts and paranormal activities or not, one thing is sure, the Bird Cage Theatre still breathes the spirit of the glorious days of the silver rush. It is one of the best-preserved buildings from pioneer days and a must-see when one travels to Tombstone. Its history and atmosphere are unique, and you may hear the whispers of the birds in a gilded cage or the rowdy laughter of the miners of the biggest silver bonanza in U.S. history. These folks may be long forgotten, but they are definitely not gone. Manuela Schneider’s love of Native American and Western history might be surprising to some in light of her being a native German. But her fascination with pioneer life, cowboy heroes, and treacherous outlaws have been her constant companion for as long as she can remember. She recalls TV shows like Gunsmoke, Little House on the Prairie and Bonanza leaving her mesmerized as a small child. Drawing energy from the many powerful pioneer women of our past, this vibrant author endeavors to create captivating sagas that ultimately leave readers wondering, Will the story continue? And how will it end?

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ANTHONY WOOD

JUDGED AND FOUND LACKING THE STORY OF RAINY MILLS, PART III

he saloon barkeep hung one arm on a batwing with the other holding the shotgun on Ratliff’s former friends. “You won’t be stayin’ in Skullyville, I’m guessin’. Where you headed now?” “Louisiana, to find the man who should’ve given my folks justice and stopped Ratliff.” The barkeep looked back at Ratliff’s former friends, then whispered, “I heard Ratliff say that a judge friend of his who lived in Shreveport moved from there to retire.” “You know where?” “Ratliff said he moved to Bellevue to start a newspaper. Ratliff was thinkin’ about settlin’ down there himself. The judge offered him a job as his personal security officer. He said if the judge owned the bank, most of the land, and what people read in the paper, he’d control the town and Bossier Parish. Ratliff planned on takin’ the job, that is, until you showed up.” “Thanks for the information.” Rainy looked around at the town. “Why are you here?” “Everybody’s got a past. Mine hasn’t caught up with me here, at least not yet. If’n I was younger, I’d come with you. War’s comin’ on fast, and the Choctaws will line up with the South, I do believe. Folks are fussin’ already about it. Some say the fight’ll come even way out here.” “I pray it never does. Why Skullyville, though? Surely, it can’t be just about the government doling out money.” “The Choctaws say it sounds like their name for money. Me? I heard a Choctaw witch hung a wolf’s

head at the edge of town to ward off evil spirits. The skull stayed there for years.” Rainy felt the wolf within calling him to Bellevue. “Thanks again.” He flipped the barkeep a five dollar gold piece. “I was never here.” The barkeep bit the coin with his eyetooth. “Good enough.” The road leading east from Skullyville to Fort Smith offered no comfort. With Ratliff dead, the man who needed to pay next for his actions was the judge who let him get away with murder.

Rainy turned south from Fort Smith to find mountains and solace to sort out his thoughts. Sipping his coffee in camp the first night, Rainy watched a shooting star blaze across a moonless sky. “Isn’t that a sight, horse?” His mount snorted and shook his head up and down. “I guess I should call you something other than horse.” The horse perked his ears up. Rainy thought for a moment. “Homer. Yes, that’s it. Your name is Homer.” The horse stared at Rainy like he had no sense. “What? It’s a good name. Homer was a historian and poet. He wrote some pretty good stories, too.” Homer pawed the ground. “At least it’ll remind me that I have a good classical education when I feel like an animal… like I did back in Skullyville.” Rainy got up from the fire to brush Homer down. “Let’s not talk about that anymore tonight.” Homer nudged Rainy with his nose.

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Sitting back down on his bedroll and pouring another cup of coffee, Rainy felt for Ratliff’s throwing knife in his belt. He thumbed Ratliff’s name etched in the smooth silver and bone handle. “Ratliff used this knife to murder my father and hold my mother in place while he violated her.” Encrusted blood along the hilt made him check the wound Ratliff left in his hip. It looked to be healing well, but it hurt something fierce. “I have only one use for this evil blade.” Rainy flipped the weapon point to handle and back again. “I’ll kindly leave this knife with the judge who freed the man that brought on the blood of my birth.” Rainy admitted to his horse, “Homer, it is a fine blade, sharp as a straight razor, and perfectly balanced. I guess I best learn how to use it.” Rainy practiced throwing the blade. Soon, he got as good with the knife as he was with a pistol.

“All rise. Bossier Parish District Court for the State of Louisiana is now in session, the Honorable Jeremiah Waters, Judge presiding.”

Waters gave a sharp rap on the desk with his gavel. “What’s on the docket today, Bailiff?’ “Everything is laid out right there in front of you, Judge.” “Oh, yes, yes, I see it now. Thank you.” As Waters examined the papers, Rainy slipped in the door and sat in the back row. Waters grinned and slowly raised his eyes as a red-headed beauty, dressed in the latest Paris fashions, gave him a wink. He pulled his spectacles back up from the end of his hawk-bill nose. “Miss Lacy Boyette, after reviewing your case, it has been dismissed due a lack of evidence.” The court erupted in displeasure. A spectator chuckled and yelled, “I see now what made you come out of retirement, Judge Adulterer Waters.” Judge Waters slammed his gavel down. “That’s enough! The burden of proof was not met in Miss Boyette’s circumstance. Case closed.” Waters pointed his gavel at the heckler. “One more word out of you, Sam, and I’ll—” The bailiff cleared his throat and shook his head at the judge.

FROM FOUR-TIME SPUR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR

J O HN D. NE SBI T T

WWW.JOHNDNESBITT.COM

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Waters nodded to Miss Boyette. “Miss Boyette, you are free to go.” She frowned at Sam, then blew Judge Waters a kiss and twirled her parasol. “Thank you kindly, Jeremiah. Stop by my establishment later tonight and let me show you how grateful I am.” As men shook their fists and cursed, Miss Boyette smiled and swung her hips from side to side on her way to the door. Judge Waters took out a handkerchief and wiped the drool dripping from his mouth. Sam shook his head in disgust. Rainy gripped the back of the pew in from of him to keep from throwing Ratliff’s knife straight into Judge Waters’s heart. He ground his teeth, whispering, “Evil as the man I just killed.” Sam elbowed the man sitting next to him. “Go on, ask him.” A farmer wearing homespun and a flop hat jumped up and yelled, “What about us, Judge? You gonna give us the same kinda deal you just gave that whore?” Miss Boyette stopped at the door and turned. “I resent that remark.” A man sitting next to Rainy who looked to be a well-to-do banker snickered. “I don’t.” The bailiff shouted, “Here, here, sit down, or I’ll throw you all out!” Miss Boyette swatted the banker’s hat down over his eyes but grinned at Rainy. She seductively kissed the air and gave him a slight nod as an invitation. Rainy turned back to the judge without acknowledging her. He’d spent too much time with such women. He had other things on his mind in this courtroom. The farmer sat down hard and folded him arms. Judge Waters readjusted his spectacles and leaned over the papers before him. “You there, farm boy, you owe Bossier Parish twenty cash dollars for overdue property tax. Either pay today, or I put your farm up for auction on the courthouse steps this afternoon.” The bailiff chuckled, “If it ever gets to the steps, huh, Judge?” Waters sneered, “It’ll never go on the block. I’ve already paid off the auctioneer.” The farmer gritted his teeth, “You will do no such thing.” Waters leaned forward. “I’d be happy to take

the taxes out of your holdings in other ways if that suits you.” “What do mean?” Waters leaned back in his chair. “How is your oldest daughter doing these days? She’s what, eighteen now, and still not married?” “Leave my family out of this. I’ll find your damn tax money somewhere if I have to—” Rainy spoke in a deep tone. “You won’t have to.” The courtroom fell silent. The farmer spun around to see Rainy rise and pitch a gold double eagle to the bailiff. “Consider his taxes paid.” Rainy sat back down. Waters craned his neck to get a better view of Rainy. “And who might you be, sir. Yes, you, Mister Generous to a Fault?” Rainy leaned up. “No fault here, Judge. Just doing what a decent man would do for a neighbor in need. Who I am doesn’t matter. Not yet. But if you must have a name, just call me Robin Hood.” The courtroom audience erupted in laughter. Waters glared at Rainy and snickered. “Like in the story books?” “Yes, except this is no fairytale, Judge. You should know the difference by now. If you don’t, you will soon enough.” Rainy slipped out the door and disappeared into an alley. The farmer in homespun shouted, “Well, hallelujah! If it ain’t ole Robin Hood still robbin’ from the rich and givin’ to the poor.” Waters barked at the bailiff, “Bring that man back here. I’m not done with him.” The bailiff laid the gold coin on Waters’s desk. He picked it up and studied the shiny, newly minted piece. The farmer took his hat in hand and said, “I’ll be needin’ a receipt for that, Judge Waters.” Waters slammed the coin on the bench. He wrote out the receipt and threw it on the floor. The bailiff returned and shrugged. “He disappeared like a haint or an angel or somethin’.” “Back to your post and shut up. You’ll find him later. Next!” Rainy found an out of the way café and settled down into a corner chair. He ordered only coffee, not wanting a heavy meal to cloud his thinking. The farmer whose tax he paid sneaked in the door and took a chair. “Thank you for what you did. You saved me and my family.”

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After sharing Waters’s exploits, the farmer pulled down his hat and went out the back door. Rainy sipped his coffee and considered a plan. Tonight, he would put the past behind him—both Ratliff and the judge.

The mansion was dark except for the flicker of a coal oil lamp lighting up Judge Waters’s profile. Rainy sneaked to the window that was slightly raised. The bailiff, who also served as his henchman, listened carefully as Waters laid out a plan to find and quietly dispose of Rainy. With a nod, the bailiff slipped out a side door from the judge’s study and left in a gallop on his horse. Rainy waited.

Judge Waters finally finished his paperwork about midnight and turned the lamp down but not out. He rose to stretch to see a shadowy figure emerge from a dark corner. “Who is it? What do you want?” Rainy whispered gruffly, “Only one thing.” Waters mustered up his courage. “Yeah? And what’s that?” “You.” Waters sat back down in his plush leather chair smirking. He leaned up and poured himself a whiskey and offered Rainy one. “I don’t drink with scoundrels.” Waters twirled the whiskey in his glass and threw it back, taking it all in one swallow. “You know all I have to do is yell and my bailiff will come running, right?” Rainy stepped into the dim light. “He left.” Waters leaned up, palms flat on his desk. “It’s you, the stranger who stood up for that farmer. Honorable, I must say, but misguided at best.” “You’ll never know.” Waters rubbed his hands together frantically. “It’s a federal crime to harm a judge.” “It’s an eternal crime to take advantage of poor farmers, rape women, kill their husbands, and let murderers go.” “I never did anything—” “That you didn’t want to do, you bastard.” “Who are you, and what do you want?” “Me? Nobody. Just an orphan whose father was

murdered the day his mother was raped by your good friend.” Waters’s eyes bulged. “No, it can’t be. Ratliff said he had a—” “And what do I want? You took the life I was supposed to have, and now I must take yours.” “I’ve done everything within my power to be fair and just. You can’t do this.” “Do this I can. Do this I will. You’re still twisting the law for your own profit at other’s expense. I watched you let a whore off the hook and a poor farmer’s dreams nearly go into the outhouse.” Rainy spat. “And you call yourself fair and just. People aren’t as dumb as you think they are. But you sure as hell are.” “What are you going to do?” “Give you one consideration if you do as I ask.” “What, what? I’ll do anything.” “Stealing other men’s land with their family’s hopes and dreams is where we’ll start.” “What do you mean?” “You’re going to sign all land deeds back over to the farmers from whom you stole them.” Tears formed in Judge Waters’s eyes. “But I can’t do that. I’ve already made deals.” “Deals that I’m sure you’re going to lose your ass on now.” “Please don’t—” “What’s it worth to gain the whole world and lose your own soul?” “I can’t. I won’t—” “Either you will do it, or your family will die with you. You decide.” “Please don’t kill me.” “You should’ve thought about that when you let John Ratliff off scot-free after destroying my parents’ lives, Thomas and Epsie Mills.” Rainy stared blankly at the empty shell of a man who sat before him. Waters’s eyes darted here and there like a cornered mouse as he clawed at his face. “You, sir, have been tried and found lacking. Choose your own sentence, Judge Jeremiah Waters.” Waters pleaded, “But I came to this town after the tornado destroyed it back in ’51 and made something of it, damn it.” “Yeah, the farmer told me how you bought up all the land cheap because the good citizens couldn’t afford to rebuild after the storm.” “I rebuilt it for them and—” “Made slaves of them in the bargain. Now you

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boast of your good will in your own newspaper as you fill your pockets with somebody else’s gold.” “How’d you know about that?” “An acquaintance of your old friend told me.” “Where the hell is Ratliff? He was supposed to be here last week.” “He won’t be joining us, Judge.” “You killed him, didn’t you?” “The bastard who made me a bastard made his own bed. I just put him to sleep in it—for good.” Judge Waters lost control and darkened the front of his pants. He knew he was done. Rainy stepped forward so Waters could see his face clearly. “What’s it going to be, Judge? Your life and I leave your family alone or your life and I don’t leave them alone? Either way, your life is forfeit. I would hate to make your wife’s last deed on earth be to sign those papers on your behalf, in your absence, of course.” Waters gasped, “Not my wife… I have grandchil—” Rainy slammed his fist on the desk as hard as the judge did his gavel in court earlier. “My mother and father never got the chance to have grandchildren. And now, the days of you seeing yours are over.” Waters snatched open the top drawer of his desk to grab a pistol hidden there. Rainy kicked the desk so hard it pinned his hand. Waters opened his mouth to scream in pain. Rainy pulled his pistol and stuck it in the judge’s mouth. “Go ahead, cry out, you coward. I’ll kill everyone in this house and burn it down right now, do you understand?” Waters nodded dumbly, sobbing and rubbing his broken hand. “There’s two ways this can happen, Judge—by my hand or by yours. Whichever way you choose, the land deeds will be signed back over to their rightful owners.” Judge Jeremiah Waters looked to the rafters. “Uh uh, Judge. You’re not getting off that easy.” “But my wife, my kids, my….” Rainy sunk Ratliff’s throwing knife into the oak desk. “I had no father and mother. Ratliff took them from me, and you let it happen, damn you. Now I live with that murdering rapist’s blood running through my veins. That’s almost enough to slit my own wrists.” Waters stared at the knife. “What’s the knife for? “You’re smart. You figure it out. But first, sign

those deeds and hand over the gold in that safe. Then you’ll write a letter confessing the crimes you’ve committed. I want names and details. I’ll have it printed in The South-Western in Shreveport. Just think, Judge, you’ll be immortalized in the annals of history for all time.” Waters, head in hands, cried, “My God, what am I going to do?” “There’s only one thing left to do.” “What’s that?” “That knife there has a very fine edge, Judge.” “I can’t believe this is happening—” “I’ll have that drink now.” Rainy noticed a new ten gauge shotgun standing in the corner behind the desk as he poured himself a drink. “Make sure you put the crime against my parents and their names at the top of the list, Judge.” Waters completed the letter and shoved the papers forward. “I’m finished.” Rainy whispered, “Yes, you are, Judge,” as he threw back the last of his whiskey. Waters cried for a moment, then dried his tears. He took Ratliff’s knife by the handle that was used to kill Rainy’s father and hold his mother down as he violated her. He studied the name and thumbed the knife edge. He looked up as if to pray, then back at Rainy. “I’m sorry, son, for everything.” “Save it for the One who judges all things, Waters. You’ll meet Him in just a moment.” Without a blink, Judge Jeremiah Waters slit his own wrists. Rainy stuffed the deeds and letter inside his coal black coat. He grabbed the shotgun and the money sack, then eased out the side door. Rainy heard the thump of Waters’s body fall from his chair as he quietly closed the door behind him. He laid the shotgun across his saddle and stuffed the sack of gold coins into his saddlebag. Rainy rubbed Homer’s neck and chuckled as he mounted, “A rather large donation will be made to the Natchez Children’s Home by Judge Jeremiah Waters in honor of my parents.” Rainy rode out to the farmer’s house whose taxes he’d paid earlier. “You know what to do with the deeds. Put this letter in the mail to The South-Western in Shreveport one day after the law reports Judge Waters as dead.” Rainy handed the farmer a gold eagle. The farmer nodded. “I’ll do it, and thank you.”

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The farmer offered his hand. “Who are you, some kind of avenging angel?” “Maybe once a death angel. But not anymore.” Rainy slipped away into the same darkness as the day his mother left him with the preacher on the orphanage doorstep.”

Rainy brushed his horse down, making sure his new set of clothes stayed free of hair. “I like the quiet, don’t you, Homer?” A faraway locomotive whistled on the Vicksburg, Shreveport & Texas Railroad, piercing the twilit darkness. “Thank goodness it’s going the other direction.” Rainy placed a feedbag on Homer. “There ya go, boy, that should do you.” Back by the fire, he stirred a stew that smelled to be just about done. A pack of coyotes sounded off. Rainy eased his pistol from its holster. Homer snorted nervously and stamped his hooves. “I do believe they’re getting a might close, Homer. We might have some busines ’fore long.” In the fading light, the tallest man Rainy had ever seen ran just ahead of the howlers, lunging and snapping at his heels. He dived into Rainy’s camp as the coyotes slid to a stop, falling over each other. Rainy fired three shots, killing two. The rest of the pack disappeared into the night. The young man got up and dusted himself off. He thanked Rainy for not shooting him—and for saving his life. After a bit of small talk and food, Rainy showed off his fancy pistol. The stranger marveled at the weapon. “I’m Lummy Tullos from Choctaw County, Missip.” “Where you headed?” “Some place called Winn Parish.” Rainy smiled and pulled the ten gauge shotgun from a soft leather case. Lummy gave out a low whistle, “Where’d you get that cannon?” “Oh, well, I ordered one just like it for a fellow you might know down in Winn Parish. But to my good fortune, I happened upon a man who just didn’t need this particular one anymore. I have business to attend to in Shreveport just now, though. Would you be interested in maybe delivering it to him for me?” {

THE AUTHOR 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 President 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 Fire That Calms the Storm, the fifth novel in Anthony’s epic historical fiction series, A Tale of Two Colors, about life during the Civil War, was released in November. 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.

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GEMS OF COCH Discover the rich history of Kartchner Caverns and their surroundings: geological wonders, ecological diversity, and human narratives intertwined within a captivating landscape—above and below the ground.

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HISE COUNTY

STORY BY DOUG HOCKING

OR MANY YEARS, members of a secretive society have stalked the Arizona deserts in search of ocotillo, extending its spiny fingers toward crimson flowers like bloody nails twitching in the dry air. It thrives on karst. Where there is limestone, there are sinkholes, and some of

these exude the breath of the earth, revealing a path to a cave below. Caves form in limestone at the top of the water-table, as water acidic with carbonic acid from rotting surface vegetation penetrates the ground and dissolves the stone. As the water-table recedes, caverns are left behind. Water continues

to drip downward dissolving rock, and when it meets the open cavern, it evaporates, redepositing the stone as pencil thin soda straws or thickened stalactites. Where water drips to the cavern floor, a fried egg might form and grow into a stalagmite or eventually join with the stalactite above to form a column.

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Some of the wonders of Kartchner Caverns, which were unknown to the outside world until 1988.

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Map of Colossal Cave, including the Grotto of the Lost Treasures.

Water might drip along walls to form bacon and draperies. Depending on the temperature and other conditions, rock may form as calcite or aragonite or even become crystalline dogtooth spar, frostwork, or flower-like clusters of aragonite crystals. This growing wonderworld presents itself as palaces, thrones, princesses, and gargoyles enlivening the imagination. In some places, as in Bisbee, metallic minerals intrude covering stalactites and stalagmites in the fantastic colors of green malachite, yellow chalcopyrite, purple azurite, red cuprite, and turquoise chrysocolla. As air pressure rises and falls, the earth breathes in and out. Cavers of the National Speleological Society seek that breath for it says, “Here is a cave.” In colder climes, the cave may exude fog or have its own highly localized snowstorm. But in the desert, there is only that faint breath. Perhaps that is why Arizona cavers are among the most secretive. They form in Grottos, and the Grottos break off in even smaller groups keeping tight

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their secrets lest anyone intrude and damage their caves. On Fort Huachuca, one cave, its broken speleothems covered in graffiti, is said to resemble a Sherwin-Williams test site. In November 1974, Gary Tenen and Randy Tufts discovered Kartchner Caverns and held the secret for fourteen years. On a trip into the Huachuca Mountains, spelunkers took along implements strange to caving anywhere except in secretive Arizona—a tarpaulin, an eighty pound sack of concrete, five gallons of water, a star drill and hammer made up the kit. Coming to the site of the cave, they laid out the tarpaulin. On one end, the cavers set out the surface litter in a manner approximating covering the cave entrance and then dug down three feet placing the fill dirt on the other end of the tarp. With the star drill and hammer they broke through three inches of concrete revealing a metal plate blocking the entrance. Once these things had been cleared, the cavers rappelled down thirty feet into

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Rimstone basin in Red Cave where the Hohokam are known to have worshipped.

the cave. Upon departure, they replaced the metal sheet and mixed concrete and water on top of it and then refilled the hole, carefully relaying the ground cover. The cave is only referred to by its initials, never its name, which might hint at its location. Kartchner Cavern in the Whetstone Mountains south of Interstate 10 near Benson, Arizona, is said, at two and a half miles, to be the longest in Arizona. Its nearest competitor is nearby Colossal Cave, which it far outshines in the sheer grandeur of its decorations. It is home to the world’s longest, as far as we know, soda straw which stretches a full, oh, so delicate, twenty-one feet. Kubla Khan at fifty-one and a half feet is the tallest known column in Arizona. Red Cave, near Kartchner, its

entrance secret and nearly inaccessible, contains a rimstone basin where Hohokam worshipped. You can see a replica at the Sonoran Desert Museum in Tucson. The Colossal Cave legend speaks of buried treasure. In 1887, near Pantano, robbers diverted the train onto an unfinished siding. Aboard Locomotive No. 95, James Guthries, engineer, and R.T. Bradford, fireman, jumped for their lives as the engine began a slow roll into Davidson Canyon. Landing in a mesquite fifty feet below, they glanced aloft to see the locomotive following them and again scrambled for their lives. Lacking an engineer’s life to threaten, the outlaws were forced to blow the door off the express car. Inside, express agent Smith was busy hiding the money in the

stove. “That stove trick don’t go this time, Smitty,” said an outlaw. A few months before, the same outlaws had robbed the train at this spot, and Smith had fooled them by hiding the cash in the stove. They then took the locomotive and headed toward Tucson. The cold engine was found the next day near Tucson by the posse who could not detect any tracks for two miles around. The outlaws had disappeared. The newspapers praised Smith but gave the game away, so that on their second attempt, the badmen made a lucrative haul riding away toward Colossal Cave. In the legend, the bad men approached the cave with the posse close behind. Abandoning their horses, the outlaws entered the cavern. A few well-placed shots at the narrow entrance discour-

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aged the posse men who decided to wait, reasoning that eventually the bandits would have to emerge in search of food and water. Deep within, the train robbers buried the loot intending to return to retrieve it when the heat was off. They then departed the cave through the rear entrance where they had waiting mounts and rode away. All save one died in infamy, and the one returned after twenty years to recover the loot, only to be confronted by a patient sheriff who foiled the attempt. In 1988, tour guides at Colossal Cave were still displaying the money sacks left behind noting that the treasure was still buried in the cave. Sadly, there is another more historically accurate account. Fred Dodge, Wells Fargo & Co. agent, accompanied by Virgil Earp, his arm flapping for lack of an elbow

joint removed after an assassination attempt in Tombstone five years before, pursued the outlaw trail to a rock shelter near Colossal Cave where the outlaws had made camp. August rains erased the trail, and the outlaws escaped across Cochise County to El Paso where, after a third train robbery attempt, they were arrested a few months later. They did not enter the cave and did not bury any treasure. The Whetstone Mountains, where Kartchner Cavern resides, have their own legends and history. In the 1950s, the TV series Tombstone Territory claimed that its stories were ripped from the Tombstone Epitaph and were approved by their staff historian, thus it was a TV show presenting real history. A favorite episode had Geronimo hiding from the U.S. Cavalry in Tombstone, in a pool hall, shooting

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pool while smoking a stogie with a doxy on his arm played by Angie Dickinson. The sheriff learned of his presence and sought him out. Geronimo ran. Eventually he entered a saloon-tent, was cornered, but, sliding under the tent wall into an arroyo, he successfully escaped the sheriff. To our utter amazement the story did appear in the Epitaph! It was true in all details except that Angie Dickinson, as you might suspect, wasn’t there, and it wasn’t Geronimo the Apache as the show portrayed. It was Geronimo Miranda, the Mexican outlaw. This was undoubtedly a slight oversight by the staff historian who failed to realize that at the time of the story Apache Geronimo had already been “vacationing” on a Florida beach for over a year. Geronimo Miranda had been involved in a bloody train robbery

French Joe Canyon in the Whetstone Mountain near Kartchner Cavern, where Cochise County “Texas” John Slaughter fought outlaw Geronimo Miranda.

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at Agua Zarca, Sonora, and had escaped to Cochise County. In French Joe Canyon, a little south of Kartchner Cavern, Sheriff “Texas” John Slaughter and Deputy Burt Alvord surprised Geronimo and his companions at dawn. Two were hit by blasts from Slaughter’s shotgun, but Geronimo escaped, and Slaughter would pursue the bandito through the rest of his time in office as sheriff of Cochise County. One of their subsequent encounters was the pool hall incident. Geronimo would escape, only to die in a gunfight after Slaughter left office. In 1882, at Iron Spring in a canyon between the Whetstone and Mustang Mountains, Wyatt Earp and his Vendetta Posse stumbled upon Curly Bill Brocius and his friends. Braving a hail of lead, Wyatt put Bill away permanently. In 1869, at nearby Turkey Spring, Lieutenant Howard Cushing followed the trail of an Apache woman into an ambush and lost his life. Discovered in 1974, Kartchner Caverns remained a secret until it was sold to the State of Arizona in 1988 for a reported 1.4 million dollars (some sources say 1.6) with the Kartchner family retaining an adjoining ninety acres for development and requiring that

the name of the cave remain Kartchner Caverns. The caverns became Arizona’s twenty-fifth state park. The city of Benson extended its city limits over ten miles of vacant ranchland so that the cave would be “in Benson.” The city, its merchants, and the Kartchner family began aggressively marketing Kartchner Caverns products. Since Kartchner was the family name, the state could not trademark it to enjoy exclusive rights to put the name on T-shirts, caps, and other various other types of memorabilia. In 2023, the ninety acres retained by the Kartchner family remains undeveloped, and there are still ten miles of ranchland between the cavern and downtown Benson. In 1998, the state parks commission, enraged at marketing by Kartchners and Benson merchants that wasn’t bringing the state any money, investigated the possibility of changing the name to Cochise Caverns. The sales contract stipulated that the name must remain Kartchner Caverns, and eventually the hubbub quieted down as merchants who weren’t Kartchner family members ceased marketing cavern goods. During this same time, the public was sadly disappointed and frustrated by extended delays

Iron Spring, where Wyatt Earp caught Cowboy William “Curly Bill” Brocius and gunned him down.

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A Coatimundi outside Colossal Cavern. The name “coatimundi” comes from the Tupian languages of Brazil, where it means “lone coati.”

in the opening of the cave to the public. The caverns were to open in 1992 and then 1994 and did not open until 1999. The state spent twenty-six million dollars developing RV parking and a visitor center and an airlock for the cave. There were extended environmental impact studies that delayed opening and raised costs. The cave was home to a bat nursery, and measures needed to be taken so as not to disturb the bats during their season. The cave had high humidity, and the speleothems were and are still growing. Dry air would cause a cessation of growth. An airlock was required so that humidity would not escape the cave. Lighting has destroyed other caves encouraging the growth of mold, which covers speleothems. This was taken into account in how the cave was lit in order to preserve its beauty. Eleven years went by before the cave opened to the public, and then the number of visitors was restricted, and it took months to gain a reservation. One state employee, a manager at the caverns, broke ranks to say the cave was not being properly

presented to the public. He, a long-time avocational spelunker, was represented as wanting the public to see the cave as he had, crawling through mud, climbing ladders, following unpaved paths by carbide light. It is a wonderful way to see a cave. There is no experience quite like it. Instead, the public is guided down paved streets where railings ensure they won’t touch fragile features. Lights come on as the group approaches, dramatically lighting the environment and showing off all the finest features of the cave to their best advantage. Confronting Kubla Khan in low light, the tour is plunged into cave darkness and then orchestra music sounds as the lights come up revealing the great column in all its glory. It is a staged event, a visit to a theater of light and music, lacking any relation to the dark and dirty world of the spelunking explorer. Doug Hocking was raised on the Jicarilla Apache Reservation in New Mexico. served in the US Army in Military Intelligence and Armored Cavalry. He spent many years in the Far East and speaks Chinese. He holds advanced degrees in American History, Social Anthropology, and Historical Archaeology. He writes both history and historical fiction.

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BENJAMIN HENRY BAILEY

MY FRIEND TOM A SHORT STORY

Dedicated to those that history does not remember accurately and the hope that someday all their stories will be told with honor and truth.

hat cold October day had started off like all the others for me. I woke early in the morning to help my parents get ready for the coming day. Working in a general store could keep someone going from open to close. Then when your parents own the store, it can keep their kids busy from can’t see to can’t see. From sweeping out the small aisles between shelves, to restocking the candy in the jars on the main counter. It kept a boy of ten running until Pa flipped the open sign and the customers came pouring in. The customers were mainly miners, but occasionally we would get ladies, cowmen, and the other assortment of townsfolk, all looking for supplies for their camps, houses, and saddlebags. The thing about people coming into the store, it gave us plenty of news and gossip happening all over, and with a town like Tombstone, it was rarely ever dull. My favorite customers were the cowmen. I had long dreamed of riding the trails and pushing cattle up to some railhead far off. Sleeping outside under the stars to riding next to a stampeding herd. Fighting outlaws and Indians. All the things that fill the mind of a small boy stuck in a general store with a broom in his hand. Mama hollered my name from the backroom and reminded me that the clothes on the shelf needed to be folded. Reluctantly, I walked over and began refolding the shirts and pants that had been scattered about from the hustle and bustle the day before. Life

was the same old thing. Wake up early, grab a quick breakfast, and get to work for the day. The times that I was not working, which were very few, I spent with some of the other boys in town. There at least my dreams of the trail were mainly shared, and we could run any crazy idea off each other and build upon that for our imaginations. My good friend, Buddy Samson, and I had planned out the whole thing. We were to save up as much money as we could so we could buy our own outfit of cattle and own a ranch together someday. The fraction of pennies on the dollar that I saw of my family business was not going to add up quick, so I felt that starting to save money at a young age was a good bet. By the time Buddy and I got older we would have our own ranch and see things with our eyes that had only been available in our minds. The time hit eight o’clock, and people started pouring in and pulling things from the shelves to buy, either with cash or to add to their credit. I watched the items taken to the front counter to be paid for, and all I could think of was how much work it was going to be to restock everything for the next day’s rush. So goes the life of a boy who has store owners for parents. The day pushed on, and the customers stayed at a steady pace. My parents would usually work together up front, helping customers load up their newly purchased items. Sometimes, Pa would have someone drop off a list, and he would box or bag it up for them.

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For me, I had to keep an eye out for empty shelf space that needed to be filled and anything else that needed cleaning, straightened, or refolded. If I was not on top of it, Pa would remind me with a quick snap of the fingers and a harsh glance. That was all the motivation I needed to surrender my daydreams for the time being and work on my inherited tasks. Quickly putting some more canned goods on the shelf, I was startled by a thud on the front window of the store. Looking at where the sound had come from, I could see Buddy’s face pressed up against the glass. Glancing over to my parents who were helping a lady with some fabric, they had not heard Buddy’s arrival. Buddy quickly gestured for me to come outside. I shook my head, and he gestured again for me to come out. After another shake of my head, Buddy stamped his foot and raised his fist like he was going to give me a black eye. Buddy used to just come into the store to see me. Once my parents caught on to how much of a distraction Buddy could be, they started putting him to work too. That had only happened a few times, and from then on Buddy volunteered to stay outside and wait for me to come out. I could see that Buddy was getting frustrated outside, running his fingers quickly through his hair to then almost pull it out. I decided that whatever Buddy wanted was not going to wait, and at least it would get me out of the store for a while. Grabbing the broom from the corner, I walked outside at a good pace and did not hear my parents’ object. Hopefully they thought that I was just going to sweep off the front boardwalk. “You’re going to get me into a heap of trouble,” I told Buddy a little flabbergasted. “It don’t matter none,” he replied, half out of breath. “How come?” I asked, feeling more intrigued now rather than angry. “The Earps and the Clantons. There is talk about them facing off with each other today! Or at least I heard Ike Clanton saying how he was going to finish the Earps.” The idea of Clantons and Earps not getting along was no surprise to me. I had heard plenty of the altercations they had had with each other over the recent months. The whole town of Tombstone knew that there was a powder keg set between them, and one day it seemed that it would explode.

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The biggest issues I had heard talked about was whether someone was a Democrat or a Republican. That seemed to set up a lot of thoughts about who someone was based on that. Being only ten, I couldn’t tell the difference between those parties any better than I could tell the difference between a president and a king. Pa was a stout Democrat, and I had heard him say things about the Earps and their beliefs but could not make heads or tails why that would make someone upset. I had seen Wyatt Earp once walking down Allen Street with his cool manner about him, and it made me feel cautious. However, he turned onto Fourth street and walked into the Ice-Cream Saloon. I had taken my time to follow him, and when I had glanced through the window, I saw Wyatt Earp, the lawman from Dodge City who had a very tough reputation, eating ice cream. Regardless of what Pa thought, a man couldn’t be all bad who eats ice cream. Buddy filled me in on what was happening as we ran up Fifth Street toward Fremont. Being the son of a stableman, Buddy had a good source to hear the latest and greatest. He had heard that the Clantons might be up on Fremont, so we decided to check it out. He also told me how Ike had been threatening Holliday and the Earps earlier in the afternoon and gotten himself arrested. After being turned loose, he was now supposedly on the prod. There had also been another incident that afternoon when Tom McLaury had gotten into it with Wyatt and had been pistol whipped by the Earp brother. That had only happened a little while ago according to Buddy. I knew Tom McLaury. He had come into my parent’s store multiple times and somehow, we got to talking about how I wanted to be a ranchman someday. He had told me to work hard, save my money, and that it would happen. Unfortunately, Pa had always dashed those dreams with talk about taking over the family business, but hearing the opposite of what Pa said made me feel hopeful for my future. Tom was a ranchman himself, owning a ranch on the San Pedro River and would know more about that life than Pa. The first time Tom had been to the store was with his brother Frank a while back. Tom had bought two pieces of hard stick candy in addition to the supplies they had purchased. He placed one of the sticks into his mouth and threw the other to me with a quick wink. He then tipped his hat to my parents and was

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out the door. It became a regular habit each time he came into the store, and he started calling me his little saddle pal. On one afternoon, Buddy and I were in a vacant lot, practicing roping an old, wood chair that was standing in for a cow. This mean eyed cow chair was not giving us slack that day. They kept staying out of our loop and on the run. At least that is what we told ourselves to make us feel better for not being able to rope a stationary chair. When we were just about to give up, Tom rode by and stopped to watch us. He had asked how it was going with the roping, and I told him that we were no good with it. He dismounted his horse and handed the reins to his brother. Walking over to us, he took the rope, adjusted its size, and started twirling it over his head. After a few seconds he threw the loop into the air. The loop closed around the chair, and with a quick tug, the rope pulled taut, pulling the chair over on its side. Buddy and I both jumped and cheered at the spectacle. After a quick lesson on proper technique, Frank called for Tom to hurry up as they needed to meet with the butcher on cattle prices. “Take it easy my little saddle pal,” Tom said as he mounted his horse and continued into town with his brother. Buddy and I kept at throwing the lasso through the afternoon, and after some practice with the technique that Tom had taught us, we found ourselves roping the chair at least one out of five times. Which was a lot more than we could have hoped for earlier that day. To me, Tom McLaury was the spitting image of how I imagined myself when I was older. A man who owned his own ranch with a spirit that was as free as the desert. He was kind to those around him and could rope and ride. That checked off most of the boxes for what I looked for in a role model. Pa and Mama had made comments about how nice Tom was as well. They appreciated his manners, and of course they appreciated him buying supplies at their store. We made it to Fremont and looked down the street but did not see the Clantons anywhere. The morning chill had worn off, but I wished that I had grabbed my coat before heading out on this goose chase to see some excitement. We started then walking down toward Fourth Street. I hoped that seeing these two sides fight each other was going to be worth it because I knew of the punishment that I was

going to get when I got back to the store. Pa was not one for idle chit chat or fun activities until the work for the day was done. About halfway between Fifth and Fourth Street we saw four men in dark suits turn the corner onto Fremont Street heading the same direction we were going, toward Third, their backs to us. “That’s the Earps and Holliday,” Buddy said, still breathing heavy from all the running we had just done. “Looks like maybe they’re looking for the Clantons now,” I said. “If we get too close, we are going to get turned around and sent back home,” I said, a small realization coming into my stomach that this might not be something for me and Buddy to run right into. As we got to Fourth Street, I grabbed his arm and pulled him across Fremont, toward the buildings on that side. “Where are we going?” Buddy asked. “Trust me!” I said, a little harsher than I had meant it to be. I led Buddy around the buildings, our little legs pumping as fast as they could go. I had figured that if we wanted to see the Earps and Clantons face off with each other that we would need to keep an eye on one of the parties but not too close. If we got too close to the Earps, they were likely to take it out on our hides. We came to Third Street finally and crossed over next to the Aztec House. I walked slowly toward Fremont and peered down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of where the Earps had gone. I half expected them to be crossing over at Third Street, but they had stopped in front of an alley, in between Fly’s and the Harwood House. I didn’t know if it was from the running or the tense feelings of being caught following the Earps, but my heart felt like it was about to explode out of my chest. Bobby was also breathing heavily. “What are they doing?” Bobby asked. I shook my head slightly but did not have an answer. It seemed that the Earps had just stopped at the alley and were facing it now. The brother known as Virgil was talking, but at that distance, we could not make sense of what was being said. The cold wind blew, and I felt a shudder run through my shoulders and into my neck that felt almost painful. The air felt tense around us, like right before a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder. We had been running so fast to get here to see the excite-

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ment, and now I had a nagging feeling that I did not want to be here. Before I could stop shivering, the Earp party grabbed their guns, and the alley erupted in loud pops that echoed off the buildings. Immediately everything was covered in gun smoke and soon followed by two louder booms. The loud pops continued one after the other, and our hands shot up to our ears to cover them from the deafening sounds. I tried to keep my eyes on the alley but jumped slightly at each gunshot. I could not believe what I was seeing right in front of me. The gunshots echoed in my head, and each pop caused my eyes to slam shut. As the fight continued, it all seemed to spill into the street. One man, who was not with the Earps, ran into Fly’s, and another who was pulling a horse emerged from the gun smoke to the middle of the street. Another man came running out of the alley and turned down the street away from the fight. He was hunched over and staggering greatly, only to fall down after a short distance near the telegraph pole at Third Street. The man with the horse had let go of the reins and was aiming his pistol back toward the alley only to be shot in the head. His head snapped back like he had just taken a punch, and he crumpled to the dirt like a sack of potatoes. The shooting ceased, and the gun smoke dissipated slowly on the wind. The fight seemed to have taken a lifetime to end, but the reality of the duration had been no longer than thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to cause such carnage. The shots still echoed through my ears, even though nothing else was being fired. I looked at Buddy and could tell he was not doing much better than I was. He had tears in his eyes, and I soon realized that I did as well. His eyes fell from mine to look back across the street. It was then that he lost his stomach and vomited. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, hopefully to save myself from losing the food in my stomach as well. Even though we lived in Tombstone and gunfights happened occasionally, I had never seen anyone shot before. In my mind as we had raced over here, I thought that maybe we could see a gunfight but felt that it was going to be more of a brawl with fists. I never imagined that it would be like this. In the half dime novels, it was always good versus evil, heroes taking out the villains, nothing like what Bud-

dy and I had just seen. There just seemed to be a lot of shooting at each other. People started making their way toward the alley, and that told me that the fight was over. Two of the Earp brothers were sitting on the ground and looked to be wounded, Wyatt was checking on them. Doc Holliday was limping around, his right hand pressed against his hip. I could hear someone from the alley crying out in pain. Looking over at the man who had fallen at the telegraph pole, I felt that he looked familiar. Walking slowly toward, him I noticed that it was Tom McLaury. Overcoming the feeling of dread, I ran toward him as the crowd had not made it that way yet. Coming to a sliding halt when I came near him, my knees almost buckled then and there. Tom was lying on his back staring up at the sky, short gasps of air escaping his lips. I could not believe what I was seeing and felt as if I was about to pass out. A man that I had met in my parents’ store, who had inspired me and bought me candy, was shot to pieces and dying. “Tom!” I said in a choked voice, looking at the blood oozing from his lips. His eyes seemed to fix on mine, and for a moment there was recognition. The gasps coming from his lungs were starting to come more rapidly, but there was barely any life in them. I glanced at his wound, and I quickly turned away and threw up. Falling to my knees, stomach bile dripping from my mouth, all I could do was cry. I considered Tom my friend even though he was much older than I. He had shown me how to rope and that I could have dreams of owning a ranch someday. Now he lay here, in a pool of his own blood, seeing out of sightless eyes. I looked again at his wounds and dry heaved at the sight. His right side had taken a blast from a shotgun from Doc Holliday, I later learned. The blast had taken him under his arm pit and had torn flesh from his arm. The crowd soon made their way to Tom, and I was quickly pushed aside. I tried getting to my feet but fell back to my knees. Somone stepped on my fingers, and I quickly pulled them to my chest and sobbed. Suddenly I was picked up and pulled out of the crowd, by who I did not even notice at first. I glanced back and could only see Tom’s boots between the legs of the crowd. My body felt weak, and I was on the verge of passing out. The person who had picked me up, set me

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down on my feet and quickly caught me as I started to fall over. “Son are you all right?” The person asked me, looking at me in a panic. The figure’s face was a blur but soon came into focus. It was Pa. “Pa?” “Are you hurt?” He asked more frantically, his hands going over my chest, arms, and legs. “No, Pa,” I choked out. He quickly pulled me into a tight hug. “My boy! You gave me and your mother quite a fright!” “I’m sorry, Pa,” I said, finally feeling a little more clearly to stand on my own. I looked into his eyes and for the first time in my life saw tears. I had told Pa about Buddy, but he had reassured me that his father had come with him, and they had been looking for us. I looked over toward the Aztec House and saw Buddy’s father holding him as well. He carried me back to the store where Mama was waiting impatiently. When she saw us coming down the boardwalk, she came running and threw her arms

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around me. I couldn’t help but let tears stream down my face, as well. The gunfight had lasted thirty seconds and had sent three men to early graves. The following day, I had learned that Billy Clanton had also been killed in the shooting. Morgan and Virgil Earp and Doc Holliday were wounded. Wyatt Earp had not been hit at all according to the reports. An investigation was launched, and there were different stories supporting both sides. Stories that painted the Earp side as heroes putting down the outlaw element and stories that told of them being out for blood. For the other side, stories told of the Clantons and McLaurys being outlaws and deserving what they got while others saying they just wanted to leave town and avoid trouble if possible. I had also heard that Tom had raised his hands as the fight was breaking out and held open his coat, trying to show that he was unarmed and did not want to fight. With that information, it was hard for me not to have a grudge against Doc Holliday. He had been the one to blast my friend to eternity. The stories coming out of the investigation that

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pointed to Tom being an outlaw was something that I never accepted. For those who owned ranches, there was a code or more so of an expectation that if anyone came to your ranch that you offered them a meal and depending on how late it was in the day, a place to sleep. I had heard that was how a friendship had started with the McLaurys and those associated with the “Cowboy” gang. That did not necessarily mean though that Tom and Frank partook in outlaw type activities. As the years went by, the infamous gunfight seemed to not be talked about as much. It seemed to slip behind the curtain of eternity. That, of course, was for folks who did not see the gunfight themselves. It wasn’t until a biography of Wyatt Earp came out in 1931 that the rumblings started again. Even though the book was largely fiction, it still spurred the legend. A lot of what made it to “fact” status was the testimony of the Earp side. The McLaurys were then branded outlaws for good, even if they might not actually have been. I was eighty-six years old when my grandson burst into the room raving about a new western movie that was out. He was just as fascinated with the west as I was at his age. The movie was Gunfight at the O.K. Corral with Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas. I reluctantly agreed to go but could not stop myself from letting him know that the gunfight did not actually take place at the O.K. Corral. My daughter squeezed my arm and told me to try and enjoy it, if not for myself at least pretend to enjoy

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it for my grandson. She told me that he was hoping they had me as a young boy in it. After the movie, my grandson and I walked out of the theater. He was wearing his cowboy hat, boots, and had two cap pistols in their holsters around his hips. When we walked outside of the theater, he pulled his cap guns out and blazed away at all the imaginary outlaws in town. I had told him to hold off until we got back home. He had seemed a little disappointed but did not press the issue, which I was glad he didn’t. I did not want to ruin his imagination with cold hard reality as mine had been brought to an abrupt halt at his age. “Grandpa, was it really like that?” he asked as we got into my truck, his mind full of curiosity. “No, it wasn’t,” I said, trying to pick my words very carefully. “Well, what was it like?” he asked, looking at me. Feeling a bit on the spot, I said “Well, it was over quicker than you’d imagine, and it was a hell of a lot more violent. That movie tried to make it seem like it was good versus evil, but really it was just men against men. As far as I have ever been able to tell, it was not worth it. Not too long after the fight was over, two of the Earp brothers were shot. One was terribly wounded, and the other one was killed. Then Wyatt went on a vendetta ride, killing more of the other side.” “Who were the good guys, then?” “I’m not sure there were any good guys in that fight. I think there were two groups that had some is-

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sues between them that needed to be talked out, but it kept escalating through violence.” We were quiet for a few minutes. Finally, I said “I will say one thing, though. I knew Tom McLaury, and to me, he was a standup fella.” My grandson looked down at his boots, seemingly deep in thought. I hoped that I had not ruined the boy’s image of the West. I believe that the westerns that had come out had shown great characters for young people to look up to. To stand up for what is right even if the whole town is against it. And even at my age, watching a John Wayne western was enough to put me back to ten years old, playing in the empty lots in Tombstone with my friends. After a short time, he looked up at me. “I’m sorry your friend was killed.” All I could do was look over at him and give him a quick wink and squeeze his knee. The moon was bright and lit up the desert floor. You could make out the shadows of the cactus along the dirt road that led to the house. We were quiet for a time, and I pulled the truck over that gave us a great view of the moon. “Remember this one thing, son. There are a lot of different views in this world, and it is very important to keep an open mind. To think for yourself about people, events, and what have you. Try to look at things through as many different angles as you can, and you will usually come out smarter on the other side. Only a damn fool looks at things through one lens.” I could tell that this was going over my grandson’s head a bit, but he seemed to be catching on slowly. “Learn as much as you can,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulders. “Treat people decent and do what is right. Find out what your passion is and work hard on it. It will come true. Then you will know what kind of man you want to be when you grow up.” “I already know what kind of man I want to be,” he said, looking up at me with big eyes. “I want to be like you, Grandpa.” I ruffled his hair and tickled his ribs. He let out a chuckle that warmed my heart. We arrived at the house, and I put the truck in park as my grandson jumped out, running up the porch steps. My daughter opened the door, and he ran inside. Getting out, I looked over at the other house, not far from my own. There was an orange glow on the front porch from a cigarette. My daugh-

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ter looked out and gave a short wave. I waved back, and she knew that I was not going to be in for a while and closed the front door. Turning, I made my way toward the other porch. “Enjoy the movie did ya?” asked a voice from the dark porch. “It was well made, but nothing more than fiction using real people’s names,” I said, painfully climbing the stairs. “You should have come seen it with us.” Buddy’s old bones adjusted in the rocking chair on the porch. The many years out here had not been gentle getting older. He let out a cough and spit before taking another drag on his cigarette. “Nah, I saw the real thing. That was enough for me,” he replied. “Yeah, for us both. Plus, it didn’t have “The Duke” in it,” I said, sitting down in the chair next to him. Buddy grunted in agreement and poured me a glass of whiskey. Taking it, we both looked out across the desert floor as a coyote called to the moon. Through the last seventy-six years, Buddy and I had stuck together and made a home for ourselves and our families on our ranch that we had dreamed about as young boys. I think back at those words that Tom McLaury told me. Work hard and it will happen. There were not many more things that rang true to the two cattlemen on the porch. {

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THE AUTHOR Ben Bailey has been obsessed with American West History since he was a small child. He is a Colorado Native who grew up watching westerns with his grandpa and reading western books by Louis L’Amour, Matt Braun, and Elmer Kelton. His family took him to historical sites that fueled his imagination to want to read as much as he could on the many subjects within the history of the American West. His desire is to try and understand the thoughts, hopes, fears, and dreams of all those that lived here. As an adult, Ben has traveled to many different historical sites and tries to hit as many as he can each year. Recently he has been to Sand Creek, CO, Tombstone, AZ, Deadwood, SD, Cripple Creek, CO, and St. Elmo, CO. He has enough books to fill a small library, but to him, they are all necessary to keep learning and growing in his love for the west and for writing.

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“

I may not have been born in Arizona, but the place lives in my mind, heart, and imagination....”

oman W est W a

of the

A Conversation with Cochise County Native,

New York Times Bestselling Author J.A. Jance.

oday’s Western Sheriffs (and the Eastern ones, too) ride into town in trucks in the modern west or a tricked out squad car with a computer at the dashboard. However, just as in the old days, a gun rests on the hip with a star pinned to the shirt. In real life as in J.A. Jance’s novels that Sheriff may well be a woman. In 2022, there were sixty female Sheriffs on duty in the United States.

Although Jance’s books are most often grouped in the “mystery” section of libraries and bookstores, I say, by virtue of her heroine Joanna Brady and Jance’s own immersion in the western landscape and culture exhibited in the books, Jance is definitely a western author. Protagonist Brady is the daughter of a sheriff. Brady becomes sheriff after the murder of her sheriff husband, and after she solves that, at the same time clearing her husband’s name

JOAN LEOTTA

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she is elected on her own. In addition to crime solving, she deals with other modern issues—a mother who thinks a woman’s place is not behind a sheriff’s badge, raising a daughter alone, and the various other issues a strong-minded female in a “man’s job” must face both on the force and in society in general. Issues that are universal, so what gives these books the right to be called “westerns?” Placement in Bisbee, Cochise County, is just part of it. Yes, Jance herself grew up here, but it is the way she uses the landscape of the place as a character, helping and hindering her in solving the crimes, in seeking solace for her heartaches, credits it (albeit subtly) with imbuing her with the determination and pure grit that help her go on—all of this is pure west. All of this takes me back to the westerns I read as a young teen, where the hero looks to fight for justice, where the west itself becomes such a part of the book that plot, character and landscape were braided together in such a way that I wanted to explore these places that made my hero or heroine. And indeed, I have that same feeling reading Jance, especially in the Joanna Brady series. If you travel to Bisbee, you can see some of the places she notes in the book. If you drive around the county, you too will be entranced by the landscapes that help make her books stand out. In addition to being an expert in plot, character, and pacing, Jance knows how to make the landscape a vital part of the story. Word from others in the community—the library and the others—the photos accompanying this article are from the Cochise County and from Linda Weller—photos like backdrops for the action taking place in Jance’s books such as the famous Copper Queen Hotel. I could go on and on, but I think that hearing directly from an author, especially one with a practically adroit gift for words, it is better to hear from the author herself.... The Western Writers of America definition of what makes up “western fiction” is that such fiction includes many styles ranging from traditional fiction to historical analysis. Furthermore, the society indicates that their range is broad on style encompassing mysteries, biographies, romance in forms such as short stories, screenplays, poetry, and songs. In putting this article together, I made the decision that the best way for you, the reader to get to know Jance herself is not through the lens of my words, but by reading the answers she gave to the

The historic Copper Queen Hotel in Bisbee figures prominently in many of Jance’s novels set in Arizona.

questions I posed, JA Jance is a mistress of mystery and a wonderful writer of the west. For additional information on JA Jance, check out her website at www.jajance.com and her blog: https://jajance.com/Blog/ SD: Do you consider yourself a “Western Writer” in the sense that you carry on the traditions of the Old West? Although all your books are set (with the exception of a few) in the West, you really start on the “Western Writer” books with the ones set in Bisbee in 1993 –with Desert Heat introducing Joanna Brady who takes over the job of Sheriff from her recently deceased father.

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Jance: I consider myself more of a storyteller than I do a novelist. I’m a girl from “a small mining town in the West,” Bisbee, Arizona, I guess I am a western writer although I don’t actually write Westerns per se. My family moved from South Dakota in the early stages of what would become the “Storm of the Century,” a series of blizzards that shut down the Upper Midwest for months in the winter and early spring of 1949. I remember nothing of the cold we experienced both before and during the move, but the first morning of the day we moved into our new home in Bisbee some six weeks later imprinted on my heart. I distinctly recall hanging on the fence, looking up at the clear blue sky, and feeling the sun all over my body. That was the beginning of my love affair with Arizona, something which seems to shine through in my storytelling. If anyone is interested in my blog post on that blizzard and our move, here’s the link to that story on my blog: https:// jajance.com/Blog/2022/11/18/ the-blizzard-of-the-century/ SD: What made you decide to start a second series, with a female protagonist, and why did you set it in your old hometown? I love that she takes over for her father in spite of the negative attitude toward her doing so from her mom and others. Expectations of the era going against a woman in the role of Sheriff—can you speak specifically to that? It seemed to me from reading your bio that you experienced some of the same in your own life. Jance: When I began writing in the early eighties, I wrote a thinly fictionalized true crime book that was set in Arizona. It was never published by anyone and for good reason—for one thing, it was 1200 pages long. When my agent suggested I write something that was entirely fiction, I set out to write the first Beaumont book. Since the only way to tell the story seemed to be in the first person, I had to find a way to create the voice of a middle-aged Seattle homicide cop. He was a Seattle native. At the time I had lived in the city for just over a year, so I had

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to do a whole lot of research to get the local details right. After writing nine Beaumont books in a row, I threatened to knock him off. At that point, my editor suggested I rework that first unpublished novel. The result was Hour of the Hunter, the first Walker Family book set on the Tohono O’odham Reservation west of Tucson where I taught for a number of years. Writing that book was like going on a several months-long visit to Arizona, and when I went back to Beaumont, it was fun again. That’s when my editor suggested I come up with another series character so I could alternate books about each of them. By then, knowing the discipline it takes to write consistently in the first person, I decided to use third. Since maintaining that male persona in a character was challenging, I decided to have a female protagonist—hence Joanna Brady. And since I was pressing the Easy Button here, I decided to set the story in a locale I knew well—southern Arizona, specifically Cochise County. And since I’m 6 feet,1 inch and have always wondered what it would be like to be short, I deliberately made Joanna Brady short— she’s 5 feet,4 inches. My original vision was that Joanna would turn out to be an amateur sleuth, but by then, I had been writing police procedurals for a long time. Every time Joanna tried to find out what was happening in the ongoing investigation into her husband’s death, I found myself telling her, “Hey, you can’t do that.” That’s why, by the end of the first book, she was running for sheriff in her deceased husband’s place and on her way to becoming a professional law enforcement officer. SD: What role does the location, the setting, play in the Joanna Brady mysteries? I note that the first are titled with place names. Do you consider the place a supporting character? Frankly, your descriptions of the area have made me want to make a trip to Cochise County! Jance: I’ve been thinking about the spots in Arizona that really speak to me. Main Street in Old Bisbee is very much as it was in the early part of the

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“

I’m a girl from “a small mining town in the West, Bisbee, Arizona. I guess I am a western writer although I don’t actually write Westerns per se.”

twentieth century—a narrow two-way street running the twisty length of Tombstone Canyon with gray limestone cliffs on one side of the street and steep red-shale hillsides on the other. It wasn’t until decades after graduating from Bisbee High School, while writing the second Joanna book, that I finally came to understand why Bisbee High School’s colors are red and gray! But while thinking about this interview, I’ve been recounting the things about Arizona I know and love and that I’ve tried to bring into focus for readers in my books. If you’re driving westbound as you leave Bisbee, you pass through the Mule Mountain Tunnel. As you emerge from the semi-darkness of the tunnel, you come out with an expanse of brilliantly blue sky spread out ahead of you—the bluest sky I ever remember seeing anywhere. I love the stark limestone cliffs that border the western side of the Sulphur Springs Valley. Another place I

love is the fascinating rock formations in the Chiricahua Mountains, a place formerly known as the Wonderland of Rocks. I love the huge boulders of Texas Canyon, east of Benson. Those always make me feel as though God walked away, leaving them behind after a gigantic game of marbles. And yes, our family went hunting for Arrowheads out along High Lonesome Road. Growing up in Bisbee in the fifties while copper-mining was still king, I remember watching as the mountain between Upper Bisbee and Lowell was gradually whittled away and turned into the gigantic hole that is now the abandoned Lavender Pit. By the way, the pit was named after a man named Lavender and has nothing to do with the color. I also watched as an army of dump trucks carried waste from the pit and used that to build the massive mile long tailings dump that stretches out along Highway 80 east of town heading toward Douglas.

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Since the dump was close to Yuma Trail where we lived, my friend Donna Angeleri and I used to climb that dump when no one was looking just as Joanna does in book # 2. I believe a lot of people are under the impression that Arizona is nothing but sand dunes and saguaros. So, I try to present the varied climates and vegetation in my books. By the way, there are no native saguaros growing in Cochise County! I love the tenacious scrub oak that grows in the local mountain ranges—the Mule Mountains, the Chiricahuas, the Huachucas, and the Dragoons. And the climates are different, too. Bisbee is a mile-high town. In the summer, it’s generally ten degrees cooler than Tucson and twenty degrees cooler than Phoenix. As someone raised in the desert, it’s hardly surprising that my favorite color is green in various shades—the brilliant emerald of newly leafed cottonwoods on the banks of the San Pedro River— the only wholly-north-flowing river in the continental United States. I also like the somewhat darker green that comes about when black-trunked, seemingly dead mesquite trees leaf out in the spring. And what brighter yellow is there than blooming palo verde trees in the early summer? Or what’s more golden than when winter rains cause the steep flanks of Picacho Peak to be covered with blooming poppies? And then there’s the lush dark green ocotillo leaves that magically appear and disappear on those thorny stalks whenever a rainstorm marches across the desert? And I’m enamored of the animal life, multi-hued Gila monsters for example. I can do a credible imitation of a coyote howl, and I spent more than one sleepless night listening to the bleating sounds of newly awakened Colorado River toads. I once came close to a nighttime herd of javelina. The distinctive rustling of their quills made me think of shaking a bagful of desiccated human bones.

Bisbee, Arizona

Mule Mountains

Chiricahua Mountains

Lavender Pit

High Lonesome Road

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126 SADDLEBAG DISPATCHES I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. I may not have been born in Arizona, but the place lives in my mind, heart, and imagination, and I try to make it come alive in my stories, as well. As for Joanna working in a man’s job? Yes, I’ve encountered that kind of prejudice in my own life. I wasn’t allowed in the Creative Writing program at the University of Arizona in 1964 on account of my being a “girl,” and I was among some of the first women to make my way into the formerly all man’s world of selling life insurance.

BLESSING LOST GIRLS OF THE

JA Jance’s latest novel featuring Sherriff Joanna Brady is Blessing of the Lost Girls. In this novel she teams up with a federal investigator, Dan Pardee, as he traces the bloody path of a merciless serial killer across the Southwest. It’s an intense thriller and a testament to keeping fresh by adding new characters to her body of work.

SD: In your development of Brady mystery characters do you draw on your own childhood relationships? I ask because you noted on your website that the character of JP Beaumont was influenced by your understanding of alcoholism through your negative experiences with your first husband, so I wondered if some of the people who walk through the pages in these mysteries have links to your past. Jance: Just because I write fiction doesn’t mean I have to make up everything! I incorporate people and places from my past into my books, turning them into fictional creations. The Bisbee in my books isn’t exactly the Bisbee I grew up in nor is it Bisbee as it is now. It’s a figment of my imagination. If you’ve met Joanna Brady’s mother in my books, you’ve met someone who, in many ways, resembles my mother, Evie, without being exactly like her. And physically, Brandon Walker, the cop in the Walker Family books, bears an uncanny resemblance to a man named Jack Lyons who was Pima County’s chief homicide investigator in the early seventies. SD: Is there anything you would like to say to the readers of Saddlebag Dispatches (a magazine that focuses mainly on the old west)? Jance: If you visit Tombstone’s Boothill Cemetery, readers will see the touristy, kitschy version of the Old West. If you travel a couple of miles northwest of that, you’ll find the real town cemetery. When you read the inscriptions on the tombstones, you’ll find that life in the Old West was no walk in the park. People died in their thirties and forties of cholera, gunshot wounds and other ailments that have been largely eradicated by antibiotics. One of my favorite reference books is Marshall Trimble’s Roadside History of Arizona. The book is organized by routes, so with that in hand, you can

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Bisbee’s old Sheriff’s Office—now the Cochise County Courthouse—is another prominent location in Jance’s Arizona novels.

follow along as we did, reading the book aloud with my husband at the wheel. My husband and I duplicated the route of the so-called Mormon Battalion as it crossed Skeleton Canyon and made its way West, almost being completely wiped out by missing two strategic waterholes between Tucson and Phoenix. By the time my husband and I reached Eloy, we were so thirsty we had to stop at the nearest Burger King for sodas. I’ve learned far more about Arizona History from that book than I ever did in my college level course on that same topic. SD: Besides having the same hard work ethic that each of your main characters displays, is there anything you would like to say about your ability to continue to write three main series, plus a few more, while maintaining a high level of writing, and in my opinion, making each novel in each series, better than the one that preceded! Jance: I’m currently in the process of starting a new Beaumont book. So far it doesn’t have a name, but it does have a thousand-word head start. Beau and I celebrated our 40th anniversary as author

and character in 2022. I didn’t set out to write more than twenty Beaumont books. I set out to write just one. The other twenty-five are more or less happy accidents, but part of that is due to the fact that, unlike Sue Grafton and Kinsey Milhone, I haven’t always written about that one set of characters or that one locale. Having multiple sets of characters and different locations for my stories has helped keep things fresh, both for me and for my readers. Thank you, J.A. Jance for your in-depth answers to these questions. Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer. She writes in many genres but is especially fond of sharing short stories, poems, and essays. Her work has been showcased in a variety of journals ranging from St. Anthony Messenger to Betty Fedora, Mystery Tribune, Saddlebag Dispatches, and Kings River Life. Her essays have appeared in the Italian American, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Sasee, skirt, and Eastern Iowa Review among others. She loves history, researching and collecting stories, both folk and real. When she is not playing with words on page or stage, she can be found walking the beach, daydreaming and collecting seashells.

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SCOTT M. BRENTS

THE GREEN GUARDIAN OF A YELLOW GOLD SUBMARINER A SHORT STORY “The Old West is not a certain place in a certain time, it’s a state of mind. It’s whatever you want it to be. It could be a scorpion dancing by the fire, or a stingray gliding through the depths.” —Tom Mix (paraphrased)

MR. GREENSKIN The cognitive dissonance between my early morning activities and those later that afternoon could not have been greater, though the cloudless blue sky was the same in both time frames. Earlier that day, I had been playing clock solitaire in a blissfully air-conditioned Amtrak train car while sipping a cold beverage, riding the metal equine along the countryside at a steady clip toward Benson, Arizona, where I would disembark, obtain a rental car, and then drive to a motor lodge in Sierra Vista. Once checked in, I would then drive to a nearby ghost town to hunt for treasure. Or barbwire. Or horseshoes. It didn’t really matter. It was adventure I sought. I have a list I’m going through. Which was where I now found myself, smack dab in the middle of adventure, just outside of the ghost town of Fairbank, facing an angry green Mojave rattlesnake I had accidentally bumped into with my metal detector. The Garrett Ace 400’s sensor coil had collided with an entirely different and extremely dangerous type of coil. Just as my Amtrak horse was not an actual horse, the pistol I was packing was by no means a Colt Peacemaker. It was a translucent white plastic spray bottle that I carried to quickly rinse off coins and items dug up or to sometimes mist myself on

the throat or face if it wasn’t too humid. Ninety percent of the time, evaporative cooling doesn’t work in Dallas, but if I am in an area where swamp coolers work, then God bless my water bottle. It’s like a portable AC. The narrow hammerhead face of the nozzle is yellow. The nozzle tip, the trigger, and the screw-on retention ring are blue. I had, in fact, just misted my forehead and closed eyes as I stepped up slightly onto a mostly flat rock before bumping into the rattler because I was paying way too much attention to my comfort than to the ground I was scanning. Startled, I dropped the detector from my right hand, still holding the water bottle in my left. I could have stepped back but might have tripped down the two inches off the rock, and then the snake could have been upon me. Or not. I didn’t know how it would react to my backing away and possibly falling. Instead, I froze. The warning electric buzzing was a promise of a nasty death—or at the very least an expensive and scary visit to the nearest emergency room, wherever that room might be. The term “crazy spirit rattle” popped into my brain as the snake’s tail kept vibrating with a blur, counting my life down in rattles per second under a postcard’s azure sky. The infamous dual toxins of a green Mojave guaranteed that there were no guarantees of what

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would happen if I were to be bitten out in the middle of nowhere with no people. It’s not the desert that kills people like me—it’s their lethargic hubris. No one knew where I was, for I had told no one, and Fairbank, Arizona, is not a major tourist attraction, plus I was not even in the immediate ghost town area proper. I had crossed an old train bridge over what was presumably the dry as a bone San Pedro and then walked south, parallel to the riverbed, for perhaps two or three hundred yards. I slowly, ever so slowly, raised the water bottle forward and gently pulled the blue trigger. A fine mist of water formed into a slow-motion nimbus above the snake and seemed to hang there a moment before descending like a teasing caul. I could not have been more thankful for there being no wind. The rattling stopped. I squeezed the trigger again. The thick black tongue of the large reptile flicked in and out, capturing and testing the micro droplets. Again, I considered stepping backward off the rock to get out of striking range but wasn’t convinced that was the best action to take. Instead, I kept gently squeezing the trigger about every seven seconds until there was enough moisture on the snake’s head and portions of its back skin to really bring out its striking— no pun intended—greenish hue as more and more desert dust was washed away from its body. I was a modern John the Baptist in the wilderness, not taking up a serpent like some literalist Appalachian preacher, but instead baptizing one with a twenty-ounce utility bottle purchased at Costco, and the baptism was having a noticeable cooling effect on the snake’s temper. The green Mojave uncoiled from its striking posture, its demeanor having completely changed. It came even closer toward me, black tongue darting, then stopped and raised its head slightly upward, almost cobra-like and looked around as if searching for something or as if approaching a treasure and checking to make sure nothing else was watching. Then it laid its head down onto the stone on which I stood, its snout not two inches away from my left hiking boot, gazing straight at the toe of it as if hypnotized. I knew the stone had to be hot under its chin, so I kept right on spritzing, watching the mist drift down onto the snake and my boot. At first the mist instantly evaporated off the rock but then started collecting around the spade-shaped head as

the stone cooled down some. In an epiphany, I realized the depression in the rock immediately under the snake’s head was deep enough to pool water. I unscrewed the blue retaining cap ring and, bringing the bottle down as low as I dared, slowly poured some water out, a little at a time, instead of allowing it to splatter too hard onto the rock all at once. Every moment aware the head could lift without warning and strike. The water filled the divot in which the snake had lodged its head and the depression was deep enough so that it could submerge its snout. I remained as still as a Joshua tree as it drank. After it drank most of it, I again poured until the divot was full and up past its mouth. The snake’s head stayed in place like a magnetic water pump as I refilled the space. Then it drank again, the dense muscles in its lower jaw and behind the head expanding and contracting like balloons as it siphoned up the reverse osmosis-filtered mineral-enhanced water purchased from a vending machine at the motor lodge. City water is fine if I only plan to spray what I dig up, but knowing I would be using it to spray my face, I had opted for two bottles of filtered, non-chlorinated water, which turned out all the better for the now siphoning rattler. My legs were aching from non-movement, but finally—after my filling the divot four times total— the snake had its fill. In the scariest moment of my heart-pounding existence, the rattlesnake went through my legs in a very deliberate and vigorous wide slide, between my boots, headed toward the dry riverbed behind me. Inwardly, I shuddered as it seemed to purposely bump and rub against the inside of both left and right boots as it departed, thumping me with its firm coiling muscles, as if scratching at a soon to be shed skin or maybe speaking snake body language, saying, thanks for the water, partner, but I don’t want to see you in these parts after sundown. Fairbank isn’t big enough for the two of us… unless you’re willing to become a ghost. For all I knew, the serpent perceived me as some kind of water dispensing tree. Or maybe the creature was reading my mind and knew I meant it no harm. Perhaps I was going crazy and was already bitten and dying while hallucinating about amicable serpents. Despite my panic attack, my mind flashed back to the comfort of that morning in the Amtrak train while throwing down playing cards. I realized with

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some smug self-satisfaction that while I hadn’t won a single hand of clock, I had certainly survived snake solitaire. A smart person, a normal person, would have thanked their lucky suns and gotten the hell out of the ghost town. Minerva, my deceased wife, often said my pursuit of adventure sometimes eclipses my common sense. She was being kind by understating my tendencies. After looking around to make sure the snake was indeed gone, I picked up the detector, inspected it, and found no damage. I screwed the nozzle head back onto the bottle. There was maybe a halfinch of water left. I misted my face again and began detecting the area, starting pretty much exactly where Mr. Greenskin had been coiled, waiting for me. I got a very strong, distinct, and unmistakable reading. Gold.

MINERVA My interest in metal detecting intensified after

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Minnie’s passing in 2020. I hated sitting at home alone, thinking in never-ending circles of depression. She had purchased the Garrett for my fifty-fifth birthday in 2018 saying I was of sufficient legal age to comb beaches and pore over abandoned lots and to generally act like an eccentric obsessed with finding loose change. She also gave me an olive boonie hat that I still religiously wear to block the sun. It’s that kind of hat where you have the option of folding up a side brim to the head to snap attach it, similar to Christopher George’s Aussie slouch hat in the old Rat Patrol series. It has an overly long, adjustable chin cord. I sometimes snap up the left side. Sometimes the right. Never both. Thereafter I dutifully took the Garrett with us whenever we went on our little weekend trips. I made it a point to use the detector at least once no matter where we stayed or visited. This sometimes required searching the lawn of a bed and breakfast or prodding a nine-foot square island of grass surrounded by cement sidewalk at a motel while it was over one hundred and ten degrees. I once dug up an odd brass good luck token coin during a snowstorm

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in Kingfisher, Oklahoma, at a travel rest stop while several interested fellow travelers stood around waiting as to what would appear. I’m not saying I always found something, but I am claiming I almost always powered the Ace 400 up and searched somewhere, even if only for a few minutes. It was a gratifying ritual, and Minerva enjoyed it as much as I did. She liked watching me use the metal detector because she could tell how much I enjoyed the hunt and because she had picked it out for me. Over the next couple of years, I found my share of trinkets, interesting items, and of course, trash. But with Minnie gone, metal detecting had become something entirely different—an obsessive but very dependable survival coping mechanism—a distraction to hold onto my sanity. I eventually joined five geographically scattered detectorist clubs that meet once a month, but all five almost always fall on differently scheduled nights or weekends, which I had planned on and desired while looking for clubs to join so that I could attend as many meetings a month as possible and get out of the house. One of them was as far away as Texarkana—an odd little klatch that calls itself the Fouke Monsters Metal Detectorists Club. For the record, the Fouke Monsters make the best coffee, but all five clubs are keeping me afloat in ways I can never repay.

MARKER Still shook up by my encounter with the snake, I looked all around—much as the snake had done before mesmerizing itself to the toe of my boot—then squatted down to dig. About six inches down, I saw the first glimmer of precious metal and kept digging, carefully. It appeared to be a flat square. Maybe an ingot, I thought. But then my red plastic spade struck the gold surface in a way that made a hollow, clicking sound. Definitely not an ingot. What I ended up pulling out of the ground was a small gold box about the size of a cigarette case. I raised the case up and gave one side a spray of water and wiped away the moistened soil and then sprayed again. Within multiple horizontal and vertical Art Deco lines that brought to mind an artifact suited to The Great Gatsby, I could just make out the engraving, Anthony “King Meatball” Santorini.

I tried to open the box, but the locking mechanism would need some cleaning first, so I put it into my pack for later. I ran the Garrett over the hole I had just dug—Detecting 101. This time, the signal was noticeably stronger. Gold, gold, gold. I dug down another couple of inches and in complete disbelief, uncovered a gold Rolex diving watch with a black dial… along with several small bones. Presumably finger bones. That was when I refilled the hole and decided to indeed get the hell out of Fairbank, Arizona. It wasn’t until later back at the Mojo in Sierra Vista that it crossed my mind that the stone I had been standing on might have been serving as a type of anonymous placeholder for someone who had almost certainly been murdered. By the look of those small bones, it had been a very long time ago. I had quenched the thirst of a great green dragon… on a grave marker.

MOJO MOTOR LODGE I had planned to treasure hunt for five days, but with the near immediate discovery of the watch and the gold case, an extreme change of plan was warranted. And the bones. Don’t forget the bones. They change everything, Mickey. I switched to research vacation mode, keenly aware that it was a complicated find. I would be navigating the fine line between grave robbing and finders-keepers. I would spend the rest of my trip either in my motel room scouring the web on the Lenova Chromebook or by the pool, drinking whiskey sours and playing solitaire at a table shaded by a generous red and white umbrella, every once in a while misting my face like I was a snake in the desert. For lunches, I strolled down the street to The Planted Pig for plant-based pulled “pork” sandwiches that tasted exactly like meat and proved addictive. I’m by no means a vegetarian, but I will say that the sandwiches were excellent ambassadors for anyone arguing such a change in habit. In the evenings I drove about a mile down the main drag to a well reviewed tourist hotspot called The Turquoise Coelacanth for takeout seafood in the desert, with prices as fancy as the place’s name. It was also amazingly good food. I purchased a loose-fitting aqua T-shirt

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emblazoned with their prehistoric looking mascot fish testifying I had eaten there. Eat. Research. Drink. Sit at poolside wearing burnt orange Crocs wishing Minnie were with me telling me they looked like duck feet. Go back to my room. Maybe drink inside this time, but don’t spill anything on the laptop. Process all the information I was finding on King Meatball, his connections to organized crime, his watch, and the gold box engraved with a very personal motto regarding endgame philosophy. Take a break from the computer. Back outside, fix another whiskey sour and shuffle my plastic cards, a blood red deck, made by the Copag card company. Minnie had bought me a box of twelve of them about a year before she got sick. Waterproof plastic, they last nearly forever and smell like an inflatable shark pool toy I had as a boy. Pure PVC. Minnie and I played cards a lot. She agreed about that smell, saying that for her, the cards evoked a translucent inflatable orange starfish from her childhood that she used to take to a place called Sandy Lake Amusement Park. The Rolex turned out to be an 18K 1969 yellow gold Submariner. It was in amazingly good condition considering where it had been, and if I understood the estimates I found online, it was worth a great deal of money, anywhere from ten to thirty thousand, depending on various factors. That was the first year Rolex made the Submariner in gold instead of stainless steel, and it was just luck Anthony had had such luxurious taste. Depending on soil conditions, temperatures, and other factors, an earlier stainless steel “James Bond” version Submariner, while sometimes far more valuable, might not have held up as well in the soil for all those decades, but the gold had skated effortlessly through time. What King Meatball had been wearing when he met his end is often simply called a yellow gold Submariner 1680, and it was beautiful. The case, while also made of what turned out to be 18K gold, had some interesting problems, specifically, the condition of the mystery contents. I was expecting cigarettes or mini cigars and to be honest, maybe even more finger bones, but instead, once I got the mechanism to release, I found a black, moldy rectangular object that did sort of resemble a pack of cigarettes but also looked like a block of very dried out wood. Since the box was not rated to 200 meters like the Submariner, the

contents had been contaminated several times by seepage anytime it rained enough, followed by mildew, then another period of baking in the desert landscape, plus whatever microorganisms could trespass the less than hermetically sealed seam of the case. Judging by the distance from the dried riverbed, it’s also possible that the impromptu grave had at times become completely submerged during desert flash flooding events. Difficult events for a hinged non-airtight case but good times for a yellow gold Submariner 1680. After a little prying, I split the husk-like block apart and discovered it was a deck of paper playing cards, fused together into one body by the elements after burial, but now that it was dismembered, it displayed faded pips and splotchy inky card backs as I peeled several more cards apart. I would not have been as surprised if I had but noticed sooner what was engraved on the interior back half of the gold case—Bury me with a deck of cards. Don’t forget the jokers. Without a doubt, King Meatball had been a cards man, like myself, and whoever had buried him had not only killed him, but had granted his final wish, allowing him to be buried with his expensive watch and gold card box. It sounded like complicated behavior. And maybe a little dangerous, even all these years later.

MEATBALLS FROM THE OLD WORLD Anthony “King Meatball” Santorini was last seen by several witnesses in Kemah, Texas, in the spring of 1970. He had been connected with a New York family but from all accounts ran a very small gambling circuit with the head in Kemah, while a network of gambling octopus arms ran up and down the Texas coastline in a very selective and established suction pattern. Santorini kept a low profile and got along with all local law enforcement by knowing where to carefully allow them to participate. He knew when to include them and when to warn them off for their benefit. He kept everything close to shore, never spreading further up into other towns. His other passion, completely legit, was cooking. “Meatball” can be a term of derision or irony, but in Anthony’s case, the nickname meant exactly what it said. He was the king of meatballs—the meatball.

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His recipe had come directly down the maternal line all the way back to his great-grandmother who had never seen America, and he guarded the recipe the way others protected their money and power. He cooked for the cops. He cooked for his girlfriends. He cooked for his enemies, and he cooked for his friends. He cooked for strangers, and he cooked for visiting relatives who flew down from New York to experience the Texas coast. He cooked for the rich, and he cooked for the poor bums—often ex-military—passing through looking for jobs. All of them would testify on a stack of blue-inked bibles that Tony’s spaghetti with meatballs was something that should be shared with rest of the world. In between bites, he was often told he should open up a legitimate restaurant, which he always dismissed, saying he loved to cook for people, but he didn’t want it to be tied up in business. It would be almost disrespectful to the recipe and to his ancestors. Then he would ask if you were ready for seconds. For a great while, Kemah was heaven on Earth and fair skies. Then, on some type of business-related trip to Nevada, he had disappeared. Years went by with no information. King Meatball became a complete ghost. The Kemah gambling circuit quietly faded away. Twenty-nine years later, in 1999, a deathbed confession surfaced, from Eddie Hula, Santorini’s longtime friend all the way back to WWII. Eddie was so nicknamed because of the large, dark green tattoo on his chest and abdomen of a topless hula girl that he had gotten during WWII while serving in the Pacific theater with Santorini under Captain Walter Karig. It was Karig himself, after seeing Eddie make the inked hula girl dance, who had first called him Eddie Hula. For reasons unknown, but from way higher ups, Eddie Hula had been assigned the Santorini hit. He refused to provide details as to who ordered it or why, only that it was “business.” Hula said all the details were unimportant this late in the game— all of them were long dead, and many of those involved had died in prison or had themselves disappeared. Eddie just wanted to get it off his hula girl that he had been the triggerman and that it had always haunted him, particularly since Anthony had saved Eddie’s life once during a particularly dangerous ship explosion at sea in 1944. When pressed about the location of King Meatball’s remains, he

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would not specify. “I made sure he had his cards, including the jokers. It would have been a curse on me otherwise. Let the poor man rest in peace.” I went down countless rabbit holes, learning more and more about King Meatball and his mini empire, but the stories were mostly superficial, uncorroborated, and a lot of it contradictory. You can only read so much online before losing your grip, and any old newspapers studied are only as good as the journalists who had written the articles. But I knew Eddie Hula’s confession was documented, and he had specifically mentioned burying Anthony with a deck of cards, and he knew about the joker admonition written in the case. After five days of watching kids play in the Mojo Motor Lodge swimming pool like happy dolphins while I sometimes chatted with their tourist parents or even played cards with them, and after eating countless faux porcine sandwiches while I researched ancient organized criminal activity skillfully hived along the Texas coastline from the 1950s to the 1970s, and after endless internal debates on how I should proceed regarding notifying the authorities, after employees at both The Planted Pig and The Turquoise Coelacanth started calling me be my first name… it was time to go home.

MARKER II Almost a year later, I was able to determine that the remains of Santorini had been properly transferred and processed and laid to rest in a cemetery in

Baytown, Texas, where his mother and grandmother were buried. There was a lot more to his story than what the media had barely reported, but it was old news that no one cared about anymore when compared to the latest celebrity or politician involved in some wild perverted, lowbrow scandal. All those romantic and dangerous gangsters of Kemah were long gone. Anthony had been only forty-five when he was buried the first time in Fairbank in an unfair riverbank in 1970. And now, over half a century later, King Meatball had been reburied, with little to no publicity, in Earthman Cemetery in Baytown, Texas. I found a picture of his small simple gravestone online. No epitaph, but it does have his famous nickname where a middle name would normally be. I knew, of course, there was more to be done. Sending in the anonymous tip three months after I had left Sierra Vista on where to find human remains had been a fine start—a gesture to get the facts off my own hula girl, so to speak. I did not mention my theory as to who it was, but the remains were verified as Santorini’s by authorities. It made me wonder as to what else had been on his person. But there was still the matter of supplying the deceased with his requested deck of cards. I had been waiting all this time to hear where the final resting spot of King Meatball would be. Minnie and I had talked about taking a vacation to the Texas Coast but had never gotten around to it. She had specifically mentioned wanting to go somewhere that you could feed the stingrays. Apparent-

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ly, they even allow children to do it at the aquarium in Kemah. We had planned many things that ended up not getting done. I think of it as Minerva’s List and am slowly checking the items off. Visiting an authentic Old West ghost town had been on our list and was how I ended up in Sierra Vista and Fairbank in the first place. The desert adventure in the West had been good for me. My next adventure will be the ocean. I’ll ride the trusty Amtrak from Dallas to the Gulf. When I get down there, I will feed the Kemah stingrays in Minerva’s memory and then poke around on the beach with my detector while wearing my boonie hat, pretending I’m Christopher George, barking, “Let’s shake it!” Before returning home, there will be a side trip visit to Earthman cemetery in Baytown. I will take a plastic deck of cards—one of my unopened Copags with the blood red back design. I will place the deck in a plastic container and then put that in a plastic bag and bury it about six inches down, aligned with the “King Meatball” engraved in the small rectangular granite marker. The cards won’t rot from moisture like his original deck that Eddie Hula interred with him after dealing him the ultimate betrayal. As a fellow playing card man, I’ve got a soft spot for abiding by Santorini’s last request. True, he had been a shady criminal, a black hat wearer for sure, but he had also been a loyal Italian momma’s boy who knew how to cook the best meatballs in the New World by using the recipe from the Old World passed down from his great-grandmother. Three jokers come with the deck I will take, and all three will be included for Anthony’s eternal game of solitaire. I’m not overly concerned about the ethics of retaining the plunder of my Arizona adventure. I have decided it is absolutely a classic finders keepers situation. I am returning neither the yellow gold Submariner 1680 nor the engraved card case in which I now have a favored deck living. I may sell or keep either item, but what I will not do, is return them to the soil. I will reinter the watch and the card case when the powers that be entomb King Tut’s funeral mask under the shifting sands of Egypt. That means never. I miss Minerva. Fiercely. {

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THE AUTHOR Scott M. Brents lives and writes in Texas. He reads excessively and hoards far too many decks of playing cards. He claims just the opposite is true—that he doesn’t read enough and doesn’t own nearly enough card decks. His most recent story, “Zagklon, the Sparking Clown” appeared in the Best Short Stories From The Saturday Evening Post Great American Fiction Contest 2023 anthology. Before that, his story “The Orange Jester” appeared in The Starry Wisdom Library anthology in the United Kingdom. Most of his stories take place in the fantasy genre, leaning toward a classic Twilight Zone or weird fiction sensibility. Lately he has focused on realistic life drama, while incorporating unexpected elements—such as heretofore maligned serpents exhibiting trust. He has been influenced and inspired by many authors, including Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins, Harper Lee, Thomas Clayton Wolfe, and the great Joe Bob Briggs. “The Green Guardian of a Yellow Gold Submariner” is his first attempt to summon the spirit of a Timeless West and is dedicated to the memory of his Number One Fan, Anissa Cheatham, 1971—2023

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No photos of Lozen are known to exist. This image—a computer enhancement of the 1886 photo of Apache prisoners in transit from Fort Bowie, Arizona to Fort Pickens, Florida— was long thought to be the famed warrior shaman, but recent scholarship has actually identified her as Bi-yah-neta, wife of Perico.

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LOZEN:

WARRIOR SHAMAN The Warrior Shaman Lozen is my right hand... strong as a man, braver than most, and cunning in strategy. Lozen is a shield to her people.” —Apache War Chief Victorio, June 1880

STORY BY

CHRIS ENSS & JOANN CHARTIER

he Apache leader known as Geronimo stood near an overhanging cliff in the Chiricahua Mountains of Arizona studying the terrain before him. His keen eye traveled across the rocks and valley below. It was unlikely the U.S. cavalry would track the fugitive into the rocky stronghold, but Geronimo didn’t like to underestimate the Army’s tenacity. A band of thirty-six loyal warriors surrounded the courageous renegade, ready to defend their lives and land should the military be in the immediate area and dare attack the party. Geronimo fixed his gaze on a distant plateau and lifted his voice to the sky. “We have suffered much from the unjust orders of U.S. generals,” he said. “Such acts have caused much distress to my people. We will defend what is ours to the last man.” A cold stillness hung in the air—a sense of impending calamity marking the beginning of the end of a race of people. Suddenly. all eyes turned to an unassuming medicine woman stepping out of a cave in a massive pile

of lava rocks. She walked over to an outcropping of stone and bowed her head. Geronimo watched with great interest as Lozen stretched her arms out and turned her palms to the heavens. She was petite and plain, her skin as supple as leather and her manner of dress in keeping with the other warriors. She scanned the horizon as the braves waited. They dared not make a move without Lozen’s wise council. It was her divine power that had kept Geronimo and his followers out of harm’s way for so long. Without her ability to detect the enemy’s nearing presence, the Apache would have perished. For close to a year, Geronimo’s desperate band of braves eluded U.S. Army scouts. These few Natives were the last of the free Apache—stubborn holdouts who refused to surrender, be forced from their land, and be placed on a reservation. Many believed it was better to die like warriors than live off the scraps like dogs from the emigrants they referred to as “white eyes.” Lozen honored the beliefs of her people and used her gift to keep the “white eyes” at bay.

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Lozen was the younger sister of feared Apache war chieftan Victorio.

Lozen rode with infamous Chiricahua di-eyn Geronimo— pictured here late in life in the early 1900s—serving as one of his chief advisors.

Geronimo watched Lozen tightly close her eyes. A gust of wind swept over her small frame, tossing about her straight, dark hair. “Can you tell me if the soldiers are near?” he asked quietly. “I can,” she replied. She stood in silence for a moment, her arms further extended, her hands slightly cupped. “The god Ussen has given me this power… it is good, as he is good,” she exclaimed. Geronimo and his men looked on, anxiously awaiting Lozen’s answer. When she opened her eyes, they glittered. The power with which she had been blessed often moved her to tears. She felt unworthy of such a great gift. She turned to the proud faces of the expectant warriors, and her eyes peered into Geronimo’s. “Rest easy,” she told him. “No enemy is near this night.” Lozen was born a member of the Mimbres tribe of Apache in 1840. Her family lived near Ojo Caliente in New Mexico. Her father was a leading member of his band, and her mother was a well-respected woman. Not unlike most Indian children at that time, Lozen

learned to ride a horse when she was very young. By the age of eight, she was considered an expert rider. From early on, it was clear to her parents that she would not assume the traditional female role. She loved hunting and playing rough games with her brother, Victorio, and the other boys in the tribe. Her skills with a bow and arrow and a sling were exceptional. Like her father and his father before him, she was a born warrior. Lozen’s homeland, a stretch of ground that encompassed parts of New Mexico, Arizona, and northern Mexico, was rich with gold. The Mexicans were the first to invade the territory and try to possess the precious metal. They came by the hundreds, feverishly digging into the earth like coyotes. When they tired of searching for the nuggets themselves, they made slaves of some Cheyenne and Apache people in the area. Indian leaders quickly formed raiding parties in an effort to take back the land the Mexicans occupied and to free the Native slaves. Among them

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was Mangas Coloradas, chief of the Mimbreno Chiricahua, as well as Cochise, Geronimo, and, in time, Lozen’s brother, Victorio. Each pledged to resist the colonization of their native soil by the Spaniards and the incursion of white fortune seekers on their way to California. Lozen’s young eyes witnessed numerous battles and countless brutal deaths. Often, Apache were slaughtered during so-called peace negotiations between Indian council members and the gold seekers. They sought revenge for every life that was taken at the hands of their enemies. Mexican prisoners were occasionally taken and would be led out bound and gagged before the tribe. Then the wives, daughters, and mothers of the murdered Apache would kill the men. Lozen watched them cut the miners into pieces with knives or crush their skulls under the weight of their horses. Eventually the harsh retaliation forced the Mexicans to abandon the area and retreat south. Troubles for the Apache, however, were far from over. They were warned by other tribes that the “white eyes” were coming and were like the leaves on the trees—too numerous to number. Before the “white

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eyes” overtook their land and many Native traditions were abandoned, Lozen would learn about the remarkable Apache women who had gone before her. They were shamans and warriors, mothers and hunters— women she admired and longed to emulate. Shortly after her coming-of-age ceremony was celebrated by the tribe, Lozen journeyed to the sacred mountain to ask god for a gift to help her people. It was a ritual all Indian women went through. While at the sacred mountain, she was given the power to understand horses and the ability to hear and see the enemy. If an enemy was near, she would feel his presence in the heat of her palms when she faced the direction from which he would come. She could determine the distance of the enemy by the intensity of the heat. The Apache sorely needed a woman with Lozen’s unique talent. They didn’t have enough warriors or enough power to battle the overwhelming white invaders. Among the important influences in Lozen’s life was her older brother, Victorio. From boyhood he had been groomed to be chief of the Chiricahua Apache tribe. He was blessed with the power of war and the handling of men. Tall and imposing, he was respected

Storm—Apache. From The North American Indian by photographer Edward S. Curtis.

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Chiricahua Apache prisoners on a break during their forced journey by train from Fort Bowie, Arizona to Fort Pickens, Florida in 1886. Geronimo can be seen in the bottom row, third from the right.

by all members of the band and referred to by other leaders as the perfect warrior. Lozen rode with Victorio and served as his apprentice. The two combined their powers and led warriors on many successful raids against white prospectors who attacked peaceful Apache camps. Nothing they did could stem the tide of settlers entering their country. The ground covering the western territories was soaked with the blood of Natives and ambitious pioneers alike. The U.S. government sent soldiers to the Southwest and built army posts where needed to give settlers protection along the Santa Fe Trail. Presidents Ulysses S. Grant and Rutherford B. Hayes sent envoys to the various Indian nations to negotiate peace and prevent further war. Lozen and Victorio attended those meetings, but they were wary of the promises made by the white leaders. In time, the U.S. government broke all agreements made with the Apache and forced Lozen and the other

Chiricahua onto the Warm Springs Apache Reservation in San Carlos, Arizona. San Carlos was a hellishly hot, desert land, and the Chiricahua were unable to grow crops there as they had when they resided in the Mimbres Mountains. They could not provide for themselves and had to depend on the government for food and supplies. Between the hungry tribe and provisions, however, stood the corrupt government agents working at the reservation who were stealing funds meant for the Indians to purchase food. Victorio appealed to General Edward Hatch who commanded the District of New Mexico and requested that his people be returned to their homeland. Hatch agreed to take the matter to President Grant. Lozen waited by her brother’s side for word from the government. Two years passed before the appeal was officially granted. The Apache’s time in Ojo Caliente was short-lived. Government rations set aside for the tribe were diverted again, and, when the Natives began

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stealing from the settlers, the army quickly rounded them up and marched them back to San Carlos. Conditions at the Warm Springs Reservation had not improved since they’d last been there. Not only was the lack of supplies still a problem, but outbreaks of malaria and smallpox were now claiming the lives of hundreds of Chiricahua. Victorio called together the Apache leaders for a council meeting. Lozen was the only woman allowed. After much discussion, Victorio and Geronimo decided to leave the reservation, taking with them all who wanted to return to New Mexico. On September 2, 1877, a band of 320 Apache fled Warm Springs. Lozen was among them. Lozen and Victorio raided camps as they traveled. They killed herders, mules, and steers, stopping only long enough to cut the animal meat. Lozen’s powers protected the band from the enemy’s fast approach. Soldiers eventually overtook the group and tried to persuade them to return to the reservation. The brother-and-sister team was

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warned that any Indian found off the reservation would be killed. “We’ll not be killed; we’ll be free,” Lozen replied. “What is life if we are imprisoned like cattle in a corral?” Lozen’s words inspired her brother. He vowed to stay and fight to return to his homeland. A warrant was quickly issued for his arrest. The Apache waged war against troops who tried to bring their chief to justice. The desperate band kept themselves alive and thwarted Army capture by stealing food and horses. They ran from and fought off both American and Mexican soldiers and survived on the run for three years at various spots in Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, and Mexico. Throughout the Chiricahua’s trials and conflicts, Lozen proved herself a valuable warrior and scout. At times she even acted as an interpreter between Victorio and the frustrated cavalry. She tended to Victorio’s occasional injuries and helped his wives with their children. In mid-October 1880, a Mescalero Indian woman

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Apache Indian Scout Signalling the Column, painting by Herman W. Hansen

traveling with Victorio’s band went into labor. Victorio and his followers risked being caught by the soldiers if they stopped. The chief instructed Lozen to stay back with the woman and see her through the birth. She reluctantly agreed. Lozen led the mother-to-be along an overgrown trail to an isolated spot away from the river. In the near distance she caught a glimpse of a contingency of army troops headed their way. Lozen sought to hide their position in a clump of thick brush as the Mescalero’s baby would arrive at the same time as the scouts and soldiers. Lozen helped the woman into the foliage and, when she was sure they could not be seen, allowed the expectant mother to deliver. Lozen laid a rifle across her lap and watched with careful eyes as the cavalry approached. She placed a hand over the Mescalero woman’s mouth to muffle her sounds of pain. Once the baby came, Lozen cut the cord with a piece of black flint, then tied off the stub of the cord with a piece of yucca string. The baby boy whimpered only a little. Lozen whispered a

prayer over him and gave him to his mother. She held her gun at the ready and peered out the brush at the soldiers. One of the scouts seemed to be looking in their direction. She placed a finger on the trigger of the gun. If he got too near, she would have to shoot. Just before the scout reached the three, he stopped, turned around, and rode off. Lozen, the mother, and her son were left alone. Lozen continued to feel the presence of the enemy long after they had disappeared from sight. Her thoughts centered on her brother and the warriors with him. An uneasiness filled her heart and mind. In that moment she wished she had defied her brother and stayed with him. She sensed he needed her now more than ever. Victorio and his band of loyal followers, meantime, were riding hard into Mexican territory, hoping to lead U.S. troops away from the mountains and onto the plains. On their way to a place called Tres Castillos, the Indians were ambushed by Mexican soldiers. Victorio and more than a hundred other Apache were killed. Sixty-eight were captured and sold as slaves. Only seven-

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teen Chiricahua managed to escape. When Lozen reached the Mescalero Reservation, she learned of her brother’s death at the Battle of Tres Castillos. She was heartsick, convinced that had she been with him the group never would have been surprised. Apache leader Nana comforted Lozen by reminding her that Victorio “died as he lived, free and unconquerable.” Nana’s words helped, but Lozen would never be the same. Inspired by her brother’s drive to spare his people the ignominy of imprisonment and slavery, Lozen, along with the remaining Natives, prepared to do the only thing they knew—to fight and die as warriors. After several months battling with Mexican and U.S. soldiers, Nana led the tired handful of warriors, their wives, and their children back to the San Carlos Reservation. At San Carlos the band could rest, accumulate food and supplies, and attempt to recruit more warriors to the cause. Lozen and the dedicated tribesmen who wanted to live again on their own land joined forces with Geronimo, then left the reservation and headed south toward the Sierra Madre. As the party traveled, Geronimo consulted Lozen’s powers just as Victorio had done. The band raided sheep and cattle ranches to sustain themselves while on the run. Geronimo devised a plan of attack on forty men serving as cavalry police and scouts. With those men out of the way, Geronimo determined he could move about Apache land undetected. A plan was also set to destroy telegraph wires so communication between army posts would be minimized. One by one the scouts and police fell at the hands of Geronimo’s warriors. Geronimo relied greatly on Lozen to keep his braves from danger. Without her help the Apache would not have met their objective. For a while the Natives were happy camped in the Chiricahua Mountains, but more settlers were pouring into the wilderness, and for their safety, the government would not allow the determined Apache to continue their actions. Over time, the Mexican and U.S. troops managed to track and capture a number of renegade Apache until only thirty-six were left on the run. Lozen and Geronimo were among them. In August 1886, the Chiricahua tribe was backed against the wall. With so few members left to take up the cause for freedom, and the lack of food and supplies taking its toll on the last of the holdouts, Geronimo was faced with the decision to surrender to the “white eyes.” General Nelson A. Miles was sent to negotiate Geronimo’s surrender. He was hesitant at first, but Lozen con-

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vinced him to sit down and talk with the soldiers. “Only hardship and death wait for us on the warpath,” she told him. Lozen had now lived nine years on the run. The “white eyes” and the Mexicans had chased them without pause. She knew the troops would continue to hunt them until they killed them all, even if it took fifty years. “Everything is against us now,” Lozen said to Geronimo on the eve of his surrender. “If we awake at night and a rock rolls down the mountain or a stick breaks, we will be running. We even eat our meals on the run. On the run you have no friends whatever in the world. But on the reservation we could get plenty to eat, go wherever we want, talk to good people.” Geronimo listened to the military leaders and agreed to stop fighting—if they could all return to the reservation and live at Turkey Creek, New Mexico, on farms. General Miles explained that he could only deliver the message to his superior officers and added that this was their last chance to surrender. Geronimo reluctantly agreed to lay down arms. In retaliation for the Chiricahua Apache’s success at resisting imprisonment, the entire tribe—more than five hundred people, most of whom were living on the San Carlos Reservation—was deported from Arizona. Lozen was among the leaders shipped by train from Fort Bowie, Arizona, to Fort Pickens, Florida. U.S. soldiers placed all the Indians in two cars, packing them in like cattle. Many died en route to the coast. Even more succumbed to illness once they reached Florida. Pneumonia, meningitis, and malaria claimed the lives of hundreds of men, women, and children alike. Army-post doctors also reported deaths due to depression brought about by the conditions there. Lozen never saw her homeland again. She fell victim to tuberculosis and died in late 1890. She was buried in an unmarked grave. Tales of the most famous Chiricahua war woman to ever live continue to be told to young Apache children today. 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 books 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, and the Laura Downing Journalism Award. JoAnn Chartier is a former broadcast journalist and talk-show host whose writing has earned regional and national awards. She now lives in Oregon.

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BATTLE OF THE PLAZA AND

TOMBSTONE TROUBLES

An excerpt from Bill Markley’s book Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson: Lawmen of the Legendary West published by TwoDot in 2019 and winner of the Will Rogers Medallion Award. STORY BY

BILL MARKLEY

ILLUSTRATION BY JIM HATZELL

n February 1, 1881, Pima County, Arizona was split, the eastern portion becoming Cochise County with Tombstone as its county seat. All of Cochise County’s government positions were appointed by Arizona’s Republican Territorial Governor John C. Fremont with the approval of the predominantly Democrat legislative council. The appointed positions would last until the next general election to be held in November 1882. Democrat and Pima County Deputy Sheriff Johnny Behan wanted the appointed sheriff position for Cochise County. There were Republican Tombstone citizens who wanted Wyatt Earp appointed sheriff. Johnny met with Wyatt proposing if Wyatt stepped aside and allowed him to be appointed sheriff, he would appoint Wyatt as his undersheriff and allow him to appoint the deputies. Wyatt agreed to Johnny’s proposal. On February 10, Johnny was appointed sheriff of Cochise County. Instead of Wyatt, Johnny appointed as undersheriff fellow Democrat and editor of Tombstone’s Nugget Harry Woods.

Johnny never explained to Wyatt why he reneged on their agreement. Bat Masterson had arrived in Tombstone in mid-February and went to work as a house gambler for Wyatt and his partners in the Oriental Saloon. Wyatt also hired Luke Short, a Dodge City gambler friend of his and Bat’s. On the morning of February 25, Short was dealing faro in the Oriental. Charlie Storms was at his table. Storms, a professional gambler and gunman, was a friend of Bat, but Short had never met him. Storms had been up all night gambling and quarreling with other players. An argument erupted between Storms and Short. As Bat rushed into the gaming room, Storms slapped Short. They both were going for their guns as Bat grabbed Storms and asked Short not to shoot. Bat hustled Storms out onto the street telling him to go to his room and sleep. Storms asked Bat to go with him, which Bat did. Leaving Storms in his room, Bat returned to the Oriental and started to tell

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Short that Charlie Storms was a decent fellow, when Storms appeared in front of them. Storms pulled his pistol, but Short was faster, jamming his pistol’s muzzle against Storms chest. Pulling the trigger, Short shot Storms in the heart and shot him again as he fell to the floor dead. Short was given a preliminary hearing and let go. Meanwhile, the Southern Pacific Railroad had been building eastward from Tucson and constructed a station in Benson, Arizona, northwest of Tombstone. By March 1881, stagecoaches were hauling passengers and silver from Tombstone to Benson. On the evening of March 15, 1881, a stagecoach hauling a Wells Fargo shipment to Benson was outside Contention. Bud Philpott was the driver, and Bob Paul rode alongside as Wells Fargo shotgun messenger. A man stepped into the road shouting “Hold!” as other men emerged from hiding. Paul leveled his shotgun shouting, “By God, I hold for nobody!” The bandits fired, killing Philpott, his body falling forward off the wagon and between the horses. Paul shot and grabbed the lines as the horses ran. The robbers fired several volleys, hitting passenger Peter Roerig who later died. Getting control of the runaway team, Paul continued to Benson and sent a telegram to Tombstone about the attempted robbery. On the stagecoach’s return trip, Paul stopped at the scene of the crime, recovered Philpott’s body, and brought it back to Tombstone. Sheriff Johnny Behan formed a posse of the Earps, Wells Fargo agents Marshall Williams and Bob Paul, and Bat Masterson. The posse rode to the site of the attempted robbery; from there they followed the robbers’ trail for three days to the ranch of Len and Hank Redfield who were suspected of being friends of outlaw cowboys. Morgan captured a man who was attempting to hide. The man said his name was Luther King. Hank Redfield talked briefly with King and immediately left the ranch. The posse questioned King who finally admitted he was part of the attempted robbery. His job was to hold the others’ horses during the holdup. He identified the other men as Billy Leonard, Jimmy Crane, and Harry Head and said they had left Redfield’s with fresh mounts. Behan took King back to Tombstone while the rest of the posse continued to follow the robbers’ trail for another six days. Virgil telegraphed Behan to bring fresh mounts, but when he arrived on March 24 with more men, he failed to bring along horses for

When they relocated to Tombstone in the early 1880s, Wyatt Earp and his brothers invited many of their friends and associates to come with them—men like Bat Masterson (top) and Luke Short (bottom).

the original posse members. Paul’s horse died, and Bat and Wyatt’s horses were done. Paul was able to obtain a fresh horse, but Bat and Wyatt couldn’t and had to walk eighteen miles back to Tombstone. On March 28, Wells Fargo detective Jim Hume and Wyatt learned there were seventy-five Cowboys in Tombstone who were ready to help King escape. They went to the sheriff’s office to tell Undersheriff Harry Woods the news and recommended he place King in irons. He said he would, but fifteen minutes later, King walked out the backdoor of the sheriff’s office, mounted a saddled and readied horse, and

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“Come at once. Updegraff and Peacock are going to kill Jim.”

Cochise County Sheriff Johnny Behan (top) was not only at odds with the Earps over his appointment as sheriff, he was also in the pocket of the Cowboys, a gang of rustlers that counted notorious gunslinger Johnny Ringo (bottom) among their members.

rode out of town. King was never apprehended. Wyatt heard he had crossed the border into Mexico. The rest of the posse continued through rough, waterless country, trailing the three cowboys into New Mexico where they lost their trail. After hundreds of miles and more than two weeks on the trail, running out of food and water and with their horses played out, the posse returned to Tombstone empty-handed. In April, Bat received a telegram from an unidentified source that sent him speeding as fast as he could back to Dodge City. The message read:

Mayor Dog Kelley had appointed Jim Masterson chief city marshal on November 4, 1879. Jim did a good job maintaining the peace, but on April 4, 1881, Kelley lost the reelection, and two days later, the new mayor A. B. Webster replaced Jim with Fred Singer. Several months earlier, Jim had gone into partnership with A. J. Peacock owning the Lady Gay Saloon and Dance Hall. Jim and Peacock disagreed over management almost from the start. Peacock hired his brother-in-law Al Updegraff as bartender. Updegraff, a heavy drinker, was a shady character who had been involved in crooked land deals. Jim wanted Updegraff fired, and Peacock refused to do so. Jim stewed as he watched Updegraff consume free alcohol, drinking into his profits. Updegraff and Jim argued openly as clientele began taking sides. At one point, shots were fired, but no one was injured. It was at that point the anonymous message was sent to Bat. Riding the rails north to Dodge must have been agonizing for Bat. He had already lost brother Ed, and he sure didn’t want to lose little brother Jim. It was noon, Saturday, April 16, 1881, as the train pulled into Dodge. Bat wasn’t sure what kind of reception he was going to receive, so he disembarked from the train while it was still pulling up to the station. As the caboose passed him, he saw two men walking in the same direction alongside the train. Bat recognized them—Peacock and Updegraff. Bat opened his coat to reach his six-shooter and shouted, “Hold up there a minute, you two. I want to talk to you.” Peacock and Updegraff recognized Bat’s voice, took a quick look back toward him, and ran to get behind the jail. No one would admit who started firing first, but it most likely was those two. They were behind protection, and Bat stood out in the open. As shots rang out, Bat dove for cover behind the threefoot high railroad embankment. As Peacock and Updegraff shot at Bat, their bullets were smashing into Front Street’s north side businesses sending patrons in the Long Branch Saloon scrambling for cover. People supporting

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Virgil (left) and Wyatt (center) Earp arrived in Tombstone with their families in late 1879 seeking financial opportunity in the wild and wooly Arizona boomtown. Their younger brother, Morgan (right), would join them in July of 1880.

Bat started firing from the north side, while others supporting Peacock and Updegraff began shooting from the south side in a gunfight that would be named the Battle of the Plaza. Updegraff fell, a bullet slamming into his chest. The fighting soon came to an end when both Peacock and Bat ran out of bullets and their supporters stopped firing. With his shotgun in hand, Mayor Webster ran up to Bat ordering him to surrender, which Bat did. He asked Webster if his brother Jim was all right, and Webster confirmed he was well. Up until that point, Bat had no idea if Jim was dead or alive. Later that day, Bat was charged with unlawfully discharging a pistol in town. He pled guilty and was fined eight dollars. Updegraff was shot through a lung but would live. He said Bat did not shoot him, but one of Bat’s unknown supporters did. The people of Dodge turned against Bat and Jim. The Mastersons and two of their supporters were allowed to leave town. Jim and Peacock dissolved their partnership on mutually acceptable terms. The Mastersons were told if they ever returned to Dodge, they would be prosecuted.

The Earps became wary of Sheriff Johnny Behan. He had reneged on his promise to appoint Wyatt as undersheriff; had failed to bring the posse fresh mounts for the search of the Cowboy bandits; and his undersheriff, Nugget editor Woods, had allowed the Cowboy bandit Luther King to escape. The clincher came when the Earps learned Sheriff Behan had paid all the posse members except them. He claimed he had never deputized them. When Wells Fargo learned Behan had stiffed the Earps, the company paid them for their time and effort. The Earps’ relations with the Cowboys worsened as they attempted to track down the Cowboy’s bandit friends: Lenard, Head, Crane, and King. Virgil claimed the cowboys, led by John Ringo, had sworn a blood oath to kill them. On June 6, 1881, Tombstone Marshal Ben Sippy left town for two weeks. Virgil was temporarily appointed to fill his position. Sippy never returned. He absconded with $200 of city money and left behind unpaid debts. Virgil stayed on as city marshal and remained deputy U.S. marshal. Wyatt and Morgan served as deputy city marshals, and Wyatt helped Virgil as a field-commissioned deputy U.S. marshal. Wyatt developed a plan to secretly work with Cowboys to capture the bandits. Wyatt met with Ike Clan-

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ton, Frank McLaury, and Cowboy Joe Hill behind the Oriental Saloon. Wyatt was willing to give them the Wells Fargo $1,200 reward money per each Cowboy bandit if they brought them to a place where he could capture them. This sounded like a good deal to the Cowboys, especially Ike Clanton, who had jumped Lenard’s ranch and was running cattle on it until Lenard learned about it. They wanted to know if the reward was conditioned dead or alive because they knew the bandits would not be taken alive. Wyatt told them he would find out and let them know. Wyatt went to Wells Fargo agent Marshall Williams and had him send a telegram to the San Francisco Wells Fargo office asking if the reward was for dead or alive. The answer came back in the affirmative—the reward was for dead or alive. Clanton and Hill insisted on seeing the actual telegram, which Earp got from Williams. After seeing the telegram, they agreed to bring in the bandits Lenard, Head, and Crane. Hill knew where to find them in New Mexico and would bring them to the McLaury ranch where Ike and Frank would tell them there was a

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mine payroll shipment headed to Bisbee, Arizona, that they wanted them to take. Wyatt would take the bandits into custody at McLaury’s ranch. Hill rode off to New Mexico to bring back Lenard, Head, and Crane. Hill was too late. On June 12, Lenard and Head were ambushed and killed by brothers Bill and Ike Haslett who believed Lenard and Head were out to get them. The Haslett brothers in turn were murdered as they sat in a saloon celebrating when Crane and a band of cowboys entered and shot up the brothers and a third man. Wells Fargo agent Marshall Williams must have figured out there was a deal between Wyatt and Ike based on the reward telegrams Wyatt asked him to send. Williams had too much to drink when he ran into Ike and mentioned he knew what was going on. Ike was upset. If news leaked out to his fellow Cowboys that he was working with the law to turn in the Cowboy bandits, he was a dead man. Ike found Wyatt and accused him of telling Williams of their plan. Wyatt denied it, saying Williams must have

A stagecoach robbery like the one depicted here in Herman W. Hanson’s painting Attack on the Stagecoach—though by outlaws rather than Indians—was one of the factors causing increasing friction between the Earps and the Cowboys in Tombstone leading up to the gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

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figured it out on his own. What little trust Ike had in Wyatt evaporated. Kate Elder had returned to Tombstone. She and Doc Holliday soon got into one of their fights. In a drunken rage, she swore out a warrant claiming Holliday was in on the stagecoach robbery outside Contention, and he was the one who killed Philpott. Sheriff Behan arrested Holliday on July 5, and Wyatt and others posted his bond. The next day, Kate was arrested and fined for drunk and disorderly conduct and then the day after that for making threats against life,

along with most able-bodied citizens, tried to contain and put out the fire. Lot jumpers tried to take over the burned-out lots, but the Earps and others forced them out. Rebuilding began almost immediately. News reached Tombstone that on August 13, Old Man Clanton leading a band of Cowboys drove a cattle herd from Mexico across the border into Guadalupe Canyon, Arizona. Mexicans followed them across the border and attacked at night, killing five cowboys including Old Man Clanton and Jim Crane, the stagecoach robber. Besides mourning the loss of his father,

A lover’s quarrel between John Henry “Doc” Holliday (left) and “Big Nose” Kate Elder (right)—one of many—led to Kate swearing out a warrant to Sheriff Behan that Doc had been behind the July 5 stagecoach robbery and murder of driver Bud Philpott. The charges were later dropped due to lack of evidence.

but there was no reference who the threats were made against. Holliday was brought before Judge Wells Spicer, who after listening to witnesses, released him stating there was no evidence to even show the suspicion of guilt. But rumors had a way of continuing to float that Holliday had been in on the stagecoach robbery and was the one who shot and killed Bud Philpott. The rumors expanded to include the Earps had been in on the plot to rob the stagecoach. The Earps continued to keep law and order in Tombstone during the summer of 1881. On June 22, a major fire tore through town consuming four city blocks of businesses including the Oriental. The Earps,

Ike realized with Crane’s death and King long gone to Mexico, there was no deal left to turn in Cowboys for reward money. He began worrying Wyatt would tell people about the deal, placing his life in jeopardy. At ten o’clock on the night of September 8, 1881, the stagecoach from Tucson to Bisbee, Arizona, was stopped when two masked and armed men stood in the road as one shouted, “Hold on!” The bandits stole the mail sack, the Wells Fargo strongbox containing $2,500, and plundered the passengers and driver. One of the robbers referred to money as “sugar.” News of the stagecoach robbery reached Tombstone the next morning. A posse made up of Mor-

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gan and Wyatt Earp, their friend Fred Dodge, Wells Fargo employee Marshall Williams, and two deputy sheriffs set off to find the culprits. When they interviewed the robbed passengers and driver, they mentioned one robber was jovial and used the expression “sugar” for money. That sounded a lot like the mannerisms and language used by Frank Stilwell—Cochise County Deputy Sheriff Frank Stilwell. The posse found the robbers’ trail at the scene of the crime and began following it. One of the horses was unshod, which was unusual in that country.

Cochise County Deputy Sheriff Frank Stilwell was one of two men arrested by the Earps for the September 8, 1881 robbery of the Tucson to Bisbee stagecoach.

The robbers split up. Wyatt, Morgan, and Dodge followed one trail, and the others took the other trail. The Earp party found where the rider had dismounted on occasion and noticed from tracks that somewhere along the way, he had lost a bootheel, which they found. Following the trails into Bisbee, the trackers deduced that their quarry were Frank Stilwell and Pete Spencer, known as Spence. Finding that the two culprits were together in Bisbee, Dodge and Morgan kept an eye on the pair while Wyatt went to the shoemaker who said he had repaired Stilwell’s boot. Wyatt, Morgan, and Dodge arrested them and

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hauled them back to Tombstone. Dodge wrote, “… Stilwell and Spence both swore they would get Wyatt, Morg, and myself for the arrest.” Stilwell and Spence had a preliminary hearing before Judge Wells Spicer. They were released on $2,000 bail each. Ike Clanton was one of those who helped bail them out. Later, Spicer dropped the case due to insufficient evidence as well as witnesses providing alibis for the two. “Geronimo is coming!” shouted a breathless rider racing into Tombstone on the night of October 4, 1881. The town was thrown into a frenzy as men grabbed rifles, women and children took shelter, and mine whistles blew signaling danger. Geronimo and his band had broken out of the San Carlos Apache Reservation north of Tombstone. They were killing and looting as they went. The Apache hit the McLaury ranch stealing fourteen head of horses. Tombstone Mayor John Clum had been an agent at the reservation and had had run-ins with Geronimo in the past. He did not like Geronimo, and he had no faith that the army would capture him and his band, so he called for a posse to track down the Apache and show them no quarter. Thirty-five men joined the posse including Sheriff Johnny Behan, Wyatt, Virgil, and Morgan. They rode out of town heading east, passing deserted ranches and buildings. When a torrential downpour hit them, some of the posse deserted. The next day they followed the Apache trail that turned south and crossed into Mexico. The posse turned back to Tombstone without firing a shot or seeing a hostile Apache. While the posse was out chasing the elusive Apache, five bandits stopped and robbed yet another stagecoach near Charleston on October 8. Five days later, Virgil and Wyatt again arrested Stilwell and Spence as members of the robber gang. Ike Clanton and Frank McLaury, as well as Johnny Ringo and other Cowboys, surrounded Morgan, confronting him in the street in front of the Alhambra Saloon. In anger, they shouted at him about the arrests of their friends Stilwell and Spence. Frank threatened the Earps’ lives as Morgan walked away from them. Bill Markley has written for both True West and Wild West Magazines and published ten nonfiction books on Western history. He has also published a novel, titled Deadwood Dead Men. In 2015, he was sworn in as an honorary Dodge City Marshal.

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155

GARY RODGERS

JUSTICE FINDS WHALEY A SHORT STORY

he last thing a man wants to hear when a barber has a razor to his throat is gunshots. Fortunately, Henry doesn’t carry a guilty conscience like mine. The razor nicks my neck as I jerk at the sound of gunfire. I can’t blame his unsteady hands. “Sounds like it came from the saloon, Marshal. You want me to look?” Henry asks. “No. Give it a minute. I saw riders from the Lazy B headed over there before I came in. They get rowdy early on a Saturday. You don’t need to catch a stray bullet from one of those fools before you finish my shave.” I smile. I focus one eye on the window, with my hand on my pistol, as Henry returns to shaving my week-old beard. Yells erupt in the street. A rider races out of town, leading several saddled horses behind him. Boots pound the boardwalk louder than the horses racing away. Henry stops his razor mid-stroke. “Someone’s coming.” I slide my pistol from the holster under the barber’s cloth. Manny Howell bursts through the door. “Marshal, you gotta come now. Jess Hayes killed one of the Lazy B riders over a card game. The vaquero with Jess held the Lazy B hands at gunpoint while Jess took their horses and rode out of town. Then he high-tailed it out of there. They mean to kill Jess. Luther is keeping them calm with his shotgun.” “Henry, it looks like you’ll have to finish my shave later. Manny, run tell Charlie to meet me at Luther’s.” I don’t need this today. “Henry, I need to borrow your scattergun. It might help calm them boys down.”

“It’s loaded, and here’s a box of shells for it,” Henry says, as he hands me the shortened ten-gauge double-barrel. Half-shaved, I leave, not knowing how many men are at Luther’s. But I know I need to talk them down. An all-out war between the Lazy B and Hayes ranches will only increase the population at the cemetery. Curly Hayes won’t be friendly to anyone hunting his son. His ranch is bigger than the Lazy B, and he keeps a tight rein on his hands. I haven’t met the owner of the Lazy B, but if a war breaks out, Curly’s hands, a mix of former soldiers and vaqueros, are experienced fighters. The soldiers came with Curly to the area after the war. I was one of them. But I’m not cut out for punching cows. I agreed to be the town marshal of Whaley instead. The townsfolk of Whaley like having a peacekeeper when ranch hands come to town for a drink. The make-shift jail lets me hold one or two men till they sober up, but it won’t hold all the riders I saw come into town earlier. As I step off the boardwalk, a rider races out of town. One of the Lazy B hands. I can expect the mysterious owner of the Lazy B in a few hours with more of his hands. Inside the saloon, I find the Lazy B riders sitting against a wall. Luther leans against the bar with his shotgun. Their holsters and guns are on a table. “Marshal,” Luther says as I enter, not taking his eyes off the riders. “Luther, it looks like you might lose some customers. These boys don’t look none too happy to

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have you pointing that scattergun at them.” I smile as Luther shrugs his shoulders. A Lazy B rider interrupts. “Marshal? What a joke. This town isn’t big enough to need a marshal. Luther, if you put the shotgun away, we’ll handle the thief ourselves.” Charlie walks in behind me and whistles. “Looks like that little cell at the jail is gonna get crowded tonight. Want me to take these fellows down there and lock ’em up?” “Can’t, Charlie, as much as we’d enjoy it. You stay here with Luther and make sure they don’t go anywhere.” I think for a minute. “We can’t arrest them, but I can take their guns down and lock them in the jail. I’ll go to Curly’s and talk to Jess, but I’ll send Henry over to get this body out of here first.” “Is that smart, Cleve? They say Geronimo escaped from the reservation. You know several of his braves are with him by now,” Charlie protests. “Riding out to Curly’s by yourself could be risky. I can fetch the new sheriff of Cochise County from Tombstone.” “No time to get the sheriff, Charlie. It would take almost a week. I’m betting Jess will head back to the

ranch. If I decide to lock him up, then we’ll get the sheriff. Make these fellows stay here for as long as you can. You can expect more Lazy B riders to show up later. Don’t get yourself killed holding these fellas here. You either, Luther.” “Did your deputy call you Cleve, Marshal?” A short, bearded man asks. “He did,” I answer. “Your name wouldn’t be Cleve Hawkins, would it?” I try to place the man’s face and can’t. “That’s my name. How do you know it?” “Captain will be glad to hear that. Shoot, he might even pay one of us a reward to bring you to him.” “This captain rides with you fellows?” I ask. He laughs. “Not exactly. He owns the Lazy B. He’s Captain Thomas Bentley. Maybe you remember him?” I remember him all right. I spent months chasing him and his renegade Confederate soldiers after the war with my captain, Curly Hayes. We quit looking for them after they disappeared into Oklahoma Indian Territory. We heard he was dead. If Bentley owns the Lazy B, I now know the type of men working for him. Cattle rustlers, gun hands, and thieves.

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I don’t believe Jess Hayes is a cold-blooded killer or a horse thief. Bentley’s arrival with more riders makes going after Jess seem less important. It’s a two-hour ride to the Lazy B and two hours back. Four hours before they would get to town. Riding fast, I could make the two-hour trip to Curly’s and back. Whaley men have a history of fighting. But Bentley is ruthless. I need Curly and his men to keep Whaley from being burned to the ground. “Charlie,” I whisper, “let these men go if Bentley and his men arrive before I return. Don’t fight them unless they give you no other choice. You can tell them where I went, and maybe they’ll leave town. I’m going to get Curly and his men. You get the word around town for folks to be ready for a fight. They can’t trust Bentley.” With the holsters locked away in the jail cell, I saddle the dapple mare, my best trail horse, and ride for Curly’s ranch. The horses Jess led out of town graze on some grass near Cave Creek crossing. He’s stripped their bridles and saddles off. I can pick them up on my way back and take them to town. Jess, being a horse thief, is no longer a question.

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To save time, I cut through Raven Pass. Had it rained in the last week, it would be impassable. We hadn’t seen rain in weeks. With any luck, the mountains haven’t had rain. Near the upper end of the pass, I see two Apache on the ridge. More will be nearby. I let the mare pick her way up the rocky slope out of the pass and loosen the rifle in its scabbard. The Apache is not visible on the ridge, meaning, I need to be ready if they attack. I’d hoped Geronimo and his followers would stay higher in the mountains. But with the silver mine boom in Tombstone, the west side of the Chiricahua Mountains is getting crowded. We’ve had a few run-ins with the Apache since Whaley became a town. But Curly made a deal to supply them with beef, and they left us alone. The Army breaking its word with Cochise several years back, now with Geronimo, might put us all in danger. As I reach level ground above the pass, I spur the mare into a gallop, looking over my shoulder for pursuit from the Apache. Not seeing any, I slow to a trot. After a few minutes, I see the two riders following me but not gaining ground. Even more reason to worry about what lay ahead.

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On top of a rise, I stop and dismount. A swig from my canteen allows me to watch the Apache on my backtrail. They stop, as well. Curious, I look toward Curly’s, still a good way off, and see black smoke rising. After offering a drink to the mare from my hat, I climb in the saddle and spur her into a gallop. I don’t need to run the horse to death, but I might still help Curly. Or I might get myself killed. I reach the valley and can see at least one building on fire. Smoke obscures my view of the main house. I ride hard with my head low the last half mile. Close enough to see the main house and other buildings still standing, I slide the mare to a stop. When I see Curly surrounded by Apache, I draw my pistol as two Apache raise their bows. “Hold up, Cleve. Everything’s okay here,” Curly shouts when he realizes I’ve pulled my pistol. “It doesn’t look fine. I came to talk to Jess and found your place on fire and Apache surrounding you,” I growl back. “What’s going on, Curly?” “We had some trouble this morning, but it’s being taken care of. Now come on up here and tell me why you’re looking for Jess?” I keep the mare between me and the Apache and make my way into the yard. Holstering my Colt, I look over my shoulder and see the two Apache from earlier ride in. Still not satisfied, I pull the rifle from the scabbard and walk over to Curly. “He shot one of the Lazy B’s men earlier today,” I say. “Then he rode out of town with their horses. I found the horses at Cave Creek. So, I figured he came home after he turned them loose.” “He didn’t come here. If he knew there was trouble, he went to the only place he knows he’d be safe.” “Curly, if it’s not here, where else could it be?” “Your place. I always told him to go to your house if he faced trouble in town. Hell, the Army couldn’t get inside that cave house you got outside town.” I should have known. Jess once told me Curly told him to go to my house if he was ever in trouble. I hadn’t thought about it. But now I have even more questions. “Okay. Trouble explains why your barn is on fire, but not why you have a yard full of Apache. I rode out here with two of them following me.” “Take a seat on the porch and have a drink. I’ll tell you about it.” I follow Curly onto the porch and take the whis-

key he offers. This day gets stranger by the hour. Maybe a drink would help. Curly is calm as he speaks. “Two days ago, Geronimo and some of his warriors showed up. I knew he had escaped the San Carlos reservation, so I kind of expected him. He and I made deals for beef in the past. Now he needs food for his people. I agreed to give him some steers in exchange for him leaving my ranch and Whaley out of his personal battle. I’m not here to do the Army’s job, Cleve. Hell, I think the Apache got a raw deal.” “I can’t disagree with you on that.” I shake my head. “Anyway, according to one of his warriors, this morning, before daylight, they noticed several riders coming toward my ranch. Geronimo sent some warriors to follow them and make sure we were okay. When those riders rode up shooting and set fire to the hay barn, the warriors attacked them. My men joined the fight. Didn’t take long for them to realize we outnumbered them. The ones we didn’t kill high-tailed it out of here toward the mountains. The Apache and some of my vaqueros are tracking them now.” “Do you know who attacked your place?” I want to see if he already knows. “Not for certain. But I suspect the Lazy B had something to do with it. We caught two of them rustling some of my cows last week. I left them where they could give the others a message.” I start to ask what kind of message, but I know how Curly deals with rustlers. It also gives me a hint that what happened at Luther’s had nothing to do with a card game leading to Jess shooting the Lazy B rider. “Do you remember Captain Thomas Bentley?” Curly’s eyes grow cold at the name. “Remember him?” He spits. “If I’d caught the murdering coward, I’d have hanged him from a tree and skinned him alive.” “He’s the owner of the Lazy B., according to one of his men. Charlie’s holding some of them in town. But he can’t keep them long. I’m sure his men are the ones rustling cows and herding them into Mexico.” “Jeb, have the boys saddle up,” Curly shouted. “We’re riding to the Lazy B to kill a murderer.” “Let me deal with this, Curly. I have five of his men in town, and you have several more hiding in the mountains. Can’t be many at his place. I can take him up to Fort Bowie where he can stand trial.”

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“Cleve, go back to town. Finish shaving or have Henry do it for you. But Bentley is mine to deal with. He sent someone after my son. He attacked my ranch and tried to burn me out. I know the justice he deserves.” He rose and stormed into the house. I can’t talk to Curly when he gets this angry. It’s a waste of time. I mount the mare and head back to Whaley. The least I can do is keep Bentley’s gunmen in town. My job as a marshal is to keep Whaley safe. I might send Charlie to Tombstone to get the sheriff, after all. Curly might not listen to me, but he would obey the real law. I consider checking my house for Jess but decide against it. I need to see what’s happened in town. If Charlie had to let the Lazy B riders go, I might need to get word to Curly. I circle behind the jail and dismount. If the holsters are still in the cell, it’s safe to believe Charlie has kept things under control. If they aren’t, I need to keep an eye out for trouble. The rear door squeaks as I open it, and splinters sting my face as I hear the gunshot. I stumble backward, slamming the door, and draw my pistol before I trip and fall flat on my back. I aim my pistol at the door and await my attacker. “Sergeant Hawkins, are you still alive and kicking out there?” I recognize the voice. It’s Bentley. “Your deputy refused to let my men loose at the saloon. He suggested I wait here for you to talk about their release. But you know me. Not much of one for talking. I thought we could settle this a lot faster my way.” Two more shots shatter the wood in the door. I scramble to untie my horse. The mare doesn’t need to get shot by a crazed man shooting at something he can’t see. My legs feel weak as I stand. I raise my hand to find blood pouring from a large gash in my head. Maybe more than splinters caught me in the doorway. I sink to my knees and let the mare go. The door creaks open. I try to raise my pistol but can’t. I’m too weak. “Looks like you had an accident, Sergeant. I feel obliged to put you out of your misery.” Bentley smiles and raises the shotgun. “You never deserved to be called captain, Bentley. You’re a coward and a murderer. Even in war, you hid behind the deeds of your men. So don’t call me by my rank. You’re not worthy.” “I’ll still be breathing after today, Sergeant. I

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can’t say the same for you. When my men return from your dear Captain Hayes’s ranch, I sincerely hope it will answer my prayers of being rid of both of you.” I hear the hammers click back on the double barrel and close my eyes. When the gun roars, I expect to feel pain but nothing. My eyes open, and Thomas Bentley lay dead a few feet away. “Let me have a look at you, Marshal.” Jess Hayes puts his arm under mine and lifts me to my feet. “I’ll get you over to Henry, and he can patch you up.” “What are you doing here, Jess?” I ask. “When you didn’t come to your house, I came looking for you. I saw that fellow ride into town and argue outside Luther’s with Charlie and several of the men from town. Then he came to the jail. So, I watched the jail. I didn’t see you ride in the back way. Hearing the shotgun, I went to the front of the jail and saw what was happening. I couldn’t let him kill you.” “Thanks, Jess.” Then everything goes black. When I wake up, Charlie is grinning at me with all four of his remaining teeth. “Glad to see you awake, Cleve.” “How long have I been out?” “Three days. Henry wasn’t worried about you dying, but he said it’s because you have a hard head.” Charlie laughs. “Bentley?” “Dead.” “His men?” “Well, with their boss dead, they headed to Tombstone. Some outfit over there called the Cowboys is looking for riders to help them deal with a new marshal over there. Fella named Earp. Hopefully, we won’t see them anymore.” “Where’s Jess?” “Curly took him and some hands out to the Lazy B to round up any cows them outlaws didn’t take off to Mexico with. Said he might even start another ranch there if he likes the looks of it. Figures there will be less trouble if they have the place instead of a bunch of outlaws taking it over.” I feel the bandage on my head with my fingers, then rub my jaw. “Charlie, go tell Henry I need him to finish my shave. It sounds like justice found its way to Whaley before the law did.” “We have you, Marshal Hawkins. It’s all the law we need in Whaley.” {

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THE AUTHOR Gary Rodgers was raised sitting around listening to stories his granddad, dad, and uncles told around campfires and living rooms. He later used those stories, with a little twist, to earn extra credit in English class. That was the beginning of his interest in writing. After high school, he enlisted in the Army for one tour of duty, then returned home to Pangburn to start a drywall business with his brothers. As construction slowed, he moved to Northwest Arkansas to start a new career in restaurant equipment maintenance. Work and family consumed his life until his mid-fifties, when the writing bug returned. In 2014, he entered his first writing contest with the urging of his friend, Kim Vernon. He won an award, and the writing bug took hold. Old family stories and new experiences gave him ideas to draw upon. He has since won several more awards. One of his winning entries, “One Arm of the Law,” won the Oxbow Award and was published in Saddlebag Dispatches. His message is simple; the old stories need to live on. Putting them into written word secures the stories better than memory alone.

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163

John McPherson

TOMBSTONE’s r e h t o SHOOTOUT Augustus Octavus McMillan did not fancy the idea of killin’, but he strapped on his gun to go up against one of the west’s most notorious villains. Now the villain had stolen his gal; the winsome Miss Ruby Pascal. Though laid back and mellow she ran the bordello that served the surrounding locale. So he challenged the villain to meet for a showdown on East Fremont Street. Their guns would decide who would take as a bride, Miss Ruby, that scandalous treat. Drawing first, of course, was the villain shooting wild, not close to McMillan who aimed for the heart of the most private part of the villain to avoid a killin’.

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TALKING WESTERNS Terry Alexander

ENTERTAINMENT EDITOR

Don’t Change That Channel! Cochise County Has a Rich Legacy of Television Shows.

ochise County, Arizona, has always featured prominently in TV shows and movies about the west. Most of these endeavors featured the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral as their main drawing card. I know of three shows that didn’t mention the Earp brothers or the famous shootout.

Broken Arrow The first is Broken Arrow, a half-hour western drama that ran on ABC from 1956 to 1958, with seventy-one episodes. It

starred John Lupton as Tom Jeffords and Michael Ansara as Chief Cochise. The basis of the show was two men from diverse backgrounds working together to keep the peace between the white man moving into the area and the Indian trying to hang on to his way of life. The show was based on the 1947 novel Blood Brother by Elliott Arnold. The novel told the story of the friendship between Tom Jeffords and Apache chief Cochise. The novel had in turn been adapted into the movie

Broken Arrow, which starred Jimmy Stewart as Tom Jeffords and Jeff Chandler as Cochise. During the filming of the TV show, the producers arranged a date between Ansara and Barbara Eden. They later married and had one child, a son, Matthew Michael Ansara. During its run, several famous people guest starred on the show. Michael Pate played Gokliya in three episodes. Hal Smith, Otis from the Andy Griffith show, played the bartender in three episodes, and Myron Healey played a nameless lieutenant in three episodes. Leonard Nimoy, Robert Blake, Angie Dickinson, and Harry Carey Jr. also made appearances. It received a nomination from the Writers Guild of America for writer John Dunkel for the 1957 episode, “Ghostface.” Michael Ansara was born in Syria. His family moved to Lowell, Massachusetts, when he was two. After ten years, they moved

Production still of actors Michael Ansara as Cochise and John Lupton as Tom Jeffords in Broken Arrow.

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to California. Michael was bitten by the acting bug during his school years. He made several TV and movie appearances during his career. He won a Bronze Wrangler for the 1964 Rawhide episode “Incident of Iron Bull.” He starred, as Deputy Marshal Sam Buckhart in Laws of the Plainsman for one season. He was also nominated for a Saturn Award for Best Supporting Actor for the movie, The Manitou, opposite Tony Curtis. As a footnote, he was one of seven actors who have played the same character in three versions of the TV show, Star Trek. He played Commander Kang in the 1968 “Day of the Dove” of the original series. He repeated the role in 1994’s episode “Bloodoath” on Deep Space Nine. He also played the character for the final time in the 1996 episode, “Flashback” on Voyager. Michael Ansara died July 31, 2013, at his home in Calabasas, California. He was ninety-one. John Lupton was born August 23, 1928. After the cancellation of Broken Arrow, he guest-starred in numerous TV shows and had small parts in movies. He died November 3, 1993. He was sixty-five.

Tombstone Territory Tombstone Territory ran on ABC from ’57 to ’59. It ran in syndication from ’59 to ’60. It was another of the half-hour western dramas. ZIV Television produced the series. The story took place in Tombstone, Arizona, but it didn’t feature the Earps. The sheriff of Tombstone was Clay Hollister, played by Pat Conway. Richard Eastham portrayed Harris Claibourne, editor of the Tombstone Epitaph. The tagline for the show was, “Tombstone, Arizona—the town too tough to die.”

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Actor Pat Conway as Sheriff Clay Hollister from the 1950s television show Tombstone Territory.

Conway was Hollywood royalty. His grandfather was Francis X. Bushman, star of silent films who appeared as Messala in the 1925 version of Ben Hur. His father was Jack Conway, who acted in a hundred films and directed a hundred more. Pat got his start in movies in 1951 in The Deadly Mantis. Richard Eastham was a wonderful character who played General Blankenship, the commanding officer of Diana Prince and Steve Trevor in Wonder Woman some twenty years later. He was born Dickinson Swift Eastman June 22, 1916. He served in the Army during World War II. His last role was as

Frank Hillson in two episodes of Dallas in 1991. He suffered with Alzheimer’s Disease and passed away at an assisted living facility in Pacific Palisades July 5, 2005. While the show didn’t feature any of the Earps. Curly Bill Brocius, played by Robert Foulk, and Doc Holliday, played by Gerald Mohr—who also played the famous dentist on Maverick—each appeared three times in the first season. John Doucette appeared in three episodes playing different characters. Once he played Geronimo. Angie Dickinson also appeared in the episode. Tom Pittman appeared in one episode as

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John Bromfield played Frank Morgan in Sheriff of Cochise from 1956 to 1958, and again in U.S. Marshal in 1960.

Billy Clanton, and John Beradino appeared once as Buckskin Frank Leslie. Myron Healey appeared as Johnny Ringo. Season one had thirty-nine episodes but the show wasn’t renewed by the network. It was brought back in the summer of ’58 as a summer replacement show with twelve episodes. The show was cancelled, and the production company made a final season of forty episodes and placed it in syndication. Dell comics produced a single-shot comic book in August of 1960. The theme song “Whistle me up a Memory,” was written by William M. Backer and sung by Jimmy Blaine. Pat Conway’s final acting role was on the TV show, The Streets of San Francisco, in 1975. He was born January 9, 1931, and died April 24, 1981, of renal failure. He was fifty years old.

Sheriff of Cochise Sheriff of Cochise was a thirty-minute police drama that aired

from ’56 to ’58 for seventy-nine black and white episodes. In 1958, the show evolved into U.S. Marshal and ran until 1960. This neo-western starred John Bromfield as Frank Morgan and Stan Jones as Harry Olsen. Instead of riding the range on horseback, these lawmen drove a Chrysler Coronet station wagon. Bromfield was born in South Bend, Indiana. He played football and was a member of the boxing team at Saint Mary’s College of California. He served in the U.S. Navy during World War II. He made his movie debut in Harpoon in 1948. He also appeared in the horror film Revenge of the Creature in 1955. John retired from acting after U.S. Marshal was cancelled. He produced sport stories and became a commercial fisherman. He died September 18, 2005. Stan Jones was an actor and songwriter. He was born in Douglas, Arizona, part of Cochise County, June 5, 1914. His family moved to California when he was ten. He joined the U.S. Navy in 1934 and

held an assortment of jobs after he was discharged. He met John Ford during the filming of The Walking Hills while working as a park ranger. They became lifelong friends, and Jones even wrote some of the theme songs for Ford’s movies. He wrote the theme song for The Searchers and The Horse Soldiers. He co-wrote the theme for the TV show Cheyenne and wrote the classic song, “Ghost Riders in the Sky.” His final film role was an uncredited appearance in Invitation to a Gunfighter, released in 1964. Jones died of cancer in 1963. He was interred in Calvary Memorial Park in Douglas, Arizona. He was voted into the Western Music Association Hall of Fame in 1997. 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.

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TRIBAL PASSAGES Regina McLemore FEATURES WRITER

The Cochise of Cochise County The Legacy of the Man Who Gave Cochise County its Name.

ombstone, once the capital of Cochise County, was called the “condensation of wickedness,” by physician, surgeon, and gunshot expert, Dr. Edwin Goodfellow. He had the evidence to back up his statement, having stitched-up and operated on many gunshot victims during his lengthy tenure in Tombstone. The county’s namesake, a chief of the Chiricahua Apache, Cochise, would have probably agreed with Goodfellow. Cochise, born in 1805 on land claimed by Spain, yearned for the simple life of his childhood. He once said, “When I was young, I walked all over this country, east and west, and saw no other people than the Apache.” Historians, such as Angie Debo, relate that Cochise tried diplomacy in the beginning of his relationship with the United States government. He kept his pledge to permit the Butterfield Overland Mail to cross through his territory, unchallenged. He even sold wood to the stage station at the gateway to Apache Pass. Matters changed abruptly in 1861 when Felix Martinez Ward— a.k.a. Mickey Free—a half-Irish/ half-Mexican twelve-year-old, was kidnapped by an Apache band. Cochise was asked to come to where a young, inexperienced

cavalry officer, Lieutenant George Bascom, was camped. He had been charged with investigating the kidnapping, and his chief suspect was Cochise. When Cochise denied any knowledge of the kidnapping, he and his companions were arrested. Bascom told Cochise they would be held as hostages until the boy was returned. Cutting their prison tent, Cochise

and three of his men escaped and returned to their village. Cochise ordered Geronimo to attack a wagon train coming up the pass and take hostages. During the attack, Geronimo’s warriors killed six Hispanic drivers and captured three “White Eyes” (Europeans) along with two other Hispanics. The Apache tied the two Hispanics to the wheels of wagons and set the wagons on fire. Cochise sent a message to Bascom, warning him that his hostages would receive the same treatment the imprisoned Apache were given. He demanded a prisoner exchange. This was denied, and the conflict ended badly, with Cochise torturing and killing his captives and the military hanging theirs, among them, close relatives of Cochise.

While there are no photos of Cochise known to exist, Naiche, who later rode with Geronimo, is said to have closely resembled his father.

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Vowing vengeance, he joined Mangas Coloradas, his fatherin-law and chief of the Mimbreno band, in waging what became known as the Apache Wars, which caused the deaths of hundreds of Americans and Mexicans. Meanwhile, Mickey Free grew up as an Apache, evolving into a wellknown interpreter, and Cochise became a name to be feared. The Civil War broke out, and U.S. troops were fighting Cochise and the Apache, while simultaneously trying to reach battle sites to confront the Confederates. In the Battle of Apache Pass, located in Cochise County, Cochise and one hundred fifty Chiricahua warriors attacked General James Carleton and his men while they were enroute to confront Confederate troops in Arizona and New Mexico. When the two-day struggle between Carleton’s California Column and the Chiricahua ended on July 16, 1862, the military recognized a need for a fort to secure Apache Pass and protect soldiers, settlers, and mail coaches as they traveled through the region. On July 28, soldiers from the 5th California Volunteer Infantry began constructing a crude fort and named it after their commanding officer, Colonel George Washington Bowie. In 1867, President Grant ordered General Philip Sherman to pacify the Native Americans on the plains. In response, Sherman used the same tactics he had employed in the Civil War. His men destroyed Apache crops to diminish their ability to fight. Cochise and Geronimo retaliated by ramping up their raids on wagon trains, stage coach stations, settlements, and ranches. The Dragoon Mountains, the

Felix Martinez Ward—also known as Mickey Free—the half-Irish, half-Mexican boy whose kidnapping sparked the Bascom Affair. Years later, he would go on to become a well-known U.S. Army scout and interpreter.

ancestral home of the Chiricahua Apache, which were named for the U.S. Dragoon regiment that battled Cochise and other Apache, are located in Cochise County. From Cochise Stronghold, a canyon in the Dragoons, Cochise launched his raids on ranches and settlements. In 1870, Cochise met Thomas Jeffords, a stage driver for the Butterfield Overland Stage. The

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two men became friends, and Jeffords arranged a meeting with General Oliver O. Howard. Cochise and Howard hammered out a treaty with Geronimo close by. All hostilities and raiding between the Apache and the United States soldiers would cease, and warriors were guaranteed a safe passage to their homes. It also created the short-lived Chiricahua Apache reservation in Sulphur Spring Valley in Arizona. Most white civilians knew nothing about the treaty. In A Century of Dishonor, author Helen Hunt Jackson described an atrocity that occurred near Camp Grant as reported by Lieutenant Royal E. Whitman, 3rd U.S. Cavalry. At the beginning of 1871, a young Apache chief asked the lieutenant if he would allow his people to settle in the area of the fort so they could feel safe. Whitman told him that he had no authority to make a treaty, but he would allow him to bring in his band, and they would be fed. Other bands joined them until over four hundred Apache were living in the area as voluntary prisoners of war. Meanwhile, Whitman wrote about the situation to his superiors but received no answer. He continued to feed the Apache and grew to know them very well. After asking for permission, the Apache moved farther away from the fort so that they could have more room. When Captain Stanwood arrived to assume command of the post, he carried verbal orders from General Stoneman to continue to feed the Apache and permit them to stay where they had settled. On April 30, Whitman received a dispatch that a large party had left Tucson on April 28, vowing to kill all Indians at the Camp Grant

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A close friend of Cochise, Tom Jeffords helped arrange a meeting between the Apache Chief and U.S. Army Brigadier General Oliver O. Howard. Jeffords would go on to be named Indian Agent for the Chiricahua Reservation.

Chiricahua Apache di-yen (medicine man), Geronimo, pictured here after his surrender.

post. He immediately sent two messengers to warn the Apache to come to the fort for protection. The messengers returned within an hour with the harrowing news that the Apache camp was burning, and they could find no living Indians. Whitman took the camp surgeon and a company of twenty soldiers and citizens to offer aid and bury the dead. The surviving Apache trickled in and told him they had been attacked in their sleep at dawn. Of the four hundred Apache, about one hundred and twenty-five were killed or missing. Of that number, only eight were men, with the rest being women and children. Before Cochise passed away in 1874, he asked that his son Taza be named as chief. Taza and Geronimo honored the treaty. However, the government broke the agreement and relocated Taza’s band 180 miles to the San Carlos reservation, along with other Apache and Yavapai bands. This reservation earned its reputation as “Hell’s Forty Acres” due to the bad health and environmental conditions its inhabitants were asked to endure. Geronimo and other Apache felt no obligation to remain there. Over the years, Geronimo and his followers escaped and were captured and returned to the reservation four times. One of these outbreaks in September 1881, led by Geronimo and two other well-known leaders, Juh and Naiche, resulted in death, destruction, and wide-spread panic. Among those killed were six teamsters from a wagon train, Cedar Springs Station agent John Mowlds, and an old man named Vance. The Apache also mutilated four Army telegraph linemen.

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Geronimo driving a Locomobile car in June, 1905, at the Miller Brothers’ 101 Ranch near Ponca City, Oklahoma.

In October, a group of defenders quickly formed in Tombstone, which included Sheriff John Behan, Marshal Virgil Earp, Wyatt Earp, Morgan Earp, Mayor John Clum, Billy Breakenridge, and George Parsons. The men set out as a posse intent on capturing the fleeing Apache and learned they had been stealing cattle and taking them to Horseshoe Canyon. After traveling to the canyon, they failed to find Geronimo, so they returned to Tombstone. Hatred prevailed toward the Apache and other native tribes as evidenced by this article appearing in the Weekly Arizona Miner, May 5, 1882, “In Tombstone a pool of $250 has been put up as a reward for twenty-five Indian scalps, and a further sum of ten dollars for each additional scalp is offered.” Geronimo remained at large until January 1884, when he sur-

rendered to General Crook and returned to the reservation, only to escape again the next year. He surrendered for the last time in 1886 and was sent with other Apache warriors to an internment camp in Florida before being imprisoned at Fort Sill in Oklahoma. At the time, Geronimo was called “the last Indian to surrender.” Many people in the Tombstone area did not approve of Geronimo being sent to Indian Territory to serve out his life sentence. They thought he should have been put to death for his crimes. On February 15, 1890, Tombstone’s newspaper, the Tombstone Weekly Epitaph reported, “The Society of Arizona Pioneers have issued a strong protest against the removal of Geronimo to Indian Territory… the majority of whom have fought against the Apache and many of whom have lost relatives and friends by murder at the hands of these Indians….”

Geronimo died at Fort Still, Oklahoma in 1909 of pneumonia, having spent the last twenty-three years of his life as a prisoner of war. He occasionally was allowed to leave Fort Sill under escort for short periods of time, but President Theodore Roosevelt denied his repeated requests to return home to Cochise County. On his deathbed, Geronimo’s final words were of his regret at the outcome of his life. “I never should have surrendered. I should have fought until I was the last man alive.” Regina McLemore is a Will Rogers Medallion Award-winning author and retired educator of Cherokee heritage. Her great, great grandmother, Susie Christie Clay, survived the Trail of Tears in 1839. Regina’s Young Adult Trilogy, Cherokee Passages, is a fictional retelling of her family’s history from the Trail of Tears down through the modern day. It includes the novels Cherokee Clay, Cherokee Stone, and Cherokee Steel.

Saddlebag Dispatches—Winter 2023

Articles inside

The Rise of Geronimo by Bill Markley

Tombstone's Other Shootout: Poetry by John McPherson

Tombstones in Tombstone—Poetry by Benjamin Henry Bailey

Bad Blood & Bullets: Poetry by Marleen Bussma

Tribal Passages: The Cochise of Cochise County

Talking Westerns: Don't Change That Channel!

Justice Finds Whaley by Gary Rodgers

BATTLE OF THE PLAZA AND TOMBSTONE TROUBLES

The Green Guardian of a Yellow Gold Submariner by Scott M. Brents

A Woman of the West

My Friend Tom By Benjamin Henry Bailey

Gems of Cochise County by Doug Hocking

Judged and Found Lacking by Anthony Wood

A Holdup on the Tombstone Stage by James A. Tweedie

Bon Ton and Tony by Sherry Monahan

Finding Fortune by W. Michael Farmer

Cathy Williams: Buffalo Soldier by Chris Enss and JoAnn Chartier

A Death of Crows

The Book Wagon: Cochise County Barnburners

Wild Women: Sarah Herring Soren

Behind the Chutes: Bringing Home the Hardware