In the summer of 1909, two young brothers under the age of ten set out to make their own “cowboy dreams” come true.  They rode across two states on horseback.  Alone.

 It’s a story that sounds too unbelievable to be true, but it is.

 Oklahoma had been a state not quite two years when these young long riders undertook the adventure of a lifetime.  The brothers, Bud (Louis), and Temple Abernathy rode from their Tillman County ranch in the southwest corner of the state to Santa Fe, New Mexico.  Bud was nine years old, and Temple was five. 

They were the sons of a U.S. Marshal, Jack Abernathy, who had the particular talent of catching wolves and coyotes alive, earning him the nickname “Catch ’Em Alive Jack.”

Odd as it seems to us today, Jack Abernathy had unwavering faith in his two young sons’ survival skills.  Their mother had died the year before, and, as young boys will, they had developed a wanderlust listening to their father’s stories. 

Jack agreed to let them undertake the journey, Bud riding Sam Bass (Jack’s own Arabian that he used chase wolves down with) and Temple riding Geronimo, a half-Shetland pony.  There were four rules the boys had to agree to:  Never to ride more than fifty miles a day unless seeking food or shelter; never to cross a creek unless they could see the bottom of it or have a guide with them; never to carry more than five dollars at a time; and no riding on Sunday.

The jaunt into New Mexico to visit their father’s friend, governor George Curry, took them six weeks.  Along the way, they were escorted by a band of outlaws for many miles to ensure their safe passage.  The boys didn’t realize they were outlaws until later, when the men wrote to Abernathy telling him they didn’t respect him because he was a marshal.  But, in the letter, they wrote they “liked what those boys were made of.” 

One year later, they set out on the trip that made them famous.  At ten and six, the boys rode from their Cross Roads Ranch in Frederick, Oklahoma, to New York City to meet their friend, former president Theodore Roosevelt, on his return from an African safari.  They set out on April 5, 1910, riding for two months. 

Along the way, they were greeted in every major city, being feted at dinners and amusement parks, given automobile rides, and even an aeroplane ride by Wilbur Wright in Dayton, Ohio. 

Their trip to New York City went as planned, but they had to buy a new horse to replace Geronimo.  While they were there, he had gotten loose in a field of clover and nearly foundered, and had to be shipped home by train. 

They traveled on to Washington, D.C., and met with President Taft and other politicians. 

It was on this trip that the brothers decided they needed an automobile of their own.  They had fallen in love with the new mode of transportation, and they convinced their father to buy a Brush runabout.  After practicing for a few hours in New York, they headed for Oklahoma—Bud drove, and Temple was the mechanic.

They arrived safe and sound back in Oklahoma in only 23 days. 

But their adventures weren’t over.  The next year, they were challenged to ride from New York City to San Francisco.  If they could make it in 60 days, they would win $10,000.  Due to some bad weather along the 3,619-mile-long trip, they missed the deadline by only two days.  Still, they broke a record—and that record of 62 days still stands, nearly one hundred years later. 

The boys’ last cross country trip was made in 1913 driving a custom designed, two-seat motorcycle from their Cross Roads Ranch to New York City.  They returned to Oklahoma by train. 

As adults, Temple became an oilman, and Bud became a lawyer.  There is a statue that commemorates the youngest long riders ever in their hometown of Frederick, Oklahoma, on the lawn of the Tillman County Courthouse.

 Today I’ll be giving away copies of  both FIRE EYES, which is an EPIC finalist. and TIME PLAINS DRIFTER.  (FIRE EYES received a 4 star review from RT, and TIME PLAINS DRIFTER received a 4.5.)  I’ll also draw three names to win pdf copies of my short story, A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES.

Okay, I was going to wait but I’m excited! I just learned yesterday my first effort at not only writing a contemporary Western but also an inspirational one will be published! (details will follow.) I’m kind of on Cloud Nine so to celebrate, I’ll draw a name from today’s commenters for a copy of my current release, Marrying Minda. 

Well, that said, after watching the Olympics, I’ve kind of got skiing on the brain, especially since our three-year-old grandson saw the mogul run and said, I want to do that. I know I can manage a bunny hill after all these years…I know how to get off a ski lift without crashing and down a slope without major havoc upon my person or anybody else’s, but what else do I really know about skiing?

I found out some stuff. 

Skiing developed in Scandinavian countries centuries ago for transportation, not for fun or sport. Emigrants from Norway and Sweden brought skis with them to America, and in 1841, skis were used for the first time in the United States in Beloit, Wisconsin. During the California Gold Rush of 1849, Norwegian pioneers took skis, and snowshoes, to the West. Although no documentation exists, it is believed that the first ski races in America were held by California miners as early as 1860.                                                                                        

The first skier recorded in America history is the legendary “Snowshow” John A. Thompson, who was the first mailman of the West. Born Jon Torsteinson-Rue in Telemarken, Norway, he came to Illinois in 1837 with his family at the age of ten. Although the family eventually moved to Iowa via Missouri, Jon was living with a brother in Wisconsin when Gold Fever struck.  In 1851 when Thompson was 24, he drove a herd of dairy cows to California and settled in Placerville, California, down the mountain from Lake Tahoe. He mined for a little while in Kelsey Diggins and Coon Hollow, saved some money and bought a small ranch at  Putah Creek.

At this time, despite snowshoes woven by Native Americans, all attempts by mail deliverers to cross the Sierra had failed. Johnson himself personally suffered by the lack of reliable mail—the letter explaining the flu epidemic that had claimed his mother’s life had been long delayed. When he saw an ad in late 1855 in the Sacramento Union titled “People Lost to the World; Uncle Sam Needs a Mail Carrier,” he quickly applied for the job.

For 20 consecutive winters, he used skis to bring mail to and from the Placerville area to Genoa, Nevada, and later to Virginia City. Although his nickname was “Snowshoe,” he used ten-foot skis and a single pole held by both hands at once. Never lost even in blizzards, he never carried a gun or took a blanket. And he was never paid!

 His trips east took three days uphill, two days to get home. He followed what is today’s U.S. Highway 50 from Placerville to South Lake Tahoe. The 90-mile distances also included snowdrifts up to 50 feet high and blizzards with 80 miles per winds. For the long winter months, he was the sole link between California and states to the east.

Off duty, he taught settlers how to make skis. Married with one son, Snowshoe died on May 15, 1876, from complications to appendicitis and pneumonia. He is buried in the Carson Valley and honored there in bronze.

Within ten years of his death, ski contests were held among the Norwegian and Swedish settlers in Wisconsin and Minnesota. On Feb. 21, 1904, at Ishpeming, Michigan., a small group of skiers organized the National Ski Association.

(This photo courtesy of www.VintageWinter.com)

America’s first ski lift, a simple rope tow, was constructed in 1913 in Truckee, California, near Lake Tahoe. In the 1920’s, similar rope tows appeared throughout the West, and resort skiing began to be a popular recreation about 1930. Sun Valley, Idaho built the first world’s first overhead chairlift in 1936, followed by Loveland, Colorado and Berthoud Pass, Colorado in 1937.  Ski resorts followed at Alta, Utah in 1937; Mammoth Mountain, California in 1938; Monarch, Colorado and Sugar Bowl, California 1939; Winter Park, Colorado in 1940. Understandably, ski resort development slowed during World War II.

 Of course, Squaw Valley near Lake Tahoe was the site of the Winter Olympic Games in 1960 and still proudly wears the Olympic Rings.  In 1961, the National Ski Association was renamed the United States Ski Association. Known today as the United States Ski and Snowboard Association, it now includes freestyle and disabled skiing.

It’s been a while since I hit the slopes, but I learned quickly at Loveland during my student-teaching months in Denver, Colorado, and the last time I performed on a family trip, I was still hanging in.  How about ya’ll? Who of you skis?  What winter sports blow your hair back? What’s your favorite winter Olympic competition?

(to order a copy, click on cover.)

Horace “Haw” Tabor may not have been long on talent or ambition, but he made up for it with sheer dumb luck.  1878 found the 48-year-old Tabor running a store in Leadville, Colorado, while his loyal wife Augusta kept a boarding house.  Storekeepers at the time had the option of providing a “grubstake” for miners on their way to the wilds for a shot at fortune.  In return, the storekeeper was entitled to one-third of any riches the miners discovered.

That spring, Tabor grubstaked a pair of sorry-looking miners named August Rische and George Hook.  They didn’t seem to know much about prospecting, but the two of them wandered into the hills and, by pure chance, dug into a vein of pure silver.  Their Little Pittsburgh Mine yielded $20,000 a week.  Haw Tabor’s $60 investment earned him $2 million in the first year alone without getting his hands dirty.  In short order he became mayor of boomtown Leadville and lieutenant governor of Colorado.  Augusta, unable to adjust to her husband’s meteoric rise, became more and more reclusive.

Enter Baby Doe.  Born Elizabeth Bonduel McCourt, and newly divorced from her slacker husband, Harvey Doe, she was blue-eyed, blond, spunky and irresistible.  In 1879 she met the newly Rich Haw Tabor.  Despite their 26-year age difference the two fell in love.  Over the next few years, as Tabor’s relationship with Augusta became more distant, his liaison with Baby Doe became increasingly public.  In 1881, Tabor quietly obtained a backwoods divorce from his wife (without bothering to inform her).  At some point he and Baby Doe were quietly married.

Eventually word of the secret divorce reached Augusta Tabor.  She hauled her ex husband into court and received a million dollar settlement.

 In 1883 Tabor was appointed to fill a 30-day vacancy as U.S. Senator from Colorado.  He and Baby Doe took advantage of the chance to stage a lavish Washington wedding, attended by no less a person than President Chester A. Arthur.  Soon, however, the gossip caught up with them.  The priest who’d performed the ceremony declared the marriage illegal because both parties had been divorced.  But since they’d already married each other earlier, it didn’t make any difference.  The wedding had been pure theatre.

That was the end of Tabor’s political career.  Although he and Baby Doe lived well for a time, and he attempted to run for governor and senator, public opinion had turned against him.

            In 1893 the final blow came when the federal government announced that it was going to stop buying silver for its currency and convert to the gold standard.  The crash ruined Tabor.  Everything he had was sold, but nothing he could do was enough to support Baby Doe and their two daughters.  In 1899 he died of appendicitis in the single room he shared with his family.  Shortly before his death, he reportedly told his wife to “hang onto the Matchless Mine.”

 Baby Doe spent the remaining thirty-five years of her life in a cabin outside the Matchless Mine in Leadville.  Still beautiful, she could have easily remarried.  She chose instead to “hold onto the Matchless.”

 In Early March, 1935, her frozen body was discovered on the floor of her cabin.  Deserted by her two daughters, she had passed into legend.  Her life has been the subject of two books, a Hollywood movie, two operas, a screen play, a one-woman show and countless other books and articles.

 The only connection this story has to my March 2010 book, THE HORSEMAN’S BRIDE, is that they both take place in Colorado.  But I wanted to give you the first look at my cover.  More about the story next month!  Or if you’d like a sneak preview, you can check it out on my web site: 

http://www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

The Texas Rangers, one of the most well-known law enforcement agencies in the world, has an on-again off-again history. First established in 1823 by Stephen F. Austin to “act as rangers for the common defense, the Rangers were disbanded and reformed many times over the years, mostly at the whim of whatever politician was in power at the time. It wasn’t until 1987 that the Texas Legislature enacted a statute that made the Texas Rangers a permanent entity of the Department of Public Service.

Through those years, the Rangers have worn several different styles of badges. Contrary to legend, they didn’t start out with stars on their vests. The first Rangers carried a Warrant of Authority, signed by The Adjutant General, that granted them the right to enforce the law when and where they saw fit.

It wasn’t until 1889 that the first Texas Ranger badge was created. Made from a silver Mexican coin, this unofficial badge was made from a Mexican silver dollar by the Rangers riding the southern and western parts of the state. The five-pointed star design is thought to have come from the unofficial seal of the state first used in 1835.

It changed a bit over the years:

An official, state-issued badge didn’t come along until 1935.

And even that changed again in 1957:

In 1962, in a decision that the Director of the Texas Department of Public Safety called “going back to the tradition steeped Mexican silver badge worn by their predecessors during frontier days,” the department adopted their permanent badge.

The “wagon-wheel” design is a five-pointed star, symbolizing the “Lone Star” of Texas, supported by an engraved wheel. The oak leaves on the left side represent strength and the olive branch on the right signifies peace, just as they appear on the Texas State Seal. The center of the star is reserved for the Company designation or the rank of Sergeant or Captain or Senior Captain.

This is the star you will see on the uniform of every Texas Ranger, along with their boots, revolvers and signature white cowboy hats.

If you want to know more about the Texas Rangers, visit their website: www.texasranger.org. There’s some fascinating stuff on that site.

“Captain” John Hance was reputedly the Canyon’s first non-Native American resident.  He built a cabin east of Grandview Point at the trailhead of an ancient Native American trail he improved to allow access to his asbestos mining claim in the Canyon. He started giving tours of the canyon after his attempts at mining asbestos failed, largely due to the expense of removing the asbestos from the canyon. 

The trail, completed in 1884 and commonly called the Old Hance Trail by historians, was to become Grand Canyon’s first tourist trail, as Hance quickly realized there was money to be made guiding wide-eyed tourists into the depths of the Canyon.

 I love this. This is what makes America great. Hance abandoned mining for tourism in the mid-1880s. To me that’s just a man seeing a way to make money, supplying a product others want, a product that is born out of his life and his skill and his hard work.

 Hance delighted in telling canyon stories to visitors, favoring the whopper of a tale over mere facts. With a straight face, Hance told travelers how he had dug the canyon himself, piling the excavated earth down near Flagstaff (a dirt pile now known as the San Francisco Peaks). 

I exchanged emails with a man who works at Grand Canyon National Park and does re-enactments of John Hance’s tall tales. I asked him if any of those tales were written down and he directed me to one recording of a tale similar to one John Hance told. But Hance never told the same story, the same way, twice and he never wrote any of them down, so only oral history survives. Despite his many outrageous claims, Hance left a lasting legacy at the Grand Canyon,  passing away in 1919, the year the Grand Canyon became a National Park.  Hance was the first person buried in what would become the Grand Canyon Pioneer Cemetery.

The trail John Hance found still exists. It’s listed as unmaintained and in poor condition. A Falcon Guidebook, Hiking Grand Canyon National Park, calls it a vigorous rim-to-rim backpack of three or more days—the South Rim’s most difficult trail. One man, an experience back country hiker said that even having been over the trail before, the time he took the trail with it in mind to report on it, he got lost five different times-by lost I mean he realized he’d gotten off the trail and had to backtrack to find it. There are miles with no discernable trail. I also, just because research is maddening, found this account of the Hance Trail.

The New Hance descends into Red Canyon (a side canyon of the Grand) and arrives at Hance Rapids on the Colorado River. Although the New Hance is a secondary trail, it is well marked and easy to follow. Note that this is really different than the other report. So what is the truth? Ah, research! Such fun.

One picture I found showed people rock climbing down a stretch of rock face, so that seems pretty challenging to me but when you think back to those days, it was probably a wonder to even find a way down. No state roads department was in there clearing it and paving it.

So, has anyone been there? Have any of you gone down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon? Anyone spent the night at Phantom Ranch or taken the burro ride? If so, you have my deepest respect because this is a truly rugged place.

Tell me about it if you were down there.

 Mary Connealy

Lily Mae backed into the corner of the saloon as the hulking villain lumbered toward her.  “Got you,” he snarled.  “Now hand over that deed to your father’s gold mine.”

            “Not on your life!”  Summoning her courage, she glared up at him.  “I’m going to see you hang for what you did!”

            He laughed, his belly shaking beneath his greasy vest.  “You and what army?   All I see between me and that gold is a purty little gal in a pink satin dress.  And by the time I finish with her she’s not gonna look so purty.  You’ve seen what I can do to a woman.  Now give me that deed, or you’ll be beggin’ me for mercy!”

            “All right.  You win.  I’ve got it right here in my stocking.”  Lily Mae raised her skirt a few inches.  “A gentleman would turn away.”

            “Well, I ain’t no gentleman, honey.  You got till the count of three.  One…two…”

            Lily Mae fumbled beneath her petticoats.  Tucked into her lace garter was a tiny derringer with a barrel no bigger than her thumb.  Drawing and cocking the pistol in one motion, she swung back to face her enemy.

            “Reach for the sky, you mangy varmint,” she snarled, “or I’ll plug you right between the eyes! 

            No, this  isn’t a scene from one of my books, although I did have fun writing it.  I just wanted a dramatic way to introduce one of the most notorious and popular weapons in the history of the west.

 In 1852 an American gunsmith named Henry Deringer invented a pistol so small that it could be easily concealed in a pocket, vest, boot, stocking or bodice.  The original Deringer Pistol was less than six inches long.  It used a cap lock mechanism to fire a single bullet from a barrel bored in calibers from .36 to .45, with .41 being the most common.  Easy to handle and accurate at close range, the tiny gun was an instant success.  Other gun manufacturers were swift to copy and improve on it (these copies were known generically as derringers, with an extra r)  but Deringer’s original design remained popular for decades.

            The gun was a favorite of women, who could hide it in their handbags or their clothes.  Gamblers and card dealers often kept one up their sleeves.  Even well known gunfighters, such as Wild Bill Hickock, used them as backup weapons.  One Arizona lawman was known to have carried upward of a half dozen petite pistols on his person.

            The scaled down size of these guns cost heavily in accuracy and range.  Mark Twain, who carried a pocket model Smith & Wesson .22 on his western travels wrote, “It was grand.  It only had one fault—you couldn’t hit anything with it.”

            Sadly, the little weapon became the preferred choice of hit men, who could hide it while they stole up behind their target.  The most famous hit carried out with a Deringer Pistol was the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth.  Booth shot Lincoln in the back of the head at point blank range while the President was watching a play.  This incident branded the Deringer as a “Hitman Special.”  Sales of the Deringer and its derringer clones went through the roof.  But Henry Deringer was troubled, knowing his weapon had been used to kill an American President.  Shortly afterwards, in 1868, he stopped production of the Deringer Pistol.  Other versions, however, continued to be made and are popular among shooters and gun collectors to this day.

This tough-looking gun moll is me, posing for a friend’s magazine article with an unloaded pistol I have no intention of firing.  Good for a laugh, at least.

            Do you know how to handle a gun?  Would you carry one for protection, or do you want nothing to do with them?  I’m looking forward to some interesting responses.

 Don’t forget to check out COWBOY CHRISTMAS, with stories by Pam Crooks, Carol Finch and myself. 

 And don’t forget to enter our new Christmas contest!

While scouring Montana history books in search of characters and colliding events for my new series I came across a name I’d read about a time or two before–Nelson Story. He’s always struck me as a very interesting figure of Montana history, staging the first cattle drive from Texas to Montana, eluding murderous jayhackers and defying the orders of a commanding military officer at Fort Kearny. Nelson Story was an adventurous young man and the pioneer of the Montana cattle industry.

In 1866 Montana was all a hubub of miners, military and railroad outfits. Bisen were being hunted to the brink and Native American Indians forced from thier lands, leaving thousands of acres of open grasslands awaiting to be plundered. A young miner who’d just unearthed his forturne not only saw the available grazing lands, but being a miner he knew mining camps had a dire shortage of beef.

Taking his newly acquired forturne to Texas, Story purchased a thousand long horn cattle, hired twenty seven drovers and set out on the longest and most dangerous cattle drive in history.

Crossing thousands of miles of plains and mountains was the easy part–reaching Montana was only the start of new troubles. Story chose a trail dubbed “Bloody Bozeman” (Yup, the Bozeman Trail), a trail that cut straight through designated Indian Territory, yet was riddled with Military forts—-a hot spot of military and Sioux battles. When Story stopped at Fort Laramie they urged him to sell his cattle to the military at a cheap rate and save himself the danger of continuing on. Story refused and purchased extra firearms. As feared, they were set upon by Sioux and his herd was stampeded and a portion stolen by the warriors. The drovers went after their cattle, fighting the Sioux and recovering most of their herd.

When they reached Fort Phil Kearny the commanding officer refused to allow them to continue on, certain they’d attract more hostile attention. Story was detained and ordered to make camp three miles out from the fort. The next morning when troops went out to check on the herd they only found rutted ground and cowpies–Story and his men drove their herd through the night and eventually made it to Gallatin Valley with over six hundred mooing beasts, thus starting the booming cattle trade of Montana.

After Story’s success hundreds of cattle outfits began to poor into the region. Story wasn’t satisfied with cattle, he seems to have been a jack of all trades, successful in numerous other business ventures including banks, flour mills and steamboats.

I found out while doing a web search for pictures that Nelson Story was also an inspiration behind Lonesome Dove.  No wonder he sparked my interest

As the old cowboy saying goes, ‘It’s the last thing you take off and the first thing that is noticed.’

Top hats, derbys, tams, fedoras, berets, bowlers – hats do more than cover a man’s head. They make a statement about the wearer.

If I say Bogart, can you see him, fedora pulled down low, collar turned up?

Or Charlie Chaplin in his bowler?

How about President Abraham Lincoln?

Or Sean Connery in his Panama?

Hats say a lot about the personality of the man – and some, like President Lincoln’s black stovepipe hat, will be forever linked with the man who wore it.

I believe the most recognizable type of hat, hands down, is the cowboy hat.

Did you see John Wayne in The Quiet Man and wonder where the heck his Stetson was?

There, that’s better.

How about the hat Clint Eastwood wore in Pale Rider?

John Stetson was the creator of what we think of today as the cowboy hat. The son of a master hatter, John made his first cowboy hat as a demonstration to his buddies about making felt from fur. The wide-brimmed hat was so useful in keeping off the sun and rain, his companions wanted one of their own. And an empire was born.

Stetson started his company in 1865. By 1866, the “Hat of the West” or “Boss of the Plains” set the John B. Stetson Company on the path to becoming the most famous hat in the world. Originally sold in one grade (2 ounce felt) and one color (natural), that original Stetson hat sold for five dollars. The equivalent hat today would cost close to $1,000.

Check out these two Montana dudes (1885) in their brand new Stetson ‘Boss of the Plains.’ The guy on the left is wearing Levi’s.

Made of a blend of rabbit, wild hare and beaver fur, today’s Stetson sets the mark for cowboy hats. You can get your Stetson in felt or straw, black, white, grey, tan; choose your style, for casual or dress, for outside wear or for going to church.

If you want to see how these famous hats are made, visit StetsonHats.com and click on the “The Making of a Stetson Hat” from the list on the left.

Stetson isn’t the only hat maker in the U.S. In Dallas in 1927, the Byer-Rolnick company began making the Resistol hats, so named because they were made to “resist all weather.”

But Stetson is the name most associated with the west.

Here’s some eye-candy, just because.

“Even after the wild aspect of the West was somewhat tamed, the cowboy hat never really lost its ability to lend that reckless and rugged aura to its wearer.”

 It’s good to be back on the blog. A family emergency sent me to California for close to a month.  Not an easy trip, but all is well.  I want to give a big thank you to my fellow Fillies who filled in the gap for me. Ladies, you’re the best!

Now that I’m home, I’m getting back to the business of writing.  Woooo Hoooo! I’m shopping for a hero! A lot of writing is work, but the hero hunt is just plain fun. I never know when the right man will show up. It’s usually out of the blue. This time his arrival was no exception. He came out of the Wild Blue Yonder . . . literally!  I was on an airliner, an Airbus 319 to be precise, in Seat 10B.

Has anyone here flown Virgin America? The cabin colors are purple and black. Instead of movie screens that drop down from the ceiling, each passenger has an individual entertainment system complete with movies, television, and music.  It’s about as far from the Old West as you can get, but somewhere over Nevada I programmed a play list and did some time-travel. Thirty-seven-thousand feet above fly-over country, Bruce Springsteen’s voice came through the headphones.

Outlaw Pete! 

Outlaw Pete!

Can you hear me?

I love this song!  It’s on Bruce’s newest album and it’s totally over the top.  It’s got outlaws, a bounty hunter, wild mustangs a Navaho girl, pistols, mountains and buckskin chaps. After a month of Los Angeles freeways, Holly-weirdness, and smog, I felt almost normal again.

The lyrics got me thinking . . . What is it about outlaws that’s so appealing? I’ve been thinking about this, because I want my next hero to be as bad as I can make him. He won’t stay that way, of course. And that’s what I think the real appeal is for an outlaw hero. By the end of the book, they’re redeemed. They might be bad to the bone, but they don’t stay that way. 

My all-time favorite outlaw hero is Johnny Cain in The Outsider by Penelope Williamson. When the story opens, he’s “a man killer.” He’s about as irredeemable as a man can be. Yet he’s the one who risks his life to save Rachel’s son. That’s another key to the outlaw hero. Bad men sometimes do good things. 

Keep in mind I’m talking about heroes in romances.  In real life, I’d have been terrified by the Wild Bunch or the Cole-Younger gang. Then again, there’s Doc Holliday. Granted, I see Val Kilmer when I picture him, but what really intrigues me is the complexity of his character.  That man was a loyal friend to Wyatt Earp. He was also highly educated, a dentist, and very good with a gun. It’s quite a mix. He may not count as a full fledged outlaw, but he captured the rebellion of the West.

When I’m creating a new hero, the challenge is to balance darkness and light, good and evil. Maybe that’s why I like Outlaw Pete so much. It’s got all the highs and lows of real life.  A lot of outlaw heroes are at war with themselves. In the romance the good side always wins. I like that!

Does anyone else have a favorite “outlaw” song?  A favorite outlaw hero?  I can think of a bunch, but I’d love to have y’all add to my list.

And last . . . I’m giving away books from my backlist today. It’s good to be back at Petticoats & Pistols, so I’m celebrating.  Anyone who comments will be eligible to win a copy of either Midnight Marriage or Stay for Christmas.  These are two of my older HH titles.  Good luck!  

The Old West is filled with legends but none is more colorful than Poker Alice. Her real name was Alice Ivers and she born of privilege in 1851. She attended an elite boarding school for young women until her family moved to Leadville, Colorado. There Alice met Frank Duffield, a mining engineer, and they were married.

Gambling was prevalent in the rough mining camps and Frank Duffield did his share. Alice often accompanied him to keep from staying home alone. Alice quickly learned she had an ability to read cards and took up poker and faro. When Frank died in a mining accident, Alice decided to put to use what she’d learned. Left alone with no means of support she turned to poker as a way to earn a nice living. It was certainly more respectable than prostitution.

Alice stood at 5′4″ with blue eyes and lush brown hair and decked out in her fashionable dresses she was quite a sight for lonely miners. It was rare to find a “lady” in a saloon that wasn’t of the “soiled dove” caliber so they flocked to her. They quickly bestowed the nickname Poker Alice on her and she was in much demand. It’s rumored that she once broke the bank at the Gold Dust Gambling House in New Mexico where she won $6,000 in one night.

Sometime during this period she began smoking large black cigars. Some said it was quite a sight to see her in frilly dresses with a big cigar sticking from her mouth. Alice also took to carrying a .38 revolver and wasn’t a bit squeamish to use it. Her reputation grew and so did her pocketbook.

However, she was deeply religious and never gambled on Sundays. The lady did have her scruples it seems.

Alice traveled all over Colorado, New Mexico and South Dakota playing and sometimes dealing the game she loved. But it was in Deadwood, South Dakota that she met Warren Tubbs. They married shortly after and homesteaded a ranch near Sturgis, South Dakota. Loving the quiet ranch life, Alice cut back on the time spent in gambling houses. She and Warren had seven children and it was one of the happiest times of her life.

But it wasn’t to last. Alice’s poker luck didn’t extend to husbands. Warren contracted tuberculosis and died of pneumonia in the winter of 1910. Again, Alice had to turn to poker to earn a living.

She hired a man by the name of George Huckert to take care of the ranch. He fell head over heels in love with Alice and asked her to marry him several times. Finally Alice relented saying that it was cheaper to marry George than pay him all the back wages she owed him. The  ink was barely dry on the marriage license before George died in 1913, leaving Alice once more a widow.

This time when Alice returned to the gambling halls she wanted to do more than be a patron. She purchased her own place and named the saloon “Poker’s Palace.” There she provided everything a lonely man required–liquor, gambling, and working girls. One night a drunken soldier went on a rampage in the saloon, breaking furniture and threatening the customers. Alice promptly took out her .38 and shot the man dead. She was arrested of course and thrown into jail, but at the trial she was acquitted on grounds of self-defense and released.

She lost her saloon though. Authorities shut her down and it seemed to take a lot of the fight out of Alice. A little while passed and Alice was now in her 70’s. Her beauty had faded and she began dressing in men’s clothing. She continued to run a house of ill-repute in Sturgis and was arrested many times for drunkenness and charged with being a madam. Finally, after repeated convictions she was sentenced to prison. Alice was 75. Taking her advanced years in account, the governor of South Dakota pardoned her. She died of complications from gall bladder surgery in 1930 and was buried in Sturgis, presumably beside Warren Tubbs.

According to the Legends of America website, Alice was said to have won more than $250,000 at the gaming tables during her lifetime and she never once cheated. One of her favorite sayings was: “Praise the Lord and place your bets. I’ll take your money with no regrets.”

Doesn’t this sound like a character in a romance book? Poker Alice was colorful and independent. She lived life on her own terms. When the chips were down, she didn’t ask for a handout; she went back to work.

Have you read any books or watched western movies where the heroine was unconventional, maybe working in a saloon or even owning one? Miss Kitty definitely springs to mind, but there are others. Our own Charlene Sands’ heroine in BODINE’S BOUNTY sang in a saloon.

www.LindaBroday.com

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