R.G. Yoho's Blog
July 17, 2017
Riding the Outlaw Trail
Perhaps the best thing about being a Western author is that it has allowed me to go to places, see things, and meet extraordinary people, rare opportunities which would never have presented themselves under ordinary conditions.
Since I started attending the yearly conventions for the Western Writers of America, I often use those opportunities to, on my own, visit places that have a real significance in Old West history.
This year, I visited the home of famed Old West outlaw, Jesse James, in St. Joseph, Missouri. Continuing my ride along this outlaw trail, I also visited Coffeyville, Kansas, made famous by the Dalton Brothers.
St. Joseph and Coffeyville, both of these towns would prove to take a great toll on the illegal activities of outlaw brothers, Jesse and Frank James and the Dalton Brothers, respectively.
Perhaps I will say more about St. Joseph later, but for now, I wish to focus on my visit to Coffeyville, Kansas, a town which ultimately punched the ticket for the Dalton Gang.
Bob Dalton had a plan, a big plan.
It was Bob’s stated desire to “beat anything Jesse James ever did–rob two banks at once, in broad daylight.”
On October 5, 1892, Bob Dalton decided to put his plan into action.
It was certainly a daring and unique plan, but it also suffered from bad luck and poor execution.
The daring raid on Coffeyville might have succeeded were it not for two things:
1. The street where they wanted to tie their horses, between the two banks, was being repaired and therefore had no hitching rail, which forced them leave their mounts in a nearby alley, which would thereafter permanently be known as “Death Alley.”
2. Gratton Dalton was a much too gullible to be a successful, long-term outlaw. Grat believed the bank teller, who lied and told him the vault was on a time lock and wouldn’t open for 10 minutes. Grat decided to wait, which allowed the citizens to fully arm themselves to stop the outlaws. And once the shooting started, Grat also believed the lying teller, who claimed there was no back door to Condon Bank.
As was often the case, the good citizens of Coffeyville didn’t much care for the idea of their money being robbed from the local banks. They apparently also didn’t share the grand aspirations of Bob Dalton and were somewhat hostile to the idea of helping him become more prominent in Old West, outlaw history than Jesse James.
Upon realizing what was happening in their midst, the townspeople were quickly alerted. And next door at the local hardware store, Isham’s, the proprietor was passing out brand new 1873 Winchesters and a couple of boxes of ammo, free to anyone who would dare try to stop the outlaws.
Natural selection dictates that fools generally die first, so it is not all that surprising that those in the C.M. Condon Bank, Grat and his companions, Dick Broadwell and Bill Power, were among the first of the outlaws to die, although Broadwell did get mounted, long enough for his horse to carry his mortally-wounded body about a half-mile west of town, where his body was soon located.
Bob and Emmett Dalton fared somewhat better in their robbery attempt at First National Bank. Perhaps it also had something to do with Bob’s wise decision to actually use the back door of the bank for their escape.
Bob and Emmett were still relatively-unscathed when they reached the alley, in which Bob would be shot multiple times and mortally wounded. Emmett mounted his horse and might have gotten away with his money, had he not boldly decided to come to the assistance of his dying brother, Bob.
Despite receiving 23 gunshot wounds, a captured Emmett Dalton would survive the shooting and spend the next 14 years in Kansas State Penitentiary. He died in Los Angeles, CA, in 1937, dwelling in the same city as another famed Old West figure, former marshal, Wyatt Earp.
Perhaps this October day in Coffeyville, Kansas, was also a transformative day in Old West history. Civilization was coming to the Old West. The era of roving outlaw bands would no longer be tolerated.
Gone forever would be the days when outlaws were permitted to ply their trade without suffering the consequences of their actions.
When the good citizens of Coffeyville brought down the Dalton Brothers on October 5, 1882, you might say the Wild West finally became the Old West.
Since I started attending the yearly conventions for the Western Writers of America, I often use those opportunities to, on my own, visit places that have a real significance in Old West history.
This year, I visited the home of famed Old West outlaw, Jesse James, in St. Joseph, Missouri. Continuing my ride along this outlaw trail, I also visited Coffeyville, Kansas, made famous by the Dalton Brothers.
St. Joseph and Coffeyville, both of these towns would prove to take a great toll on the illegal activities of outlaw brothers, Jesse and Frank James and the Dalton Brothers, respectively.
Perhaps I will say more about St. Joseph later, but for now, I wish to focus on my visit to Coffeyville, Kansas, a town which ultimately punched the ticket for the Dalton Gang.
Bob Dalton had a plan, a big plan.
It was Bob’s stated desire to “beat anything Jesse James ever did–rob two banks at once, in broad daylight.”
On October 5, 1892, Bob Dalton decided to put his plan into action.
It was certainly a daring and unique plan, but it also suffered from bad luck and poor execution.
The daring raid on Coffeyville might have succeeded were it not for two things:
1. The street where they wanted to tie their horses, between the two banks, was being repaired and therefore had no hitching rail, which forced them leave their mounts in a nearby alley, which would thereafter permanently be known as “Death Alley.”
2. Gratton Dalton was a much too gullible to be a successful, long-term outlaw. Grat believed the bank teller, who lied and told him the vault was on a time lock and wouldn’t open for 10 minutes. Grat decided to wait, which allowed the citizens to fully arm themselves to stop the outlaws. And once the shooting started, Grat also believed the lying teller, who claimed there was no back door to Condon Bank.
As was often the case, the good citizens of Coffeyville didn’t much care for the idea of their money being robbed from the local banks. They apparently also didn’t share the grand aspirations of Bob Dalton and were somewhat hostile to the idea of helping him become more prominent in Old West, outlaw history than Jesse James.
Upon realizing what was happening in their midst, the townspeople were quickly alerted. And next door at the local hardware store, Isham’s, the proprietor was passing out brand new 1873 Winchesters and a couple of boxes of ammo, free to anyone who would dare try to stop the outlaws.
Natural selection dictates that fools generally die first, so it is not all that surprising that those in the C.M. Condon Bank, Grat and his companions, Dick Broadwell and Bill Power, were among the first of the outlaws to die, although Broadwell did get mounted, long enough for his horse to carry his mortally-wounded body about a half-mile west of town, where his body was soon located.
Bob and Emmett Dalton fared somewhat better in their robbery attempt at First National Bank. Perhaps it also had something to do with Bob’s wise decision to actually use the back door of the bank for their escape.
Bob and Emmett were still relatively-unscathed when they reached the alley, in which Bob would be shot multiple times and mortally wounded. Emmett mounted his horse and might have gotten away with his money, had he not boldly decided to come to the assistance of his dying brother, Bob.
Despite receiving 23 gunshot wounds, a captured Emmett Dalton would survive the shooting and spend the next 14 years in Kansas State Penitentiary. He died in Los Angeles, CA, in 1937, dwelling in the same city as another famed Old West figure, former marshal, Wyatt Earp.
Perhaps this October day in Coffeyville, Kansas, was also a transformative day in Old West history. Civilization was coming to the Old West. The era of roving outlaw bands would no longer be tolerated.
Gone forever would be the days when outlaws were permitted to ply their trade without suffering the consequences of their actions.
When the good citizens of Coffeyville brought down the Dalton Brothers on October 5, 1882, you might say the Wild West finally became the Old West.
February 19, 2017
Arrowheads or Dunderheads
Even as young child, it was no secret to my brothers and I that many Indians used to roam that same part of Southeastern Ohio.
And before I get too engrossed in this story, please don’t email me and tell me that I shouldn’t be calling them “Indians,” and that they are really “indigenous peoples” or “Native Americans.”
When I was a young child, my dear father and my late mother wandered away from the precious will of the Lord, moving us away from the shining state of West Virginia onto another cattle farm in the dark and God-forsaken land of Ohio.
No, boys and girls. I called them American Indians as a child. I will continue calling them Indians. I will grow old calling them Indians. I will eventually die, still calling them Indians. American Indians may not be from India, but they are no more Native Americans than I am!
I was born here as well. I am native to both the United States and West Virginia.
I am a Native American.
Therefore, you can just take your politically-correct, pile of rubbish and cart it on back to the whiny, pack of bedwetters who obsess on such things, seeking to prop up their delicate sense of self-esteem from only saying those things which would be approved by today’s tribe of phony Indians, such as Sen. Elizabeth Warren.
Now, where was I?
That’s right, I was talking about Indians, real Indians.
The creeks and hollows on my Dad’s farm were places we often played and explored as boys. We played cowboys and Indians there. We drank from them when we were thirsty.
As I grew older, I killed my first whitetail buck there, washing the blood from my hands and knife in those same streams.
No doubt those ancient Indians, hundreds of them hunted deer and other game along those same hollows. They drank deeply from those same streams and also washed away the blood from their hands and knives, following a deer kill. Like us, they took wives and raised children, living out their days along those same streams, hills, and hollows.
But in all of our time playing and exploring those same streams, I never once found an arrowhead.
Jump ahead another 40-50 years and I can tell you that my youngest son and my younger brother have just recently began hunting arrowheads along those same streams.
At this time, they have probably gathered no less than 100 of them.
And it pains me to think that we, as children, waded, swam, and wandered those streams for years and never discovered a single arrowhead.
I think it is quite likely that they were there the whole time, but we not only failed to see them, we also failed to look for them.
Thinking about it, I reached the following conclusion:
Dunderheads don’t find arrowheads.
In the years since we were children, it’s also likely that heavy rains and flooding washed a bunch of those arrowheads downstream, away from our farm, thereby costing us the rare and precious chance to ever acquire them or to admire their simple beauty and intricate craftsmanship.
But now we diligently look for those arrowheads that still remain.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve become pretty good at watching for dangers to myself and my family. At nighttime or during the day, I am careful to evaluate the scene around me before I pull my car up to an ATM machine. I try to be aware of those individuals around me and seek to protect us, whenever my wife and family are dining together in a restaurant.
However, my wife—bless her pea-pickin’ heart—occasionally complains that I overlook a lot of other things at home and sometimes fail to hear her when she speaks.
I have since come to the conclusion that she thinks the dunderhead is still missing the arrowheads.
Arrowheads of life, like those along the stream, are generally all around us. But all too often, we go about our daily lives, being a dunderhead, failing to notice them or picking them up.
As I grow older, I am doing my best not to routinely be a dunderhead.
Arrowheads…
Each one of us needs to become much better at recognizing and gathering these precious artifacts of everyday life.
And before I get too engrossed in this story, please don’t email me and tell me that I shouldn’t be calling them “Indians,” and that they are really “indigenous peoples” or “Native Americans.”
When I was a young child, my dear father and my late mother wandered away from the precious will of the Lord, moving us away from the shining state of West Virginia onto another cattle farm in the dark and God-forsaken land of Ohio.
No, boys and girls. I called them American Indians as a child. I will continue calling them Indians. I will grow old calling them Indians. I will eventually die, still calling them Indians. American Indians may not be from India, but they are no more Native Americans than I am!
I was born here as well. I am native to both the United States and West Virginia.
I am a Native American.
Therefore, you can just take your politically-correct, pile of rubbish and cart it on back to the whiny, pack of bedwetters who obsess on such things, seeking to prop up their delicate sense of self-esteem from only saying those things which would be approved by today’s tribe of phony Indians, such as Sen. Elizabeth Warren.
Now, where was I?
That’s right, I was talking about Indians, real Indians.
The creeks and hollows on my Dad’s farm were places we often played and explored as boys. We played cowboys and Indians there. We drank from them when we were thirsty.
As I grew older, I killed my first whitetail buck there, washing the blood from my hands and knife in those same streams.
No doubt those ancient Indians, hundreds of them hunted deer and other game along those same hollows. They drank deeply from those same streams and also washed away the blood from their hands and knives, following a deer kill. Like us, they took wives and raised children, living out their days along those same streams, hills, and hollows.
But in all of our time playing and exploring those same streams, I never once found an arrowhead.
Jump ahead another 40-50 years and I can tell you that my youngest son and my younger brother have just recently began hunting arrowheads along those same streams.
At this time, they have probably gathered no less than 100 of them.
And it pains me to think that we, as children, waded, swam, and wandered those streams for years and never discovered a single arrowhead.
I think it is quite likely that they were there the whole time, but we not only failed to see them, we also failed to look for them.
Thinking about it, I reached the following conclusion:
Dunderheads don’t find arrowheads.
In the years since we were children, it’s also likely that heavy rains and flooding washed a bunch of those arrowheads downstream, away from our farm, thereby costing us the rare and precious chance to ever acquire them or to admire their simple beauty and intricate craftsmanship.
But now we diligently look for those arrowheads that still remain.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve become pretty good at watching for dangers to myself and my family. At nighttime or during the day, I am careful to evaluate the scene around me before I pull my car up to an ATM machine. I try to be aware of those individuals around me and seek to protect us, whenever my wife and family are dining together in a restaurant.
However, my wife—bless her pea-pickin’ heart—occasionally complains that I overlook a lot of other things at home and sometimes fail to hear her when she speaks.
I have since come to the conclusion that she thinks the dunderhead is still missing the arrowheads.
Arrowheads of life, like those along the stream, are generally all around us. But all too often, we go about our daily lives, being a dunderhead, failing to notice them or picking them up.
As I grow older, I am doing my best not to routinely be a dunderhead.
Arrowheads…
Each one of us needs to become much better at recognizing and gathering these precious artifacts of everyday life.
October 13, 2015
New Release
I am proud to announce that White Feather Press has just released my first historical novel, "Return to Matewan."
Although this book isn't really a Western, it will certainly not be a great departure from the genre.
The story revolves around the violence in the West Virginia and Colorado coal mine wars.
I am excited for my readers to see it!
Although this book isn't really a Western, it will certainly not be a great departure from the genre.
The story revolves around the violence in the West Virginia and Colorado coal mine wars.
I am excited for my readers to see it!
July 11, 2012
A Guide to My Westerns
I currently have three Westerns on the market:
1) Death Comes to Redhawk
2) Long Ride to Yesterday
3) Death Rides the Rail
As the author, it would be my suggestion that you read them in the above-listed order.
"Death Comes to Redhawk" is the story of Kellen Malone.
"Rail" is another Kellen Malone book and the direct sequel to "Redhawk." However, "Yesterday" has some of the characters who will appear with Malone in the sequel.
Although I've published some non-fiction, Westerns will always be my main passion. I may choose to occasionally write some other things, but I will always come back to them.
At the present time, I am deep into a sequel to the Kellen Malone series. And just so you know: I have three more sequels in mind for the series.
Kellen Malone isn't anywhere close to making his final ride!
Westerns aren't any different than any other type of literature; they just have the same conflicts and stories played out in a Western setting. Everything you'd expect to find in a great novel you will also find in the traditional Western.
And, ladies, the Western is also for you!
You will find many of the qualities that you routinely seek in a novel contained within the pages of Western fiction
Therefore, if you've never read one, I would suggest you do yourself a favor and familiarize yourself with one of the greatest forms of American literature...
The great American Western!
1) Death Comes to Redhawk
2) Long Ride to Yesterday
3) Death Rides the Rail
As the author, it would be my suggestion that you read them in the above-listed order.
"Death Comes to Redhawk" is the story of Kellen Malone.
"Rail" is another Kellen Malone book and the direct sequel to "Redhawk." However, "Yesterday" has some of the characters who will appear with Malone in the sequel.
Although I've published some non-fiction, Westerns will always be my main passion. I may choose to occasionally write some other things, but I will always come back to them.
At the present time, I am deep into a sequel to the Kellen Malone series. And just so you know: I have three more sequels in mind for the series.
Kellen Malone isn't anywhere close to making his final ride!
Westerns aren't any different than any other type of literature; they just have the same conflicts and stories played out in a Western setting. Everything you'd expect to find in a great novel you will also find in the traditional Western.
And, ladies, the Western is also for you!
You will find many of the qualities that you routinely seek in a novel contained within the pages of Western fiction
Therefore, if you've never read one, I would suggest you do yourself a favor and familiarize yourself with one of the greatest forms of American literature...
The great American Western!
