Old West Gunmen

[Gibson]

Steve it looks like Wal' has given us a good explanation. Makes sense to me.

Think of the rare instances when an armed citizenry rose up? Northfield and Coffeyville.

I remember watching old clips of Charles Whitman and thinking, couldn't happen here. . . in rural Western Kentucky there are no buildings that tall and if he scaled the tallest, guys would be pulling over their pickups and wagering on which one of the tons of '06s would take him out. I can see the disappointment when Whitman fell on the faces of all who did NOT get to put some lead into him.

Police would have been cheering them on.

[Gibson]

Could any of you ID that handgun that "Mad Dan" is holding in the death shot?

[gunseller]

Thanks Wal' and Gibson. That clears up somethings I have been thingking about. I know thinking just gets me in trouble but I can not help it. I am far from an expert, but I play one on the net, but it looks like an early Webley. I thought, I know there I go thinking again, Webleys were issued to police in much of the UK and the pistol was taken from an officer he killed.
Steve

[Gibson]

Much obliged, Steve!

Today it's going to be a gunfight between Luke Short and Tim "Longhair Jim" Courtright. The nickname wasn't really appropriate anymore but it is what it is. Courtright was a mankiller. One of the more odd turnouts to me. . . evidently Luke Short was tougher than one might expect.

Here ya go, fellas:

[Gibson]

Luke Short was first and foremost a sporting man:





Hardly. Plenty of men as tough and tougher than those four throughout the west during that period. PLENTY.

Short:



A contemporary anecdote concerning Luke Short:

(This was a manuscript left for the grandsons of James. C. Henderson, they relate the experiences and observations of one of the very first pioneer cattlemen of Kay County and the Cherokee Strip, they are of unquestioned historical interest and value, especially to the people of that portion of Oklahoma to which they more particularly pertain. These reminiscences were written less than two years before the death of Mr. Henderson, which occurred in January, 1919.)


THE NEGRO, OR WAU-KA SABBA

In the fall of 1875, we drifted back to Salt Fork and pitched our camp in the same place on Pond Creek where we had stayed the winter before. That winter, Luke Short brought in a herd of cattle and put in a camp on the south side of Salt Fork. This made three camps on Salt Fork that winter, namely, Hopkins’, Short’s and ours. Early in the spring we moved our camp about ten miles east and, to the south side of the river. There had been four of us in camp all winter, but my oldest brother, Tom, had gone to Kansas and that just left Colonel Dean, Broncho Jim and myself in camp that spring. Along about the first of May, about twenty-five of our stock horses strayed off. We looked for them all of one day but did not find them. The next morning Dean sent Broncho and myself to take another look for the horses, telling us to go as far south as Poor Pawnee Creek. When we reached that stream, we found a fresh looking horse trail. It looked as if it had been made by about twenty-five horses. However, we noticed that the horse tracks were all of nearly the same size, where as, our stock horses were of all sizes, from colts up. So we concluded that it was an Osage war party. We decided to follow it a little way, anyhow. We followed it about a, mile when it led into the timber and there we found the camp fire still burning and everything looked like they had not been gone more than two hours. We then went northwestward to Salt Fork, near where the Bald Mound

Page 265

is and found the horses on the very spot where George Miller put in a cattle camp about the year 1882. (This George Miller was the father of the Miller Brothers, who own the 101 Ranch. His cattle brand in 1882 was L K but either he or his sons afterward changed it to 101).

We started to our camp with the horses and, when we got within about two miles of the camp, we left the horses, as they were considered at home any where within three miles of camp. It was almost dark when we left the horses and, when we got within speaking distance of the camp, we told Colonel Dean that we had found the stray horses and brought them in. He asked if we had seen the Indians. We answered that we had not. He then said that an Osage mourning party had been there late that evening and that they had killed one of the cattle. He said they were camped for the night in a small bunch of timber about a half a mile away. And sure enough, Broncho and I had passed right by them without seeing either them or their horses. Colonel Dean, had counted these Indians and there were eighteen of them. Why we did not see them or some of their horses has always been a mystery to me, as Broncho and I had passed right along the edge of the brush where they were camped. We could see their camp fire plainly while we were talking to Colonel Dean. This fire had evidently not been lighted when Broncho and I passed by. We then told the Colonel that another party had gone west, up Poor Pawnee Creek. After supper we began to discuss the matter of what was best to do about the stock horses. The Indians were headed right straight toward the place where we had left this bunch of horses. We did not think the Indians would want to take these horses on their expedition but we did think that they might stampede them for pure mischief. So we thought it would be best to try to move the horses. Colonel Dean proposed that we wait until toward morning before undertaking to do so, as we could hear the Indians beating their drums and singing their war songs, until about two o’clock in the morning, when it ceased. Colonel Dean then said that, if I would guard the camp and the saddle horses, he and Broncho would go and move the bunch of horses which we had brought in and left east of the Indian camp and put them with the main herd of stock horses.

Just before daylight I could hear tiny bells right close

Page 266

to our camp; I knew it was some of the Indians horses and just as it began to get light in the east, I could see four Indian horses about fifty yards northeast from our camp. It was the tinkling of the tiny bells on the manes and tails of these horses that I had heard as they grazed past our camp They were all hobbled and were grazing slowly toward the east. I then saw three Osages coming as fast as their horse could run. They passed very close to me. Having secured and unhobbled the grazing animals, they started then on the run toward their camp. I had a revolver on and a Henry rifle in my hand, while a double barrel shotgun was leaning against a tree. I must have looked dangerous or comical, as the Indians kept watching me very closely while they were unhobbling their horses. I had become an expert with my superb Henry rifle and I could have killed all three before they could have gotten out of range, but Colonel Dean had cautioned me not to shoot unless I had reason to believe that they meant harm.

The sun was coming up and I could see Colonel Dean and Broncho on a sand hill, nearly a mile to the north, looking toward our camp. I then went out where they could see me whereupon they started toward the camp. When they had gotten within about a hundred yards of the camp, Colonel Dean hallooed for me to take off my hat to which I replied "Never mind; my hair is all right." He then told me that when they saw the Indians so near our camp, they thought that I had gone to sleep, that the Indians had killed me before I knew they were around and that the horses the Indian; were driving off were some of our saddle horses.

About nine or ten o’clock that day, the Indians reached Hopkins’ dug-out, on Pond Creek, about four miles below the old Sewell stockade. The men had all gone out to look after the cattle but a negro cook was in the dug-out. (I have forgotten the Osage name for negro, so I have substituted the Ponca word for black man, which is probably the same, as the languages of the two tribes are of common origin and many if not most of the words are identical.) This Wau-ka Sabba heard some one say "Hello" in plain English and, thinking that it was some one from our camp, he said, "Come in" But no one came, so he opened the door to see who it was and there Were three Indians standing in the door. He tried to close the door but the Indians caught it and began to push

Page 267

and, as he threw his weight against the door in an endeavor to shut it, one of them reached in and cut off a large bunch of his wool but did not reach his scalp. There was a loaded revolver lying a few feet away but the negro was afraid to let go the door to get it. After this struggle had lasted a few moments, Wau-ka Sabba saw that he could not shut the door, so he jumped back and let the Indians fall inside. Before they could get on their feet again, Wau-ka Sabba had grasped the revolver and began shooting and thus succeeded in driving the Indians out when he closed the door. He did not kill an Indian, although he said his weapon was within two feet of their faces when he was shooting. The rest of the Indians were hidden in the brush about a half a mile away and the three Indians at the dug-out began to signal for them to come, by setting fire to the dead grass and throwing it up in the air. Wau-ka Sabba was watching them through the cracks in the door and, when he saw the main band of Indians coming, he thought it was time to move. There was, a rear door that opened out down under the creek bank and the negro ran out this door and through the woods but the Indians saw him and the three that were already at the dugout jumped on their horses and took after him, shooting as they ran. The rest of the Indians were coming in full cry, but the negro had some advantage as there was lots of grape vines and greenbrier thickets which he could run through but the Indians, being mounted, had to go around these. Also, whenever he came to the creek, he would run down and up the banks, while the Indians had to ride around the big bends. The Indians ran him within a half a mile of the stockade (Sewell’s) and they shot at him every time they caught sight of him. He said afterward that, when he reached the stockade, there was a tired ****** there. He certainly made a great run, as the Indians put him through under whip and spur for almost four miles. Had his shooting been as good as his running, he might have given a better account of himself.

We had been looking for help for more than three weeks to enable us to get the cattle out of the country. The grass was good and the Indians were always more dangerous when their horses were in good condition. Luke short had moved his cattle a few days before and, the day the Indians left, we concluded to get things in as good shape as we could that day

Page 268

and then try to move the cattle off of the Salt Fork ourselves. There was a small creek a few miles north, that the Osages called Ne-wheh-ka-ha Shinga, which, in English, would signify "little stinking creek." We worked hard all the next day and finally got all the cattle, horses and camp outfit moved to this creek. We knew that we had all of the horses but we did not know whether we had all of the cattle. Just before dark, my father and four other men came. The next morning we counted the cattle and found that we had failed to get them all, as about fifty head were missing. My father, Colonel Dean and myself started back to Salt Fork to look for the missing cattle. When we got near the Salt Fork, we separated, my father going eastward and Colonel Dean and I going toward the south. We had not gone far when we heard shooting, down the river, in the direction my father had gone. We rode in that direction as fast as we could. We found that the Indians were killing our cattle. Colonel Dean and I reached there just in time to see the Indians run. We could see an Indian on top of a large sand hill. He was their lookout and he gave the other Indians the signal that we were coming and then they all ran. We never got near enough to get in a shot. The Indians ran eastward and crossed the Arkansas River at the Black Dog Crossing. They had killed seventeen head of cattle and there was no doubt but that they would have killed the last one if we had not arrived in time to scare them away. They had failed to kill a man and get a scalp and were in such an ugly temper that they were trying to take their spite out on the cattle. There were some short horn cows that were too big and gentle to run much and the Indians had ridden their horses along side these and ripped them open with knives, without shooting them. We never wanted to kill any one so badly in our lives as we did when we saw the brutality with which these dumb brutes had been mutilated. This happened about forty-eight hours after these Indians had chased the negro. We never learned where they had been between times. That summer, my father and Colonel Dean went to the Osage Agency and filed a claim with the Government against the Osages for pay for the cattle, but this claim was never allowed.

Page 269

A few days after we had located our winter’s camp on Salt Fork, in the fall of 1875, I was looking after the cattle on the south side of the river, when I met a man wearing a plug hat. I was never more surprised in my life, for it was the first plug hat that had ever been seen on Salt Fork. His hat and clothes looked as if he might have been a pilgrim from the Potomac, but his horse, saddle and bridle looked as if he might have been a rustler from the Rio Grande—in fact, his outfit looked like a blending of the East and the West. His personal appearance was that of a good-looking man, but why the plug hat? He invited me to his camp, which he said was about three miles away. I accepted for two reasons, first, because I wanted my dinner and, second, because I wanted to see what kind of an outfit it was that would send out a rider on Salt Fork, wearing a plug hat. The fashion on Salt Fork had not yet reached the plug hat stage—it was still in its breech-clout and gee-string days.

While on our way to his camp, I learned that my new-found friend was none other than the notorious Luke Short, of Fort Worth and Dodge City fame. I found him to be a very interesting man. As we rode along, we came to a bunch of his cattle. They were each branded with a plug hat on the left jaw and each had the tip of the left horn sawed off. In referring to the outfit afterward, we generally. referred to them as the "plug hats" or the "sawed horns."

Luke Short at one time had run the Red Dog Saloon, in Dodge City. There was an unwritten law in Dodge, in those days, against anyone wearing a plug hat. If a stranger from the East wearing a plug hat, he was immediately beset by the indignant populace and his hat was shot-full of holes. As a result, plug hats were scarce in Dodge. One day, Luke Short thought he would have a little diversion, so he walked out of the Red Dog Saloon and started down street, wearing a plug hat. The plug hat, of course, magnetized the crowd. It was soon knocked off his head and shot full of holes. He put it on again but it was knocked from his head and shot several times, but he finally succeeded in making his rounds and getting back to the saloon, still wearing the plug hat. And he wore a plug hat every day that he stayed in Dodge after that.

There were gay times in Dodge in those days. One evening a stranger from the East got off the train at Dodge and,

Page 270

as he was taking in the sights that night, he wandered into the Red Dog Saloon. This saloon also served as a club room for the sporting element, which included most of the population. The crowd saw at a glance that the stranger belonged to the immigrant class and they began to ask him what part of the country he was from. He told them he was from New England and that he had come west to spend his vacation on a buffalo hunt. He was told that buffalo were getting scarce in those parts but that there were some fine herds of antelope within a few miles of town. They told him to come to the Red Dog Saloon the next morning and they would take him on a grand antelope hunt. The stranger then departed for his lodging house, dreaming, no doubt, of the numerous big pronghorns that they were going to bring in the next day.

There were in Dodge at that time, several head dresses and blankets which had been taken from the bodies of Indians killed in the fight at Adobe Walls. Early the next morning, seven or eight members of the crowd donned these head dresses and blankets and event on ahead to the river, where, on a certain sand bar, they took off their boots and walked around in their socks, making tracks like those made by moccasins. After making these tracks, they remounted their horses and went down the river out of sight to wait for the hunters to come. Soon after this party left, the stranger cause to the saloon and said he was all ready for the big drive. A good looking horse had been secured for him but it was known as the slowest running horse in town. The leader of the party made straight for the sand bar already mentioned. When they arrived at the sand bar, some one said, "Indians!" and pointed at the tracks. Sure enough, the sand bar was covered with these moccasin tracks. While they were looking at the moccasin tracks they heard the "Indians" yell and here they came, charging, shooting and whooping. The hunters started for Dodge, as fast as their horses could run. As they were mounted on good running horses, they soon left the stranger far behind, reaching town more than half a mile ahead of him. The whole town had been informed of the program that was to be pulled off that morning, so many of the people had climbed upon house-tops and other vantage points to see the race. When the stranger got to the edge of the town, he was so disgusted with the poor running of his horse, that he jumped to the ground and struck a bee-line for

Page 271

the Red Dog Saloon, about three hundred yards distant. He just hit a few of the high places—they said he almost flew. He ran into the saloon and never stopped until he got to the rear end of the house. Luke Short ran to him and patted him on the back, saying, "My friend, if ever you run a race I will bet my money on you."

It was a custom of Luke Short’s that, when he hired a negro to work for him, the latter was told that he was wanted to work for a certain length of time and that if he were to quit before the time was up he would be killed. About two weeks before Short moved his cattle from Salt Fork, in the spring of 1876, one of his negroes came to our camp and told us that he did wish that Mr. Short would move the cattle up near the Kansas line, as he was afraid that the Osage mourning parties would come and that he was afraid of them. We asked him why he did not quit and go to the states. He said that if he were to quit then, he would be killed, sure. Another clause that Short put in the contract with his negro employes was that if they ever called him any other name but "Mr." Short, he would kill them for that also. About a week after this negro was at our camp, Short moved his cattle up near Caldwell. After that I did not hear from him again until four years later, when he brought a herd of cattle from Texas and camped on Skeleton Creek. He had two negroes with him then but not the same he had in 1876. These negroes seemed to be working under the same sort of contract, as I noticed they always said "Mr." Short. In 1888, Short got into trouble in Fort Worth with a noted gambler, named Jim Courtright. Short killed Courtright. I never heard what became of Short after that affair.

[Gibson]

Tim "Longhair Jim" Courtright overview:

". . . In 1873, near Fort Worth, the Courtrights tried farming. After the farm failed, they moved to town, where Courtright worked as city jailer and in 1876 was elected city marshal by three votes. Since its incorporation as a city in 1873, Fort Worth had attracted the negative elements of a frontier town. Gambling, drinking, prostitution, and crime became rampant, but much of this vice brought income to the city, and Courtright soon learned that his job was not to clean up but simply to keep peace. While he was marshal, any attempts he made to enforce laws or make reforms met with the disapproval of the merchants. They told him to stop the flow of blood, but not that of liquor. In 1879 Courtright ran for a fourth term and was defeated by S. M. Farmer, after which the ex-marshal hung out around town, opened a detective agency that failed, spent time gambling and drinking, and then was invited to New Mexico.

His stay there was brief. After being accused of involvement in two murders, he escaped territorial authorities and returned to Fort Worth, where he opened the T. I. Courtright Commercial Detective Agency. When Texas Rangersqv and a New Mexico official arrived in the city to arrest him, an estimated 2,000 armed citizens challenged them. Although initially taken into custody, Courtright later escaped with the aid of friends. Eventually he returned to New Mexico, where he was acquitted due to insufficient evidence. In Fort Worth he was hired temporarily as deputy marshall during the Great Southwest Strike of 1886. Against the wishes of striking railroaders, he attempted to move the trains and, when two killings occurred, was blamed for siding with the railroads.

Courtright's career was brought to an end on February 8, 1887. Luke Short, a former friend of his, shot and killed him in one of the most famous gunfights in western history-and, contrary to the movie legends, one of the few face-to-face shootouts. The reason for the killing was never determined, though Short and Courtright were rivals for control of gambling interests in Fort Worth."

[Gibson]

The ORIGINAL location of "The White Elephant Saloon" at 308 Main Street.



Contemporary layout complete with cock fighting pit (1893):



Our event occurred on February 8, 1887 as Courtright called out Short from the White Elephant and seconds later died in the doorway of the shooting gallery next door. . .

[Gibson]

Luke Short showed up in Fort Worth as he showed up anywhere he went. The man was always dressed to the nines. Dapper, if you will. Put plainly, he was a dandy. However he was known throughout the west as a man NOT to be trifled with! His reputation as a card sharp and an excellent gambler, per se was combined with his repution for having one man in the ground already and no one doubted his willingness to add to that record.

It was well known that if he was awake, he was armed. He religiously carried a sixgun in a leather-lined inner pocket.

He and his wife showed up in Fort Worth in 1883 and he fit the owner of "The White Elephant Saloon's" wish list. Bill Ward the owner had been searching for someone with both a reputation and connections with the gambling fraternity. He had found him and in fairly short order, Short was on board with the saloon. Luke's rputation and his satchel of cash helped make him 1/3 owner of "The White Elephant Saloon". Luke now had free reign in the upstairs of the saloon.

"He set up living quarters for himself and Mrs. Short adjacent to his workplace in a custom-built, two-bedroom apartment that had a special staircase to the alley behind the saloon and a dumbwaiter to the restaurant downstairs so that they could take their meals privately. Somehow his name also became attached to the most remarkable piece of furniture ever seen in a Fort Worth saloon, the so-called Luke Short Bar. It was a genuine work of art consisting of three large pieces that took up most of an entire wall — a front counter where customers stood, a liquor case holding the merchandise, and a mirrored backbar stretching the length of the front counter. The whole thing was made of dark-stained mahogany with onyx decorations and crystal lighting fixtures. How much it cost or how it came to be built in the White Elephant are still a mystery, but Short obviously had something to do with it. He solidified the White Elephant's reputation for honest games with first-rate players, genteel surroundings and discretion in all things. Not once during his tenure was the White Elephant raided by police or criticized by its neighbors for rowdiness. Short also introduced the duffer's game of keno, a glorified form of bingo popular with the silk-stocking crowd. By starting a keno craze in Fort Worth, Short padded the saloon's bottom line.

Luke Short's cronies, as opposed to his customers, preferred big-stakes poker. There was a clubroom at the White Elephant for such men, who generally traveled the Gamblers' Circuit from town to town. A particularly big game at the White Elephant in August 1885 featured a 'Who's Who' of Western card sharks — Luke Short, Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Charlie Coe and local bad boy Timothy Isaiah Courtright. Masterson's bankroll alone was $9,000. At the end of the evening, the final hand came down to Coe versus Short. Coe's four kings beat Short's full house, and Coe left town with this victory — the sole basis for later claims that he was 'the most successful and also the most feared gambler of them all.' Meanwhile, Short's presence at the White Elephant continued to attract major players like Masterson and Earp whenever they came through north Texas."



Stay tuned

[Gibson]

Timothy Isaiah "Longhair Jim" Courtright was broke or at least bent-double when he arrived in Fort Worth. He had never recovered from his murderous shenanigans in New Mexico. (His nickname was from a gaff. It seems that "Jim" was a mistake for "Tim" and it stuck. Longhair also must be a mistake as I find no image or mention of it in old accounts. However perhaps in his youth he had long hair and the nickname stayed with him?)

Courtright fit our mold. He was double tough, always strapped (carrying two sixguns), and ruthless. However, not just a mercenary, he was credited with with cleaning up "Hell's Half Acre". He was the proper man, if execution of lawbreakers was needed. First elected Marshall of Fort Worth in 1876. . . snippets follow. . .

As one old timer put it:

"In Fort Worth in those days, the gun equalized the size of man, and everybody carried a gun. My business thrived. To illustrate how the pistol equalized man, I shall relate the Jim Courtright episode [not quoted]. Courtright was a man whom everyone admired. . . . He had served as marshal for the town and had an unusual large number of friends among all classes of people."

legendsofamerica.com:

"Briefly Courtright left Texas and served as marshal of the flourishing silver mining town of Lake Valley, in New Mexico in 1882. However, in 1883 he was back and was appointed as a deputy U.S. Deputy Marshal, but became a fugitive himself after his posse killed two ranchers. Later, he grew tired of running and turned himself in, though he was acquitted of any wrong doing."

AND

rootsweb.ancestory.com Don Bullis:

"And while all this was going on, legend holds, efforts were made by townspeople to put a lid on the violence by hiring Timothy Isaiah "Longhaired Jim" Courtright as town marshal.4 One source says this; "hired as town marshal, [Courtright] engaged several law breakers in gun battles and things began to settle down." The problem is that no other historian reports that Courtright was ever marshal in Lake Valley. He was an ore guard for the American Mining Company, and he did kill a couple of would-be robbers, but that was the extent of his efforts toward law and order. He later murdered two squatters for a rancher, and former Union General, named John Logan. He left New Mexico with the law on his heels."

Courtright had indeed lit out for Fort Worth and quickly established a Detective Agency.

Eventually, “One morning [in 1884] a man called at Courtright’s office and discussed terms for Courtright’s service to apprehend some alleged criminal. Courtright was invited to accompany the caller to the Continental Hotel for the purpose of inspecting some papers the caller alleged he had. When the caller and he arrived in the hotel room, Courtright was disarmed by his caller and two men who were in the room. The three men were U.S. deputies from the marshal’s office in New Mexico. They placed Courtright under arrest on a charge of murder, which was supposed to have taken place during the labor trouble.

Courtright didn't stay caught long. A plot was quickly hatched among Courtright's friends. . .

"The clock struck six, and at this instant, Courtright reached beneath the table and arose to his feet holding a six-gun Colt .45 in each hand, which he leveled on the officers. The officers jumped quickly to their feet and reached for their guns, but at the back of each officer were two men. These men each grabbed one arm of an officer, locking the arm behind their back. Courtright walked out through the back door. One of the fastest saddle horses in town was hitched in the alley. Courtright mounted the horse and rode away.

“My part in the arrangements was placing the guns at the end of the tables. I hung the guns from screw eyes by a light cord which would hold the gun’s weight but break easily. The table cloth hid the guns.”

Mused the Fort Worth Gazette:



Evidently Courtright was eventually extradited back to New Mexico, stood trial, and was acquitted.

Back in Fort Worth, broke, a drunkard, and ill tempered, we have Courtright. . . he hated the world and was embittered toward it. This troubled man was about to run headlong into Luke Short. From all accounts it was a certain jealousy or envy. Short was fleecing his gambling customers to the tune of a fortune. His den was very nice and very comfortable. It catered to everything the frontier gambler would want. Courtright saw this and it burned him that this little dandy was cleaning up. He wanted to squeeze in somehow.

[Gibson]

Courtright had blatantly walked into Short's "office" and requested/demanded a security job. He bargained with the fact that there was a lot of money through the place was insistent that Short hire his detective agency for security. Short dismissed him with impunity. Courtright was insulted. Soon a drunken night would end badly.

I found the actual newspaper report of the shooting. I had to take seven screenshots and then upload each to imageshack and then post there here as images.

Fort Worth Daily Gazette: February 9, 1887 (Is that cool, or what?):















There ya go!

Luke Short:



Got to admit that there is a lot to be said for being able to read it just as it was written back then, eh? Love those old newspaper accounts!

[jmort]

"Had his shooting been as good as his running, he might have given a better account of himself."

Always seems to be a good quote or two, some "Western Wisdom."

[Gibson]

"Had his shooting been as good as his running, he might have given a better account of himself."

Always seems to be a good quote or two, some "Western Wisdom."

God help me, jmortimer. I'm thinking about putting together something on GAC and the Little Big Horn. I'll be tarred, feathered, run outta town on a rail, etc. I admire many AmerIndians but do not worship at the alter of the noble savage. Hell, I admire Custer, in some ways. ERGO, I hesitate to put up a sketch as, no doubt, many will be angered and tell me how I am WRONG. (Indeed, the wrong part is correct, everything is debatable when it comes to that fight.) OR how that I am racist. Yeah, that really bothers a shrinking violet such as myself.

Maybe I better let it ride. . .

[jmort]

I can appreciate your hesitation, but for me it's not a problem. There is no moral superiority between races on that count. Indians were savages and so were the whites. Some good and bad eggs on both sides, but again no moral high ground. The Indians, generically speaking, would whack each other so it would be racist to say that only Indians are allowed to whack Indians. How could Pizarro crush the Incas with 120 men, or Cortez the Aztecs with a small force? Because the Indians were committing unspeakable acts against one another long before "whitey" came along. The "locals" were happy to even the scores with their enemies. The culturally/physically/materially superior ran over the inferior. Has happened since the beginning of time. We live in a fallen world so I reject any P.C. nonsense about the "Noble Savage." So I say, crack on Brother.
John

[Shooternz]

Could any of you ID that handgun that "Mad Dan" is holding in the death shot?

It looks like a Beaumont Adams .442" cap and ball in use with the British army and colonial forces from 1856 to 1880

[Wal']

Just love this thread............learning more here than the many interpretations of history drummed into me at school.

[Gibson]

I do NOT think I have posted this, here. I know I posted the Kid's escape but I do not think I've posted his death sketch. If so, I apologize.

Time to grab a cup of some black jack and read another rousing tale

"¿Quién es? ¿Quién es"

July 14, 1881, Fort Sumner, NM.

Tomorrow. . .







PETE MAXWELL"S HOUSE:

[Gibson]

When we last 'talked' of Billy the Kid he had just made a bloody and desperate escape from jail, killing two Deputies and riding out of town rather nonchalantly, singing. We will now examine the end of days for Billy. While much of his daring do has been overblown, as we have now seen the pendulum swung far too far in the other direction, far underestimating him.

Our prologue is from "aboutbillythekid.com":

"Instead of making a run for the border, the Kid hung around in the county, dropping by on friends and telling them about his daring escape from jail as if he had just come back from vacation. His friends advised him to leave the territory, but the Kid was confident he wouldn’t get caught and he told them he would first go to Fort Sumner to get some money.

For the next two months the Kid hid out at different locations in San Miguel County, but mostly in Fort Sumner. There was a number of Billy the Kid sightings, but how many of them were legitimate is up for debate. One thing was for certain, the Kid had returned to his old haunts and was making no immediate plans of leaving New Mexico.

Meanwhile, Sheriff Garrett was doing a low profile search for the Kid. Unlike before, he wouldn’t form a large posse, nor would he even try to catch him alive. His plan was to sneak up on the Kid and kill him. By early July, Garrett received word that the Kid was in or near Fort Sumner and he may have gotten this tip from Pete Maxwell, the older brother of Paulita Maxwell, one the Kid’s girlfriends. Maxwell didn’t like the Kid around his sister, who was going to marry a prominent and wealthy figure in New Mexico. So with information on the Kid’s whereabouts, Garrett took John Poe and Kip McKinney with him; men he could trust to keep their mouths shut and not question his actions, and he headed to Fort Sumner quietly."

A Garrett Rifle:



THE FOLLOWING IS AN ASIDE.

Blurb about rifle from truewestmagazine.con, by Phil Spangenberger

“Quien es?” asked the lone figure standing in the dim-lit doorway.

Instantly, two shots rang out from a darkened room, ending the life of one of the Old West’s most infamous characters, Henry McCarty, a.k.a. William Bonney, a.k.a. Henry Antrim, best known as Billy the Kid. This was the dramatic scene on the evening of July 14, 1881, when Sheriff Pat Garrett killed the notorious outlaw in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

Fast forward to a brightly lit room in San Francisco, California, on June 17, 2008, where a group of eager collectors anxiously gathered to attend Greg Martin’s sale of Americana and firearms collectibles. This auction house has sold some of the finest examples of unique Western artifacts, such as an exquisite pair of Gen. George and Libby Custer’s 1865 wedding portrait vases for $60,000, an Annie Oakley monogrammed British shotgun for $60,000 and a Colt Single Action revolver presented by Buffalo Bill Cody to his friend, Dr. George “Nighthawk” Powell, for $190,000.

On June 17, Greg Martin offered to the highest bidder two especially worthy items with a Wild West heritage. One was a gold-engraved presentation Lincoln County Sheriff’s badge that was given to Billy the Kid’s killer Sheriff Pat Garrett by A.J. Fountain, a famous New Mexico judge. The reverse side of the badge is inscribed “To/Pat/Garrett/with the Best/Regards of/A.J. Fountain/1881.” The gilt star came with a satin-lined, fancy tooled leather case and an authenticating letter from Jarvis Garrett, Pat’s son. When the hammer went down, this handsome badge racked up a $100,000 price tag.

The second item connected to Pat Garrett was a well-used, 1873 Winchester, .44-40 cut-down rifle. The Staley family, the consignors, say the rifle was passed on to them in the 1920s from Florentine Baca, the son of southwestern lawman Cipriano Baca, a contemporary of Garrett’s. According to family history, Cipriano took possession of the Winchester during a card game in the late 19th century. Garrett was a known gambler and consistent loser at cards, which eventually led to his ruin. The rifle’s rough and gunfighter-modified condition added to its mystique.

Stamped with Serial No. 31829 and shipped from the factory on February 2, 1879, the rifle was cut from a factory-recorded, 24-inch octagon barrel to 12¾ inches and the magazine has been cut to half its length. The stock’s cracked wrist has been repaired with sewn and steel-tacked rawhide, and is adorned with cattle brands. This piece of frontier hardware gaveled at $30,000. It just goes to show that sometimes crime does pay ... just not the bad guys.

Greg Martin Auctions will be selling a collection of Colt Single Action revolvers in early 2009. Visit GregMartinAuctions.com or call 800-509-1988 for more information.

[Gibson]

July 14, 1881. It was a warm July evening. Here are the words of Garrett's deputy, John W. Poe:

"I then proposed that, before leaving, we should go to the residence of Peter Maxwell, a man I had never seen but who, by reason of his being a leading citizen and having large property interests, should, according to my reasoning, be glad to furnish such information as he might have to aid us in ridding the country of a man who was looked on as a scourge and curse by all law-abiding people. Garrett agreed to this and led us from the orchard by circuitous bypaths to Maxwell’s residence, a building used as officer’s quarters during the days when a garrison of troops had been maintained at the fort. The house was very long, one story adobe, standing flush with the street, with a porch on the south side – the direction from which we approached. The premises were all enclosed by a paling fence, one side of which ran parallel to and along the edge of the street up to and across the end of the porch to the corner of the building. When we arrived at the house, Garrett said to me, “This is Maxwell’s room in this corner. You fellows wait here while I go in and talk to him.” He stepped onto the porch and entered Maxwell’s room through the open door (left open on account of the extremely warm weather), while McKinney and I stopped outside. McKinney squatted on the outside of the fence, and I sat on the edge of the porch in the small open gateway leading from the street to the porch.

It should be mentioned here that up to this moment I had never seen Billy the Kid nor Maxwell, which fact, in view of the events transpiring immediately afterward, placed me at an extreme disadvantage. Probably not more than thirty seconds after Garrett had entered Maxwell’s room, my attention was attracted, from where I sat in the little gateway, to a man approaching me on the inside of the fence, some forty or fifty steps away. I observed that he was only partially dressed and was both bareheaded and barefooted (or, rather, had only socks on his feet) and it seemed to me that he was fastening his trousers as he came toward me at a very brisk walk. As Maxwell’s was the one place in Fort Sumner that I considered above suspicion; I was entirely off my guard. I thought the man approaching was either Maxwell or some guest of his. He came on until he was almost within arm’s-length of where I sat before he saw me, as I was partially concealed from his view by the post of the gate.

Upon seeing me, he covered me with his six-shooter as quick as lightening, sprang onto the porch, calling out in Spanish, “Quien es ?” At the same time he backed away from me toward the door which Garrett only a few seconds before had passed, repeating his query, “Who is it?” in Spanish several times. At this I stood up and advanced toward him, telling him not to be alarmed, that he should not be hurt, still without the least suspicion that his was the very man we were looking for. As I moved toward him trying to reassure him, he backed up into the doorway of Maxwell’s room, where he halted for a moment, his body concealed by the thick adobe wall at the side of the doorway. He put out his head and asked in Spanish for the fourth or fifth time who I was. I was within a few feet of him when he disappeared into the room.

After this, and until after the shooting, I was unable to see what took place on account of the darkness of the room, but plainly heard what was said. An instant after the man had left the door, I heard a voice inquire in a sharp tone, “Pete, who are those fellows on the outside?” An instant later a shot was fired in the room, followed immediately by what everyone within hearing distance thought were two other shots. However, there were only two shots fired, the third report, as we learned afterward, being caused by the rebound of the second bullet, which had struck the adobe wall and rebounded against the headboard of the wooden bedstead. I heard a groan and one or two gasps from where I stood in the doorway, as if someone were dying in the room. An instant later, Garrett came out, brushing against me as he passed. He stood by me close to the wall at the side of the door and said to me, “That was the Kid that came in there onto me, and I think I have got him.” I said “Pat, the Kid would not come to this place; you shot the wrong man.”

Upon my saying this, Garrett seemed to be in doubt himself, but quickly spoke up and said, “I am sure that was him, for I know his voice too well to be mistaken.” This remark of Garrett’s relieved me of considerable apprehension, as I had felt almost certain that someone else had been killed. A moment after Garrett came out of the door, Pete Maxwell rushed squarely onto me in a frantic effort to get out of the room, and I certainly would have shot him but for Garrett’s striking my gun down, saying, “Don’t shoot Maxwell.” By this time I had begun to realize that we were in a place which was not above suspicion and as Garrett was so positive that the Kid was inside, I came to the conclusion that we were up against a case of “kill or be killed,” such as we had from the beginning realized would be the case whenever we came upon the Kid."

It seems a fair account if one buys what Garrett wrote and Maxwell's version. However an 85 year old gave an account to a WPA writer, in May of 1937. It differs a bit. He was a friend of Billy's. His name was Francisco Trujillo.

"Quiet again reigned for a few days. In the meantime Pat Garrett was negotiating with Pedro Macky [Pete Maxwell] for the deliverance of Billy. When all details were arranged for, Pat left for Bosque Grande secretly. At the ranch house, Pedro hid Pat in a room close beside the one Billy was occupying. Becoming hungry during the night Billy got up and started to prepare a lunch. First he built a fire, then he took his hunting knife and was starting to cut off a hunk of meat from a large piece that hung from one of the VIGAS when he heard voices in the adjoining room. Stepping to the door he partially opened it and thrusting his head in asked Pedro who was with him. Pedro replied that it was only his wife and asked him to come in. Seeing no harm in this Billy decided to accept the invitation only to be shot in the pit of the stomach as he stood in the door. Staggering back to his own room it was not definitely known that the shot had been fatal until a cleaning woman stumbled over the dead body upon entering the room, the following morning."

It is around 9 pm and Billy adorned in black and sporting his usual sombrero is sitting out in a peach orchard conversing in Spanish with his friends. Some significant time later, possibly a couple of hours, Billy is feeling hungry and makes his way to the fence that surrounds Maxwell's abode. He leaps over the fence and heads for the domicile. Unknown to the Kid the three lawmen, Poe, McKinney, and Garrett have been watching for Billy's approach for a long while but have tired of waiting and are moving toward the Maxwell house as Billy makes his jaunt to the home. It's too dark to recognize the Kid but they do note that someone has entered the house. They wait; it's now midnight. Garrett decides it's time to go to Pete Maxwell's room in the large home and make inquiries as to whether anyone there had seen the Kid. The bedroom was at the southeastern corner of the home. The lawmen walked through the gate and onto the porch. Garrett told the two deputies to wait on the porch. Poe sat down on the steps, McKinney squatted down nearby. Pat Garrett entered the home and went into Pete Maxwell's bedroom. He immediately walked up to the head of Pete's bed and inquired of Pete if he had seen the Kid. The room was dark. This tells me that Maxwell must have expected or known that the lawmen were there otherwise there is no way they would have crept into a dark bedroom and made inquiries, well, not and lived. . . This leads back to what was mentioned in the prologue. I believe that this confirms rumors that Paulita Maxwell, Pete's sister, was actually pregnant with Billy's child. This gives Pete motivation to set up the Kid if you couple it with his clearly stated fear of Billy he later mentions. Even saying that they were like hostages, there.

So, Pat Garrett is in Maxwell's room and has seated himself at the head of his bed and is waiting and rousing Pete.

As mentioned earlier the Kid was hungry. Finally he decides to get some food he swings into the kitchen, grabs a butcher's knife and makes for the porch where hangs a freshly slaughtered yearling. This is where things happen fast! Bareheaded and in his sock feet, and buttoning up his trousers, Billy the Kid steps onto the porch. He immediately spots McKinney, and then sees Poe. Billy, like greased lightning, yanks a Colt's .41 Thunderer (just like John Wesley Hardin would later possess) from his just secured trousers and and instantly covers Poe and McKinney. The Kid not knowing who is there, in a cat-like manner moves stealthily and slowly back into the house and toward Pete's bedroom. Repeating Quien es?, Qien es?. . . Poe semi advances toward the shadowy figure properly hoping to divert Billy's attention to him, knowing that Garrett is likely nearby and readying an assassination.

Garrett is just getting Pete Maxwell fully awakened, when the Kid back into the room, turning, he asks, “Who are those fellows outside, Pete?” Pete did not respond. At this instant the Kid realized that there was another figure present but could not tell for sure. He immediately asked Qien es? again. Then almost instantly, in English, "Who is it?" Maxwell now manages to whisper, "El es." to Garrett (it's him). Garrett "yanks his sixgun" and opens fire without saying a word. Billy never had a chance. Patrick fires two rounds and cocks his revolver for a third when he hears a slight groan. He jumps and runs from the room shouting, "I've killed the Kid, I've killed the Kid", and is followed out in short order by a badly shaken Maxwell who runs directly into Poe and but for Garrett grabbing Poe's sixshooter, would have been the second victim of the night. Both Maxwell and Garrett were afraid to re-enter the room for a few minutes, fearing a wounded lion. But in fairly short order the men gathered themselves and went in to find the Kid shot through the left side of his chest, the wound being very near the heart. the second bullet evidently missed and ricochet into a nearby wall.

"Garrett watches as Maxwell lights a candle and places it in the window of the bedroom to light the interior. Garrett, Poe and McKinney peer through the window, and in the flickering light, they can see a figure sprawled on the floor, motionless.

Billy the Kid, with Pat Garret’s bullet lodged in his chest, just above the heart, lies dead. Bereaved Hispanic women gather at the sound of the gunfire. They carry The Kid’s body to a nearby room, laying his body on a bench. They placed “…lighted candles around it according to their ideas of properly conducting a ‘wake’ for the dead,” said Deputy Poe, as quoted by Utley. The afternoon of the next day, the community buried Billy the Kid in the Fort Sumner cemetery, next to two old friends and gang members."



Pete Maxwell:



Pecos River, very near where Garrett killed Billy:



Billy the Kid is dead at 21 years of age. The coroner's jury found:

Territory of New Mexico County of San Miguel Precinct No.27

To the District Attorney of the First Judicial District of the Territory of New Mexico.

Greetings:

On this 15th day of July, A.D. 1881, I, the undersigned, Justice of the Peace of the above named precinct, received information that a murder had taken place a Fort Sumner, in said precinct, and immediately upon receiving said information I proceeded to the said place and named Milnor Rudulph, Jose Silva, Antonio Savedra, Pedro Antonio Lucero, Lorenzo Jaramillo and Sabal Gutierres a jury to investigate the case and the above jury convened at the home of Luz B. Maxwell and proceeded to a room in said in said house where they found the body of William Bonney alias "Kid" with a shot on the left breast and having examined the body they examined the evidence of Pedro Maxwell, which evidence is as follows: "I being in my bed in my room, at about midnight on the 14th day of July, Pat F. Garrett came into my room and sat at the end of my bed to converse with me. A short while after Garrett had sat down William Bonney came in and got close to my bed with a gun in his hand and asked me "Who is it? Who Is It?" and then Pat F. Garrett fired two shots at the said William Bonney and the said William Bonney fell near my fire place and I went out of the room and when I came in again in about three or four minutes after the shots the said William Bonney was dead." The jury has found the following verdict: We of the jury unanimously find that William Bonney has been killed by a shot on the left breast near the region of the heart, the same having been fired with a gun in the hand of Pat F. Garrett and our verdict is that the deed of said Garrett was justifiable homicide and we are unanimous in the opinion that the gratitude of all the community is due to the said Garrett for his deed and is worthy of being rewarded.

M. Rudulph President

Anto. Savedra

Pedro Anto. Lucero

Jose X Silba

Sabal X Gutierrez

Lorenzo X Jaramillo

All said information I place to your knowledge.

Alejandro Segura Justice of the Peace.

[9.3X62AL]

Two more HELLACIOUS-GOOD accounts of historic events, with all the bark on. Very much appreciated, Jay!

[Gibson]

Thank AL! As always, much obliged for the kind words.



I think I'll hold off on Geo. A. Custer at LBHR. Just leave it at a few random musings. . .

Someday I will do a story on "Custer's Last Stand". It might be my last because I won't be buying into the horse**** being shoveled by cultural anthropologists and imbeciles who call themselves archeologists who actually believe that a battlefield picked over for decades by souvenir hunters and where a live fire re-enactment was put on only five years after the battle can be treated as some sort of crime scene loaded with evidence and that it's lack actually allows inference to be made.

For goodness sake! Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Third grade reasoning. . .

Those men made a DESPERATE last stand. Been there, walked the ground, felt the feeling you only feel in places where great events occur. Same type feeling I felt at Gettysburg.

I once read the entire Reno Court of Inquiry many years ago. (Bought the microfilm from the Battlefield and printed every page.) In my mind Reno deserves harsh judgement and Benteen was at best indifferent. Custer was headstrong and somewhat reckless. But far from the glory hunting psychotic he has been painted as.

My sympathies will always lie with the South as it pertains to the Civil War BUT Custer fought bravely and well as a young officer. Thomas Lafayette Rosser an outstanding Confederate cavalry leader and Custer's great friend did battle with Custer during the Civil War. Rosser battled Custer at Tom's Brook he had 130 casualties and 180 captured to Custer's 9.

However, after the "Last Stand" it was Rosser, the then noted engineer, that rose up to defend Custer in print.

Just an idea of the man: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_L._Rosser

Yeah Custer was probably a ******* and suffered from the "vanity of vanities, all is vanity syndrome". But he wasn't the glory seeking nut that he has been portrayed as since around 1934 nor was he the xenophobic Indian hater he is made out to be. (I say 1934 because the first real full length book portraying him thus hit print then.)

A clash of cultures is a clash of cultures, one survives, one is assimilated, more or less, or it perishes, in toto.

I can absolutely guarantee that there are some marvelous things that have been lost from Indian culture because of our ancestors but it is what it is.

I may not necessarily approve of their tactics but I'm glad to be here and in many ways proud of my hardy ancestors.

My notions of Custer are simpatico with Utley's Cavalier, or Donovan's 2008 tome. Flawed but not much more than most of us, and less than many. The 7th Cavalry had many inexperienced soldiers in its bunch and as in all battles some no doubt broke but there were battle hardened veterans there too and I guarantee they fought on that desolate Montana hillside.





Gall, Hunkpapa Sious (Lakota):



Possibly Crazy Horse Image:



Tatanka-Iyotanka: