Wyoming Fact and Fiction

The Last Battle of the Sioux

2011-11-04T14:57:00.000-07:00

So when did the mighty Sioux nation fight its last battle and where did they fight it? How about east central Wyoming in 1903? Like many historical events this one has been reported and changed over the years, but this is what we know, with allowances for a few of my own interpretations of history.

Eagle Feather (early accounts called him Chief Charley Smith, a name purportedly given to him on the reservation by the U.S. Government and one he had to use to collect commodities) led a group of Sioux from the Pine Ridge into Wyoming, now a state for all of 13 years, on a hunting expedition, a hunt that had been given permission by Indian agent John R. Brennan. The small band headed for the area of Thunder and Lightning creeks in what is now Niobrara County Wyoming. The hunter’s accompanied by wives and children shot a few deer, sage grouse and antelope as they traveled across the plains, enjoying a taste of their old life style.

Weston county Sheriff William (Billy) Miller rounded up a posse of local stockmen and headed out to stop the Wyoming hunt. The stockmen may have been duped into believing the tribe was shooting cows instead of game and willingly traveled along to stop this new, “Indian uprising”. When the posse caught up the number of Indians in the party stopped them in their tracks. Miller believed there were too many Indians to arrest for various violations of game laws, trespassing and killing ranch stock and took his crew back to town. The next day the sheriff and his, now larger, posse caught up with the Indians at Lighting Creek and the,” Battle of Lightning Creek,” or “The Last Indian Battle,” took place.

Sherriff Miller and his deputy Louis Falkenberg were killed along with Chief Eagle Feather and several of his hunting companions. A few days later a hearing was held in nearby Douglas and the Sioux were released for lack of evidence that they had committed a crime other than defending themselves.

Wyoming Governor Fenimore Chatterton was enraged at the courts decision and tried to get the Indians in court for murder despite the findings of the Douglass court, but his power did not stretch that far.

Today if you Google, the last Sioux battle, you will first find, Little Big Horn (1876) then Wounded Knee (1890), both of great importance to the west but not the last, that would be Lightning Creek in 1903.

NOTE --A month after the Lightning Creek battle Governor Chatterton allowed popular range detective/shootest Tom Horn to be hanged in Cheyenne, a decision that most likely cost him reelection the next year.

New Home

2011-09-29T19:08:00.001-07:00

Almost completed our move to the country--then I will be back.

Medicine Bow Wyoming

2011-06-30T20:02:00.000-07:00

Spent last Saturday in Medicine Bow Wyoming—Medicine Bow Days and a celebration of 100 years for the Virginian Hotel. The Hotel was built to be the showcase place to stay between Denver and Salt Lake; it is still going strong and quite a neat old place. Watched some fast draw competition, bought the grand kids snow-cones, and had an all round great time.

Tie Up That Horse Cowboy

2011-01-30T15:34:00.000-08:00

The cowhand raced to save the distressed maiden, he leapt from his trusty steed, and ground tied him, as whistling lead and the smell of gun powder filled the air.
I made that up, but did recently finish reading books by two different authors, where the hero ground tied his horse under all conditions- they ground tied so much I got tired of waiting for the horse to run off. Things that I have read, and or tried with ground tying indicate the cowboy may need hiking boots instead of cowboy boots if he ground ties too much.
Much like the cowboys that loop the reins around the hitching post in the old movies, horses will shy and get the heck out of Dodge if too much action and noise starts. Heck my pick-up doesn’t like to stick around if things get to wild-------but I do.
I like well researched western reads, not sure these writers had spent much time around horses. Too bad, one of them was fast paced and fun.

Random Thoughts on the Sundance Kid

2011-01-24T18:18:00.000-08:00

Harry A. Longabaugh is a tough name to pronounce and not very memorable. But when he stole a horse, saddle and a gun in northeast Wyoming and got himself tossed in jail in Sundance, Wyoming, he became a legend, the Sundance Kid. The movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid did not hurt his popularity either. It might be that Butch and Sundance would be little more that footnotes in Wild West history if not for the movie. We would still love them in Wyoming and Utah but the rest of the country may have enough of their own bad guys to celebrate.

So who was the Sundance Kid anyway? His friend Butch Cassidy is much better known as leader of the Wild Bunch and as an all around character of the old west. So why was Harry (the Sundance Kid) Longabaugh famous, was it only because he hung out with Butch?

Born in Pennsylvania in 1867 he came west (probably first to Colorado) as a teen and later ended up in north eastern Wyoming. By age twenty his outlaw career had started and ended. A year and a half later he was released from the Sundance jail and returned to life working on a ranch. Either bored with the life of a cowboy, or needing adventure he was implicated in a train robbery three years after his release (1892) and then another five years later. Maybe he was just supplementing his meager ranch wages but more than likely he was an outlaw and had gotten away with more than local people knew about at the time. These robberies may have been as part of Cassidy’s wild bunch.

I suspect, like many of the outlaws of the old west, he lived two different lives. Part of the time he was a hard working ranch hand, raising, feeding and taking care of stock, riding fence and spending time with locals in town when he had a chance. But he had a wild streak, one that left him less than satisfied with this life. It could have been money, might have been a need for adventure, or he may have been in it for the thrill of the chase. Whatever it was, his unsettled feelings may have led him to an on and off life of crime, sometimes with months or years between hold-ups.

After the Winnemucca National Bank, Nevada hold up, Butch and Sundance took off for South America with the Pinkerton Detectives right behind. The story ends there, or does it? Were they killed in the famous shootout with the San Vicente police in Bolivia in 1908? Most avid readers of western history hope not. Stories say he and Butch came back to America, living in Utah, Wyoming or elsewhere for many years. We may never know for sure, but we really hope they were a lot like Redford and Newman in the movie.

The Last Stagecoach Holdup

2011-01-16T16:39:00.000-08:00

The summer of 1914 may have truly marked the end of the old west. Why, because that was the year of the last stagecoach holdup, and it took place near Shoshone Point in Yellowstone Park. Other places claim the last holdup, including one of the Cheyenne-Deadwood Stage and one in Nevada, but I like this one. The year marked the end of the horse’s only transportation in the park, as cars came for the first time the next year, and a year after that, 1916 would mark the end of the coaches in the park.

I like this bit of history because the robber, Edward Trafton, (Ed Harrington) did not just hold up a stagecoach, he held up fifteen in a row. The stages carried tourists seeing the sights of the park, and the sixteenth coach, sniffing out something bad, turned around and went for help.

Wearing several layers of extra clothes and a black mask,Trafton stopped each coach rustled out the passengers and asked them, while holing a rifle, to put their money in a sack lying at his feet. For his days work he collected a little over nine hundred dollars and jewelry worth another one- hundred and thirty dollars. Trafton, a ladies’ man, or one who believed he was, laughed and asked the ladies to hide their jewelry, he was only interested in cash. Not sure how or why he ended up with more than a hundred dollars worth anyway, maybe he didn’t like some of the women as much as others.

Trafton had so much fun holding up a stage every half hour that he even allowed some of the passengers to take his photo. Not sure Tafton was the smartest of outlaws, but he likely believed he was, because of this day, famous, and needed to secure his place in history. It did secure a place but maybe not what he had in mind.

The well photographed outlaws next stop was Leavenworth, where he rested up for five years. He died more than a decade later
with a letter in his pocket claiming he was the cowboy Owen Wister based the Virginian on. More likely, if Wister ever met him and put him in the famous novel, he was one of the bad guys or less than bright characters in the story. Trampas?

Great Day For A Ride

2011-01-07T20:04:00.000-08:00

Such a great day in Wyoming today I decided to go for a ride. I know, I know, you’re thinking, that old guy rides. Well indeed I do. But today I should have stayed home.
The ride was going fine and then for no reason at all—I was lying on my side hurting bad. Not sure if I was bucked off or fell, maybe a loose saddle? I hope to figure it out soon and I will keep you-all posted. Now where was I, oh yes on my side and hurting. Well sir, I am an old guy but when it really hurts I sometimes cry. And I started, softly at first, and then I am afraid, a little louder, anyway loud enough for someone to hear. Within seconds the store manager (K-Mart) helped me up, dusted me off and said, “take it easy ol’ timer, if you’ll quit your whimpering I’ll put another quarter in the horse and you can have a free ride on the store.
I feel better now—sorry for the lame joke, but it’s Friday and I can stay up late and post crazy stuff.

Wyoming and the Code of the West

2010-12-29T18:03:00.000-08:00

Last March the Wyoming legislature passed senate file 51. This bill, while not a true law as much as it is a suggestion has been both admired and critized. Some say it makes those of us who live in Wyoming look like a bunch of hicks, others say, yes, this is what we are all about.

Here it is - The Code of the West, bill.

Adapted from the book, "Cowboy Ethics," by James P. Owen

-The code includes-

1. Live each day with courage
2. Take pride in your work 3. Always finish what you start
4. Do what has to be done
5. Be tough, but fair
6. When you make a promise, keep it
7. Ride for the brand
8. Talk less, say more
9. Remember that some things are not for sale
10.Know where to draw the line

The Code of the West, alive and Well in Wyoming –click here to watch a great four minutes of Wyoming.

http://www.vimeo.com/7931683

Laramie Wyoming

2010-12-27T16:29:00.000-08:00

What a crazy place I live in.
No, not that way crazy, but a crazy name.

Laramie, named after a French-Canadian trapper, Jacques LaRamie. He came to Wyoming Territory to trap no earlier than 1816 and was killed by the Arapaho in the winter of either 1818 or 1819. According to Jim Bridger who came to the area a few years later LaRamie was well liked and respected as an honest trader by Indians of the area.

So why was he killed? No one knows but likely for whatever possessions he had with him at the time. And no one can say with absolute certainty that it was Arapaho who killed him, although most stories back up this belief.
Today the city of Laramie is named after him along with: Laramie Peak, the Laramie Plains, and the Laramie Range of the Rockies, Laramie County (Home of Cheyenne, Wyoming’s state capital), the Laramie River, the Little Laramie River, and maybe others I cannot think of right now.

So what did he do that warranted naming more things after him than any other person except James Bridger? No one knows, but Laramie City was a true wild and wooly Wild West town in the late 1860s when the railroad first came to town. Jacques LaRamie, a true symbol of the times long past seemed to be a fitting name for an area changing so rapidly.

LaRamie was a pioneer, trapper, explorer and trader in this area and we don’t even know his real name. There were many Jacques with French last names during this time in history so somewhere along the way historians assigned him Jacques as his first name. LaRamie may have been one of many trappers who went by only one simple name (and to think people today think, Elvis and Cher came up with this idea). Not sure why historians thought he needed anything other than just LaRamie.

-N-

Merry Christmas With Only One Mishap

2010-12-25T12:17:00.000-08:00

Christmas is over and I am sitting in my recliner playing with my brand new Kindle. All four kids and all seven grandkids made it. BUT as always there had to be a mishap and this one was a dozy. Our four year old granddaughter broke her leg sledding. It was our second day on the hill (yesterday) she is a tough little kid but when she said she needed to go to the doctor we knew it was hurting. Now it is all cast up (hip to foot) and in about eight weeks she will be as good as new. Thank God for grandkids, good doctors and quick healing for four year olds.

Peno and the Bear

2010-12-21T18:05:00.000-08:00

Some stories are just too good to let die. The following story came from the trapper/mountain man period of Wyoming history (1820-1840s). Tall tales made for great sitting around the fire conversations and fun. One of my favorites and one of many nearly lost tails is the story of, “Peno and the Bear”. Like so many other stories old timers would, “swear” this one is true. Whether it is true or only a tail to pass a long winter night I hope it will not go away. Following is my version of the story.

-PENO AND THE BEAR-

A Canadian trapper named Peno, short on powder and ball, shot a bull buffalo with a light load, wounding but not killing or dropping the animal. The stunned buffalo charged Peno goring his horse to death and breaking the trapper’s leg. In the process Peno lost his rifle, food and possible, but not his senses. He was able to crawl into heavy brush and lucky for him the buffalo lost interest in the mess he created and left.

Peno crawled for hours, intent on reaching a large Indian village he had passed a few days back. Hungry and in shock he finally reached the creek that today bears his name. Along the way he ate as many choke cherries as he could reach and upon reaching the stream drank his fill before blacking out.

When Peno awoke a huge silver tip Grizzly stood over him. Peno did the only thing he could think of—he played dead. After what seemed like an eternity the old trapper opened one eye only to see the bear still waiting. Then a strange thing happened, the bear held out a front paw as if wanting to shake hands. Figuring, why not, Peno took the bear’s paw in his hand and immediately saw a huge festering spot on the soft pad of the bears paw. By this time Peno believed he had nothing to lose, he took out his Green River Knife. Very carefully he removed a long tangled sliver from the bears paw. Once the surgery was complete the bear laid down a few feet from Peno and fell asleep.

Peno knew it was time to exit and he moved away, even trying to walk with the aid of a piece of a cottonwood limb he used as a staff. Over the next few days every time Peno stopped to rest or sleep the bear was near, sometimes within a few feet. Peno took to talking to the bear and danged if it didn’t seem like the bear understood.

After a few days Peno reached the village looking down on it from a sage brush hill less than a half mile away. Now that the trapper was safe the bear held up his fast healing paw to say goodbye, turned and disappeared.

Although this is purportedly a trapper tale it very much sounds like a teaching story, maybe for young Indian children. It may have taught the age old idea of everything, including animals and people, having a good side no matter how ferocious or bad they may seem.

10 things a cowboy says that might be hard to believe

2010-12-18T18:58:00.000-08:00

• I won this buckle in a rodeo
• I walk better in boots
• This time I really gave up the Copenhagen
• I wear my jeans this tight for safety on the ranch reasons
• I try to watch what I eat – not too many fried foods please
• Not too much coffee I’ve had enough
• My pickups paid for
• My hat-oh-that ol’ thing
• Never lost money on a horse
• Wife never says a thing when I stay out this late

Thinking About Home and Wild Bill Hickok

2010-12-12T19:54:00.000-08:00

The legend of Wild Bill Hickok began just outside my hometown at a place called Rock Creek station. (Southeast Nebraska) It was here that Wild Bill, by his own account, killed single handedly, nine members of a blood thirsty, cut throat McCanles Gang. Dime novels of the day led to it being called the greatest one man gunfight in American history. A battle Hickok survived with eleven bullet wounds.
What a story – how much of it is true –probably not much.
• Hickok became famous later and the facts changed after he became bigger than life. History forgot that he was charged with murder and released after a trial lasting a few minutes.
• Also his nickname changed from Duck Bill to Wild Bill, likely at his insistence, maybe at the point of a pistol if you insisted on calling him Duck Bill
• There never was a McCanles gang although David McCanles himself was a bully and not liked or missed by many.
• People who saw Hickok soon after the battle reported he had no wounds after the fight.
Anyway, so goes the tight line separating truth from fiction in the old west. Wild Bill went on to become a legend throughout the west. Including right here in Wyoming where he spent some time.

Good Old Snow and More Snow

2010-11-30T17:55:00.000-08:00

Why is it that every time it snows a few inches the city is able to find enough snow to pile a foot or more into my driveway? By the way for those of you in warm weather areas – I have shoveled the snow from my walks and drives seven times so far this fall and winter. It is pretty but lately I see it only as pretty heavy, pretty hard work, pretty slick, pretty cold, pretty high heating bills and pretty annoying but we still love it.

The Thief, the Legend and a Pair of Shoes

2010-11-21T19:29:00.000-08:00

Big Nose George Parrott was a petty crook, horse thief and stage coach robber in Wyoming during most of the 1870s. He made a few local headlines but longed for more, both money and fame. Gangs he rode with were not famous like Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch or the James Gang, two groups he rode with many years after his death in dime novels and writers dreams. Now the fame he sought while robbing stage coaches and hardware stores has finally become part of his legend. Today he is famous, at least in Wyoming, but maybe not for what he wanted. There are so many versions of his train or attempted train robbery in Wyoming that it is often hard to believe any of them. So like all writers I choose to put together parts of the many stories and come up with my own. (I may have also thrown in a few of my own ideas.)
Big Nose George and his gang of two, Sim Jan and Frank McKinney had started to tear up a small section of railroad track near Medicine Bow Wyoming. The three were so content on working that they did not see an official of the railroad checking track. Once he and the outlaws spotted each other the official high tailed it back to the office and wired for help. While he ran back east to the office the outlaws ran south and west toward the mountain side hamlet of Elk Mountain.
Railroad official Tip Vincent and Carbon county Deputy Sheriff Robert Widdowfield soon caught up with the outlaws. A good old west shot out ensued with Big Nose and the gang killing both Widdowfield and Vincent. Widdowfield reportedly taking a shotgun blast in the face and Vincent shot in the back tiring to get away.
It took three years but the law finally caught up with up with Big Nose George Parrott in Montana and he was taken back to the city of Rawlins in Carbon County Wyoming for trial. Within days he attempted to escape but he was no better at this than train robbing and he never got outside the jail house building. The people of Rawlins, although a good humor bunch did not find this funny. Within hours he was ripped from the jail by a mob of 200 and lynched.
This should have been the end of the line for Big Nose George but in his unusual case we’re just getting warmed up. The body was given to a local doctor and his apprentice who attempted a crude autopsy sawing off the top of Parrots head in search of some type of outlaw lobe in his brain. Not sure if they found much of anything—see bungled robbery and escape above. But the story still does not end. Will it ever?
Big Nose George was skinned and made into a pair of shoes a small bag and according to some a belt and a wallet. The shoes were worn by a local doctor on many special occasions including his own inaugural ball after being elected governor of Wyoming in 1893.
Big Nose George’s body was pickled in salt brine and kept for a year or more in various business places in and around Rawlins Wyoming. Reportedly a favorite game of locals was to take unsuspecting visitors to see the famous Big Nose George—the big game likely went something like this:
“Hey Pard ya ever heard of Big Nose George the outlaw?”
“Sure everyone’s heard of him.”
“Ya wanna see him.”
“Not likely, he’s been dead for years”
The local comic then reaches over opens the wooden whiskey keg reaches in grabs a few parts of ol’ Big Nose and pulls him out of the barrel and starts laughing hysterically. At this point visitor passes out or throws up.
But a year later all the parts of Big Nose George disappeared—until 1950 when a construction project unearthed his bones—Big Nose George was back.

Historical Note—The skull and shoes can still be viewed in a downtown Rawlins Wyoming museum. There was a bag that appeared to be a medical bag but it has not been seen in more than a century. As for the belt and wallet –they may have existed only in legend; if they were real, like the bag they are lost forever.
Personal Note—My wife and I live within an hour’s drive of the train robbery site, my son and his family live on a hill overlooking the train tracks Big Nose tried to tear up just outside of Medicine Bow Wyoming.

Back to Work

2010-08-26T19:13:00.000-07:00

Vacation is over for this old school teacher--it was a great break. This will be my 41st year in front of the class. Hope to make,at least,a few more.
-N-

Wonderful Wyoming Weather

2010-08-11T18:44:00.001-07:00

Second night in a row I am setting out on the patio enjoying another beautiful Wyoming evening. We pay for it when winter comes but summers are spectacular. Seventy-one degrees, southwest breeze and 27 percent humidity can’t beat it. Last night we sat outside until ten-thirty, put the blankets over us about nine. Temperature went down to 48 last night but back around 80 today.

The Last Gunfight

2010-07-29T20:08:00.000-07:00

On Labor Day in 1912, Hartville Wyoming located at the head of Eureka Canyon in Platte County may have been the sight of the last old west main street gun fight. Not much is known about the fight other than two men emptied their revolvers in the general direction of each other and it was all over—no bloodshed. Stories change in a hundred years but the one I like best starts with two cowboys on their day off enjoying a few beers in one of the local bars.
The two punchers argued then took the fight outside. This is where the stories differ—did they really try to kill each other? Some remember the two being at least, “a fair peace apart, maybe too far, when they drew.” Onlookers were not impressed with either cowboy’s quick draw or marksmanship. Locals listed two windows and one hitching rail injured. Reportedly, the would be gunfighters returned to the bar after the high-noon showdown and went back to what they were better at, drinking and swapping lies about how good they were with a gun and a rope. (Maybe they skipped the gun stuff) If one of the bullets had accidentally killed one of the cowboys they could have been buried in Hartville’s Boot Hill Cemetery on the south side of the time hamlet of 40 people.

Snow - I thought it was just about summer

2010-05-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

Fact – It snowed here yesterday. Rain first, then hail, then vertical snow followed by hurricane type winds and horizontal snow followed by more vertical snow. Two or three inches in all, isn’t it almost June? Think it might be time for this old boy to look at moving down off this mountain, 7200 feet might be too much for these old bones.

Powwow

2010-04-19T18:39:00.000-07:00

Spent some time at the, Keepers of the Fire Powwow, over the weekend, I have always enjoyed the dancing, drums and costumes from these events. Shoshone, Arapaho and Sioux dancers put it all together but there were representatives from other tribes there also. Several venders selling southwestern jewelry and native trinkets and some tasty fry bread and tacos made the day both fun and filling. Although this powwow was inside and at the university if you try hard enough it’s possible to take yourself back to another time, maybe one where everyone was not in such a hurry and took the time to see life and live life.
My favorite part of the day—I bought a nice bracelet for my classroom, Indian crafts display, and the evening opening ceremonies that featured the bringing in of the flag, the victory chant and eighty or so dancers on the floor at one time. All in all, something everyone should do sometime.

A Wyoming Bad Guy - and Kind of Funny

2010-03-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

Wyoming bad guy George W. Pike was once accused by a neighbor of stealing a pot of stew cooking on a stove in the wall tent they were temporarily calling home. When the neighbor went to find the town marshal Pike reportedly watched him go then stole the stove the stew had been cooked on. Reportedly there was not enough evidence to convict Pike on either charge. Pike was better known as a horse and cattle thief but was never the less well liked by people in and around Douglas Wyoming. (At least the ones he did not steal from)

George W. Pike (Born around 1863- died 1906)

Grave Stone, Douglas Park Cemetery – Douglas, Wyoming

Underneath this stone in eternal rest
Sleeps the wildest one of the wayward west
He was a gambler and sport and cowboy too
And he led the pace in an outlaw crew
He was sure on the trigger and staid to the end
But he was never known to quit on a friend
In the relations of death all men are alike
But in life there was only one George W. Pike

The Last Old West Gunfight - ?

2010-03-09T19:13:00.000-08:00

Thief, Robber and a Pair of Shoes

2010-02-25T18:40:00.000-08:00

Big Nose George Parrott was a petty crook, horse thief and stage coach robber in Wyoming during most of the 1870s. He made a few local headlines but longed for more, both money and fame. Gangs he rode with were not famous like Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch or the James Gang, two groups he rode with many years after his death in dime novels and writers dreams. Now the fame he sought while robbing stage coaches and hardware stores has finally become part of his legend.

Today he is famous, at least in Wyoming, but maybe not for what he wanted. There are so many versions of his train or attempted train robbery in Wyoming that it is often hard to believe any of them. So like all writers I choose to put together parts of the many stories and come up with my own. (I may have also thrown in a few of my own ideas.)

Big Nose George and his gang of two, Sim Jan and Frank McKinney had started to tear up a small section of railroad track near Medicine Bow Wyoming. The three were so content on working that they did not see an official of the railroad checking track. Once he and the outlaws spotted each other the official high tailed it back to the office and wired for help. While he ran back east to the office the outlaws ran south and west toward the mountain side hamlet of Elk Mountain.

Railroad official Tip Vincent and Carbon county Deputy Sheriff Robert Widdowfield soon caught up with the outlaws. A good old west shot out ensued with Big Nose and the gang killing both Widdowfield and Vincent. Widdowfield reportedly taking a shotgun blast in the face and Vincent shot in the back tiring to get away.

It took three years but the law finally caught up with up with Big Nose George Parrott in Montana and he was taken back to the city of Rawlins in Carbon County Wyoming for trial. Within days he attempted to escape but he was no better at this than train robbing and he never got outside the jail house building. The people of Rawlins, although a good humor bunch did not find this funny. Within hours he was ripped from the jail by a mob of 200 and lynched.

This should have been the end of the line for Big Nose George but in his unusual case we’re just getting warmed up. The body was given to a local doctor and his apprentice who attempted a crude autopsy sawing off the top of Parrots head in search of some type of outlaw lobe in his brain. Not sure if they found much of anything—see bungled robbery and escape above. But the story still does not end.

Will it ever?

Big Nose George was skinned and made into a pair of shoes a small bag and according to some a belt and a wallet. The shoes were worn by a local doctor on many special occasions including his own inaugural ball after being elected governor of Wyoming in 1893.

Big Nose George’s body was pickled in salt brine and kept for a year or more in various business places in and around Rawlins Wyoming. Reportedly a favorite game of locals was to take unsuspecting visitors to see the famous Big Nose George—the big game likely went something like this:

“Hey Pard ya ever heard of Big Nose George the outlaw?”
“Sure everyone’s heard of him.”
“Ya wanna see him.”
“Not likely, he’s been dead for years”

The local comic then reaches over opens the wooden whiskey keg reaches in grabs a few parts of ol’ Big Nose and pulls him out of the barrel and starts laughing hysterically. At this point visitor passes out or throws up.

But a year later all the parts of Big Nose George disappeared—until 1950 when a construction project unearthed his bones—Big Nose George was back.

Historical Note—The skull and shoes can still be viewed in a downtown Rawlins Wyoming museum. There was a bag that appeared to be a medical bag but it has not been seen in more than a century. As for the belt and wallet –they may have existed only in legend; if they were real, like the bag they are lost forever.

Personal Note—My wife and I live within an hour’s drive of the train robbery site, my son and his family live on a hill overlooking the train tracks Big Nose tried to tear up just outside of Medicine Bow Wyoming.

Fact Not Fiction Today--Or Facts as I See Them!

2010-01-26T12:55:00.000-08:00

The First Tribal Indian People of Wyoming
Only the rocks and the mountains really know, only the rocks and the mountains have been here long enough to know and they are not saying anything. No one knows when the first tribal type American Indians first settled in Wyoming. We know for sure they were here before John Colter and the trappers came to Wyoming in the early 1800s. It is probable the introduction of the horse was responsible for bringing most of the Indian settlement to Wyoming and populating the state with several language groups of Indians. Most historians would agree only the ancient Sheep Eater tribe lived in Wyoming before the horse became a part of everyday live for the tribes of Wyoming.
Because the horse brought the Indian to Wyoming the Spanish were most responsible for the settlement of Wyoming. The Spanish and their flamboyant leader Francisco Vasquez Coronado, in 1540 explored much of present day Arizona and the American southwest, looking for the famed but mythical Seven Cities of Cibola. They failed to find the magnificent golden riches of the Seven Cites and Coronado turned northeast leading his 300 men to the fabulous area of Quivira in search of riches. After a long and fruitless search they turned back but not until they had reached southeast Nebraska near the present day city of Fairbury. On the way they left behind dozens of horses that would be the beginning of the famous Indian ponies of the plains. Coronado found no riches, instead found poor tribes leading a day to day agriculture existence, often living in crude stick and mud shelters, some tribes, of better hunters seemed a little better off, but no gold, not then and not today.
If all this makes sense then the Indian tribes of Wyoming were not here until much after Coronado introduced horses in the 1540s, best guess, the early 1700s. Indians of early Wyoming had already domesticated the dog and with the horse there were two animals to help with their day to day chores.
For more than a century (early 1700s to early 1800s) these, now indigenous, people roamed free on the plains and in the mountains of Wyoming. They may have experienced the freest existence in the history of the North American continent. Living a nomadic, buffalo hunting life fit these people well and they thrived, until the white men came, forever changing the life of Indians in Wyoming.
More than any group of people since, they respected nature and the powers of nature. Living a simple existence in the world’s first camper, the very mobile teepee, following the vast herds of bison and adding to their diet with antelope, rabbits other game animals and various wild roots, berries and other nourishing plants.
Life among these people could best be described as harsh and often short—but a better life may not exist. Who was first, the Sheep Eaters, as mentioned above, are thought by many historians to have been the first permanent residents of Wyoming and the one group to predate the horse in this area.

Should Have Passed Over

2009-04-04T20:20:00.000-07:00

Runs-With-Fire sat sunning himself high above the North Fork of the Shoshone River and wondered why he was here. Not here in this place but here in 2008. Runs-With-Fires should have been gone from this place many years ago. He should have died or he did die, but he had not passed over, passed over to the other side. So here he sat, early in the morning, on the same flat rock he had sat on every morning for the past one-hundred and thirty-two years. All those years since he came back to this place from the Little Big Horn and his peoples great victory over the blue coats at the river the Indians called the Greasy Grass.
He was one hundred and eighty-six winters and did not understand why he was still here. He was not really alive, or at least that is what he thought. He was sure that he must have died many years ago, on this hillside, but yet he wasn’t sure. Runs-With-Fire believed he was dead and still waiting to pass over, over to the next life in the spirit world. He had spent his time as a warrior knowing that when he died he would wake up in the spirit world, a world of friends and family. But every day he woke up in this same place, on this same hillside, alone.
Today the sun was bright and the breeze was cool but it was not a good day for Runs-With-Fire, to him there were no good days. His ancient features reflected a hard life but he no longer worried about how he looked, whether he had food and water or if he was alive or dead. He could not remember the last time he built a fire, it had been so many years but he never bothered because he no longer ate and was never really cold. Today he would talk, as he did most days, with Grandfather, the Great Spirit in the sky and ask to pass over, over into the after life of the spirits. He spent much of his time, each day, thinking about the after life and a chance to see his old friends again. Many of them had been gone for a hundred and fifty years but he still remembered. He remembered because he was all alone, and the memories were all he had. Since the days when the people were moved to the reservation he had been alone. He grieved that there were no longer people to tell his stories; he grieved that he no longer needed to hunt, he grieved that he no longer was a warrior and most of all he grieved because he could not join his people in the land of the spirits. He was all alone and he grieved.
Runs-With-Fire was a proud Shoshoni, a Shoshoni of a great warrior’s tribe, Chief Washakie. But after the second treaty of Fort Bridger, so many winters ago, in 1868, he left. He left because his Shoshoni went quietly to the Reservation. He left to ride with the Sioux, and those years were the ones he remembered now. It seemed like it was only a few moons ago when he was with Sitting Bull and the young war chief the Sioux called Crazy Horse.
Runs-With-Fire was considered an old man when they fought Custer, older even than Sitting Bull but he had fought, fought proudly against the white solders who would take their land. Today with the sun warming his face he remembered it well. Custer was not a smart leader, brave but one who risked too much for too little. He could have turned back or waited but instead he led his men to their death and his too.
Today the ancient man bent at the waist reaching out to rub his hands across his ankle, the ankle where he took the soldiers bullet, just minutes before all the whites died. The Great Spirit had not meant for him to die that day. Crazy Horse had called out as the fight started, “Today is a good day to die,” but it was not the day for Runs-With-Fire, and now he waited, waited for, “a good day to die.”,
It had been such a long story, such a long story how he got to this place on the North Fork of the Shoshone River so many years ago. After the battle with Custer the Indians had broken into many smaller bands, trying to avoid capture, and went west or south. He had gone south and then broke off from the group of twenty or so warriors with four others, all Shoshoni. The five of them had lived on this hillside through two new moons. Then the others left, gave up hiding to go back to the reservation, home they called it. But it was not his home and he would never go back, no, he would wait, soon others would join him here on the river away from government interference. But they never came and he was alone. Never once had he thought about joining his family and friends on the reservation, never once, and he lived here alone for all these years. All these years waiting, first for others to join him and then to die. When he died he did not know, it may have been only years ago or it might have been generations ago, he was not sure. He only knew that dieing was never complete until his spirit had passed through to the land as it used to be. A spirit world land full of people he knew and buffalo, many buffalo.
Today sitting in the sun he understood what he must do to pass over. For the first time he understood and for the first time he knew that today he would enter the spirit world. He would go to the top of the high bank overlooking the river, the same place he went each day and there he would pray. But today his prayer would not be the same as it had been for so many years. Today he would pass over, over to the other side, after all these years he would finally go.
It was a tough climb from the river up the steep cliff to the top of the hill where he could look down on the river. He made it but it took most of the day. Once on top, he rested and then prepared for prayer. First he sprinkled the sweet grass, the grass he collected each fall, the grass he had collected each year for more than a century. He gave thanks to the four great directions and then to the mother earth and the spirit sky. Then, as he did every day in prayer, he would ask to be brought into the spirit world. The world of everyone he had ever known. And each day he would be disappointed, only to return the next day to pray and try again to pass over.
Today, with the sun starting to lower itself in the west he would go to join his people in the spirit world. He’d found the glass when the hunters left. The glass he would use to make fire, the fire he needed to leave this valley. Runs-With-Fire had watched the hunters every fall and every fall they left things behind. Most he had no use for or did not understand what there purpose was. But this glass, a glass that made everything bigger when he looked through it, he had seen before. The white traders had given them away and many in his tribe used them to make fire and today he would make fire. The fire he needed to pass over. Every year the hunters made more noise with their small wagons on the soft wheels, he had no idea if they ever found the animals they hunted. Maybe the whites did not need to hunt or gather in the summer anymore. He did not know, but he knew how to use their glass.
With the prayers completed he used the glass to start a small fire, the first in many years the first since he had died. He tossed sage leaves on top of the small flaming pine needles and twigs. The smoke from the leaves turned a deep green and then purple as the fingers of smoke rose higher and higher into the sky. Runs-With-Fire let a smile, the first in many years; purse his lips as he held his hands over the flames, warming them as he had done so many times when he was living. He stepped back and removed his clothes, for he would leave this world as he came in, he stepped into the smoke, raised his ancient arms and disappeared.

President Obama

2009-01-20T19:54:00.000-08:00

Today we have a new president number 44. I watched the inauguration and much of the additional coverage and was highly impressed with everything. If we could keep that same feeling of patriotism, togetherness and usefulness all year long everyone on earth would think—wow, they really are the greatest nation on the face of the earth.
Good Luck President Obama and God speed.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-24T11:24:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to all and let’s not forget we are blessed every day of the year by friends, family and readers. My wish for you is that this Christmas will be your best ever.
God bless and enjoy the day like none other.

Old Westerns

2008-09-28T20:20:00.000-07:00

If you love old westerns go to this site, you will love it. http://oldfortyfives.com/thoseoldwesterns.htm

Sorry, but if you are less than 40 years old this might not bring back the memories it does to us older types.

Tags: West, coachwaring, neil waring, wyoming

This site features short stories from my book Goodnight Wyoming

2006-12-29T22:53:00.000-08:00

Goodnight Wyoming

Everyone loves a good story and Wyoming’s history is blessed with good stories. Enjoy yourself as you read through the following stories. Some of the following are the familiar, some are obscure, some are serious or tragic and some are humorous. But all the stories are Wyoming tough, through and through. The Cowboy state at its finest!

These stories are not meant to be a history of Wyoming. Instead they are stories of interesting people, places, and events in Wyoming History. The stories do follow a rough chronological order, but there is no need to read them in order. Take a look at the chapter listings and read the ones that look the best first, saving the boringstuff for later, you know, those days when you have problems falling asleep.

Note: If you are reading these stories for a school report, bless you, and make sure you read every word, and don’t copy. Keep the stories in your room or mom and dad might try to steal them, history gets better the older you are and if your parents are like most parents, they are really old.

Enjoy, and happy dreams!

Tags: Wyoming, wyoming stories, wyoming, western, cowboys, Oregon Trail, Mountain Men, Indians, Indian wars, Cowboys, short stories, Trappers, American West, Westerns, Good old Days

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The Oregon Trail

2006-12-29T22:48:00.000-08:00

The Trails

Heading’ West, Hardly No Work At All

Arlo Slug stuffed the front of his shirt back into his trousers, picked up his lunch bucket and whistled a tune as he walked out the front door of the Cleveland Ohio Iron Works. He’d been thinking about it for a long time and today was the day to tell Isabelle his plan for the rest of their lives.

“Oregon, Oregon,” Arlo shouted as he opened the front door of there, much in need of repair, house on E street. “Let’s go to Oregon, away from the city, and the factory Arlo said. Isabelle, somewhat surprised at Arlo's enthusiasm over something that they had never really talked about, smiled and said “and just what will we do when we get to Oregon and how will we get there.” “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Arlo answered, “I’ve got it all worked out.” “It’ll be easy, hardly no work at all. We just set up there on the wagon seat; soak up the sun shine and in hardly no time we’ll be in Oregon, hardly no work at all.”

Seven weeks later it was spring and Arlo and Isabelle, well Arlo anyway, were ready to carry out Arlo's great plan. They tossed the last of their belongings on a considerable pile of last minute,” we can’t get along without this,” climbed up on the weathered and cracked wooden seat and headed west. Lazy and Bones there two ancient mules reluctantly pulled the overloaded squeaking and creaking wagon to a roll. “Yes sir-ee, Arlo shouted we’re headin' west, Oregon here come the Slugs”. Cleveland was not going to get him down, not any more, no sir, no more shoveling coal in the Iron mill for Arlo Slug, Arlo’s mind raced and filled with happy thoughts of his soon to be new life.

The wagon was a patchwork of tacks, nails, wire, rope and twin, a relic that Arlo loved and Isabelle hated. Much to the embarrassment of Isabelle Arlo had painted, headin' to Oregon, in bright green on the wagons back board. Arlo daydreamed of the west as he held the reigns and let the arthritic mules set their own pace. A loud, CRACK, snapped his mind back to the present. “Two blocks from home, two blocks,” Arlo muttered to himself as he climbed from the wagon seat to the ground and surveyed the damage. The rear wheel on the right side of the wagon had snapped one of its wooden spokes, and now looked rather oval than round. After a nearly two-hour delay and two new wheels, one lashed to the back of the wagon, just in case, and Arlo and Isabelle were off, again. Isabelle had fought with Arlo about this trip for weeks, finally given up a month ago accepting the fact that they were going to Oregon. Now she reached through the knitting on her lap, patted Arlo on the knee and smiled as they rolled westward on a bright April morning. “Maybe this won’t be too bad,” she thought. But she was wrong!

Nearly ten weeks later they reached the Platte and Nebraska territory. So far they had replaced all four-wagon wheels, both wagon sides and the seat. Lazy and Bones, true to their names, and age, gave out the second week and were traded for two oxen. The Slugs were still going it on their own, but hoped that a wagon train would come along soon, pick them up and make them part of one of the many caravans going west each year.

Arlo went hunting often, usually coming home empty handed to cold beans and biscuits, but then he was not one to complain. Arlo’s ability as a hunter had changed some as he went out day after day. His first hunt had been a complete disaster. Arlo had shot at a Buffalo calf from fifty feet, but his gun was not loaded causing him to shout a profanity so loud that the herd startled and almost stampeded over him. Three days later Arlo tripped and shot the tip of his new left boot completely off, he was none the worse for wear, but he was now back in his old work boots telling Isabelle “I like the feel of these better anyway, more natural.”

Nebraska had been boring and flat but the grass was tall and the Slugs made good time, still all by themselves. Arlo hadfashioned new front and back boards for thewagon from cottonwood he picked up and splitnear the grand island of the Platte. Arlo also replaced the front axel with the new one he bought,”just in case,” in Saint Louis. But now Fort Laramie was nearly close enough to smell the bakery fires burning. Arlo was excited and hollered at Isabelle “look yonder see them mountains, them’s the Rockies”. Isabelle was more tired than excited, but she was excited about reaching some semblance of society and maybe, just maybe: a warm bath, fresh vegetables and fruits, a new dress, and if Arlo wasn’t looking a nice glass of wine. Arlo let Isabelle off at the fort store and took the wagon to the carpenters shop to have the wagon bed replaced and then headed to the harness makers to get a complete set of new harnesses to replace the, fixed too many times ones, he was now using.

Fort Laramie was not what the Slugs expected, it was not exactly downtown Cleveland on Saturday night. They were able to pick up necessities, but that was about all. Isabelle found her hot bath, but no wine, she settled for a shot of whiskey from a jug Arlo bought, for medicinal purposes; actually she took four or five shots, but thought. “Who’s counting?” The next morning Arlo tossed the nearly empty jug through the open back of the wagon and helped his, very headache-suffering, wife into the back and onto a pile of blankets and headed west.

At long last the Slugs saw other wagons as they arrived at Independence Rock two weeks later. Arlo was very pleased to meet an experienced wagon maker with this caravan because he needed a new rear axel and new covering for the wagon as the winds had shredded the old patched one into tiny arms of waving white canvas. Isabelle and Arlo enjoyed the company, and life on the trail with nineteen wagons and fifty-nine new friends. Two weeks and two days later distant smoke curling from chimneys and campfires told everyone that the train would camp this night at Fort Bridger. Arlo helped Isabelle down in front of the general store and rolled the wagon on over to the Smithies shop so the Blacksmith could replace the springs under the seat and build a new wheel brake for the wagon. With the wagon fixed and the oxen grazing the Slugs sat down near the evening’s huge campfire, feasting on real beef, no more wild game, along with potatoes, roasted onions and apple pie. After weeks of mostly jerky, bacon, beans and biscuits it was a feast for a king.

A puzzled look came over Isabelle’s face as she looked around at everyone suddenly whispering or silently jabbing each other and pointing at the old man taking a seat near the fire. He looked old but his dark penetrating eyes made him look menacing despite his age. And there seemed to be certain spryness about him as he moved and sat that belied his age. If the meal had been fit for a king, the king had just arrived.

Jim Bridger the living legend sat down stuffing the last of a piece of apple pie in his mouth, chewed a few times swallowed, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, cleared his throat and in a much to loud voice asked, “how are the all of you this fine day.” Everyone present mumbled good or hi or fine and returned to listening hoping old Gabe would treat them to one of his famous tales. Not to disappoint any of them Bridger rambled on for three quarters of an hour about the mountains and the good times in the old days throwing in dozens of quotes from the Bible and Shakespeare as the travelers sat fixed on every word. The wagon travelers, most on the only real adventure of their lives hung on every word, and in their minds pictured every detail.

“There I was with my fifty caliber Hawken, me one ball and that ol’ gun ready to go ta work if need be. Problem was one shot and two Mountain Lions. And them critters was some meat hungered, ya know, and about to jump me.” Bridger waved his arms around like a broken windmill and alternately crossed and uncrossed his legs and stood-up and sat down as he spellbound the people with his tail. “Then I sees this big ol’ rock right tween them, I quick fired at that rock split the ball in half and ushered both them Lions right to the pearly gates.” No one was sure what that meant but Arlo guessed that Bridger had killed those lions and they went off to heaven or something like that.

Breakfast fires burned bright, it was four-thirty A.M., and two days rest had made the once weary travelers restless and ready to, once again, head west.

But not everyone was ready; Arlo and Isabelle were tired and no longer excited about Oregon. They quickly said their good buys, telling everyone that they” had seen the Elephant and were turning back.” Arlo harnessed the Oxen and turned them east into the rising sun and slowly walked back to the life he once couldn’t get away from fast enough.

Arlo Slug tucked the front of his shirt back under his belt, picked up his lunch bucket and whistled as he walked out the front door of the ‘Cleveland Iron Works’. He had an idea and it was a good one, he couldn’t wait to tell Isabelle about his new plan. “Australia”, Arlo bellowed as he walked in the front door, “let’s go to Australia and hunt gold and diamonds.” “By ship, it’ll be easy, hardly no work at all, just sits in the sun and pretty soon we’re there.” Isabelle smiled as she walked to the kitchen took out her only wine glass, popped the cork on a nice bottle of red wine and started to poor. She handed the glass to Arlo put the bottleneck in her mouth, drank till she couldn’t breathe looked at Arlo, smiled and said, “NO.”

Tags: Cowboy stories, Western fiction, Wyoming History, Wyoming Stories, Wyoming Fact and Fiction, Oregon Trail, Western Trails

Jim Bridger and the Glass Mountain

2006-12-29T22:44:00.000-08:00

Jim Bridger (ol’ Gabe) and the Glass Mountain

Jim Bridger was a storyteller extraordinaire and a good enough entertainer to always be in demand. Everyone wanted to here old Gabe spin a yarn. Bridger may have been as good a yarn spinner as he was a trapper and explorer. The following story, one of Bridger’s favorites was told dozens of times around the campfire, often with some new twist and the story always started the same way----

“Now this here is a true story, the absolute truth or I ain’t the greatest Mountain man, and trapper and trader who ever lived. I woke up one morning was about daylight up in the hot water country of the Yellowstone. I rolled out of my Buffler robes, gave my eyes a good rub and took me a peer outside of the teepee to see what was about. My eyes couldn’t believe the good fortune they was seeing, not twenty five feet away stood a big Bull Elk with his head down eating grass.”

“Well ya see I was a might hungered this time of year and I crept to the back of the lodge and picked up my rifle. I poked the barrel of that old fifty-four caliber through the door opening took careful aim at that sitting duck Elk and squeezed the trigger. The Elk never even looked up, I took me a quick look see around to make sure no one was about to see ol’ Gabe make the worst shot of his life and started reloading. This time I steadied the rifle over my saddle; beings as I must have missed on account of not being completely woke up yet, and squeezed the trigger. The Elk never moved. Well sir I dove back into that Teepee and started to, real carefully load that old rifle and shot again. Why I think I’ve figured it out I can’t shoot no more and to my good fortune that old bull is deaf. I shot and nothing happened. I says to myself, this here rifle is plum worn out but that old deaf Elk is still a standing just as pretty as a lonesome tree on a rocky hillside.”

“I pulled out my skinning knife and gave that Elk the Bridger charge, with a mind to jump him and slit his throat, a trick I had used on Buffler and Indjen alike. Not four steps from the teepee I hit a wall of solid glass, yes sir a solid glass mountain not twenty feet from my camp. I spent the rest of the day riding around that mountain of glass, which I later determined had perfect magnification cause that Elk I was a shooting at was not twenty-five feet away but twenty-five miles. And I am a telling you, that story is as true as if I were a sitting here telling it to you myself, which I am.”

Good Night!

Tags: Mountain Men, Jim Bridger, Wyoming Stories, Western Stories, Cowboy stories, Wyoming fact and fiction

Big Lie about Wyoming-But Fun

2006-12-29T22:41:00.000-08:00

The Unbelievable Gniraw Lien

The story of Gniraw Lien is a story repeated often two hundred years ago but today the story is lost to most Historians and Wyoming scholars, tall taletellers, (try to say that real fast about eleven times) and outright lyres. Gniraw Lien of Irish and English descent was probably the first white man to explore the area of Wyoming and the American West. The story that follows is his story, the story of the “Lost One”, Gniraw Lien.

It was late in the spring of 1748 when Lien decided he had had, (hey the word had used twice in a row) of Boston, packed everything he owned in a brindle sack, threw the long stick over his back, blew out the only light in his lonely one room flat, a single candle, and stepped outside. The sun was just starting to rise as Gniraw pulled the door shut, pulled the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes from the sun and started walking. Walking right into that bright early morning sun and right into a new life.

After walking for less than an hour Lien ran into the beaches of Boston Harbor. Turning around Lien took a deep breath and headed west where he had intended going to start with. Forty-five minutes later Lien was back to his flat. There was still some bread and cheese in the cupboard so Gniraw started a small fire made coffee and ate as he contemplated his new life in the west. Gniraw had no idea how far west he would go, but this he knew, it would be away from the settlements as far as he could get.

As Gniraw walked he fantasized about his new life in the west, until he realized he was once again walking east. An abrupt turn around was made at this point and west he was finally heading. Really! The bells on Boston Tower sounded out noon as Lien once again passed his old flat and stopped in, this time to pick up a small notebook and a pencil, which he stuffed in his shirt pocket.

Lien spent the next year heading west, mostly. Upon reaching the Rocky Mountains of Wyoming Lien figured he was almost to the Pacific and this would be a good place to stop. And if you are getting tired this is a good place for you to stop and lay this book down and get some sleep because this story doesn’t get any better. Gniraw Lien was a man alone and he liked it that way!

The next few years were spent working, mostly capturing and razing buffalo for meat. The first two he captured were young cows enough to start his own herd. One day setting under the shade of his own back Lien said to himself, “BOY, this is some hard work raising these cows, hey that makes me a cowboy, and somehow the word stuck and Wyoming has been the Cowboy State ever since. Without that moment of brilliance we might have been the cow chasers state or the brander’s state or the only state without a nickname.

Three years later Lien found himself many miles south for the winter, he had intended on going East, but, opps, wrong turn. Good fortune followed him to this area though because it was here he found the beautiful Kiowa maiden A-nn-a-see and married her. He called her Ann and they were to live happily ever after. She was an exceeding shy person and seldom came out of the shelters they lived in to meet with anyone passing by, unlike her husband who loved to talk to everyone. Gniraw even named the place where they met after her to honor thespot where they met; he called it Shy-Ann. Much to Liens disgust the spelling was later changed to Cheyenne.

The Liens spent their first few years together on an unnamed river and life was good.

A-nn-a-see was a good cook and good old Gniraw started to put on some weight, enough that they took to calling the nearby river the FAT River because of these extra pounds. Seems the local Indians of the area had a tough time pronouncing the F sound and when they said Fat River it sounded like they were saying Platte River. The Liens never heard if the name Fat stuck to the river they named but they supposed it did.

After a few good years Gniraw Lien wanted to show his wife off to his old friends in Boston, he just knew how shocked they would be if they found out he was married to a real live wild Indian from the west. Every thing was packed and the happy couple headed off to Boston, and ended up in Yellowstone country. Seems the direction problem had once again reared its ugly head.

This story gets even worse from here, but if you are still awake----READ ON!!

The Yellowstone country was beautiful and the happy couple built their first solid home a nice log cabin a few days walk south of Yellowstone. The next year Ann delivered their first child a healthy boy they named Jack, ah, our son Jack. The area soon became known to all as Jackson. Two Years later The Liens had moved back to the Big Horn Range to avoid the bitter cold winters in and around Jackson and Ann gave birth to a beautiful girl they soon named Sheri. After six years and no more children Ann one day told Gniraw that she must be DONE having children and they should name there new home after their last child Sheri, just as they had done with Jack and Jackson. Yep, you are way ahead of me on this one! Sheri-DONE was the name they picked and it became the present day city of Sheridan, Wyoming.

After the children had grown and left the home for good Ann and Gniraw built a wonderful new cabin out on the high plains about in the center of present day Wyoming where they were happy for many years. Then out of nowhere one day Gniraw announced he had decided they should really go home, to Boston, for good. They packed their belongings and headed east. They thought! After more than weeks travel, and very tired, they found them selves in downtown Las Vegas, Nevada. I know I know Las Vegas wasn’t even thought of yet, but I didn’t want to have the poor couple walk all the way to the Pacific. They wearily turned around and headed back for their cabin in the middle of Wyoming. But they never found it. Can you see this one coming? Lost Cabin Wyoming now had a name. And they lived happily for the rest of their lives.

The preceding story is a complete fabrication of a truly fragmented mind.

Good Night.

Tags: Cowboy stories, western trails, wyoming, wyoming stories, wyoming fiction, western humor, Wyoming short stories

Jim Bridger-story teller

2006-12-29T22:34:00.000-08:00

Trappers and Traders

Jim Bridger (old Gabe), spinner of tall tales, teller of great yarns!

Old Gabe setting Indian style rolled onto his hip, unwound his legs and very slowly stood up, straightened his lean weathered body and groaned. His back still ached from an arrow years ago and sitting wasn’t what he did best. But these greenhorns from the wagon train wanted to hear about his adventures and ol' Gabe wasn’t about to disappoint anyone when it came to story tellin'. Bridger drew deeply from his long stemmed pipe closed his eyes, as if lost in thought, stretched his arms high over his head, groaned again then sat back down. This time Bridger sat on a large cottonwood log and leaned back against its ancient trunk as he continued his story.

“I member it like it were last week, me and ol' Milton Sublett were trapping up on the Yellowstone that fall. Now the Yellowstone is Blackfoot territory and them Blackfoot can be some ornery. We spent a lot of our daylights holed up and did our work on the trap line early and late. We knowed them killin' Red Devils was still about but I wasn’t in any hurry to get another arrow in my back just to prove it. One evening we had just commenced to check our traps when the both of us heard men and horses, lots of men and lots of horses. Well sir, we hardly got ourselves cleared of the stream and we saw them a coming out of the trees, and they was coming out like ants from a hill, Blackfoot, painted for war. There must have been seventy or eighty of them, all warriors, bows and arrows ready, and itching for a good fight. Now ol’ Milt and Me we didn’t seem to have that same itch being the odds seemed a might on their side.”

“We jumped our ponies and rode like hell fire through the trees trying to get our selves rid of them skins. But we couldn’t shake um! After ridding but a few hundred miles we stopped in some downed timber and commenced to fight, and fight we did. All night and most of the next day. But it weren’t going our way and we needed to high tale it out of there. Now ol’ Milt and me we had seen a lot of territory in our days but where we were now we didn’t know. We hopped our ponies, now well rested, ya see, and headed into the settin' sun, so as to make it hard for those injuns ta see us. We hadn’t rode but a few miles, probably not more un thirty, and we come upon a sheer rock wall and no where to go. Now we was in some predicament and we knowed no way out.”

“At daybreak the next day we tried to make our escape, but the Indians was a waiting for us as we tried to walk our ponies out around them. We got chased back to the foot of the cliff where we fought on till nightfall. There we was ol’ Milt and me backed up against a two hundred foot tall rock cliff, with no more ammunition and the Indians a moving in on us with these funny little smirkey looks on their faces. And them red faces told us they knew we were plumb sure done for and scared. Now they were less than twenty feet away and there was nothing we could do.”

“With that Bridger abruptly got up and walked away. The startled greenhorns who had been entranced with his stories for the past several hours shouted for him to come back and finish the story. With a reluctant look on his face ol’ Gabe walked over nearer the fire, crossed his hands behind him and asked, “Now what was it that you was a needing from me”.

“The end to your story, shouted a young man of about twenty, “how’d you get away? What happened?”

“Oh that, it’s really not much of an ending,” Bridger said, as a wry smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

“Bless your heart there child but we didn’t get away, they killed us”.

Bridger walked away smoking his pipe, chuckling to himself.

“Good Night”.

Tags: Western humor, Jim Bridger, Cowboys, Wyoming History, Wyoming fact or fiction, wyoming stories, wyoming history, Mountain Men

Ancient Buffalo Hunt

2006-12-29T22:28:00.000-08:00

It’s a Great Day to Hunt Buffalo

Runs-With-Fire and Small Bear stood warming themselves over the cooking fire alternately rubbing their hands together and then rubbing their chest and arms. It was cold outside, but not as cold as it had been just a few days ago. Neither spoke as they watched the smoke figures dance in the tipi and then escape through the hole in the center of the lodge. The two, friends since their youth, and now the best hunters of their people had spent the early morning scouting for sign of a return of the great herds. By instinct they knew that as the days grew longer it would soon be time to jump the Buffalo. Small Bear and Runs-With-Fire now talked trying to decide who in their tribe they should take to help them lead the big spring hunt. A large hunt in the spring and another one in the fall kept the people alive, and choosing the right people could decide weather the tribe lives or dies. This spring hunt would be the most important in their lifetime as the starving time (winter) had come early and many in the tribe were ill or weak from lack of food. Several days had passed and Runs-With-Fire and Small Bear knew it was time. The two stood stoically at the Tipi opening, enjoying the warm morning sun, and greeting the five hunter-warriors they had selected be hunt leaders. Each of the five were chosen because they had proved themselves and each had a special skill, like White Weasel, selected for his cunning and stealth and Wind-At-Night selected because of his superior vision and hearing. Although it was an honor to be chosen each knew it was a time for great seriousness and careful planning. All of this made the selection of the sixteen-year-old Smiling Dog a mystery to the others because he seemed to be always joking and laughing but they would admit that he could throw his hunting spear farther and more accurately than any one else in the tribe.

This was a time long before the whites had come to the west and a time when the British still ruled America. This was a time when the natives of western America ranged free without horses, living season-to-season and year-to-year. This was a time when these seven men, none more than thirty yeas of age held the lives of their four hundred fellow tribe members in their hands. This was a time when life was hard, life was easy, life was sure and life was unsure. This was a time when the American Indian reigned supreme in his part of the world, the American West.

After three hours of smoking, offering prayers, burning the sweet grass and much planning for the upcoming hunt the council of seven was ready. Each of the seven picked two or three warriors to help with their part of the hunt, the rest of the tribe would wait nearby until they could hear the awful chunking sound as the buffalo hit the canyon bottom. When the sound came they would hurry to the area and begin the tedious skinning and butchering of the dozens of animals. The hunt plan was simple, the same as the ancients had used, run the buffalo off the cliff, kill the cripples, and collect the meat. The council could only hope that the kill would be that easy.

As the buffalo ranged ever closer to the jump sight the council and their helpers worked feverishly to repair the rock wall that would help turn the shaggy beasts into the cliff and into a six months supply of food for the tribe. No member of the tribe could remember the original building of the wall; it was so long ago that none of their stories or songs told of it. The tribal elders simply said it was built before “the sun brought light and warmth to the people”.

The jump sight had not been used in many years because the people always let the wind and rain and the seasons scrub the area clean of all scent and color related to a kill. Now the time was right and the buffalo were close. This night all of the tribe would sing and dance the buffalo dance around the fire tomorrow would be a good day!

A dreary gray March morning arrived but it didn’t dampen the spirit of the council because today was the day, Buffalo jump day. Theircamp was nearly an hour’s walk from the jump sight and the warriors left well before the first sight of light in the sky. They walked by instinct in complete silence until Wind-at-Night stopped them with a barely audible shee, shee. Wind-At-Night could smell the great heard as it had moved closer to their camp and farther from the jump sight. Runs-With-Fire and Small Bear looked at each other and smiled, the buffalo were not where they had expected but it still would be a good day because they had prayed and danced around the fire last night and the buffalo were waiting.

In a matter of a few short minutes White Weasel let out the low cry of a morning dove telling the others that he and his three helpers were in place, just behind the herd. They were crawling now within a few feet draped in wolf skins with the buffalo completely ignored them. When the spear from Smiling Dog landed almost silently beside them Gray Antelope and Old Tree lit their torches and the torches of the four warriors with them from the hot coals they carried in a hollow buffalo leg bone. The buffalo started to snort and move away startled as much by the men as by the fire. But it was too late. White Weasel and his followers were on their feet wildly swinging the wolf hides in the air and screaming pushing the herd forward. The prairie was being lit on fire beside the hairy beasts and the buffalo were now starting to move away from the fire and away from the wild wolf men but the rock wall blocked the other side. Panicking the buffalo stampeded over the cliff to what they thought was freedom and in some strange way it was.

The old people sang as they skinned and butchered the pile of buffalo flesh, assuring themselves health, wealth and shelter for many moons. It was a great day!

Good Night.

Tags: Buffalo, Buffalo hunt, wyoming, wyoming history, wyoming short stories, wyoming fact and fiction, ancient wyoming, Indian hunting

Devils Tower Wyoming

2006-12-29T22:18:00.000-08:00

The Legend of Devils Tower

It was the custom for The People (Kiowa) to put away food each fall in preparation for the starving time (winter). It was the job of the young girls to pick blackberries and today was picking day. Old-Basket-Women was in charge of sending out groups of young girls in different directions each armed with a large basket and orders to not return until it’s full. But before the girls were sent off they were all seated under a sagging ancient willow tree, fighting to hang on to the last of its summer leaves. When the girls were ready Old-Basket-Women started her story, it was a great, ah inspiring story but also one that reminded the girls to be careful and stay wary of dangers as they got farther and farther away from the village. “Seven girls, about your ages, were sent out to pick berries, but it had been a very dry summer and the girls wandered far from the village, some farther than they had ever been before. They found a stream that had a good supply of blackberries, some gooseberries and some juicy wild plumbs. The girls giggled and talked excitedly, mostly about the young boys of the tribe, as they, finally, started to fill their baskets.

ARRAG, ARRAG, ARRAG the girls all turned to look toward the terrible sound. They really didn’t need to look because they knew what it was that they were hearing. Mato, the terrible one, a Grizzly Bear, but it wasn’t just one Bear, the girls saw more Bears than they could count on both hands. The girls dropped their baskets and started to run, at first the bears seemed to not be interested in the girls and instead started to eat the easy pickings from the girls overflowing baskets. The bears had also experienced the very dry summer and were hungry, and some were flesh hungry and at least a half dozen of the bears gave up on the fruit and started after the girls who were now on the open prairie running as fast as they could toward the village.

As the bears started to close in on the girls, they scrambled up on a large gray boulder that stood like a lonesome Buffalo on the open prairie. The girls immediately began to sing a song to the gods to save them and a song to the rock to protect them. Much to their surprise, the rock, who had never been prayed to and spoken of so nicely before, heard them and decided to answer their prayers and save the girls from the horrible Mato.

In seconds the rock started to groan and creek, and then, like magic, the rock started to, very rapidly grows taller and taller. The Bears had now reached the rock but the girls were too high for them to reach. But the Bears, who have great magical powers started to grow as fast as the rock. As they grew they scratched and clawed at the girls but were only able to make deep scars in the holy rock that white men now call Devils Tower. The bears circled the rock scratching and clawing off great piles of rock all the way around but were unable to reach the girls. Finally after many hours of trying the bears gave up and slowly waddled back toward the stream and the berries left behind by the girls. As the bears walked away they slowly shrunk back to their original size.

The girls were left on the rock for many days. They prayed to the rockto give them a path to get down but the rock was sleeping again and did not hear them. So the girls sang to the stars and asked them for help. The stars smiled when they heard the happy songs of the girls and took the seven girls into the skies where they became the constellation known to all as the Seven Sisters. Each clear night they smile down at the rock for saving them and at the bears that made their great shinning life in the sky possible.”

“O.K. girls now it’s time, go fill your baskets.” The youngest of the girls got up from under the tree and hung back for a brief few seconds. “Is their something you need,” asked Old-Basket-Women. “Yes there is,” answered little Red Leaf, “what should we do if we see a bear.” Old-Basket-Women smiled, patted Red Leaf on the head, winked at her and answered, “Run like hell!”

Good Night!

Tags: Devils Tower, wyoming geography, wyoming history, wyoming sites, indian legends, wyoming, Indian stories, wyoming fact and fiction

The First People

2006-12-29T22:14:00.000-08:00

Wyoming's Fabulous Big Horn Mountains Medicine wheel

The circle of warriors listened intently as Buffalo-Calf Running started to once again tell the story of how the ancient ones built "Wyoming’s great Medicine wheel. Now nearly eighty summers old, and with the wisdom that comes with age Buffalo-Calf Running was about to tell one of his tribes favorite stories. He had told the story dozens of times, but it was a story that needed to be passed on, and a story he loved to tell. Buffalo-Calf Running took a small drink from the water gourd beside him, cleared his throat and started the story.

“Walks-Himself and Snow Bear had been traveling for more than one full moon to the south. Looking, they were looking for a holy place for their tribe, the Absaroka, a tribe here long ago, and long before the white men came and started to call our people the Crow. They were not sure what they were looking for, but when they found it they would, by instinct, know. Walks-himself and Snow Bear were together because they had nearly the same vision during a quest several months ago. Both had studied the ways of the medicine man since they were only ten summers and both, although only sixteen and seventeen were thought to have great and mysterious powers. What they found in the Big Horns was a veryhigh area on a windswept mountainside, strewn with rocks. They knew this would be the spot, the spot they had traveledmany days to the south to find.

In their visions they were building a giant Medicine Wheel, much like the one near their own village, but the ancients had built that one, and no one knew any stories from that time. Theirs would be on a grand scale but with only the two of them, their dogs and travois it would be many moons in the making. They started building by heaping a great many rocks into a pile that would be the center of their great sacred wheel. From the center they built four lines of stone away from the center to represent: North, South, East and West. They couldn’t determine, even through much prayer and meditation, just how long each of these great spokes should be. Finally they decided to simply drag and lay stones until the sun was straight overhead and stop, then make each line that length. After circling the four directional rock lines with rocks that took both of them to carry, a process that took nearly four full days, the two were ready to start on the final spokes of the giant wheel. Over the next several weeks’ rocks were gathered and laid in six lines between each of the original four lines. This would give them a perfect lunar calendar with twenty-eight spokes to match the phases of the moon. The moon they used to calculate important times of the year, such as, the return of the Buffalo and the coming of winter.

After their nearly three month long labor they walked back a great distance to admire their work but decided the wheel was not complete it needed something else, it did not look as the one in their visions and not much like the one near their home village far to the North. They now spent endless, sweating, hurting days building six stone Medicine lodges around the circle. The lodges were to represent the things most sacred to them: water, food, Buffalo, fire, the changing seasons, family, and tribe. A year later when they came back they added one more lodge, but at a distance from the circle reminding their clan to stay within the circle of the Crow because great dangerous lay far from the circle. (Some believe this to be a warning of the migration of white people that would be coming in another one hundred years).

This Medicine wheel was used for many years but after the children of Snow Bear and Walks-Himself had passed on it was used very little and finally, not at all, for many generations of our people. It was when I was a little boy of eight summers that this great wheel was found again by the Crow. Buffalo-Calf-Running stopped to light his pipe and take another drink from the water gourd before ending his story. When we found the wheel some of the elder’s stories that had been passed down, the ones we never understood started to make since. Many of the missing parts of the stories could be filled in once we found the Medicine wheel. Snow Bear and Walks-Himself seemed to live among us again. They had always been in our stories but it was not until we found this place that we truly understood their power and what they meant to our tribe.

Good Night!

HISTORICAL NOTE

The Bighorn Mountain Medicine Wheel is located on the West side of the crest of Medicine Mountain in Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains. The setting is nearly ten thousand feet high just north of highway 14 east of the town of Lovell. It is now set aside as a National Historic Landmark

The shape is not a perfect circle but it is circular in shape. There are twenty-eight spokes radiating out from the central cairn (pile of rocks) around the edges are six smaller rock Cairns. Another cairn can be found a short distance away. The wheel is about seventy-five feet across and two of the Cairns roughly line up with sunrise and sunset on summer solstice. Other parts are said to line up with bright morning stars. All of this could be by sheer chance and over zealous imaginations of present day scholars or these ancient Americans may have had some real astronomical knowledge.

Archeological evidence points to the use of the area by Aboriginal people thousands of years ago, but just when the wheel was built has not been determined by any solid evidence. If it is some kind of lunar calendar, as many scholars believe, it best matches up with the skies of eight hundred years ago. When it was really built and what its original purpose was we could only speculate. Guesses for its purpose range from the really weird, built by ancient astronauts, to the very possible, a shrine for healing and worship.

American Indians say it best------

“The answer lies in the rocks and only the can last forever”.

Sleep Tight!

Tags: Wyoming, Wyoming History, Medicine wheel, wyoming indians, Indian legend, Wyoming Indian tribes, wyoming facts and fiction, wyoming short stories, Big Horn Mountains