The Silver Shooter

by Erin Lindsey

  Clara was waiting for me outside. I paused in the darkened entryway, taking a last look at the place that had changed me forever. The Patek Philippe tugged at the breast pocket of my dress, ticking softly.

  It’s time.

  Turning, I stepped out into the world.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Growing up in a city that proudly brands itself “Cowtown,” I’ve always been fascinated by the Old West—or at least the stereotypical version of it peddled by Hollywood. I was determined, from the earliest days of planning this series, that Rose and Thomas should eventually pay a visit to the great American frontier, but I wasn’t quite sure how the opportunity would arise. Happily, the question all but answered itself once I’d decided on Theodore Roosevelt as an important side character in book two (A Golden Grave). TR famously had a foot in each world. On the one hand, he was the quintessential Knickerbocker of Gilded Age New York. But he also came to be intimately associated with the West—the “Cowboy President,” whose inaugural parade included fifty Dakota cowpunchers under the leadership of the legendary Seth Bullock, U.S. marshal and onetime sheriff of Deadwood, the most iconic U.S. lawman ever to come out of … well, Canada, actually. But I digress.

  Roosevelt’s adventures in the Badlands began in the fall of 1883, when he embarked on a buffalo hunt. Thus began, in his words, “the greatest romance of my life,” a sentiment that imbues the language he used to describe it:

  It was still the Wild West in those days … the West of the Indian and the buffalo-hunter, the soldier and the cowpuncher.… It was a land of scattered ranches, of herds of long-horned cattle, and of reckless riders who unmoved looked in the eyes of life or of death. In that land we led a free and hardy life, with horse and with rifle.… We knew toil and hardship and hunger and thirst; and we saw men die violent deaths as they worked among the horses and cattle, or fought in evil feuds with one another; but we felt the beat of hardy life in our veins, and ours was the glory of work and the joy of living.1

  Given the outsize profile it would assume in his legacy, one could be forgiven for assuming TR’s career as a cowboy was a long and storied one. But while the latter was certainly true—due in no small part to Roosevelt’s own shrewd cultivation of the legend—his stint in the Badlands was actually relatively brief, beginning in the fall of 1883 and already on the wane by the time this novel takes place in the spring of 1887. Even so, he threw himself into it with typical TR zeal, and if he went a little overboard with the trappings—fringed buckskin, monogrammed ivory-handled Peacemaker, and even a sombrero at one point—he was no mere pretender. Unlike most of his fellow eastern capitalists, who were content to leave the rough business of driving, roping, and branding to their ranch hands, Roosevelt insisted on being in the thick of it. What he lacked in skill he made up for in determination, and those who initially dismissed him as just another eastern dude quickly learned that he had “sand in his craw aplenty.”

  One particularly famous incident involved a scene straight out of a dime novel:

  I heard one or two shots in the bar-room as I came up, and I disliked going in. But there was nowhere else to go, and it was a cold night. Inside the room were several men, who, including the bartender, were wearing the kind of smile worn by men who are making believe to like what they don’t like. A shabby individual in a broad hat with a cocked gun in each hand was walking up and down the floor talking with strident profanity. He had evidently been shooting at the clock, which had two or three holes in its face.… As soon as he saw me he hailed me as “Four eyes,” in reference to my spectacles, and said, “Four eyes is going to treat.” I joined in the laugh and got behind the stove and sat down, thinking to escape notice. He followed me, however, and though I tried to pass it off as a jest this merely made him more offensive, and he stood leaning over me, a gun in each hand, using very foul language. He was foolish to stand so near.2

  Roosevelt, who’d had a brief boxing career in his Harvard days, made short work of the ruffian, rising as if to comply with the demand to buy drinks, only to knock the man out cold.

  I love this story for three reasons. First, because it shows that as exaggerated as tales of the “West Wild” have become, some of the legends are true. Second, because of the sublimely eastern manner in which this western story is related. (Roosevelt’s patrician disdain for shabby individuals using strident profanity is worthy of Thomas Wiltshire.) Most, of all, though, I love this story because it shows TR at his most TR, walking softly while carrying a big stick. As a New York aristocrat, Roosevelt was first and foremost a man of diplomacy. But where diplomacy failed, he was always ready—perhaps a little too ready—for war.

  Another fellow who was reportedly “good with his fists” was Hell Roaring Bill Jones, Sheriff of Billings County. I say reportedly because I couldn’t find much on Jones, and what I did turn up could almost always be traced back to a single source—i.e., his sometime deputy Theodore Roosevelt. As he appears in TR’s autobiography, Jones is something of an erratic figure, whose “unconventional” approach to law enforcement seems largely to have consisted of beatings and the threat of beatings. (Though, to be fair, that was hardly unusual for the time.) Jones came to Medora via Bismarck, where he’d served as a police officer until he pistol-whipped the mayor, at which point he was politely asked to resign. According to one source, his real name was Patrick McCue, an Irish immigrant who began his career in the United States as a New York firefighter. (Those familiar with the history of firefighting in New York City will appreciate how very appropriate this choice would have been for a man of pugilistic inclinations.) A “gun-fighter” and “thorough frontiersman,” Jones was nevertheless “a little wild” when drunk, at least according to TR. Sadly, that condition became the exception rather than the rule, which may have contributed to his eventual demise in a blizzard in 1905.

  The Buckshot Outfit is loosely based on the Aztec Land and Cattle Company, better known as the Hashknife Outfit. Formed in Arizona in 1884, the Hashknife Outfit was once the third largest cattle company in America, boasting a range of over a million acres and some thirty-three thousand head of cattle. Its chief claim to fame, however, was the reputation its ranch hands garnered as the “thievinist, fightinest bunch of cowboys” in the West. While some were doubtless ordinary, law-abiding ranch hands, others could be found rustling, brawling, train robbing and gunfighting, and their brand—which resembled the hash knife used by camp cooks on the roundup—was allegedly spotted in some of the region’s most notorious range feuds, including the Pleasant Valley War of the late 1880s.

  The winter of 1887 was unusually harsh in many parts of the United States, but nowhere was its impact more devastating than in Wyoming, Montana, and the Dakotas. The Winter of the Blue Snow decimated cattle herds, bankrupted ranches, and marked the beginning of the end of open-range ranching in the West. A hot, dry summer in 1886 left the grasses dry and withered, and the grazers that depended on them were weak and undernourished going into the winter. Then, a disastrous blizzard in January 1887 sent the mercury below fifty degrees Fahrenheit, and the Great Die-Up began. Cattle perished on their feet, their hooves imprisoned in ice. Others were buried in snowdrifts. Those that didn’t freeze to death went mad with hunger, drifting listlessly into town to chew tar paper off the buildings. When spring arrived, the range was littered with carcasses—many of them still on their feet, edible statues torn open by scavengers. Some sources claim as many as 90 percent of open-range cattle perished. The human toll is less well recorded, though there were reports of children freezing to death and settlers turning their guns on themselves and each other when it seemed as if the howling winds might never relent. For Roosevelt, who had sunk much of his fortune into Elkhorn and Maltese Cross, the losses were devastating, financially and emotionally, claiming 50–65 percent of his “backwoods babies.” It was around this time that Roosevelt’s visits out West began to taper off, and it’s tempting to speculate how history might have been different were it not for that disastr
ous winter.

  Last but certainly not least, John Ward is inspired by John Ware, one of my hometown’s most legendary figures. Born into slavery on a cotton plantation in South Carolina, Ware headed west after emancipation, arriving in Texas at the age of eighteen and finding work on a ranch. Like many cowpunchers of the day, he lived a nomadic life, driving herds north from Texas along the Western Cattle Trail. One such drive, in 1882, brought him to the Bar U Ranch in the foothills southwest of Calgary, after which he stuck around, finding his skills in great demand. Almost immediately, the legend of John Ware began to take shape. He could stop a steer head-on and wrestle it to the ground. He could walk across the backs of cattle, and even lift small cows. He had never, ever, been thrown from a wild horse. Take this glowing testimonial from the Macleod Gazette in 1885:

  John is not only one of the best natured and most obliging fellows in the country, but he is one of the shrewdest cow men, and the man is considered pretty lucky who has him to look after his interest. The horse is not running on the prairie which John cannot ride.

  Ironically, it was a fall from a horse that eventually killed him, at the age of sixty, when his mount stepped in a badger hole and crushed him beneath its bulk. Ware’s funeral was said to be one of the largest ever held in Calgary.

  Researching this piece was a delight for many reasons, but mostly because it gave me an excuse to get back to my Cowtown roots, spending a little time in the saddle and reacquainting myself with the legends I loved growing up. If the first two books of this series are love letters to New York, this one is, at least in part, a love letter to Calgary. My hometown has more than a little in common with Medora: the ranching history, the Great Plains … and just now, the negative-40-degree temperature.

  That last part I could do without.

  Calgary, Canada

  January 2020

  New York Tribune,

  Feb. 26, 1905

  ROOSEVELT’S INAUGURATION [FROM THE TRIBUNE BUREAU]

  COW PUNCHERS IN LINE

  Seth Bullock, Sheriff of Deadwood, idol of South Dakota, picturesque plainsman, and withal a gentleman, who enjoys the personal friendship of President Roosevelt, is busy out in the hills of the Northwest gathering together a band of genuine Western cowboys, whom he will bring to Washington arranged in all their fantastic regalia to participate in the inaugural parade. Seth is a conservative man, but even he admits that when these sun browned boys of the West prance up and down Pennsylvania-ave on their ponies the multitude will be delighted, and the inaugural visitors will enjoy a real cowboy treat.

  President Roosevelt has expressed a wish that the men who “round up” the herd, “hog tie” and “cut out” big wild eyed steers, “bust” broncos, ride “cayuses” and conquer “outlaws” shall be represented in the inaugural parade, and it is in obedience to this wish that Captain Bullock has undertaken the project, which bids fair to add that final touch of picturesqueness to the inaugural ceremonies. Cow punchers have never before taken part in an inaugural parade, and with their “chaps” and lariats and “big horn” saddles should prove a feature of the pageant.

  Captain Bullock has addressed himself to the task of “rounding up” the cow punchers for their journey to Washington with characteristic energy and enthusiasm, and promises to bring with him to the national capital the rarest bunch of “wild and woolly” Westerners that ever passed along a civilized boulevard. Captain Bullock is to command them, and the famous old frontiersman, while giving them sufficient license and liberty to insure their riding naturally, will yet subject them to discipline and hold them strictly accountable for their deportment. He declares that he will tolerate no “foolishness” on their part, and they all understand that he will see to it that what he says “goes.”

  Captain Bullock expects to bring with him not less than fifty men and ponies. He says he could easily take a hundred and fifty or two hundred if it were practicable to accommodate so many, for well nigh every cow puncher in the Deadwood region has signified his desire to be present.

  Among the well known Western characters that will come along with the cow punchers is “Deadwood Dick” Clark, the once famous scout, bandit hunter and leader of the “shotgun men,” who guarded the Wells-Fargo Express treasure coach from Deadwood to civilization a quarter of a century or more ago. The small boys whose hair has stood on end as they read of the escapades of “Deadwood Dick” in dime novels will peek out from under the protecting arm of their fathers or big brothers, just to get a glimpse of the wonderful man, who to them is far greater than the President of the United States.

  “Tex” Burgess, the king of the cowboys on the big Hyannis range, in Nebraska, is another. Captain Seth Bullock, “Deadwood Dick” and “Tex” Burgess constitute a trio that alone would be worth travelling two thousand miles to see in an inaugural parade. The fame of Captain Bullock and “Deadwood Dick” extends, or once extended, from ocean to ocean, and the deeds of valor and daring they performed in the early days in the Western hills would make a tale stranger and more thrilling than any romance ever written.

  [Said “Tex” Burgess,] “You just bet I’m goin’. I wouldn’t miss it for $1,000. We all want to go, but Captain Bullock says he can’t accommodate all of us, so some of us will have to stay at home. We are mighty pleased at the invitation to take part in this show. It shows that the President thinks a cow puncher is as good as anybody else as long as he behaves himself, and you can bet we’ll behave ourselves.”

  New York Tribune,

  February 20, 1887

  LEFT TO DIE IN THE SNOW

  THOUSANDS OF HEAD OF CATTLE LOST IN DAKOTA AND WYOMING

  Rapid City, Dak., Feb 12—A journey down the western slope of the Black Hills to the plains of Wyoming in winter adds more to a man’s information than pleasure. The severity of the weather has been felt throughout the country; but on these western plains, sheltered by the mountains, where rough wintry storms are little expected and no provision is made to resist them, the winter has assumed a grim and terrible aspect. The writer, in company with the manager of a Dakota cattle company which keeps 10,000 head of cattle wintering on the ranges of western Dakota and eastern Wyoming, recently made the journey down the western slope of the Hills to the Wyoming plains to observe how the herds survive the storms of winter without food or shelter.

  Long before reaching the principal ranch or headquarters of the company, evidences of the fatal severity of the winter storms were found in the carcasses of cattle half buried in the snow that lay scattered over the plain. Looking in any direction, a horn, a nose or an upturned leg could be seen projecting above the snow. In a drive of fifty miles along the western skirt of the Hills, there was scarcely a moment when the carcass of an animal was not visible within a few rods of the track. Sometimes ten or a dozen lay in a group on the south side of a knoll or in a narrow ravine, where water might once have run. Many of them have frozen stiff while standing on their feet. Here and there an animal or a group of animals could be seen standing motionless and dead with noses resting in the snow. Troops of hungry coyotes come prowling down from the Hills to gorge themselves on the frozen carcasses. Many an animal can be seen near the foot of the Hills standing stiffly on its feet among the drifting snow with great holes torn in its sides by these tarnishing creatures.

  Four days were spent at the ranch of the Dakota Company, and I had an opportunity of more carefully inspecting the winter’s havoc among the herds. Three months ago more than ten thousand cattle owned by this company were grazing upon this range, all of them fat and healthy. It would take the appliances of a Spanish Inquisition to extort from the owners a confession of their present number.

  The living cattle go about among their frozen mates and are, if possible, a more pitiful sight than the heaps of carcasses. Thousands of cattle are staggering in the snow so feeble that they would never regain strength if spring should open tomorrow. The strongest are little more than skeletons.

  It is as yet impossible more than vague
ly to guess the amount of loss suffered by the grazers of these Dakota and Wyoming ranges. The owners of these herds are extremely cautious in their statements.

  The New York Times,

  June 27, 1886

  THE CUSTER MASSACRE

  A DESCRIPTION OF THE BATTLE BY THE SIOUX CHIEF GALL

  Custer Battlefield, Montana, June 26—The celebration of the tenth anniversary of the Custer massacre by a few of its survivors took place yesterday. The great Sioux Chief Gall went over the field and described the manner in which Custer’s command was destroyed. Gall is a fine-looking Indian, 46 years old, weighing over 200 pounds. He was reticent at first, but finally told his story with dignity and emotion. He said:

  “We saw soldiers early in the morning crossing the divide. When Reno and Custer separated we watched them until they came down into the valley. The cry was raised that the white soldiers were coming, and orders were given for the village to move. Reno swept down so rapidly upon the upper end that the Indians were forced to fight. Sitting Bull and I were at the point where Reno attacked. Sitting Bull was the big medicine man. The women and children were hastily moved down the stream where the Cheyennes were encamped. The Sioux attacked Reno and the Cheyennes Custer, and then all became mixed up. The women and children caught horses for the bucks to mount, and the bucks mounted and charged back on Reno, checked him and drove him into the timber. The soldiers tied their horses to trees, came out and fought on foot. As soon as Reno was beaten and driven back across the river, the whole force turned on Custer and fought him until they destroyed him. Custer did not reach the river, but was met half a mile up the ravine now called Reno Creek. They fought the soldiers, and beat them back step by step until all were killed.”