Matthew Kerns's Blog: The Dime Library, page 32

Texas Jack in Dime Novels

Texas Jack, the living Scout, now performing with Buffalo Bill and Ned Buntline in the drama of the “Scouts of the Prairie,” is the hero of an exciting story just commenced in the New York Weekly.

The New York Times

March 18, 1873

The first Beadle & Adams dime novel, Malaeska: The Indian Wife of the White Hunter by Ann Sophia Stephens, sold 65,000 copies in a matter of months after its release in 1860. It was not original to Irwin Pedro Beadle’s publishing house but was a reprint of a prize-winning story in The Ladies’ Companion. Beadle offered Mrs. Stephens $250 dollars if she would allow him to reprint her work, and she accepted. Malaeska was an immediate success. This was no accident. The nation’s population had grown to over 30 million people, having increased by a staggering 1/3rd in the last decade, and they were largely literate.

Some scholars estimate that by the time the Civil War broke out, between 75 and 90% of adult white people were able to read. Dime novels were an early iteration of “pop fiction”, designed to be inexpensive, escapist, and easy to read. In this capacity, they were the first commercially successful mass literature in America. Consumers could briefly escape from the repetitive drudgery of urban life in tales of adventure on the western frontier. The dime novel format lasted through the turn of the century when it was replaced by pulp magazines, mass-market paperbacks, and comic books. The last dime novel serial to be published by New York’s Street & Smith publishing house was their New Buffalo Bill Weekly, in 1919.

The first Buffalo Bill dime novel by Ned Buntline was Buffalo Bill, The King of Border Men: the Wildest and Truest Story I Ever Wrote. It was not only an immediate, but also a long-lasting success and remained for sale in the Sears & Roebuck catalog until 1928 when it was offered for 22 cents. Its’ plot was a combination of events in the lives of both Cody and Hickok, combined and dramatized. Eager readers snatched up the serials as soon as they were released, and their popularity led to a shift in the subject of dime novels from colonial heroes and pirates to the men of the western frontier.

Buntline’s first Texas Jack dime novel, Texas Jack, The White King of the Pawnees, was also an immediate success. It was released just as Cody and Omohundro launched their stage careers and demand for western stories of the scouts reached a fever pitch. As the story was released to eager audiences, Buntline offered biographical information about Texas Jack to New York newspapers, and the Daily Graphic printed some of the details under the headline Ned Buntline’s Gold Mine:

Among the hunters of the Plains there is no name more familiar than that of ‘Texas Jack.’ This title has been assumed by many who had no right to it, and who have made money by trading on it, but it has now been ‘copyrighted’ according to the laws of the United States, so that ‘pirates’ must beware.

He was born in Western Virginia, and left seven years ago, and originally evinced a disposition for the sea. As a sailor he visited Australia, South America, the West Indies, etc., and was finally wrecked upon the coast of Texas. After this last misfortune he fell in with a herd of cattle-drovers, joined them, and became in short time the most successful cattle-driver Texas had ever known. He always made it a point to ‘lay out his own trails,’ and never follow those of other people.

In the late war he was a Confederate of the ‘deepest dye,’ during the first year serving as ‘headquarters courier’ to General Floyd, and afterwards acting as scout for the celebrated cavalry colonel, J.E.B. Stuart. In this latter capacity he was exposed to all manner of dangers, and had innumerable hair-breadth escapes.

After the war he was employed as guide from the Colorado to the Rio Grande River by parties in the cattle trade. He sometimes had the sole charge of 8000 head of cattle, and seldom met with any serious incident. As guide, he traversed the greater portion of the States of Kansas and Nebraska. He was at one time captured by the Indians, who kept him in confinement for nearly eight months, during which period he learned the Indian language perfectly, and became thoroughly acquainted with the Indian customs, especially their modes of fighting, which, in after times, he successfully employed against them.

He entered the service of the United States Government as a scout in 1872, and as such had command of about 4,000 Pawnee during their summer wanderings. About two years ago, while hunting in Nebraska, he made the acquaintance of ‘Buffalo Bill.’ The two men immediately became great friends, and in a short time entered into a partnership of buffalo skins and scalps. On one such occasion, when Buffalo Bill was at the mercy of a red-skinned marksman who had drawn a bead on him, Texas Jack discovered the fact just in time to make that noble red man bite the dust.

Along with the manuscript Buntline submitted to his publishers, Street & Smith, he included a letter describing his work:

Messrs. Street and Smith,

In furnishing to you the last page, it rejoices me to say, that in this story, "Texas Jack," I have given you the crowning effort of all my Western Series of Life-Pictures. Whether it is because I have had so much of the real history of the great original hero in my hands, or because I love him and his mate Buffalo Bill as if they were my own brothers, that I have succeeded so well, I cannot say. But I do say, and I know that your millions of intelligent readers will also say, that this is my VERY BEST story.

Yours Truly,

Edward Z. C. Judson

Ned Buntline

Eagle Lodge, in the Pines, Nov., 1872

Among the most prominent Texas Jack dime novels are the initial Texas Jack, the White King of the Pawnees and Texas Jack; or, Buffalo Bill’s Brother by Ned Buntline, his follow up, Texas Jack’s Chums; or, The Whirlwind of the West, and another story called Texas Jack, the Prairie Rattler; or, The Queen of the Wild Riders written by Bill Cody. Actually, the byline is “Told by Hon. Wm, F Cody — “Buffalo Bill”.

Whether Cody wrote all of the dime novels that were attributed to him is a matter of some conjecture. It seems likely that many were written by ghostwriters, but Cody biographer Don Russell, in his book The Lives and Legends of Buffalo Bill, writes that:

Absolute proof that Cody did write some of the material appearing under his name lies in the fact that at least one manuscript in his own handwriting has been preserved. It shows no sign of editing, and only a little of the improved spelling and punctuation his sister recorded; yet, it was a clean manuscript that an editor could have used with a minimum of editing. It is headed Grand Duke Alexis Buffalo Hunt, and it starts thus:

‘Probably if I have been asked once I have been asked twenty thousand times. What kind of a time did the Grand Duke have on the plains hunting buffalo was he a good rider. Was he a nice fellow socially. Could he speak good english. How many buffalo did he kill did you have to hold the buffalo for him was he a good horseman. Could he shoot well. And thousand of other questions…’

Russell points out Cody’s introduction to ask, “What is wrong with that beginning that a few capitals and question marks will not repair?” Reading through Cody’s later correspondence reveals a man that, while he might never have gained a full command of the hyphens, commas, question marks, and other of what Texas Jack laughingly referred to as ‘hiogliphicks,’ was literate enough to write down for editors the same kinds of stories he and Texas Jack shared around the campfire on hunting trips and scouts during their days at Fort McPherson.

The Texas Jack dime novels, along with later stories about Buck Taylor, a cowboy in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, provided the blueprint for the cowboy hero in books and movies that would come later. In Prentiss Ingraham’s The Wild Steer Riders; or, Texas Jack’s Steers, the hero is introduced as the ruffians first see him:

They beheld a man six feet in height, hardly over twenty-five or six, and with broad shoulders and a form as erect as a soldier's. He was dressed in fringed buckskin leggings, stuck into top-boots, and a gray merino shirt and hunting-jacket completed his attire, while a black sombrero sheltered his head.

His face was one to command respect, cast as it was with a perfection of feature that was striking. Darkly-bronzed was his complexion, and his brown hair, worn long upon his shoulders, and a dark mustache made up a face at once handsome, resolute and commanding. He carried a Colt's repeating-rifle and a pair of revolvers in his belt.

Only one dime novel laid claim to Texas Jack Omohundro as the author, Ned Wylde, the Boy Scout. Most dime novel scholars (yes, they exist) believe that this was actually written by Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. Gilbert Patten, another prolific dime novelist, wrote that Ingraham told him that he was the author of the story. Prentiss Ingraham, who was a colonel in the Confederacy, was born in Natchez, Mississippi in 1843. He initially wanted to become a doctor and had entered medical college in Mobile, Alabama before joining a Mississippi light artillery regiment when the Civil War broke out. He later joined a cavalry brigade in Texas, where he was captured by Union troops at the siege of Port Hudson. Ingraham escaped from the train that was carrying him to the prison camp and continued to fight with the cavalry until the end of the war.

Afterward, Ingraham joined Juarez’s forces in Mexico to fight against the French and then participated in various conflicts in South America, Austria, Crete, and Egypt. He eventually traveled to London where he took his first job as a writer, contributing stories of these conflicts to various newspapers. When he returned to the United States he was convinced to join Cuban rebels fighting against the Spanish, becoming a blockade runner. Aboard the ship Hornet, he broke the blockade several times before it was surrendered to the United States Navy. He achieved the rank of colonel in the Cuban navy, and captain in the Cuban army, and when he was captured by Spanish troops, a quick trial resulted in a death sentence. Once again, he escaped and returned to New York where he again took up writing, this time for Beadle and Adams. Between 1872 and his death in 1904, Ingraham published between 600 and 1,000 dime novels.

Omohundro and Ingraham were friends, and Texas Jack visited the writer's Gettysburg, Pennsylvania home on multiple occasions. It is also apparent that Cody recounted some of his friend’s adventures to the man while he was working for and traveling with the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show. The cowboy was central to the veneration of western life perpetuated by Cody’s traveling exhibition and central to Cody’s understanding of what a cowboy was and what he did was Bill’s friendship and partnership with Texas Jack. When Cody hired a cowboy to show to audiences in America and later in Europe, he was deliberately introducing the world to his old best friend and earliest stage partner, John Omohundro.

Another notable dime novel featuring Omohundro is Prentiss Ingraham’s Arizona Joe, the Boy Pard of Texas Jack, which tells the story of a scout that Texas Jack takes under his wing. Notable in this and other stories of Texas Jack is his treatment of the Indian and black men in his company. Traveling with Texas Jack in this story is Ebony, who Cody had earlier written about as Texas Jack’s friend and majordomo, a freed slave. Cody has Omohundro taking Ebony with him on adventures after the man has grown weary of “his lonely life on the ranch.” This character, named in some stories as Ebony Star, is included in several later Texas Jack stories. Lillian Schlissel, professor emerita and director of American studies at Brooklyn College-CUNY, wrote in her book Black Frontiers: A History of African American Heroes in The Old West that “Not many other books before 1900 showed friendships between a white man and a black man...The story of Arizona Joe is unusual because in it a black man, Star, rescues the hero, Joe Bruce, and saves his life. As with the Lone Ranger and Tonto, the Ebony Star is Texas Jack’s powerful friend and ally...Star has a place in the legends of the Old West.” Cody wrote his friend as he saw him, magnanimous to his friends, good-natured until challenged, and merciful to his enemies.

Even when he wasn’t the title character in dime novels, Texas Jack was often featured in the subtitle of works such as Buffalo Bill’s Red Skin Ruse; or, Texas Jack’s Dead Shot, The Wild Steer Riders; or, Texas Jack’s Terrors, The Ranch King Deadshot; or, Texas Jack’s Proxy, and Buffalo Bill’s Flush Hand; or, Texas Jack’s Bravos. Omohundro also appeared in many stories that don’t list his name in the title at all. Often Jack appears in Buffalo Bill stories, ever there to encourage and assist his pard in his darkest hours. Notably, Omohundro appears in the majority of the stories penned by his old friend Bill Cody, a lasting testament to the friendship of the two fellow scouts and showmen.

The appeal of Texas Jack in literature was not limited to American audiences. A German dime novel series named after Omohundro began in 1906 and published a total of 215 issues before ceasing publication in 1911. The appeal of the scout saw the entire run of the series reprinted under the title Die Grosse Kundschafter (The Big Scout) in 1911, Texas Jack, Der Grosse Kundschafter between 1930 and 1932, and finally as Texas Jack Der Grosse Kundschafter Neue Folge (New Edition) in 1934. In the German books, Texas Jack’s adventures take him to Mexico to fight the French soldiers, an enemy the readers of a post-World War I Germany could easily appreciate.

The French had their own Texas Jack series, titled Texas Jack, la Terreur Des Indiens (Texas Jack, the Terror of the Indians) which ran for 100 issues from 1911 to 1912. A Swedish series of 29 issues was titled Texas Jack, Amerikas mest berömde indianbekämpare (Texas Jack, America’s Most Famous Indian Fighter). Similar series existed in Finland, Denmark, Poland, Holland, Portugal, and Italy. In Sweden, Texas Jack stories were published as late as 1955.

The appeal of Texas Jack in literature is not limited to his appearance in dime novels. Joel Chandler Harris, the famed author of the Uncle Remus stories, wrote in his story Why the Confederacy Failed, published in the Saturday Evening Post in December of 1899, that Omohundro was with John Wilkes Booth shortly before the actor assassinated President Lincoln at Ford’s Theatre on April 14th, 1865.

Harris describes an encounter during the Civil War when the young Omohundro, disguised as a chicken merchant, approaches a soldier named Captain Larry McCarthy in Washington D.C. Omohundro comments to the soldier, “I reckon you’re a new man to these parts. I’ve been tradin’ an traffickin’ roun’ here fer some time, but I ain’t never saw you before. What might your name be?”

The Captain responds that his name might be anything, but that it was McCarthy. Verifying the name, Omohundro gives the man a container full of chickens resting on bits of old string, insisting that a woman he had met made him promise to give it to the Captain when he arrived. Telling the man to keep the longest string, Jack departs, leaving the soldier alone with a container full of chicken and string.

In Harris’ story, the longest string that Jack had advised the Captain to keep is wrapped with a small piece of tissue paper containing a message from General Stuart. The message mentions that it was carried by, “the brightest, bravest, and most trustworthy scout in the army.” The Captain recalled laughing at this, for he “no more believed that the person who delivered me the message was John Omahundro [sic] of whom I had heard a great deal, than I believed that I, myself, was Secretary (of War Edwin) Stanton.”

Harris also has Jack warning a friend that, “We are going to have trouble, sure; that fellow Booth is getting ready to do something desperate. I tell you he’s crazy. I’ve been talking to him, and he’s wild on the subject of ridding the country of tyrants and oppressors.” Omohundro then locks Booth in a hotel room, only to return to find the actor has escaped through the window to proceed to his regicidal appointment with fate.

A neighbor of the Omohundro family in Palmyra wrote a letter to the editor of the publication outraged that Chandler had connected Jack with the slayer of Lincoln and stating that, “On the day of Lincoln’s assassination and all that week, Jack was at work on his farm, in sight of the window from which I write...This fact can be vouched for by several persons here.”

Texas Jack’s popularity as a fictional character extends well past the dime novels and Civil War stories of his day. Larry McMurtry included Omohundro, as well as Josephine Morlacchi, as characters in his 2006 novel Telegraph Days. Johnny D Boggs’ book East of the Border is a fictionalized telling of Cody, Omohundro, and Hickok’s season on the dramatic stage. Peter Bowen includes him as a character in his own novel, Yellowstone Kelly: Gentleman and Scout, about that other real life scout and associate Omohundro. A 2016 supernatural thriller by Robin D. Owens, Ghost Talker, has the ghost of Texas Jack assisting a pair of investigators in an adventure that takes them to the graves of both Bill Cody and Texas Jack himself.

Slight Delay

Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star has been delayed one month, and will be released on May 1st.

Many authors and their books are experiencing similar delays. The coronavirus pandemic closed the two major printers for part of 2020, and both Quad and LSC Communications have been playing catchup since. To paraphrase the New York Times, "when the pandemic forced bookstores across the country to close and authors to cancel their tours, many editors and publishers made a gamble. They postponed the publication of dozens of titles...Now, things are far from normal. Books that were bumped from spring and early summer are landing all at once, colliding with long-planned releases and making this one of the most crowded publishing seasons ever. And now publishers are confronting a new hurdle: how to print all those books."

Believe it or not, book sales were up last year, with unit sales up 5% and print sales up 12% (depending on which period you look at). But this upward movement comes after an extended downturn, and printing capacity isn't where it once was. Penguin Random House has also delayed a large number of titles, and their director of publishing operations said “The infinite printer capacity hasn’t been there for a while, now enter Covid and a huge surge in demand, and you have an even more complex situation.”

I read somewhere recently that Julia Quinn's book The Duke and I, the basis for the Netflix blockbuster Bridgerton, was scare in print and the publisher had to ramp up production to meet demand, bumping other forthcoming titles in favor of a guaranteed seller. That's the reality we live with today. There is a limited capacity by essentially only two major printers, and that capacity has been tested by an increase in demand for print books and a matching increase in exposure for some author's work. From the author's perspective, this is a good problem to have. A slight delay because more people are reading books is the rising tide that lifts all ships.

Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star will now release on May 1st.

A Brief Detour

This website, this blog, and its associated podcast, Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube branches are largely about the history of the American west, concentrating on the "Wild West" period following the Civil War and centered around the story of Texas Jack Omohundro, a Confederate cavalry scout turned cowboy who became the stage partner of Buffalo Bill Cody and Wild Bill Hickok, originating the cowboy tropes that would become prevalent in America's fiction and its self-image—the mythology of ourselves and our history that we have chosen to believe. Texas Jack's story is told in my forthcoming book, and I'll continue to release related articles contextualizing Jack's life and times here on Dime Library. But occasionally I relate some of my other historical interests, like Teddy Roosevelt Junior's involvement in the D-Day landings.

Today, I would like to take a few minutes and a few paragraphs to talk about someone else. Two men are largely responsible for my love of history. The first and most important influential man in my life and my love of history is my father. The other intellectual giant on whose shoulders my understanding of the world stands is my maternal grandfather, Lee Jackson Cooper. We called him Ta.

Lee's life is a reflection of his generation. Born in the midst of the "Roaring Twenties," his formative years were spent enduring the Great Depression. In the second World War, he lied about his age to enlist early, joining the Navy. A talented actor and musician, he played the bass horn in a Navy band and was very proud that he was part of the band that played during the San Francisco Conference in the spring of 1945, where the United Nations Charter was created.

On the day he returned to his native Chattanooga, Tennessee, he stepped off the bus in his Navy uniform without any idea what he would do with his life as a civilian. "I passed Hamilton County Bank on Market Street," he later remembered, "and saw a group of people crowded around a man who was broadcasting live." That man, Chattanooga disc jockey Gaylord McPherson, spied the uniformed seaman in the crowd and called him over to speak on the air. As they conversed live on the air, Gaylord commented that Lee had a fine radio voice. "I thought I saw an opportunity," Lee later recalled with a grin," so I put him on the spot and asked him to hire me. Of course, he didn't—but it gave me an idea."

That idea would soon manifest into a career in radio, both as an on-air personality and behind the scenes as an engineer. But just because he had the voice for it didn't mean that breaking into the radio field would be easy. "I knew nothing about it," Lee later told a reporter, "and the closest I had ever come to a radio station was listening to one." What he did have, courtesy of a musically inclined family and his own time playing with the Navy band was a deep and abiding love for music combined with a broad knowledge of everything from engineering to world history. "And back in those days," he said, "a disc jockey had to know everything. He had to be able to deal with the electronics and fix whatever went wrong at the station. He had to intelligently discuss world matters, law, French and German composers, etc." He figured that having the idea, the will, and the knowledge, he could learn the rest on the job.

Unfortunately for Lee, it took some time to pick up the necessary skills, and not every boss was willing to wait. "I was so bad," Lee said, "that in the first year or year and a half I must have been hired and fired at least 11 times!" Another veteran radio man named Van Campbell recognized the potential in the younger DJ and took Lee under his wing. "Van did more to teach me the art of broadcasting than anyone. He insisted that I read everything I got my hands on—Newsweek, reports on the economy—everything. I was fortunate though because I had always loved this business of language. I used to pick up every Readers' Digest I could and learn all of the twenty new vocabulary words they published."

By 1953, he was doing a morning show on WFHG in Bristol, Tennessee, where he staged a charity drive for the Easter Seals and set a world record for continuous broadcasting. At 5 o'clock in the morning on March 26, Lee began broadcasting from a window in Bristol's Raylass Department Store, telling listeners at home and in front of the store that he wouldn't stop talking until he had raised $1,000 for the Easter Seals and beat the previous on-air record set by a Knoxville DJ raising funds for the Crusade For Freedom.

If he had to cut away to the news or station announcements, Lee continued to broadcast live to the street in front of the store, ensuring to the gathered listeners that he wasn't using the break to take a quick nap. 55 hours after he started his broadcast, Lee J. Cooper signed off at noon on Saturday, March 28th. He emerged from his window at Raylass to a cheering crowd, his wife and his station manager, and an ambulance waiting to give him an uninterrupted ride to his home, where he immediately fell to sleep. He had surpassed his goal of $1000 by $400, cash and pledges which were immediately sent to the Easter Seals. Lee was back on the radio the following evening at a quarter after 11 o'clock with his "Rebel's Retreat" radio show.

Largely because of his epic and record-setting marathon, Lee was selected by his peers as Mr. DJ USA. In the early 1960s, he and Jolly Charley at Chattanooga's WDOD were instrumental in creating one of the most successful radio formats of the time. "We realized that country music was going to be big in this part of the country," he later recalled, "so WDOD began playing that type of music during the show—from 6 PM to midnight. In 90 days, we had 32.8% of all radios at night in Chattanooga, and that was in competition with television!" Lee translated his accumulated knowledge into his own radio station. He and my grandmother Norma lived then in Soddy Daisy, Tennessee, and unlike Chattanooga, where listeners could tune into WDOD at night, there was no nighttime radio station broadcasting in Soddy.

It took two years and thousands of hours of effort to solve the problem. "I never knew what getting a license entailed," said my grandmother, who functioned as the station's office manager. They raised money, hired engineers, and dealt with government bureaucracy to file for a station charter with the Federal Communication Commission. "At one point we almost gave up," Lee said, "and we would have if it had not been for the local citizens who rallied behind us. In fact, on the day we started on the air, I think we have all of $317 left in the bank. It was the great people of Soddy-Daisy who made WEDG work." WEDG Soddy-Daisy was followed five years later by WXQX in Spring City and several years after that by Trenton, Georgia's WADX.

"Success," my grandfather said, "depends on hard work and getting the breaks. You can't achieve anything without effort and dedication, and you don't have to walk over people or be dishonest to get it."

Not every great man or woman is remembered outside of their family. Some people who have made an impact on us, on our history, and on our culture have been largely forgotten. Some, like Texas Jack Omohundro, eventually get their due. But as I wrote my book about Texas Jack—as I researched his history and uncovered the truth about his legacy—I often stopped to think about my father, my mother, and my grandfather, those people whose lives and knowledge and guidance have shaped me and my understanding of what is important in life, in art, in history. I am profoundly glad that my grandfather was the man he was and that his intelligence, his humor, and his broad interests and knowledge still resonate in my life now. We are all the products of those who came before us, of the mother who read to us every night as a child and the father who hands us a book and says "I think you'll like this," of the grandmother who still sends a $12 check on your birthday and the grandfather who so stubbornly pursued his idea. Not everyone is like Texas Jack. Not everyone gets a book. But everyone has a story.

A reel to reel tape of my grandfather, with promotional material for WSMQ in Bessemer, Alabama, offers a rare glimpse into radio promotions during his era and affords me the chance to hear his unique voice, which immediately takes me back.

https://youtu.be/nuGLNx1BdSg

Lazy Kate

"The Gun That Won the West." Winchester and their 1873 model lever-action rifle would eventually become widely known as The Gun that Won the West. Produced from 1873 until 1919, by 1900 Winchester's factories had manufactured over half a million of these versatile rifles. Often paired with Colt's Single Action revolver, the Winchester '73 found good use in the hands of America's most famous and infamous westerners, including lawmen like Pat Garrett, ranchers like Granville Stuart, outlaws like Butch Cassidy and Billy the Kid, and showmen like William F. "Buffalo Bill" Cody.

Cody's most famous gun was Lucretia Borgia, the Springfield .50 caliber trapdoor needle-gun that he used to kill buffalo to feed the westward expansion of the railroad and earn the nickname that followed him the rest of his life. The gun was named after Lucrezia Borgia, an Italian aristocrat (and daughter of Pope Alexander VI) who became the heroine of the play Lucrèce Borgia by Victor Hugo, author of Les Misérables and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.

Lucretia Borgia may seem like a strange name for a gun, but Daniel Boone reportedly named his favorite rifle "Tick-Licker" because he could "shoot a tick off a dog's ass and not scratch the dog." Texas Jack's favorite rifle wasn't a Winchester '73 or a Springfield .50 caliber, but a Remington rolling block rifle he dubbed Lazy Kate. Texas Jack and Buffalo Bill were both presented with these rifles by ,,Elijah Greene, son-in-law of Philo Remington, and the gun soon became Jack's favorite. It's a good story, so I'll let Texas Jack himself tell it:

Texas Jack on the “Wide Range”—The History of Lazy Kate

(Chicago Field - Saturday, March 19, 1881)

By Texas Jack

The following sketch was written by John Omohundro, better known as Texas Jack, who died in New Mexico last year [note: Texas Jack died in Leadville, Colorado]. It is an autobiography of a brief passage in his eventful life, and we print it as written, that the peculiar characteristics of the man and his experiences may shine out the more conspicuously. There are many gentlemen, both American and English, comprising the hunting parties whom he served as guide, who will read Jack’s story with greater interest, because it comes naturally and literally from his own pen, something as he would have told it by the camp-fire.

“Lazy Kate” was the name I gave to one of my favorite old rifles; she was of Remington patent, Egyptian model, caliber, .43, and was presented to me by the Remington Gun Works, February, 1873. She was beautifully gold mounted, and at first I thought her too pretty to be of much real service, but I found my mistake in after years. I first used her on the stage; she made her debut at Niblo’s Garden, New York, and for several months after received her equal share of banging and pounding around behind the scenes, such as all articles have to receive in that part of the theater.

During the Summer I took her to Nebraska on a buffalo hunt, and Kate made her first appearance on the plains at Fort McPherson, Nebraska. There were several of us in the party, including Buffalo Bill, Dr. W. F. Carver, and some New York friends. Most of us had new rifles, and of course did some target practice before starting the hunt. I hit an oyster can, one hundred yards, two out of three. That was good enough, and it was right there and then that I went dead stuck on Kate, and christened her “Lazy Kate,” because I couldn’t work her quite so fast as some of the boys could their repeating rifles.

A few days ride brought us among the buffaloes, and with a little maneuvering I got my New York friends right in the midst of a large herd, some three or four hundred head. At a signal they were off; buffalo and hunters all together. It was fun to see the New York fellows popping and banging about among the buffaloes just like old timers. I hung back to see them go; I expected to see some of the boys go over their ponies’ heads, but they didn’t, and I began to think it was time to do a little something myself, if only to keep up appearances, when an old bull broke off from the herd all by himself. I at once gave chase, and was surprised to see Dr. Carver (no the champion rifle shot) come swooping down from another direction after the same bull. He was some one hundred yards to my right, and the buffalo about the same distance in front of us. Now came the race for a shot; I yelled, pounded and spurred, so did Doc; but it was no use, the old bull’s legs were a little too long for our ponies, and we couldn’t gain an inch. This was kept up for a mile or more, when I decided to try him one, any way. Doc followed suit. I fired again, and Doc gave him another. By this time the bull had disappeared over a bank, and when we came up to the place, the old fellow had turned up his toes, down by a little pond of water. Our shooting had been good, for three out of the four shots had taken effect. Our ponies were red hot, and mine made a straight dive for the water. Alkali or no alkali, he was bound to have a drink. I was bound he shouldn’t. When near the edge he reared on his hind feet, twisted around, and came over backward right on top—not of me—but poor Kate, kerflumux in the mudhole. I thought she was all broke up sure, but when I fished her out and washed the mud off, she was sound and pretty as ever.

I brought her back to the states and put her in the show business again. We had a long season, went as far south as Galveston, Texas, using the old rifle and firing blanks nearly every night. About this time there was a call for the riflemen of the United States to come forward and form a team at Creedmoor, New York. I was the first to enlist, and intended to use Lazy Kate in the match, and should have done so, only for a previous engagement with the Earl of Dunraven, to accompany him as guide to Montana, which came just in the way of meeting for practice. I hadn’t tried Kate at long range yet, and after sending my name for the team, I went out one day and had some of the boys to set up a New York Herald, stretched between two sticks stuck in the ground for a target, at a guessed distance of one thousand yards. I overshot twice, lowered my sights to nine hundred, and struck it the third time.

Lazy Kate was dragged around with me until I joined the Earl in Denver City, Sol. In July, ‘74, I went to Ft. Bridger, Utah, but had bad luck for the three weeks we were there; I moved on to Salt Lake, thence to Corinne. Here we struck it rough for Kate as well as the rest of the outfit. Being literally shook to pieces for four days and nights in a stage coach is no light usage on either men or things, and of all the things I ever saw going on our hunt, they were mixed up in that coach. We struck Bozeman City on time, and I soon rigged a pack train to go up the Yellowstone river to the Government Park.

Now came the tug of war against porr Kate and the rest of the guns. Most of us had light short rifles to use on the saddle in the thick timber, whilst the heavier ones were assigned to the packs. Kate was heavy weight and had to ride on a pack mule, and many is the time I have seen one end of her going over a limb that had grown out a little too low, whilst the mule and rest of the pack would go under. Then came the stand-off between Kate and the mule. If nothing gave way Kate got the best of it, and the mule hung fire until we came up; but when the belly-band busted and lash-ropes gave way, Kate generally went back about twenty feet on the trail, and the mule straight on, stringing out the rest of the pack. Sometimes the mule would try to go under a log that had fallen a little too low; Kate was sure to strike it dead center, set the mule back a peg or two, and then all was right again.

Nothing seemed to hurt that gun. She was always ready to shoot when I wanted her. One day I sent a ball through three antelopes grazing by a lake (fortunately, for us, as we had been out of meat four or five days); but that wasn’t where the laugh came in; I shot at the bunch and didn’t know that I had hit them at all, as the rest of the band ran right toward me, and I was hurried reloading; fired again, and crippled another; it was badly hurt, but made off fast, and was soon out of sight,

“Here,” think I,” is a pretty rough case;

No meat to-day, without a race,”

So I jumped my old pony and struck off like I had been shot out of a musket. I soon came up near to the antelope, but the country was rough, full of little ridges, and every time I came over one, he was just going over the next. I put on all steam now; my pony put his foot in a badger-hole; he swapped ends, so did I, and the Lord knows what poor Kate done. After gathering myself up, and catching the pony, I found her come twenty feet from where we got the tumble, lying on the loose stones all right. I returned to the lake to find Bottler, my assistant guide, butchering one antelope, and two others lying near. I had evidently killed all three the first shot!

Some two weeks after this I came pretty near going back on Kate. We had been bear-hunting several days without success, when late one rainy afternoon, I come on to a large grizzly, feeding on some elk we had killed the day before. It was rather dark in the line sapling thicket, and I got pretty near before I caught sight of him. Gosh, but he was a thumper! I at once looked about for a tree to climb, in case of an accident. There was one near by, and about the only one in the thicket that had a limb nearer than forty feet to the ground. I left my hat, boots, and coat at the root of it, and crawled down within eighty yards of the bear. If I had fired then it would have been all right, but the confounded brute was so comical in his actions, that I had to lay there and watch him awhile.

He had raked up about five wagon loads of dirt, logs, brush, and stuff, and piled it all on top of the elk carcass, and yet he was not happy, for he still continued to heap on more. It was growing dark, and the rain began to fall faster. I noticed this and saw there was no more time to be lost. I was sure, when I raised up to get a fair shot, he would see me, and then for a fight or a foot race. “Now, methinks, Kate, it lays between you and the bear. I am going up the tree!” I raised right up, and the bear didn’t, btu went right on with his work just as if nothing had happened (he hadn’t seen me at all), and kept up a perpetual motion, round and about, in such a way that another moment was lost before I could get a fair shot. When I raised Kate to fire, I could see the bear, but devil the bit of a sight could I see on her at all. I took chances and let fo, not only the charge but the gun, butt and all, and broke for me tree, for of all the bawling and squalling, growling and howling I ever heard, it was right there and then.

I ran to where my tree ought to be, but it wasn’t there—not a tree that I could get a hold of had a limb in it, and I didn’t think I would have one left on me in two seconds more. When the racket suddenly ceased I looked around, only to see Bruin shuffling off in another direction. I had missed my tree by twenty yards, and liked never to have found Kate. I believe I would have fought a bear dead earnest them (after that one was plumb out of sight), for I was riled up and mad enough at Kate to have broken her back! But she redeemed herself three days after. I tied her to a log near another elk carcass a little further up the mountain, then fastened a string to the trigger in such a way that, by touching the string, she would go off at the object that touched it; and that is just what she done, for the next morning there lay Mr. Bear, not ten feet from Kate, with a hole through his head half as big as my first. It was the same bear I had wounded three days before; my ball had entered the shoulder and passed through the chest too low down.

But this wasn’t the end of Kate’s troubles on that trip (or mine either). We quit the bear business soon after and took to the rocks after mountain sheep. I brought Kate East and used her another long season on the stage, and took her one more trip to the plains. She did great service, always shot well, and never failed fire but a few times, and one of these few I was mighty glad of, as I would have killed an Indian or a bad white man (which amounts to about the same thing). There were trying to stampede our ponies; I rushed out of camp and passed the ponies just as one of the gang passed me, not more than ten steps off. It was dark, but I think I would have given him a pretty close call if Kate hadn’t throwed off on me.

She was all right until last Winter. Whilst playing an engagement in Boston, I let her fall lightly on the stage, as I had hundreds of times before, when her stock broke square off, or nearly so. I felt kind of superstitious about it then, and do yet, as I have never had a day’s luck on stage since; but I roped her up with a buckskin string and used her awhile. The Remingtons kindly offered to restock her for me, but I refused. It was no use; Lazy Kate had seen her day (the same as we have all seen, or will have to see).

I laid her quietly away in the property box, which served as her coffin at the Howard Athenaeum, Boston, until this Winter, when the box was set outside and the deep snow covered it. When I dug her up poor Kate was all rusted inside, and worse broke up than ever. I took her back to Remington’s gun store, Broadway, New York, where I had gotten her six years ago, and there she will remain as a relic, perhaps, so long as the works may last.

https://youtu.be/NecuNQFb6yU

Texas Jack in Yellowstone

The following article was originally printed in The Boys of the World, a serial printed by Street & Smith, the same publisher that produced Ned Buntline's Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack stories. This is Jack's account of his 1874 trip into the Yellowstone with Lord Dunraven, George Kingsley, and Captain Wynne.

TEXAS JACK’S EXPERIENCE

OF

Three Months in the National Park,

IN

The Yellowstone Region.

His description of that marvelous country after a hunting expedition there with The Earl of Dunraven and others.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF

I left New York August 1st, 1874, to go as guide and hunter to an English party, among whom were the Earl of Dunraven, Doctor Kingsley, and others.

I joined the party in Denver City, Colorado, and, after a few days of recreation there, started alone to Salt Lake City, where I met the superintendent of the Overland Stage Line, and succeeded in chartering a coach to carry us from Corinne to Virginia City.

My party came up the next day to Salt Lake, and, after seeing Brigham Young and other curiosities, we hurried on to Corinne.

The next morning the coach was at the hotel door at seven “sharp” as the earl would say, and guns, pistols, dogs, servants, scouts, English lords and other bundles were tumbled in promiscuously, and before we could get half a view of the beautiful country our driver shouted “all aboard,” and away we went at breakneck speed.

We reached the first twelve miles station before I had got comfortably seated, for there was such a confusion of baggage in the coach one would have thought the Grand Duke and the Prince of Wales were along, and here our first trouble began, for, to “cap the lay out,” one of the dogs had taken sick, for Salt Lake hash did not seem to agree with that canine’s English stomach; but then we had only four hundred and forty-eight miles to go, and, as a little thing like that wouldn’t amount to much, I chucked the dog on top the coach, and had just time to jump astride of a ten-gallon keg of whiskey when the driver shouted “hoop la!” and away we went again.

I had given the driver a drink, and that settled it, for in vain did I cry out to him to make the horses pace that me might go easy over the stones. He took my wailing for cries to make better time, for all that is said to these Western drivers they understand to mean go faster and make time.

At this rate, we soon pulled up at the next station, where we got in a balky horse. He would not budge, and the driver called out for some of us to get out, and throw a stone at his head.

I only got a chance to throw one at old balky when back went his ears, and out came his two hind feet at my head, and off like a shot went coach and horses.

I had just time to grab on to one of the straps behind when I was towed for half a mile, and then rescued by the earl, who dragged me in.

The remainder of the trip to Virginia City was made under similar circumstances, we arriving there in four days and a half after leaving Corrine; for a wonder everybody alive, and nobody robbed.

The next day I hired a team, and the earl and myself drove to Sterling, distant twenty-nine miles, and on the way we passed Alf Slade’s old ranch.*

Sterling is a place that started up upon “quartz” prospects, but, like the butcher’s calf, it “kinder gin out.”

Here we expected to meet George Ray, one of the noted hunters and trappers of the Yellowstone, for he was to join us at Sterling.

Buying some ponies, we rode on to Boseman City, distant ninety miles, and on the way passed through Gallatin Valley, which was by far the prettiest country we had seen thus far.

Boseman is a nice little town, situated upon a tributary of the Gallatin, and three miles from Fort Ellis, and here it was I bought my outfit of saddle ponies, pack-mules and other necessaries, the earl going, in the meantime, in company of some officers of the fort, to visit the Crow village and see a war-dance by some Indians of that friendly tribe.

After leaving Boseman I shot a small bear on Trail Creek—first blood of the trip.

The next day we entered the great and wonderful Yellowstone Valley, striking the river at a point about a hundred miles below Yellowstone Lake.

The valley here is wide, the rolling hills extending back some distance to the main range, and the country grandly beautiful.

Here we met some friendly Indians of the Bannock tribe, who were hurrying back toward the Gallatin, as they said there were Sioux across the river. These tribes have long been deadly enemies. They admired my Winchester and Remington rifles greatly, and when I told them that Dr. Evans, of Lewiston, Maine, was making me a gun that shot thirty-five times without reloading, they were immensely tickled, and also curious, one of them saying:

“Me habee dat gun me stay here and kill em heap Sioux every time.”

A few hours ride brought us to Bottler’s ranch, the last regular settlement up the river.

It was late when we got here, but the tents were soon pitched in a nice little grove, and things began to look to me like old frontier times.

Mr. Bottler came to see me soon, a stout, healthy-looking, American born Dutchman who had spent half his life in the mountains, and from him we heard nine good bear stories, while he showed us signs where one had gone off with a good piece of his left leg. Also he told us that there were plenty more bears around his ranch, and as I knew this to be a good part of the valley for that kind of sport, we concluded to stay here a short while hunting, and trout fishing in the streams.

The next day some of the party went into the hills on a deer hunt, and I took to the river for some fish, and had landed, perhaps, a couple of dozen of trout and white fish, when I discovered a band of ponies coming at full speed down the opposite side of the stream.

Satisfied that there were Indians, running off stock, I didn’t hesitate an instant, but dropped the fishing tackle, seized my rifle, mounted, and swam across the river, which at that point was a hundred yards wide.

Reaching the other banks, I headed off the ponies, and they turned into the hills, and in pursuit of them were several Indians, to whom I gave chase, but soon drew off, as after ten minutes I discovered they were too well mounted for me to overhaul them.

As I turned to ride back I saw a lone Indian coming up in my rear; but he was out of range, yet I fired a shot at him just for luck, and after returning the fire he dusted, and was soon out of sight.

Returning to the river I recrossed, and was soon back in camp.

The next morning we moved up the river, and turned into the rough mountains, where we ran upon a band of elk, killing four or five before they got out of range, and had plenty of fresh meat.

Camped that night on the bank of a small brook, and had just started to pitch tents when we heard the whistle** of an elk close by.

Every one sprang for his rifle, and the earl took the first shot, and brought him down nicely, and we soon had his hide and horns in camp, the antlers being an exceedingly fine pair.

Before we finished supper we could hear bear growling at the remains of the elk, and several of the party who had not seen grizzlies, prepared to surround the place and take a shot at them; but I gave it as my opinion that grizzlies were nice little pets, and should not be disturbed at a quiet lunch at so late an hour, and Mr. Bottler, who was with us, hoped they would make out a meal on the elk as he had no more legs to spare.

Thus we decided to await until the morning; but no bears were in sight at that time, so we divided into two parties, and started out on a hunt for one.

Owing to the rough country it was impossible to keep together, and soon each man had to look out for himself.

One of the party soon found a large grizzly, but, being alone at the time in a dark valley, he concluded to climb a tree before he opened fire⁠—a very wise conclusion, by the way.

After seating himself comfortably upon a convenient limb, about seventy-five feet from the ground, he got his rifle ready, and found that the bear had moved camp; but, being unused to bear tricks, he concluded to hold his position and await the return of Bruin, and there he might have been yet, perhaps, if I had not happened to pass the place, and assured him that there was no bear at the root of the tree.

Climbing down he started straight for camp, saying he “hadn’t lost any bear, anyway.” Guess he had already found one too many.

Taking a tramp through the hills, I was approaching camp late in the evening, and it had come on to be rainy and disagreeable, and put me in a bad humor.

Suddenly I came on a tremendous grizzly, picking the bones of the elk the earl had killed the day before.

It was the first big game I had seen during the day, and I was determined to tackle him alone, and at once endeavored to get as near as possible before I fired to make a sure thing of it.

Stripping myself of hat, coat, and boots, I crawled within thirty yards, for it was getting dark, and I could not see well at a longer range.

At the crack of my rife the old fellow raised up on his hind legs and bit his side angrily. I knew I had hit him hard; but my hair raised a little as he started directly toward me, and quickly I reloaded and again gave him another shot squarely in the breast, and again he assumed the position of a soldier, and with open mouth and terrible growl, rushed upon me.

A climb for it was not my only chance, and with no time to lose, I started up the nearest tree; and in none too big a hurry, you bet, for with one blow of his large claw, he stripped the bark off within on yard of my feet.

It was sixty feet to the nearest limb, and that was too small to bear my weight, so, knowing I could not hold on a great while, I clung well with my legs and left arm, and opened on Mr. Bruin with my six-shooter, and although he was bleeding from two bad wounds, I still had him bleeding from six more, and yet he haunted the foot of that tree as though he had business there.

Wondering what chance I would have in a tussle with a grizzly with my knife, and feeling that it had come down to that, I was thinking of coming down, when the old fellow staggered off to a little pond of water nearby and commenced rolling in the mud.

Then I slipped down the tree, seized my rifle, threw in a cartridge, and gave it to him through the head from a distance of five yards, and this rolled him over dead.

Just them several of the party, attracted by my firing, came up, and we soon had him out of the pond and found he was a twelve hundred pounder.

Being too late to take his hide, we returned to camp, the earl greatly lamenting that we could not enjoy another encounter with a bear; but I told him that it would likely snow during the night, as it threatened it, and then he should have all the bear-hunting he wanted.

As I anticipated, there was snow, and the ground was covered white in the morning, so we all set off on another hunt, and soon struck a fresh trail.

We soon discovered that the bear was not far ahead, for he was circling the spot where he intended to lay down, a habit of caution which the grizzlies have.

Sending the party on the trail, the earl and myself cut across and come up the other side of the hill, and in five minutes we heard a snarling in the brush, and instantly we jumped behind a big boulder, just as the largest sort of grizzly came out in full view, not more than fifty yards distant.

The earl carried a double-barrel Dougall rifle, and I told him to give Bruin both shots, which he did, after a long sight.

Instantly the bear set up a terrible howling, and started down the mountain, but turned as he saw us coming.

Having reloaded, the earl gave him another double shot, I holding my fire for emergencies, and determined to let my lord and the bear “fight it out on that line if it took all Summer.”

Then the bear started toward us, but seeing the rest of our party coming up, ran down the mountain and hid in a willow swamp.

Instantly we surrounded the thicket, into which we could hardly see ten feet, and I ventured in, but finding that on foot I would have no chance if attacked, came out, and sent to camp after a pony, which soon arrived, the man who brought him taking care to dismount near an easy tree to climb. It was the same feller that hadn’t lost any bear the day before.

Mounting, I rode in, and the bear soon arose up in front of me with a growl and a rush.

The pony became frightened, reared up and fell backward, rolling over me. I was not hurt, but sprang to my feet in a second, and found the bear at arm’s length, and his anger I could easily see by his open mouth and glaring eyes.

I gave him a shot from my revolver in a twinkling, but he had aimed his blow, and his right paw grazed my cheek⁠—I have considerable⁠—and falling upon my chest, knocked me out of time.

It was some time before I remembered any more about the fight, and when I did, thought the bear still had hold of me, for I felt awfully cramped; but the bear was nowhere near, and I was happy, for I had begun to consider about passing in my checks.

I heard the boys yelling to know if I was hurt, but I had no strength to answer, and soon I heard the party coming toward me, for they had all determined to risk their lives to get me out.

I told them it was only a joke, my refusing to answer their call, to get them to come in the thicket; but my story wouldn’t stick, for they saw the blood on my cheek, and that I couldn’t get up.

I was taken to the edge of the swamp, and the doctor said I must have some brandy, and that was just what I had prescribed for myself. So they put me on the horse and led him to camp, and to account for my escape decided that the bear had given me one tap, and blinded by my fire had gone on after the pony, which he overtook at the edge of the swamp, and tore from one of his hind legs a large piece of flesh, and although he carried me to camp, he had to be left in the mountains to hunt his own living.

Remained in camp several days, and suddenly Mr. George Ray, the hunter we had wanted with is but could not find, put in an appearance.

He is a splendid specimen of manhood, six feet two in his moccasins; but we were supplied with meat, and he left us.

The next day my bear was found dead in the swamp, and as we had enough of that kind of game for the present, we moved up the river.

We passed some beautiful scenery and saw on the north bank some lodges of different colored stone extending from the top of the high ridge to the valley’s edge. These ledges are from fifty to sixty feet apart, twenty feet thick and from sixty to eighty feet in height, and the walls on both sides are perfectly smooth, and seem to be exactly the same distance apart. At a distance, it looks as if the mountain had been raked with a huge comb, with teeth like church steeples.

The night after starting from camp we halted opposite Emigrant’s Peak, one of the tallest mountains that overlook the valley.

The next day passed Emigrant Gulch, and felt safe from Indians, as none were ever known to go farther up the river than that point, and the story goes that they are superstitious about the country, calling it the Devil’s Home, where all sorts of bad spirits live.

White men say that they do not go there because they have no way to get out, except to come back down the river, and in fact, there is little to go for, excepting the scenery, hot water and wonderful specimens of rocks, and redskins have little attraction toward the above mentioned.

Continuing on our way we soon struck what is known as the Geyser Region, and a queer kind of place it is, for to describe these hot springs I can only say, the same effect can be produced by taking forty million tons of lime and dumping it in a lake.

Reaching the place we saw a combination of springs of hot water boiling up here and there, over a space about four hundred yards square.

As the water flows off it cools and leaves a formation of ashy chalk, and in one place there is a pyramid seventy feet high, evidently formed by a water sprout. It stands on a level, is small at both ends, and is large in the middle. It is perfectly dry and does not look unlike a sheep standing on its head.

Nature has erected some rude bath-houses here, and after taking advantage of a bath, we remained several days in the vicinity to continue them, and we felt like attacking a grizzly single-handed, so delightful was the effect upon us.

I left my lariat in one of the pools one night, and the next morning it was like solid stone, a coating of whitey substance having formed on it a quarter of an inch thick. A man would crust over if he remained too long in a bath, and that’s the kind of a place it is.

Continuing on, we passed Tower Falls, where the water has a nice little tumble of two hundred and fifty feet; but they are not a marker for the Grand Falls we passed the next day; these are “the boss,” four hundred and ninety feet high, clear of any obstacle.

A nice large river starts over the top of that fall, but it all turns to spray ere it reaches bottom, at least so I judged, for had I gone down to see, I could never have got back out.

We next came to the sulfur springs; these are hot air and boiling water, and everything has a yellowish cast of countenance in their neighborhood.

I stopped to get a drink, but the water was acid, and took all the skin off my mouth.

We reached the Wind Springs the next day and camped; these springs are six miles below the lake and the most wonderful in the valley.

We heard a terrible splashing and felt the earth shaking during the night, but we couldn’t see the performance.

The next morning we went to the spring or lake, which is of boiling water, is nearly round, twenty yards in diameter, and looks as though Nature had used it for scalding pigs, and it smells like it had been thus used too.

It was a very cauldron, thousands of tons of water being hurled upward with a bulging sound rising thirty feet high, and shaking the earth when it fell. As the water rushed into the basin again, up it was thrown, and so on.

In about two hours the throwing up process suddenly ceased, and in five minutes the lake was perfectly dry—recovered from its attack of sea-sickness. Then again the waters rushed in, and again the earth was nauseated. We remained in the vicinity several days and killed a few elk with splendid antlers. Then moved on to the lake.

This is a beautiful basin of water, eighteen miles long and fifteen feet wide, situated high up in the mountains, and it contains the largest trout I ever saw, some weighing twenty-four pounds; but they are not good—in fact, not fit for food. Above the Grand Falls no fish are fit to eat, strange to say until you strike Snake River, whose waters flow into the Pacific, while the lake waters flow into the Gulf of Mexico.

We now turned northward to the Great Geyser Basin, forty-five miles distant, and talked about water sprouts, why one of these would have put out the Chicago fire, even if the water is hot. The water sprouts out of the earth in streams three and a half feet in diameter, and shoot upward to a height of nearly four hundred and fifty feet.

They spout at intervals from two to twenty hours, and last from twenty minutes to two hours, first sending up hot clear water, then steam, followed by hot air, and then all is quiet until the time for the next entertainment.

We passed brooks where we caught trout and then threw them in a pool of hot water to cook, without taking them off the hook.

We next turned off into another part of the country to enjoy a good hunt, and we came pretty near having to hunt out holes, for we ran bang into an Indian neighborhood, and they were on the fight.

We camped in the hills near Crazy Mountain, and I went out to follow up a fresh bear trail, and noticing that the track was long and smooth in the heel, I concluded that a redskin was trailing the same Bruin.

But it soon got too dark to see, and I returned to camp and put out double guards, taking the first watch myself.

About ten o’clock, just as I was about to go in for a relief, I heard the rattle of hoofs, then a yell like forty wild cats on a spree, and away went all our ponies, stampeded by our Indian neighbors.

Mounting the pony I had with me, I started at once in pursuit and hailed the boys as I dashed by camp.

Following the noise of running feet for about four miles, they soon halted at the base of the mountain, and I discovered that the Indians were trying to corner and catch the ponies, and with a yell and a dash, I went at them, firing both of my revolvers in rapid succession.

Turning the ponies quickly I started them in the run back to camp; but whether I brought down and red game, I will not say, yet I found I had an extra pony the next morning, with a lariat around his neck.

We had now been out some time, had collected a fine lot of specimens and killed plenty of game, consisting of deer, elk, antelope, buffalo and bear, and also mountain sheep, mountain lions, wolves, wild cats and a great variety of smaller animals and fowls.

The fine weather we had had now left us, changing to cold snow storms, and the earl prepared to start for the settlements.

We retraced our way, and coming to the Yellowstone had some difficulty in crossing on account of the deep water.

Two more days brought us to Boseman, and three days after we tackled that abominable coach, at Virginia City, which put us on the railroad of the Union Pacific in five days, all of us delighted with the trip, and I perfectly willing to try it again any Summer as guide and hunter, into the great national park, whose wonders are yet unknown, and whose beautiful scenery is seldom gazed upon by either Indian or pale-face.

*Alf Slade was one of the most noted characters on the plains, and Mark Twain has given him a conspicuous place in his book “Roughing It.”

**This is a queer noise the elk makes in running season.

His Favorite Horse

Making an entrance. During the tours he did with Buffalo Bill Cody, whether they were joined by Ned Buntline, Wild Bill Hickok, Kit Carson Jr., or any number of actors and actresses from 1872 through 1876, Texas Jack always knew how to make an entrance. For that first show, Ned Buntline told the audience about the warriors lurking in the shadows as he waited for his friends to show up. When he banged his rifle but on the stage, that was the cue, and the audience roared as the famous scouts made their way out from behind the curtains. That was the template. Someone talks up the scouts, and then the audience cheers when they finally arrive.

After that first show, in which neither Texas Jack or Buffalo Bill remembered a single one of their written lines, theater owner Jim Nixon encouraged them to act more natural. "When you go on stage and see Buntline," he told Jack, "greet him just like you would out on the prairie, if you came upon him after not having seen him for several years." Omohundro took the advice to heart, and the next night walked onto the stage yelling, "Jesus Christ old man! How in the hell are you?" Buntline just stared at his cowboy friend while the audience cheered and laughed.

When Texas Jack started his own theatrical combination in 1877, he wanted to give the audience something new—something they hadn't seen before. The New York Sun newspaper from April 5, 1877 shares how the new show opened:

He made his entree upon the stage mounted upon an Indian pony whose real-live Simon-pure Indian-pony performance put to shame all previous attempts to make a horse a dramatic animal. Ordinarily this noble beast falls off most miserably in his theatric exploits. He balks at the orchestra, backs up against the scenes, and if he is slaying the role of the blooded Arab barb has to be pricked from the wings to make him go.

The noble pony of Texas Jack crosses the back of the stage on a wood bridge at full speed, carrying his master, and, bounding into view, circles the ample stage, and is pulled up suddenly at the footlights with his mouth agape and one fiery eye looking down sideways at the frightened double bass, while the sinewy rider bows under the storm of applause.

Other New York City newspapers were equally glowing in their praise of Texas Jack's command of his animal from the saddle. "The horse has always been a failure on stage until introduced by Texas Jack," said one reporter. The New York Herald agreed, adding that "The handling of a horse upon the stage by Texas Jack is a sight worth double the price of admission."

By 1877, when Texas Jack rode his horse across that stage at the Bowery Theatre, he had spent a lifetime on horseback. He learned to ride on the fields of his father's Virginia plantation and soon was exploring the fields, streams, and forests of his home state from the back of his horse. According to his friend, dime novel writer Prentiss Ingraham, Jack rode his horse from Palmyra, Virginia, to Texas when he was just fourteen years old. When he signed up to join his brother's regiment in the Confederate army, it was as a scout and spy for J.E.B. Stuart, perhaps the finest cavalry officer in the country. After the war, Jack made for Texas where he became a cowboy. He was entrusted with the horses of rancher John Taylor, and spent days, weeks, and months in the saddle.

We know surprisingly little about Texas Jack's horses. The pair that he used as part of his stage show, reviewed so well above, were called Modoc and Firefly. Before that, he had a mare named Bluebell. In Nebraska, Texas Jack's horse was the famous Tall Bull, supposedly captured after the death of the Cheyenne warrior after the Battle of Summit Springs. One of the temporary markers over Jack's grave in Leadville bore a picture of Yellow Chief, noted as one of Jack's favorite stallions.

In the European Texas Jack stories, Texas Jack is very attached to his horse Jumper. "A wiser and more obedient animal," the reader is told, "surely does not exist." No man but Texas Jack can ride this incredible horse. When a soldier named Clarence Miltontries to escape on Jumper in one of the books, he is soon returned to Texas Jack. But after the cowboy tells Jumper that Milton is his friend, the ride succeeds better. Texas Jack also tests Jumper on the racetrack with the result that his horse in book no. 36 is named "America's fastest". But the victory turns out to be expensive when a sore loser enlists a nearby Indian to help kill Jumper with a poison arrow from his bow. Texas Jack soon has his revenge and then buries Jumper. "Never had the great scout been more depressed and sad on his return from the wilderness, for this time he had left his best friend there."

The Lone Ranger had Silver, Roy Rogers had Trigger, and John Wayne had Dollor. In all cases, the idea of a western cowboy on his favorite horse was informed by Texas Jack, from his real-world exploits on the back of Tall Bull on the Nebraska prairies to stage performances at the Bowery with Modoc and Firefly to riding through the pages of yellowed dime novels on Jumper and Yellow Chief on his grave marker. Every cowboy in books or movies was influenced by Texas Jack.

Where was Texas Jack

It's now February, which means we have just two months until the release of Texas Jack: America's First Cowboy Star. Have you preordered your copy yet?

The book has a lot of great information about Texas Jack Omohundro, but there was a lot of information I uncovered in my research that there simply wasn't room for in the book. Long pieces by Jack, including writings about his favorite rifle, Lazy Kate, and his adventures hunting bighorn sheep in Montana have already been posted to this site. More of Jack's writing, and some never before published pictures of Jack and some of his closest friends and colleagues are coming soon. Everything you see on this site is supplementary to the book, which tells the story of Texas Jack and how he elevated his chosen profession, the cowboy, from the dusty trails of Texas to the finest theatres of Broadway, influencing every cowboy story in books, tv, and movies that would follow.

My assumption, when I began my research, was that the majority of Texas Jack's stage career was in the company of Buffalo Bill Cody, including one season where the pair were joined by their famous friend Wild Bill Hickok. What I discovered, largely based on notices in magazines like the New York Clipper and advertisements in countless local newspapers, is that Jack's theatrical career after his last show with Buffalo Bill in June of 1876 was much more extensive than previously believed.

In his 1954 biography of Texas Jack, Herschel C. Logan says, "From all indications Texas Jack and his troupe were performing during the season of 1877-1878, though it is not possible to name the many places and dates of showing...very little is heard of Texas Jack during the next two years; it is presumed that he spent at least a part of his time hunting...some time was undoubtedly spent on the stage." The advent of digital newspaper archives and nearly 70 years of research into Jack's friend and stage partner Buffalo Bill helped me to expand upon Logan's assumptions. Jack did spend some of that time hunting—leading at least three trips into Wyoming, Colorado, and Montana, encountering Chief Joseph on one trip and Thomas Edison on another. And he most certainly did spend some time on stage.

From the time Texas Jack and Buffalo Bill's long run of over 550 performances together (not counting matinees) came to an end on June 3, 1876, until Jack's last known performance on April 10, 1880, at the Chestnut Street Theatre in Leadville, Colorado, Texas Jack staged a minimum of 426 of his own shows, again not counting the frequent matinees and shows in locations that haven't had their local papers digitally archived. As I researched, I compiled a spreadsheet detailing Jack's documented theatrical dates, which I am presenting for other researchers and people interested in Texas Jack, Buffalo Bill, and theatrical combinations in the second half of the nineteenth century. I've decided to maintain this online, rather than in the book, to ensure that it can be updated if and when unknown shows come to light. I am indebted in this research to Sandra Sagala, and the wonderful list she included in Appendix Two of her wonderful book, Buffalo Bill on Stage. A full list of the dates, as well as a map showing Jack's theatrical travels, is available at:

https://www.dimelibrary.com/map

Hunting The Big Horn

Previously, I shared a piece by Texas Jack about his favorite hunting rifle, the Remington Rolling Block he called ,,Lazy Kate. This piece, also written by Texas Jack Omohundro himself, is about using that same rifle to hunt bighorn sheep in Montana's Absaroka Range. Old Baldy, the mountain Jack summits here, is now known as Livingston Peak.

Forest & Stream (New York, New York) November 27, 1879.

The subjoined sketch, which is fresh from the pen of an experienced Black Hills hunter, vividly delineates the almost inaccessible character of the country where the mountain sheep resort, and the difficulties and hardship of their pursuit. It is the first account we have ever read from such a source; that is, coming from one who has "been thar," and writes his experiences in the mountain vernacular. That writer is "Texas Jack."

Some distance further back in the mountains we struck a rough region and came to a high peak called Old Baldy. I had never seen Baldy before, and I never want to see him again. We camped near the foot of the hill, and I proposed to climb on top and see what it looked like. None of the party seemed disposed to tackle him, so I shouldered ,,Kate (a favorite rifle) early next morning and started up alone.

It was a long, hard climb, and when I got on top I found out what it looked like—a dead jump-off of some fifteen hundred feet! That’s just what it was on the other side. As it wouldn’t be healthy to go further in that direction I concluded to lay there and gaze on the valley and scenes below (a long way below, I found out afterwards). It wasn’t such a bad lay-out after all, provided a fellow was fond of looking over a heap of country at one time. Eventually I discovered a small band of sheep grazing by a little lake in the valley. They seemed almost straight down from where I lay, but how to get at them was something else. I meant to try it on anyway, so crawled along the edge of the precipice for a long ways, going down many rough, steep places, until I came to the lowest gap there was, and it looked mighty scaly, some eighteen or twenty feet nearly straight down; but there was snow to light on. I could get down, perhaps, but not up there again that I knew of. It was a go, anyway, so I reached Kate out clear of the rocks and let her drop. She struck, butt foremost, turned over and started down the snowbank; at first slow, but she soon went out of sight some two hundred yards away, going at the rate of about a mile a minute.

Next I came, but not to go coasting with Kate, for I struck square on my boot heels and stuck fast. It was kind of an edging job from there down. The snow was a little harder than I had counted on, and I had to stamp several times before I could get hold enough to risk taking up the other foot. It was no nice place to play sliding down the hill, all by myself, especially when I didn’t know exactly about where I was going to haul up. At last I came on to Kate. She was lodged up against some loose rock at the end of the snowbank, and no bones broke. I now hurried on, sure of a sheep, but I felt sheepish enough when I found they were at least a mile further than I had calculated, and before I reached the place they had moved camp and were asleep perhaps somewhere up in the rocks.

The next thing was to get back to where I had started from. I thought it all over, and decided to try it round the other side of old Baldy, thinking it would be a better chance to scale the ridge; but how much I was mistaken—I can’t tell you how much, just here, but it was the roughest place on earth, except one, and I don’t think anybody has ever found that one. It looked easy enough when I started in, but before I got out—wait till I tell you.

The further I went along the mountainside the worse it got, and more of it, until I came to a point where I could see neither bottom not top! I was just sticking up among the stones like something that had growed there! I had but one chance to go ahead, and that was to jump down off the rock, some ten feet. If I did that I should have no chance at all to go back. It is strange how a fellow will press forward when he gets into trouble, though he may know it will take him deeper and deeper into it.

I dropped Kate first, then swung myself down. I had but a few feet to drop, but that rolling business was what worried me the most. I struck all right. There was some earth and a small timber ahead, and I was hurrying along as fast as possible, when all of a sudden the rocks commenced rolling down all around me. Looking up, I caught sight of an old ewe’s head and neck stuck out over the rock some two hundred feet above me. Up went Kate and down came the ewe clear over my head and lodged against some fir bushes quite a distance below.

I crawled down and took off a quarter. I was pretty tired, but had rather pack meat than go hungry. I had already made some calculations on doing like a dog on a deer hunt—eat and drink nothing, and lay out that night. After a good deal of hard climbing, nearly straight up, I reached the top of the ridge, or backbone, as we call it. One step would put me on the descent either way. I sat Kate down, straddled the rock, and dropped into meditation for a moment.

It was a strange scene; the sun had long since done behind the mountain, and that peculiar yellowish green light (such, I believe, can be seen in no other part of the world) shone over the sky; that is, what I could see of it for the high peaks around. Not a sound to be heard, save the faint roar of the torrents far down in the deep dark hollows below! I looked to Kate, my only companion. Thinks I, “old girl, this ain’t no good place to be in; if I drop to sleep and tumble off this rock I shan’t wake up much before Gabriel toots his horn.”

These thoughts put me in a stir! I hastily gathered up my little outfit and struck down the mountain; I was in for it now. The further down I went, the rougher it got, more the ledges and the greater distance I had to drop from one to the other. I got kind of desperate, and hardly stopped to look for a better place—just peep over, drop Kate, (always but foremost) then the sheep, and I would follow. Darkness was gathering fast, the weather was turning cold, I was nearing the valley and hope began to brighten a little, when I came to a dead sticker. It was the last ledge! All below was loose stone that slanted away to the cañon below. I looked over—no use talking—over fifty feet in the clear; no pair of legs in America could jump down there and ever come out with a whole bone in them.

I scrambled along the ledge some distance one way’ it got worse! Tried it the other, and found but one chance, and that a mighty slim one. It was where the water had cut a narrow crevice through the main ledge. If I could only hold on, it would take me within a reasonable distance of the loose stones below. It beat no chance at all, so over went Kate, meat next, and I commenced my descent bear fashion (tail foremost, of course, the same as I do everything) holding on in any way, or to anything that was fast, as long as there was anything, and then I went about half as far as I expected and hit twice as hard as I ought to. The loose stones began to slide, and away went me, Kate, sheep, stones, and all, some twenty yards down the hill. It was quite dark now, but I managed, by feeling around, to find Kate and the sheep, and rustled off up the hollow, though the darkness and over the rocks, with a few tumbles and skinned shins.

I reached camp, that is, where camp ought to be, but it wasn’t there. Although it was very dark, I knew I was within a few steps of the right place, and there I stood, dumfounded for a moment, thinking to myself, if this is not me, who in thunder can it be? I knew I was not lost; the camp must be lost. Presently I saw a little spark, and crawling under some logs came on to a heap of smoldering embers, the only sign of human existence.

I gave the coals a kick, and a dim light glared around that made the old white logs loom up like so many ghosts. While gathering some brush forty different imaginations rattled through my brain. Indians? I thought first; somebody shot accidentally, or fell off the rocks and broke a leg; horses stampeded; everything; until I got a big light, when all was explained.

Right over the fire hung a big flask half full of the best!—with a note attached saying, “Come into the river, party started at 3 P.M.” Old Whity, my pony that was tied to a tree near by and had been quiet all this time, now began to snort and tear around as much as to say, “get that saddle and outfit on here, and let’s be off,” and you bet I did, and was off in a hurry, and didn’t forget the flask either.

Whity took a near cut, and Kate took her chances along with me, through the thick timbers, up and down the steep rocks. Which ever way we went I don’t know (as I was very busy settling up with the flask), but I do know that I was the first in to Botteler’s Ranche on the Yellow Stone River, some eighteen miles from where we had been camped.