Matthew Kerns's Blog: The Dime Library, page 30

A Southern Belle on the Prairie (Part 2)

Ena and her family tried their best to leave her brother's murder of her fiance Dr. Harley behind them as they made a home for themselves on the Nebraska prairie. She got to know the locals and spent as much time as she could with the handsome cowboy turned scout Texas Jack, meticulously journaling each time she spent time with the dashing Mr. Omohundro.

They had met again after the buffalo lassoing adventure at her brother’s home, where Jack teasingly challenged her to a shooting contest. Texas Jack was well known in the area for being a crack shot, and while he may have been joking with Ena, she was quick to take him up on any offer that would allow them to spend more time together. When he arrived at the family home to escort her to where they would shoot, Ena wrote in her diary that:

"He made a very graceful presentation in the way of a handsome toy-bag of China-work — its original purpose I do not know; but he used it for cartridges, and so shall I — i.e. if I keep it; for it is but the souvenir of a challenge to shoot; and after having the bravado to take up the gauntlet thus thrown down, if he does beat me (and I expect it will be ‘even so!’), I shall not have the courage to retain such a memento of my defeat, but give it back, with my pistol to boot!"

Under the watchful tutelage of Texas Jack, Ena would eventually achieve recognition in the area as a formidable marksman in her own right. Jack also taught her the finer points of prairie-style horsemanship, far removed from the sidesaddle strolls she had taken in her native Savannah. With Buffalo Bill Cody out of town on a scouting mission, Jack was staying at the Cody home, ensuring the safety of Bill's wife Louisa and his small children. Suffering with fever, Ena worried that she might have spoken in her sleep and said something less than ladylike that might have been overheard by the handsome cowboy:

"I am still wretchedly unwell, but I have not given up. Went to ride with Texas Jack this afternoon and had a good ride of it, only my Injun pony, Falcon, got de mal en pis, and I don’t know if I can ride him again, tho’ I have made an engagement to ride tomorrow afternoon. I’ve spent one night with Mrs. Cody. She took me in out of charity because I have to get up so early over here, with the promise that I might sleep just so late as I pleased. But I did not sleep late — I was delirious all night — talked or rather raved in my usual crazy style. Hope I said nothing mal a propos, as Mr. Omohundro slept in the adjoining room."

A few days later, Jack entertained Ena by showing her how he would have lassoed her pony down in Texas:

"At noon I was over to Mrs. Cody’s and I saw a windstorm for the first time. Such clouds of dust whirring and rushing like mad everywhere! After it, we had a rain, which, while it rendered everything very muddy, still did away with the dust and made riding possible. Mr. ‘Texas’ had quite a time lassoing my little rascal of a pony! We found it pleasant after getting out on the prairie and my (I mean our!) Western Hero made himself just as pleasant as possible, delicate, yet kind and manly in his attentions. I must not ride Falcon again; Mr. Omohundro says it is dangerous and I should not attempt it."

The two continued to spend time together, but Ena attracted the attention of other men in the prairie town of North Platte as well, some more affluent and socially mobile than the manly "Western Hero" Texas Jack. One of these men was Doctor William Frank Carver, a dentist from Homer, Illinois, who had also recently made the prairie his home. She took a job as Carver's dental assistant, and began to spend more and more time with him, all the while continuing to confide her feelings for Texas Jack in her diary. One entry describes a moment when she was walking with Doctor Carver through town and spied Texas Jack. Without a word to the Doctor, she rushed to speak with Jack—a breach of etiquette towards her companion. She wrote that she hoped she hadn't embarrassed herself in the moment.

She quickly set up another ride with Texas Jack, but was disappointed the following day when Jack showed up not to accompany her on horseback across the prairie, but to say goodbye. He would be accompanying the Pawnee tribe on its long summer buffalo hunt, and expected to be gone from the settlement for several months.

Then, in the middle of the hunt, Ena was surprised to see Texas Jack and his Pawnee friends arrive at her doorstep:

"I, very unexpectedly, received a call from Texas Jack, evening before last, I believe it was. He remained in but a short time; had a few Pawnees with him. I do not think them as fine looking, not so erect as the Sioux; but they say they are better ‘braves’ than the latter. When asking one of the Pawnees if he was not afraid to venture so far on the hunting ground of the Sioux, it was fine to see the expression of unutterable scorn that lighted up for a moment, the stolidity of his face; then instantly relapsing into the grim Stoic, he quietly crossed his throat, giving the sign of the Sioux, and said they were ‘heap squaws’. Mr. Omohundro said that the Indians were in fine spirits; plenty of buffalo, and the papooses all fat."

After the hunt, Ena mentions in her journals that Jack and his friend Buffalo Bill are thinking about going east to join a dramatic company, a venture she presumed was destined to fail. She continued to hedge her bets by accepting Doctor Carver's company and courtship, as Carver built a home in Medicine Creek to be closer to Ena and her family. She wrote in her journal that the eastern papers were full of the sayings and doings of her own "Western Hero." With Jack on tour, she spent more and more time with Doctor Carver, but as she approached the one year anniversary of arriving in North Platte and meeting the handsome cowboy, her journals show where her thoughts were.

"Every day now is an anniversary to my weary life. This stormy warmth of July is so fraught with many memories. And do I alone remember? Whom do I ask? The winds? Their sympathy gives so much unto my lonely life as aught else, now! One year ago I fancied that I had found that which would make me count the hours of life jealously. Perhaps I had, but it has slipped from my grasp or has been thrown away in madness. God only knows which."

The following day, one year removed from her musings on what she had referred to as her Western Hero’s delicate, yet kind and manly attentions as they rode across the Nebraska prairie, she wondered:

"Who, besides myself, thinks of this day with strange memories tugging at their heartstrings. When just one year ago today comes back with visions of tearful sunshine, dewy plains, and shadowed hillsides? And yet the doubt that I feel is my work I fear!"

Ena’s journals go silent for a period of several months, an uncharacteristic ceasing of her recorded thoughts. She received no further letters from Omohundro, and inside her journal, after the previous entry was a clipping from a newspaper reading:

"Texas Jack was married last Thursday, at Rochester, NY, to Mlle. Morlacchi, a lady actress, reported to be very wealthy and beautiful. Such is greatness."

Ena’s journal set silent but for one entry to explain her weariness with writing for the better part of the next two years.

Leonard Coble

There's a home video from my childhood filmed sometimes in 1988 or 1989. The whole family—my parents, myself and my two brothers, my aunt Alissa, my grandparents, my other aunt and uncle and their son, my cousin—are all downstairs at our house celebrating Christmas. In the video, you can just hear the doorbell ringing upstairs before my dad walks up the spiral staircase, answers the door with a high level of excitement, and comes back down the stairs with a very special Christmas guest.

Santa Claus.

Santa walks down the stairs as the family coalesces around him, greeting every member of the family by name with warmth and kindness. He is just as advertised in the famous poem: soft red coat and long white beard, big bag of presents and flowing mane of silver hair, tall black boots and twinkling eyes—kindly with a hint of mischief. He takes his time asking us questions—have you been a good boy this year? Did you listen to your parents? Did you clean up your room when you were told? Yes! we answered with varying levels of honesty. Yes!

The video, filmed on one of those shoulder-mounted VHS recorders that captured moments like this way back when, shows the excitement on each face, adult and child alike, as Santa makes his rounds, distributing kindness and words of advice and gifts for all. As the children rush off to compare gifts and Santa shares a brief smile with my parents, he cinches up his now diminished bag of goodies and prepares to ascend the stairs, presumably to pilot his reindeer-drawn sleigh back to the North Pole. But before he can quite make it out of the house, my aunt Alissa, rocking back and forth on the couch, says "Goodbye Santa! And tell Mrs. Coble we said hi."The kids missed it, but that small aside tells the whole story. This Santa wasn't a jolly old elf, a Greek saint, a Coca-Cola mascot. This was Leonard Coble. He was many things, but primarily, to us, he was our next-door neighbor, and having Leonard and his wife Murial Coble as neighbors during my formative years spoiled me forever. When Santa Claus lives next door, who can compete?Leonard had been an engineer with Western Union and was one of those men who can seemingly fix anything. I remember when he built a big barn-shaped storage building at the bottom of his hill. He put up a sign and printed business cards which he proudly handed out to the neighborhood kids:

PA'S PIDDLIN' PARLOR

In his parlor, Pa would piddle, which is to say he would mess around with a thing until that thing worked either as good as or better than before it broke. His expertise extended in dazzling breadth: when I needed someone to help me make an invention for my 6th-grade science class, Leonard and I sat down and discussed—what problems in the world needed fixing? We talked about the big ones, and together decided we didn't know how to fix those. What small inconveniences close to home might we tackle? Newspapers. You read them, you want to recycle them, but they seem to spread if not immediately put away. Leonard sketched out a platform with four vertical arms, each of which had a channel and a loop at the top. Twine, run through the loops and channels, would sit underneath papers as they were neatly stacked, then tied and bound for ease of transport. He had the lumber and the saws and the stories to tell as we worked, and within a short while he had our invention in his hands.

Looking back, it isn't the invention or his ingenuity that I'll miss. Its that when his 11-year-old neighbor walked over to his house and said "I need to make an invention," there was no question that this was too much to ask, no hint that he might have had plans of his own that night, no notion that this wasn't exactly what he had been hoping would happen. That was L.D. Coble. He helped. I knocked on Leonard and Muriel's door countless times growing up, and every time I was greeted with warmth and with kindness and with welcome. You need a stick of butter? Here's two. You need a cup of milk? Take the gallon. In his actions and in his life were lived out the three things that I now know he was: a Good. Christian. Man.Leonard Coble passed away on May the 4th, 2021 at the age of 95. He is survived by his wife of 78 years, Murial, children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who loved him and will cherish his memory. And a neighbor who still thinks Leonard Coble was the real Santa Claus.

A Southern Belle on the Prairie (Part 1)

In Savannah, Georgia, in late 1868 and through the summer of 1869, Ena Palmer's life seemed charmed. She was the favorite child of her doting parents, the only sister of loving brothers, and was engaged to a handsome young doctor who was part of Savannah's elite social circle. A poet, Ms. Palmer had recently seen several of her poems printed in national publications, and she was immensely proud to see her work in print. The trajectory of her life seemed pointed ever upwards.

And then things fell apart.

Doctor Hilliard H. Harley, the man Ena had been engaged to marry, was murdered, struck down by an assassin's bullet while he wrote at his desk at home on the 24th of August, 1869. The Governor of Georgia offered a $1,000 reward for the capture of the man or men who had perpetrated the murder.

Savannah society was shocked by the murder of a promising young doctor—a member of the social elite, respected Confederate veteran, and local businessman. A Savannah newspaper ran this article:

ASSASSINATION OF DR. H.H. HARLEY—Our community was shocked on Wednesday morning, upon the circulation of the fact of the cruel and dastardly assassination of the gentleman whose name heads this article.

From the findings of the empanelled jury we glean these particulars: Dr. H. was in charge of the business of Mr. Babcock, cutting and hauling cross ties for the Brunswick and Albany Railroad, with headquarters at College plantation, about two miles from Bethel. On Tuesday night, about ten o’clock while Dr. H was sitting in his cabin, an open log house, writing at his desk, with one or two others present, a gun was passed through the logs and discharged, the murderous fire terribly mutilating his head, his brains staining the walls of the house. He survived the fatal wound but a few brief moments.

As there are dozens of rumors as regards the probable cause of this assassination, and as it is probable that the affair will be thoroughly sifted, and, if possible, the guilty party or parties brought to punishment, we refrain from publishing any of the unpleasant rumors.

Dr. H. was a young man, lately a resident of Camden county, in this State, but a native of South Carolina, where he has a father, brothers, and sisters now residing. He served during the late war in the C.S.A. as assistant Surgeon, with Maxwell’s Battery. Since the war he has been connected with the timber business in this vicinity.

His remains were brought to our city Thursday and interred with Masonic honors, by Ocean Lodge, of which he was a member.

The article says that there were "dozens of rumors as regards the probable cause of this assassination." Several of Harley's friends knew that he had recently, and rather suddenly, broken off his engagement with Ena Palmer, offering disparaging words about her both in public and before her oldest brother, William Herbert Palmer. William and the doctor had publicly argued about the things that were now being said about Ena, and the arguments had lead to threats. William was questioned and then arrested for the murder of his sister's ex-fiance. At trial, it became obvious that William had indeed murdered Harley for slandering his sister. Palmer was convicted, as was another man listed as an accomplice, but his lawyers appealed the ruling and William Palmer was released on an $8,000 bond.

The appeal was dropped when some of William's clothing was discovered washed up on the shore of the Savannah River. He knew he would lose his appeal, locals said, and took his own life by jumping from a local bridge rather than face his accusers a second time. His family was devastated, both by the loss of their son and the very public trial. The accusations, sideways glances, and shame meant Ena would never find a husband in Georgia and the family considered a move to another part of the country where they could start their lives over.

William Herbert Palmer's body was never found, but weeks later a man named William Herbert Miles arrived at North Platte, Nebraska. Matching descriptions of Mr. Palmer, Mr. Miles' southern accent stood out amongst the prairie settlers. William found work where he could, assisting cattle ranchers and working odd jobs. He met local men like Texas Jack Omohundro and Buffalo Bill Cody, and they became friends. In the summer of 1872, the Palmer family relocated from Savannah, Georgia, to the Nebraska prairie. When Ena stepped off the train, she was greeted by William Miles and his new friend Texas Jack.

Ena’s diary entry dated June 7, 1872, makes plain the impact the dashing cowboy had on the refined Southern belle: “I have been introduced to ‘Texas Jack,’ one of our ‘Western Heroes,’ and a fine picture of handsome, dashing, manly manhood he is,” she confided in her journal. “Certainly one of my beau-ideals of a hunter or a ‘Scout.’ Hope I shall see more of him and that I like his character as well as his face. But enough of this hero for the present, only that he now heads a party out on about as wild an adventure as even my wild brain could devise—viz.: lassoing buffalo, full-grown ones for the purpose of shipping them, alive on the train. Some say it is dangerous work; some prophecy not only broken arms and legs and crippled horses, but dead men as well as dead horses!”[The story of Ena Palmer and Texas Jack will continue in part 2 of A Southern Belle on the Prairie.]

America's First Famous Cowboy

When this picture was taken, likely in early September of 1873, these three men were the most famous westerners alive. Seated on the right is Buffalo Bill Cody, who earned his name as the greatest buffalo hunter alive before rising to fame as a scout for the United States Army. Across the table sits Wild Bill Hickok, the deadliest gunslinger of his day and perhaps the most fabled lawman in American history. And behind these two men, with his right hand resting familiarly on Wild Bill's shoulder, stands Texas Jack Omohundro.

Omohundro hadn't been a buffalo hunter or a lawman in Kansas cow towns. Texas Jack was a cowboy. The Earl of Dunraven, who hunted with both Texas Jack and Buffalo Bill, wrote:

"Buffalo Bill had always been in Government employ as a scout, but Texas Jack had been a cowboy, one of the old-time breed of men who drove herds of cattle from way down South to Northern markets for weeks and months, through a country infested by Indians and white cattle thieves."

When these three men toured as The Scouts of the Plains, audiences who rushed to their local theaters to catch a glimpse of their heroes were gladly spending their hard-earned money to see the West's most famous scout, its most famous lawman, and its most famous cowboy together on stage. They were so famous that nearly 150 years after they posed for this picture they still shape our stories of the American West. Buffalo Bill became the most famous American, and perhaps the most famous person full stop, during his own lifetime. His Wild West show performed before thousands on both sides of the Atlantic, shaping forever the public perception of the West in his own image. Wild Bill was struck down by an assassin's bullet, but his name lives on, inspiring countless books, movies, television shows, and trips to the small South Dakota town of Deadwood where Hickok was killed and is buried.

Texas Jack didn't live long enough to ensure his name would be remembered forever and he didn't "die with his boots on" to go down in history. But his life and his legacy as America's first famous cowboy, the man who introduced the lasso act to the stage and rode with Pawnee warriors across the western prairie, has influenced every cowboy story that followed. From Owen Wister's The Virginian to Louis L'amour's Hondo, from Tom Mix to Cary Grant, from Clint Eastwood's Man With No Name to John Wayne's Ethan Edwards—every cowboy has been cast in the mold of Texas Jack.

Texas Jack's story has never been fully told. Until now. Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star by Matthew Kerns tells the true story of the Virginia boy who became a Texas cattleman, of the Confederate spy who scouted for the US Army, of the cowboy who became a star. Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star is available Saturday, May 1st in hardcover and ebook. Julia Bricklin, author of The Notorious Life of Ned Buntline, calls it a "groundbreaking work [that] brings to light a lesser-known but vitally important figure in any history of American pop culture...Kerns meticulously reconstructs the fascinating—if sadly shortened—life of Texas Jack Omohundro. What emerges is the story of the man who actually was the driving force behind Buffalo Bill's decision to go into show business, and perhaps was too authentic to shine as brightly as Cody through the ages. Until now."

Preorders of the 1st edition of the book, as well as ebook formats, are available from:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble​

Books-A-Million

IndieBound

Bookshop.org

Rowman & Littlefield

The Cowboy

From The Spirit of the Times, March 24, 1877. Written by Texas Jack, this piece was included in the show programs for Buffalo Bill's Wild West as an introduction to the cowboy.

The cow-boy! How often spoken of, how falsely imagined, how greatly despised (where not known), how little understood? I've been there considerable. How sneeringly referred to, and how little appreciated, though a title gained only by the possession of many of the noblest qualities that go to form the more admired, romantic hero of the poet, novelist, and historian: the plainsman and the scout. What a school it has been for the latter? As “tall oaks from little acorns grow," and tragedians from supers come, you know, the cow-boy serves a purpose, and often develops into the more celebrated ranchman, guide, cattle king, Indian fighter, and dashing ranger. How old Sam Houston loved them, how the Mexicans hated them, how Davy Crockett admired them, how the Comanche feared them, and how much you “beef-eaters” of the rest of the country owe to them, is such a large-sized conundrum that even Charley Backus and Billy Birch would both have to give it up. Composed of many "to the manner born," but recruited largely from Eastern young men, taught at school to admire the deceased little Georgie in his exploring adventures, and though not equaling him in the “cherry-tree goodness," more disposed to kick against the bulldozing of teachers, parents, and guardians.

As the rebellious kid of old times filled a handkerchief (always a handkerchief, I believe), with his all, and followed the trail of his idol Columbus, and became a sailor bold, the more ambitious and adventurous youngster of later days freezes onto a double-barreled pistol, and steers for the bald prairie to seek fortune and experience. If he don't get his system full, it's only because the young man weakens, takes a back seat, or fails to become a Texas cow-boy. If his Sunday-school ma'am has not impressed him thoroughly with the chapter about our friend Job, he may be astonished, but he'll soon learn the patience of the old hero, and think he pegged out a little too soon to take it all in. As there are generally openings, likely young fellows can enter, and not fail to be put through. If he is a stayer, youth and size will be no disadvantage for his start in, as certain lines of the business are peculiarly adapted to the light young horsemen, and such are highly esteemed when they become thoroughbreds, and fully possessed of "cow sense."

Now, cow sense has a deeper meaning than it seems to have, as in Texas it implies a thorough knowledge of the business and a natural instinct to divine every thought, trick, intention, want, habit, or desire of his drove, under any and all circumstances. A man might be brought up in the States swinging to a cow's tail, and, taken to Texas, would be as useless as a last year's bird's nest with the bottom punched out. The boys grow old soon, and the old cattle-men seem to grow young; and thus it is that the name is applied to all who follow the trade. However, inside the trade the boys are divided into range-workers and branders, road-drivers and herders, trail-guides and bosses.

As the railroads have now put an end to the old-time trips, I will have to go back to a few years ago to give a proper estimate of the duties and dangers, delights and joys, trials and troubles, when off the ranch. The ranch itself and the cattle trade in the State still flourish in their old-time glory, but are being slowly encroached upon by the modern improvements that will in course of time wipe out the necessity of his day, the typical subject of my sketch. Before being counted in and fully endorsed, the candidate had to become an expert horseman, and test the many eccentricities of the stubborn mustang; enjoy the beauties, learn to catch, throw, fondle—oh! yes, gently fondle (but not from behind)— and ride the "docile" little Spanish-American plug, an amusing experience in itself, in which you are taught all the mysteries of rear and tear, stop and drop, lay and roll, kick and bite, on and off, under and over, heads and tails, handsprings, triple somersaults, stand on your head, diving, flip-flaps, getting left (horse leaves you fifteen miles from camp—Indians in the neighborhood, etc.), and all the funny business included in the familiar term of “bucking;” then learn to handle a rope, catch a calf, stop a crazy cow, throw a beef steer, play with a wild bull, lasso an untamed mustang, and daily endure the dangers of a Spanish matador, with a little Indian scrape thrown in, and if there is anything left of you they'll christen it a first-class cow-boy. Now his troubles begin (I have been worn to a frizzled end many a time before I began); but after this he will learn to enjoy them—after they are over.

As the general trade on the range has often been written of, I'll simply refer to a few incidents of a trip over the plains to the cattle markets of the North, through the wild and unsettled portions of the Territories, varying in distance from fifteen hundred to two thousand miles—time, three to six months—extending through the Indian Territory and Kansas, to Nebraska, Colorado, Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and sometimes as far as California. Immense herds, as high as thirty thousand or more, are moved by single owners, but are driven in bands of one to three thousand, which, when under way, are designated "herds”. Each of these have from ten to fifteen men, with a wagon driver and cook, and the “king-pin of the outfit”, the boss, with a supply of two or three ponies to a man, an ox team, and blankets, also jerked beef and corn meal—the staple food; also supplied with mavericks or "doubtless-owned" yearlings for the fresh meat supply. After getting fully underway, and the cattle broke in, from ten to fifteen miles a day is the average, and everything is plain sailing, in fair weather. As night comes on, the the cattle are rounded up in a small compass, and held until they lie down, when two men are left on watch, ridin' round and round them in opposite directions, singing or whistling all the time, for two hours, that being the length of each watch. This singing is absolutely necessary, as it seems to soothe the fears of the cattle, scares away the wolves, or other varmints that may be prowling around, and prevents them from hearing any other accidental sound, or dreaming of their old homes, and if stopped would, in all probability, be the signal for a general stampede. "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," if a cowboy's compulsory bawling out lines of his own composition, such as these:

Lay nicely now cattle, don't heed any rattle,

But quietly rest until morn.

For if you skedaddle, we'll soon give you battle.

And head you as sure as you're born

Can be considered such.

Some poet may yet make a hit,

Of the odds and ends of cow-boys' wit.

But on nights when old "Prob." goes on a spree, leaves the bung out of his water barrel above, prowls around with his flash box, raising a breeze, whispering in tones of thunder, and the cow-boy’s voice, like the rest of the outfit, is drowned out, steer clear, and prepare for action. If them quadrupeds don't go insane, turn tail to the storm, and strike out for civil and religious liberty, then I don't know what strike out means. Ordinarily, so clumsy and stupid-looking, a thousand beef steers can rise like a flock of quail on the roof of an exploding powder mill, and will scud away like a tumbleweed before a high wind, with a noise like a receding earthquake. Then comes fun and frolic for the boys!

Talk of “Sheridan's ride, twenty miles away,” that was in the daytime, but this is the cow-boy's ride with Texas five hundred miles away, and them steers steering straight for home; night time, darker than the word means, hog wallows, prairie dog, wolf, and badger holes, ravines and precipices ahead, and if you do your duty three thousand stampeding steers behind. If your horse don't swap ends, and you hang to them till daylight, you can bless your lucky stars. Many have passed in their checks at this game. The remembrance of the few that were foot loose in the Bowery a few years ago will give an approximate idea of three thousand raving bovines on the warpath. As they tear through the storm at one flash of lightning, they look all tails, the next flash all horns. If Napoleon had a herd at Sedan, headed in the right direction, he would have driven old Billy across the Rhine.

The next great trouble is crossing streams, which are invariably high in driving season. When cattle strike swimming water they generally try to turn back, which eventuates in their "milling," that is, swimming in a circle, which if allowed to continue, would result in the drowning of many. There the daring herder must leave his pony, doff his toggs, scramble over their backs and horns to scatter them, and with whoops and yells, splashing, dashing, and didoes in the water, scare them to the opposite bank. This is not always done in a moment, for a steer is no fool of a swimmer; I have seen one hold his own for six hours in the Gulf after having jumped overboard. As some of the streams are very rapid, and a quarter to half a mile wide, considerable drifting is done. Then the naked herder has plenty of amusement in the hot sun, fighting green head flies and mosquitoes, and peeping around for Indians, until the rest of the lay-out is put over—not an easy job. A temporary boat has to be made of the wagon box, by tacking the canvas cover over the bottom, with which the ammunition and grub is ferried across, the running gear and ponies swam over after. Indian fights and horse thief troubles are part of the regular rations. Mixing with other herds and cutting them out, again avoiding too much water at times, and hunting for a drop at others, belongs to the regular routine.

Buffalo chips for wood a great portion of the way (poor substitute in wet weather), and avoiding prairie fires later, varies the monotony. In fact, it would fill a book to give a detailed account of a single trip, and it is no wonder the boys are hilarious when it ends, and, like the old toper, "swears no more for me," only to return and go through the mill again.

How many though never finish, but mark the trail with their silent graves, no one can tell. But when Gabriel toots his horn, the “Chisholm Trail” will swarm with cow-boys. “Howsomever we’ll all be thar,” let’s hope, for a happy trip, when we say to this planet, adios!

J.B. Omohundro

Texas Jack

Hunting Deer in Florida

After Texas Jack and Buffalo Bill broke up their dramatic combination in favor of solo shows, Texas Jack spent the end of 1876 and the early months of 1877 writing about his life as a hunter, cowboy, and scout. Several magazines and newspapers published Jack's words, and the most prominent of those was The Spirit of the Times weekly newspaper. Calling themselves "A Chronicle of the Turf, Agriculture, Field Sports, Literature and the Stage," the Spirit of the Times was the most popular sporting journal in the United States. Texas Jack wrote for or was interviewed in the Spirit of the Times seven times, with this piece about his time in Florida after the Civil War being the first. It was printed in the March 3, 1877 edition:

Hunting Deer in Floridaby TEXAS JACK

Philadelphia, Feb. 23, 1877

Dear SPIRIT: As I promised to tell you something about deer hunting in Florida, here goes.Immediately after the collapse of one of the great parties to what is styled ‘the late unpleasantness’, leaving Old Bob Lee and Ulysses to arrange matters, I picked myself up and lit out with all speed back toward the ‘Lone Star’ State. Reaching New Orleans, I got aboard an old smack that intended to cross the Gulf. As I was in a good run of the sour end of luck, a violent sou'wester struck us, after which the old hulk leaked so badly we had to abandon her, and after a day and night's lively tossing on the "briny," we fetched up standing on the sandy coast of West Florida. The sailor boys struck up the coast to Pensacola, and were soon on deck again, back to the Crescent City, but as I had weakened considerably in regard to "a life on the ocean wave," hearing there was good hunting in the country, and as I had never starved at that business, it being just my long suit, I concluded to camp on the Peninsula and struck upcountry to the northwest portion. I soon had an outfit—double-barreled shotgun, ammunition, and salt—and started into the "primitive business," that needs neither wealth in lands, nor capital in money.

I don’t know if it will be particularly interesting to you, but it was to me at the time, the peculiar manner of hunting with trained dogs. This section of the country is a desolate pine forest, low rolling sandhills, covered with tall trees, beneath which grows a kind of light prairie grass. The ravines are from fifty to two hundred yards wide, so thick with underbrush that you couldn’t stick a butcher’s knife into them, and so swampy that they would bog a saddle-blanket, and are generally bordered by an open savannah that gives a beautiful shot at the startled game as they break for the hills. Occasionally there is an island formation of can “tussocks,” or dry spots, around ancient stumps of trees. These the deer seek to lie on in the daytime, and if it were not for the “bell dog,” a regiment of Pinkerton’s detectives would never ‘tumble to’ or spot his graceful lordship. When the deer are not in the brush, where they feel safe, they are hard to approach, as the pine forests are like thinned-out parks, and a clear view can be had, sometimes for a mile or more; a horse, therefore, won’t do for the woods and much less for the edges of the boggy swamps. So from camp “shank’s pony,” the “bell,” and “slow track” dogs are our reliances.

When the swamp is reached where we intend to drive, the “bell dog,” with his little bell around his neck, is started down the center, and we separate, one hunter of the party on each side; the “bell” is thoroughly trained to go slowly, and by the tinkling, the hunters can keep opposite him, and each other; and if delayed by any obstruction a signal (a particular cluck) he will stop til ordered on. “Slow Track” is trained quietly to follow at the hunter’s heels until a shot is fired, which is his signal for business.

Slowly we creep along, guns cocked, eyes strained forward, watching for a startled break (some old bucks are mighty cunning, though I have seen them sneak out a quarter of a mile ahead), when by the hasty rattling of ‘Bell’s’ warning we know he has scented, then a startling yelp, a racket in the brush, and “Look out! Here they come!” “Which side?” works up the “fever,” when, like a streak of greased lightning, deer and dog come tearing into view, and then —“Well, that depends,” as Indian Tom says. If the deer stops suddenly and reposes, all right; if not, “Bell’s” tinkler is stopped with leaves, and he is sent to the rear, and “Slow Track” is ordered to the front. With great delight he goes to scenting for blood, and, if none is found, hide yourself in shame, for all the photographs of disgust imaginable will be pictured on that dog’s “physog;” but if successful, and you have made a hit, a low whine of laughing pleasantness tells the tale.

Just in advance of us goes “Slow Track,” following the bloody trail as cautiously as if stepping on eggs, and happy in visions of a feast on paunch, blood, and entrails. Thus we proceed, until the wounded animal is found, “Slow Track” careful not to raise him out of gunshot.

When dispatched, his heart and liver (with some sweet potatoes we always carry) form an immediate lunch, which is invariably enlivened by the jealous wrangling of “Bell” and “Slow Track,” whose rivalry is bitter and eternal. A Florida Returning Board could never settle their disputed rights.

The deer is hung up in a tree, where he can be reached with a packhorse and the hunt proceeds. If you have no packhorse, do as I have done; ‘tote’ him on your back to camp, five or ten miles. It is hard on the back, but good for the appetite. A wounded deer is seldom lost with a “Slow Track,” and a humane hunter will always secure the wounded, if possible. I have lost many a fine day’s hunting in trying to find a wounded animal.

The deer are the whitetail species and are seldom more than four or five in a band, and twenty-eight is the most I have started in a day’s drive. The dogs mostly trained are the ordinary deerhound or a crossbreed of same with a spaniel or some kind of water dog.

Hunting in other sections of the state varies from this mode. Further south, and along the small islands, no dogs are used. We lie in wait near the “licks” or “water holes”’ and I have sat perched in a small palmetto scrub tree that grows there for hours and hours, and got no deer; in fact, not a shot but one — that is, show out for shelter when the sun came up. There is but little science and less fun in that, so I did not follow it long.

Fire hunting is a midnight sport, where the boys stay “out all night / til broad daylight / and go home with (out sometimes) deer in the morning.” I have known several of the “natives” that lost valuable milk cows, and it is well to pursue your hunting far from the settlements, owing to the prejudices thus produced. Owing to the peculiarly wild construction of the country, I believe deer will exist for many years to come.

Well, this is getting too long to particularize other game, but there are bears, catamounts, panthers, wild hogs, turkey, and all variety of waterfowls, alligators by the thousand, and the stupidest of all living creatures, though excellent eating, much prized, and generally weighing from twelve to eighteen pounds, named the ‘gopher,’ but why I could never tell, for I never saw one “go for” anything. He is hard to describe, a sort of a turtle, lives on the high, dry sandhills, seems never to explore ten feet from his hole, and whose general mode of life is a conundrum. They are caught by ‘pitting,’ a pit being dug near their holes, into which they tumble, and are incapable of making any exertion to get out. A pitter was once asked, “What are you digging for?” and answered, “Gopher.” “Will you get him?” “Get him? Course I’ll get him, I’m out of meat.” The men who hunt for them are considered as lazy as they. As the same feeling is gradually coming over me and maybe affecting you, I will close with “so long” for the present.

Of Cowboys and Ballerinas

How did America's first famous cowboy and the world's most beloved ballerina fall in love? How did a Confederate cavalry scout from Virginia turned Texas trail-riding longhorn herder woo and marry a La Scala-trained Italian danseuse whose arrival in America and introduction of the scandalous can-can dance had enchanted and inflamed puritan Massachusetts?

Texas Jack Omohundro and the Peerless Giuseppina Morlacchi were both heading west at roughly the same time, he from his native Virginia to the open spaces and big ranches of Texas and she from a long engagement at Her Majesty's Theatre in London towards New York to star in the new spectacle of The Devil's Auction on Broadway. Jack rode across the Red River and into Texas unheralded while Morlacchi's arrival, on the fastest ship to ever cross the Atlantic, was mentioned in newspapers across the country and greeted with the full company of the New York Academy of Music's orchestra. While Jack rose from kitchen help to cowhand to trail boss in some of the most legendary ranches of cattle country, Giuseppina slowly gained control of her own ballet company, using her own choreography, and amassing a small fortune to purchase a working farm in Billerica, Massachusetts.

While he was leading longhorns up the Chisholm Trail into Kansas and learning the language of the Comanche, she was traveling throughout the eastern half of America and received glowing coverage in newspapers from New York to New Orleans. When he sat across card tables and shared bottles of whiskey with Wild Bill Hickok in Hays City, she and her agent John Burke took on new theatrical challenges and more demanding roles. While he and Buffalo Bill scouted out of Fort McPherson, Nebraska, and lead European aristocrats on celebrated buffalo hunts, she and her troupe traveled to California for a long series of shows in San Francisco.

Their paths crossed for the first time, according to her manager John Burke, as her troupe returned from California to Boston, stopping for a single show in Omaha, Nebraska. If Mr. Burke is to be believed, the cowboy Texas Jack and his friend Buffalo Bill were in the audience that night to see the lovely ballerina in action. When novelist Ned Buntline convinced Cody and Omohundro to star in a play loosely adapted from their real-life experiences in the West, he also managed to score a major coupe when he convinced the famous dancer to join the cast as Dove Eye, "the Indian maiden with a weakness for scouts." As written, her character was to fall in love with the handsome Buffalo Bill, but within a few shows it was obvious to everyone that the stage chemistry between the beautiful Italian dancer and the Texas cowboy was undeniable.

Life imitated art in the most romantic way possible. The satin-dressed ballerina and the buckskin-clad scout fell in love. When the theatrical season ended Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack headed back to the prairie to hunt and bask in the freedom of the open plains, but it wasn't long before Texas Jack was on a train bound east. Newspapers in Rochester, New York, noted the famous cowboy arriving in their city, and his sudden appearance at the theatre, where Morlacchi and her ballet troupe were engaged. They were married two days later and spent the rest of their too-short lives together.

To learn the full story of Texas Jack and the Peerless Morlacchi, check out Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star coming May 1st wherever books are sold.

My First Buffalo Hunt With Indians

This piece, published in the March 17, 1877 issue of The Spirit of the Times, was written by Texas Jack and later included in the literature of Buffalo Bill's Wild West to give audiences an idea of what Native American buffalo hunts were like.

Philadelphia, March 5, 1877.

Dear Spirit: The other evening my old friend, Donald McKay, famed at the time of the Modoc War as chief of scouts for Gen. Crook, paid me a visit; and as "speaking of shad reminds me of fish," the occasion brought to my memory my first "buffalo hunt with Indians." If I don't get like the butcher's calf and "kind o' give out," I'll try and give you an idea of one of the most exciting scenes I ever saw or read of, not excepting my school-boy impression of Andy Jackson's hoo-doo at New Orleans. I thought I had seen fun in a Texas cattle stampede, been astonished in a mustang chase; but it wasn't a marker, and it made me believe that Methuselah was right when he suggested that the oldest could "live and learn." It is a pity the old man didn't stick it out. He could have enjoyed this lesson.

A few years ago I was deputized United States Agent, under Major North, to accompany a party of Pawnee and Ponca Indians. Although "blanket Indians" (living wild), they have for a long time been friends of the Government, and have done excellent service under command of the justly-celebrated Major Frank North, whose famed Pawnee scouts (now at Sidney, Neb.), have always been a terror to the Sioux nation. Owing to their hatred of each other, it is necessary to send an agent with them to prevent "picnics," and also to settle disputes with the white hunters. As Major North was in poor health at that time, this delicate task fell to me.

As I don't like to be long-winded, I'll pass over the scenes and incidents of wild Indian camp life, the magnificent sight of a moving village of "nature's children," looking like a long rainbow in the bright colors of their blankets, beads, feathers, war paint, etc., etc., as it would form a full chapter, and skip an eleven-days' march from the Loup River Reservation to Plum Creek, on the North Platte, where our runners reported.

Early in the evening, as we were about making camp, my old friend, Baptiste, the interpreter, joyfully remarked: "Jack, the blanket is up three times—fun and fresh meat tomorrow."

There was a great powwowing that night, and all the warriors were to turn out for the grand "buffalo surround," leaving the squaws and papooses in the village.

Just before daybreak, there was a general stir and bustle on all sides, giving evidence of the complete preparations making for the coming events. As it was dark, and I busied in arranging my own outfit, thinking of the grand sight soon to be witnessed, and wondering how I would "pan out" in the view of my "red brothers," I had not noticed the manner of their own arrangements in an important particular that I will hereafter allude to.

At a given signal all started, and, when the first blue streaks of dawn allowed the moving column to be visible I had time to make an inspection of the strange cavalcade, and note peculiarities. I saw at once, placed at a disadvantage, the "white brother."

I had started fully equipped—bridle, saddle, lariat, rifle, pistol, belt, etc.—and astride of my pony. They, with as near nothing in garments as Adam and Eve, only breech cloth and moccasins, no saddle, no blanket, not even a bridle, only a small mouth rope, light bow and a few arrows in hand—in fact, not an ounce of weight more than necessary, and, unlike myself, all scudding along at a marvelous rate, leading their fiery ponies, so as to reserve every energy for the grand event in prospect.

Taking it all in at a glance, your ‘humble servant,’ quite abashed, let go all holts and slipped off his critter, feeling that the Broncho looked like a Government pack mule. I at once mentally gave up the intention of paralyzing my light-rigged side pards in the coming contest. As they were all walking, I thought the buffalo were quite near; but what was my surprise, as mile after mile was scored, that I gradually found myself dropping slowly but surely behind, and, so as not to get left, compelled every now and then to mount and lope to the front, there to perceive from the twinkling eyes of friend ‘Lo’ a smile that his otherwise stolid face gave no evidence of. How deep an Indian can think, and it not be surface plain, I believe has never been thoroughly measured. Just imagine this ‘lick,’ kept up with apparent ease by them for ten or twelve miles, and you may get a partial idea of your friend Jack's tribulations.

Fortunately, I kept up, but at what an expense of muscle, verging on a complete ‘funk,’ you can only appreciate by a similar spin.

About this time a halt was made, and you bet I was mighty glad of it. Suddenly two or three scouts rode up. A hurried council was held, during which the pipe was passed. Everything seemed to be now arranged, and, after a little further advance, again a halt, when, amid great but suppressed excitement, every Indian mounted his now almost frantic steed, each eagerly seeking to edge his way without observation to the front.

About two hundred horses almost abreast in the front line, say one hundred and fifty wedging in half way between formed a half second line, and one hundred struggling for place—a third line; the chiefs in front gesticulating, pantomiming, and, with slashing whips, keeping back the excited mass, whose plunging, panting ponies, as impatient as their masters, fretted, frothed, and foamed—both seemed molded into one being, with only one thought, one feeling, one ambition, as with flashing eye they waited for the signal, ‘Go,’ to let their pent-up feelings speed on to the honors of the chase.

Their prey is in fancied security, now quietly browsing to the windward in a low, open flat, some half a mile wide and two or three-mile-long, on top of a high divide, concealed from view by risings and breaks. Gradually they approach the knoll, their heads reach the level, the backs of the buffalo are seen, then a full view, when Pi-ta-ne-sha-a-du (Old Peter, the head chief) gives the word, drops the blanket, and they are "off."

Whew! wheez! thunder and lightning! Jerome Parks and Hippodromes! Talk of tornadoes, whirlwinds, avalanches, water-spouts, prairie fires, Niagara, Mount Vesuvius (and I have seen them all except old Vesuv.); boil them all together, mix them well, and serve on one plate, and you will have a limited idea of the charge of this "light brigade." They fairly left a hole in the air. With a roar like Niagara, the speed of a whirlwind, like the sweep of a tornado, the rush of a snow-slide, the suddenness of a water-spout, the rumbling of Vesuvius, with the fire of death in their souls, they pounce on their prey, and in an instant, amid a cloud of dust, nothing is visible but a mingled mass of flying arrows, horses' heels, buffaloes' tails, Indian heads, half of ponies, half of men, half of buffalo, until one thinks it a dream, or a heavy case of ‘jim-jams.’

I just anchored in astonishment. Where are they? Ah! there is one; there is another, a third, four, five. Over the plains in all directions they go, as the choice meat hunters cut them out, while in a jumbled mass, circling all around is the main body. The clouds of dust gradually rise as if a curtain was lifted, horses stop as buffaloes drop, until there is a clear panoramic view of a busy scene all quiet, everything still (save a few fleet ones in the distance); horses riderless, browsing proudly conscious of success; the prairie dotted here, there, everywhere with dead bison; and happy, hungry hunters skinning, cutting, slashing the late proud monarch of the plains.

I was so interested in the sight that I came near being left, when fortunately, a lucky long-range shot (the only one fired during the day) at a stray heifer saved my reputation. In about two hours every pony was loaded, their packing being quite a study that would need a deserved and lengthy description. It was wonderful.

As I had a heap of walk out, I proposed to ride in, so took a small cut of choice meat—a straight cut—for camp. Every pony was packed down only mine, seeing which ‘Peter's papoose’ (‘the sun chief’) invited himself up behind. Talk of gall—an Indian has got more cheek than a Government mule. He laughed at my objections, but as he had loaned me the pony I had to submit. He even directed the gait, and kept up a continual jabbering of “Wisgoots, ugh! De goinartsonse stak-ees, ugh”’ which I afterward learned meant “Hurry up; I am tired, hungry, and dry—how!”

An Opportunity Missed by Texas Jack

Out of the mouths of babes, circa Easter 1873:

From Street & Smith's New York Weekly, April 28, 1873.

An Opportunity Missed by Texas Jack.

A young lady teacher at one of our mission Sunday schools recently narrated the crucifixion to her class of little boys, and when she thought she had fairly engaged their minds, was surprised with "Bet you they wouldn't a-done it if Texas Jack had been there!"

Easter 1873

April 13, 1873—Easter—was the last night of The Scouts of the Prairie's long run at Niblo's Garden on Broadway in New York City. Newspapers announced that the show would play for two nights in Brooklyn at the Academy of Music before continuing their whirlwind tour throughout the northeast.

An advertisement for one of those Brooklyn shows gives us a hint as to what theatergoers witnessed when they went to see the "living heroes" of Texas Jack, Buffalo Bill, and Ned Buntline, along with the Peerless Morlacchi.

GREATEST ATTRACTION ON EARTH,

THE SCOUTS OF THE PRAIRIE

Introducing the Original Western Heroes,

BUFFALO BILL, TEXAS JACK

NED BUNTLINE

The peerless danseuse, Mlle. Morlacchi.

Twenty Indian Warriors.

THE SCOUTS OF THE PRAIRIE

Buffalo Bill, by the original hero...Hon Wm. F. Cody

Texas Jack, by the original hero...J. B. Omohundro

Cale Durg...Ned Buntline

Dove Eye...Mlle. Morlacchi

Synopsis.

ACT I—On The Plains—Trapper and the Scouts—The Renegade's Camp—Peril of Hazel Eye—Ned Buntline's Temperance Lecture—Cale Durg at the Torture Post—The Indian Dance—The Rescue.

ACT II—Texas Jack and his Lasso—The Loves of Buffalo Bill—The Death of Cale Durg—The Trapper's Last Shot

ACT III—The Scout's Oath of Vengeance—The Scalp Dance—The Knife Fight—The Triumph of the Scouts—The Prairie on Fire