Greetings, folks!

Welcome to the new century and the new millennium. Well, sort of. There *are* still those who insist on believing next year is the real start of both. (And they're probably right, but let's not quibble.) Anyway, welcome to the Double-Oughts! And welcome to our fourth year (Wow! Time sure flies!). Marge and I hope this is a good writing year for all!

BOOKS BY MEMBERS

Two Western historical railroad books written by Phil Gulick (Xeres6) are available online at Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon.com and Xlibris. They are:
Rails on the Wind, Northwest Publishing, 1995.
Ride the High Iron, Xlibris, 1997.

Survivors Benefits by B. Colin Cubbage (Shyan1Autm) is now available from Cloudy Mountain Books at www.fictionforest.com on the Web. It is available in three electronic formats: CD ($9) , floppy disk ($5) and download, ($3).

And, by Jean Henry, we have:
ESCAPE ON THE WIND
SHIRL LOCKE & HOLMES
both available at http://www.booksonscreen.com.

BOOK REVIEW

ANTOINE ROBIDOUX and FORT UNCOMPAHGRE by Ken Reyher Published by Western Reflections Inc. P.O. Box 710 Ouray, CO 81427

I had the pleasure of meeting and talking to Ken at a recent book signing in Grand Junction, Colo. He has written articles about the Old West that have appeared in several magazines and he writes for two western Colorado newspapers.

Before Reyher's research, not much was known about Antoine Robidoux, who, as it turns out, became a major player in the fur trade by carving out a niche for himself on the western slope of Colorado. In this excellent biography, Reyher has included modern photographs of the recreated Fort Uncompahgre which is a living museum in Delta, Colo.

Reyher's book is a good read, making early Colorado history come alive for me. I have visited Fort Uncompahgre several times and found it a fascinating journey into the past. I was also delighted to learn that a short story I wrote in which Antoine Robidoux makes an appearance has some basis in fact.

TIDBITS

On Jan. 19, 1836, Col. James Bowie arrived to investigate the military situation at the Alamo for Gov. Henry Smith and Gen. Sam Houston. On Feb. 8, former Congressman David (he intensely disliked Davy) Crockett arrived with 12 volunteers. On Feb. 23, Santa Ana began the siege that led to the fall of the Alamo on March 6.

Go to the Alamo Alamo 1836

Many of you might know about this site, but if you don't, head on over to www.ghosttowns.com. It has lots of info on ghosttowns from throughout the United States and Canada. Also has links, as well as books and other goods for sale.

ARTICLE

Once upon a time in southern Arizona, not far from the Bisbee copper mines, was a Slovak settlement. A few miners understood a little English and spoke less. They stayed by themselves. The men worked in the copper mines as they had in Slovakia. The women did what women do and made lace and embroideries to sell to the wives and daughters of rich cattle owners women in Tubac. Some children taunted them and called them the garden soil people as they ate their lunches on thick slabs of poppy seed rolls.

The year 1881 was the worst in Bisbee's history for freedom of belief. Every Slovak was almost killed after Christmas.

They did not make candies from hidden white precious sugar, put a Christmas tree in their main room or even rush to the church's tolling bell. People from Bisbee said they were Europeans from Satan and would make the mines worthless. Male Slovaks boarded up their homes. The women dug deep holes and hid whatever jewelry was left after they had sold most of it to pay for passage to the United States and buying covered wagons and provisions to come to this land of copper. What dreams of freedom! Now they had to fear their neighbors and at Christmas.

The Slovaks feared Jan. 6 and 7. They chose to follow their own calendar. Jan. 6 was Christmas Eve and Jan. 7 Christmas Day. On Christmas Eve the men went to town to pay their debts. One wagon drove to Tubac to pay off bills and sometimes one went as far as Tombstone to pay off gambling debts and buy special supplies. Many a young man hid in the hay of the wagon and listened to the noise inside the saloons. All were home by sundown.

The women were busy decorating the small wooden churches (some carried in quilts from Europe) and others made from stray sticks in Arizona. What a privilege to dress the baby Jesus.

At midnight, the Slovaks dressed in their finest and, carrying their wooden churches and singing Christmas carols, they marched to the Catholic adobe churches. This angered the people of Bisbee and many wanted to shoot the men and send the women and children home! How dare they desecrate their church. At the time the priest was wise and knew of the Greek and Russian Orthodox traditions. He saw similarities. He knew the Slovaks were Catholic but carried on the traditions of their parents so many miles away. He opened the church.

Guns rang out, people threw buckets of water and waste upon the people. The priest hurried them inside and calmly stood at the adobe door and told the people that the first Europeans had come to America for freedom of religion. These are not devil worshipers, he told the mob. They just use a different calendar.

"What? Christ was born on December 25th . . . any fool knows that," the town drunk screamed.

The people grew nastier. The adobe door opened a slit. A Slovak widow came out and opened her cape and threw some coins to the group. Then she yelled, "Ac'iba. Ac'iba."

The people fell back in fear. None reached for a coin. One old cowboy who had seen more of the United States and Mexico then most, stepped forward, asking, "You a gypsy, woman?"

"Aci'ba, Ac'iba," shouted the woman. Then she spoke in Slovak.

The people turned to the cowboy, who said, "In gypsy lingo aci'ba means git. Mostly they use it to the dogs whom hang around a campfire wanting food. She considers us dogs and to leave them alone to worship. If the priest lets them inside and they are carrying a manger, let them be."

After their service, the Slovaks left the church and raced home.

In each house the boys spread clean hay on the floor to represent the manager. The women cried as they had no traditional fish to fix. The girls brought a pail of fresh water and placed it under their parents' bed. As they grew older, they learned it represented the water of life or hopes a woman would be with child that night. The Blessing of God and Mary.

Since the townspeople were so cruel, they did not close their curtains but set out food on their table for all to see. The men who went to Tubac brought back smoked ribs and perhaps a smoked coyote or rabbit. Women carried out trays of belisi or pagace (flatbread stuffed with potatoes or cabbage) and fine pastries. What a joy if the men brought back prunes or cheese to stuff the pastries. Men from Tombstone brought out whiskey and it was heated. Toasts were drunk. Even the youngest child was allowed a thimbleful.

They sang Christmas carols in Slovak. One man who had a fiddle held it high. How he wished he had strings for it. He use to play in the cafes in Europe but had to leave. No one asked why. The children gathered the hay and put the tiniest bit of cabbage in it for the cattle so they produce healthy calves in the spring. Each chicken was given a pea or softened bean so they would always lay an egg.

The townspeople grew weary of watching these strange people but when they saw the manger scene held high on a shelf, they returned to their homes. Only the children wondered why no one received presents. They did not know that each child hoped in the morning there would be a sweet red and white candy cane in the stocking hung on the bed instead of a chunk of coal.

For years later on Christmas Eve at the adobe church in Bisbee, the priest always mentioned that to be an American meant tolerance of others. The Southwest was full of people who came for whatever reason and no one asked questions. If some wish to celebrate the birth of Christ in January, let them be. We are all Southwesterners here.

He always celebrated Mass for the Slovaks on Jan. 7, their Christmas Day.

WESTERN STORY

A cold January breeze swept across the desert and fluttered against the wide brim of Sheriff George Ruffner's hat. The cold air was ushering in the New Year of 1896 in Yavapai County, Arizona.

Ruffner sat on his drab gray horse, rolling a cigarette, when the freight wagon came into view on the Peach Spring Road. It was empty and headed for the Ridenour copper mine. Ruffner figured the wagon was on its way to pick up some copper ore to deliver to the refinery. The wagon rolled by near enough for Ruffner to get a good look at the driver. He was a big man, with wide shoulders and a bushy blonde mustache.

The man looked damn familiar. Ruffner glanced down at his hands as he rolled the cigarette paper tight around the tobacco. He ran his tongue over the edge to seal it then stuck it into his mouth. His mind raced over the wanted notices that had came into his office that morning and he looked back at the driver to watch him crack the whip expertly over the heads of the six-mule team. If Ruffner was right, that driver was James Boone, who was wanted for murder in Nevada.

James Boone was a 41-year-old originally from West Virginia. He had worked as a railroad engineer until he headed west to invest in his own small cattle ranch in Tule Canyon, Nevada. Boone would take on odd jobs for extra money and frequently drove the freight wagon for Antone Bacoch, who owned a silver mine. The last load he hauled, Bacoch had neglected to pay Boone and it didn't set well. Boone had an intensifying anger against the Yugoslavian immigrant he needed that money to pay the balance due on the six cows he had bought.

One August afternoon in 1895, in Robinson's mercantile store, Boone was sitting on an old wood crate with his leg crossed, sharpening his Bowie knife over his boot. He spat on the pocket stone and whirled the blade around in quick semicircular motions.

"How come you're always sharpening that knife?" Robinson asked.

"It's handy to have a sharp knife," Boone answered. He worked the blade over the stone, then eyed the edge. "That damned Bacoch been in here?"

"Ain't seen him," Robinson said.

"They should take all them foreigners and ship them back to where they come from," Boone said.

Robertson laughed. "Hell, that would mean shipping out everybody in this country."

Boone continued to swirl the knife across the stone. He dropped his leg to the floor and pocketed the stone when Antone Bacoch walked into the store. "Hey, you dumb Slav," Boone yelled. He got to his feet holding the knife at his side.

"Watch such language," Bacoch complained.

"I want that money you owe me."

"Tomorrow. I pay you tomorrow."

"You dirty Slav. You pay me now." Boone blocked Bacoch's way as he tried to walk to the store counter. Bacoch swung a fist at the side of Boone's head and shoved him hard. Boone staggered backward into Robinson's living quarters. He sprawled across the bunk there with Bacoch diving across him. The men struggled as Robinson hollered for them to stop.

Bacoch's large hand grabbed Boone's throat, and Boone thrust his knife into Bacoch's chest, striking him over and over until the man fell away from him. There was blood all over the bunk and the floor. Boone stepped over Bacoch and ran out of the store. He saddled Robinson's horse and disappeared.

Sheriff William Ingalls of Esmeralda County, Nevada, was informed of the killing. He investigated the body and found that 22 stab wounds had ended Antone Bacoch's life. Ingalls assigned Deputy Sam Wasson to take charge of the manhunt. Sam hired several Indian trackers, including a Paiute named Shakespeare who was known to be one of the best to pick up a trail of a wanted man. When Shakespeare reported to Sam that he could not find the tracks of the man, Sam dropped the hunt.

"If Shakespeare can't find his trail, nobody can," Wasson told the sheriff. "That man is gone for good."

Sheriff Ingalls wasn't satisfied. He hired Jack Longstreet, a frontier man with some acclaim of "getting his man." It was also known that Longstreet never brought in a man alive. He was more than willing to hit the trail after Boone.

Boone had reached Stump Springs on the southwest rim of the Pahrump Valley in Nevada. Somehow, he had heard that Longstreet was after him and he knew he had to get as far away as possible. He swam the horse across the Colorado River and kept moving into the Arizona territory. Boone kept a hard eye on the scenery until he was satisfied there was no hot pursuit. He found a job hauling ore and lived in a small shack in Yavapai County.

The Arizona Sheriff, George Ruffner, had been looking for horse thieves in the desert when he spotted Boone. With the bushy blonde mustache and his stature, Boone fit the description of the man on the wanted notice. Ruffner was sure it was the wanted man. The only thing now was how to trap him and bring him in. He didn't want to scare the man into running. Thinking as he smoked the cigarette down to its last, he got an idea. He turned his gray horse toward a ranch a few miles away. He borrowed a wagon and a team and rolled to the entrance of the Ridenour mine.

"Howdy," Ruffner said to one of the men who was getting the wagons ready for the trip to the refinery. "I'm a butcher looking for mutton. Can I ride along with you boys?"

"Sure, hitch up to the last wagon. You can ride up front with me."

Sometimes things go along better than a man could ask for. Ruffner nodded at Boone as he passed his wagon. He crawled up beside the driver of the lead wagon and they headed out.

After several miles, Ruffner told the driver who he was and that he was after the man in the rear wagon.

"That man always travels with a Winchester under the seat of his wagon," the driver warned.

"Tell ya what," Ruffner said. "You stop and pretend to grease your wheels and I'll take care of everything else."

The driver did as Ruffner suggested and Boone's wagon creaked to a halt. Boone climbed down and walked up to Ruffner and the driver.

"What ya stoppin' for?" Boone asked.

"Right now I'm stoppin' to arrest you, James Boone," Ruffner said as he aimed his pistol at Boone's chest.

But Ruffner's victory of returning the prisoner to Nevada was blown away in the wind. James Boone's lawyer got an acquittal on self-defense grounds. Boone walked away from the courthouse a free man.

Longstreet had looked forward to adding another notch to his pistol, but when Sheriff Ingalls got a message to Longstreet, he shrugged and said simply, "No thanks. Some men just plain have a lucky streak 'round their neck."

IN MEMORY . . .

The tall, slender man mounted the white horse and rode away to a knoll. He turned the horse and it reared, forelegs pawing the air. He swung his white hat into the air, revealing the black mask he wore. His voice roared like thunder as he yelled, "Hi-yo, Silver!" Then they turned and raced off into the sunset.

Clayton Moore, known to all as the Lone Ranger, died of a heart attack at the age of 85 on Dec. 28, 1999. He died at the West Hills hospital in West Hills, Calif. The end of a century marked the end of one of the most beloved western TV and movie heroes.

All who watched the TV series on ABC from 1949 to 1957 remember the William Tell overture pulsing from the TV, and the hearty call of "Hi-yo, Silver!" The two brought everyone (even Mom and Dad) to the television for the half-hour series to watch evil destroyed by "truth, justice and the American way."

Jack Moore was born on Sept. 14, 1914. He changed his first name to Clayton for acting purposes. He was an acrobat doing several performances before he went to New York City to do modeling. Then he moved to Hollywood to pursue his acting dream. When he accepted the role of the Lone Ranger, he said he felt he became that character and didn't want any other acting positions. He did 221 half-hour shows from 1949 to 1957. (There was, of course, a two-year gap in there, when John Hart portrayed the Lone Ranger while Moore was in the midst of a contract dispute with the studio.)

In 1979, the Wrather Corp., owner of the name of the Lone Ranger character, decided to hire a younger man, Klinton Spilsbury to act in a new film, The Legend of the Lone Ranger. Clayton Moore fought this change and the Wrather Corp. had to get a court restraining order against Moore to strip him not only of the identity but of the black mask as well.

Moore, however, continued to wear the Lone Ranger costume, replacing the mask with wraparound sunglasses, appealing to the public for what he believed was his right. He won plenty of public sympathy, and in 1984, the court gave Moore back the right of being the sole Lone Ranger. Once more, he donned the mask. Clayton Moore would forever be THE LONE RANGER.

As a side note, The Legend of the Lone Ranger was an utter and total flop, and no one has ever heard of Klinton Spilsbury again.

Jay Silverheels, the Mohawk who played the Lone Ranger's faithful Indian companion, Tonto, died in March 1980.

We will always remember those opening words:

"A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty cry of, 'Hi-yo, Silver.' "

Well, folks, that's it for another issue. Hope ya'll enjoyed it. Keep yer noses in the wind! See ya next month.

Jack and Marge