Paul Colt's Blog, page 56

It’s Christmas. Time to pause what we are doing, including these posts, and reflect on the blessings of this past year. I’s time to gather with family and friends and celebrate all we bring to each other. In the press of daily life it is easy to get lost in the pursuit of our wants and needs. It’s easy to lose sight of all we have. Let’s take a moment to give thanks. Share a blessing with someone who needs one. And have a very Merry Christmas.

Ride easy,
Paul

This is the third value in my summary cowboy code; or code of the west. Cowboys play by the rules. They don’t cheat or cut corners even when others do.

Today media and popular culture bombard us with examples of people looking out for number one by trying to get an edge. Behaviors run the gamut from athletes using performance enhancing drugs, to inside-traders cheating the market on Wall Street, to fraudulent marketing scams and cheating on exams. Those who engage in these behaviors excuse them in the misguided belief: The end somehow justifies the means. The idea that a person is responsible for self-discipline in abiding by rules seems idealistic and naive. Rules are made to be broken. Fair play is for losers. Nice guys finish last.

Once again we find the need to ask; where do our young people learn the value of playing by the rules? Their heroes tend to be those society holds up to celebrity. Who are the heroes they are given to admire as persons of integrity? Maybe we should make sure a bit of the cowboy code rubs off on them by helping them find heroes whose integrity they can admire. Maybe it’s a teacher. Maybe it’s a coach. Maybe it’s you. Integrity is its own reward, if you practice it.

The first three values in my cowboy code describe a person of integrity. You can find people of integrity in our culture today; but you have to look for them. Few of them are stars or popular idols. Those who are enjoy their celebrity from some other achievement in athletics, entertainment or professional excellence. Integrity is incidental to celebrity. We don’t celebrate integrity in ordinary walks of life, it’s expected. When it comes to human behavior, reward something and you get more of it. Ignore something and it’s not important.

Popular culture comes and popular culture goes, but the cowboy way of doing things never goes out of style. There’s a little cowboy in all of us.
The cowboy code helps us show it.

1. Cowboys are Truthful and Honest
2. A Cowboy’s Word is a Bond
3. Cowboys Play by the Rules

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

This is the second value in my summary cowboy code; or code of the west. A Cowboy’s word is a bond. They say what they mean and they mean what they say. They don’t say one thing and do another.

A Cowboy’s word is a bond. Think about that in the context of today’s culture. How often do we look up to our idols, icons and leaders only to find they say one thing and do another? It is yet another form of cultural deceit. ‘I tell you what I think I should; or what I think you want to hear’; but that doesn’t necessarily translate into what I do. Until I get caught. If I get caught, I apologize, cry, plead forgiveness, I made a mistake. The mistake of course is getting caught.

We see this sort of behavior time and again from celebrities, politicians, athletes and all manner of media figures. What are young people learning from idols, icons and leaders who engage in such behavior? Words don’t matter? Deceit and hypocrisy are acceptable as long as you get away with it? Where are the heroes who say what they mean and mean what they say? Where do we find stand-up role models who look you in the eye, shake your hand and give you a word you can take to the bank? Imagine a world with a little more of that. We’d all be better off . . . well maybe not the trial lawyers.

Instinctively we still admire that brand of heroism we call trustworthiness when we encounter it. We just don’t encounter it as often as we once did. Neither do our young people. Where do they learn the value of making their word matter? Maybe we should let a bit of the cowboy code rub off on them by making our word a bond.

Popular culture comes and popular culture goes, but the cowboy way of doing things never goes out of style. There’s a little cowboy in all of us. The cowboy code helps us show it.

1. Cowboys are Truthful and Honest
2. A Cowboy’s Word is a Bond

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

Cowboys are honest. They tell the truth. This is the first value in my attempt to summarize a collection of behavioral values collectively referred to as a cowboy code; or code of the west.

Truthfulness is basic to honesty, yet we live in a society where truthfulness is often in short supply. It almost seems we have institutionalized deceit in our culture. From the highest offices in the land to our mass media and social media, lying is an accepted form of discourse. If there is no penalty for lying what does that say about the value of honesty in our society? To an impressionable observer like a young person, it appears honesty is for suckers.

How are young people to learn the value of honesty when pop-culture and political correctness condone parsing, shading, spinning, twisting or ignoring the truth? It starts with parents who expect kids to tell the truth and have the courage to expose deceit wherever they find it.

It helps if kids have heroes and role-models who reinforce the value of honesty. For many of us who grew up in the fifties and sixties our heroes were cowboys. They practiced a code of conduct that became quintessentially American. We revered and respected heroes who stood for honorable values. Who are the heroes our young people look up to today? Rock stars? Super star athletes? Cartoon characters? Video game actors? What code of conduct do these heroes stand for? Chances are when you catalog a kid’s heroes today, you won’t find a cowboy among them.

Popular culture comes and popular culture goes, but the cowboy way of doing things never goes out of style. There’s a little cowboy in all of us. The cowboy code helps us find it.

1. Cowboys are Truthful and Honest.

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

Two years ago I was asked to address the graduating class of a program for at-risk middle school age kids. The program taught the kids life lessons built around learning equine skills and studying the cowboy code; or code of the west as some call it. The program director thought being a western writer qualified me to talk about the cowboy code. Little did she know . . . actually, little did I know. Oh I knew about the cowboy code; or I thought I did, so I agreed.

I started organizing my thoughts, as historical fiction writers do, with a little research. Imagine my surprise when I discovered there isn’t one cowboy code, there are lots of them. Like many of you, growing up my heroes rode horses. They had names like Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, Lone Ranger and many more. It turns out many of those heroes had their own version of the cowboy code; and that was just for starters. The more I looked, the more codes I found.

Each code comprised a list of ten things that made up a cowboy way of doing things. While they had similarities, they were all different. That bothered me at first. How can you have a different code for every cowboy and still call it a cowboy code? It had to be the similarities. The similarities must be the code individuals live, each in their own way.

Ten things also struck me as a lot. Surely you could summarize the common elements in the various lists to come up with some more economical number than ten. I took six of the codes and lined them up side by side. The common elements in the six codes summarized into . . . ten things that make up a cowboy way of doing things. So much for economy. Moses ended up with ten too. I guess they’re all important.

The cowboy way of doing things offers all of us life lessons we can use to navigate the cultural turbulence we live in today. You don’t have to be a cowboy to benefit from the cowboy code. Those who learn the code and live it find there’s a little bit of cowboy in all of us. Cowboys aren’t defined by boots and hats, or horses and cattle. The things that make a cowboy come from the heart. With that in mind let’s use this next series of posts to look at the elements that make up a cowboy way of doing things. If you’ve got a young person you’d like to share these reflections with, feel free. They don’t have to be at-risk kids to benefit from positive life lessons.

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

In researching Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory, my family gave me the chance to check one off my bucket list and go up in a biplane. Talk about awesome. That’s flying. You might ask what that has to do with a book about the last United States cavalry campaign. The Punitive Expedition pursued Pancho Villa into Mexico following his raid on Columbus New Mexico. It marked the passing of the storied American horse soldier into the pages of history on the eve of World War I. It also provided the first combat mission for a fledgling American air service. Let’s take a ride.

Columbus New Mexico
March 27th 1916
1500 Hours

Captain Benjamin Foulois tested the column tension on the Curtiss JN-3 controls. He nudged the wheel forward, watching the flaps come down. He eased the column back. The flaps returned to level and continued to lift. Left rudder, right rudder the wheel turned smoothly. He eased himself out of the front cockpit onto the fuselage frame.

“She’s ready, Ted.” He gave the mechanic a thumbs-up. He glanced at the barracks to his right. A man jogged his way holding a yellow sheet, unmistakable for a telegram.

“Telegram for Captain Foulois.”
Ted gestured to the cockpit.

Foulois swung his leg over the side, found the iron stirrup and stepped down. He took the telegram, tore it open and read. His chiseled rock jaw broke into a gleaming white smile.

“Thank you, Corporal. Ted, get these birds ready. We take off within the hour.” He hurried up the road to the barracks and dashed up the steps two at a time. “All right, fly boys, this is it. Roll your asses out of bed. We’re going to Mexico. We take off in an hour.”

“Where we headed, Captain?” Lieutenant Herbert Dargue led First Aero Flight Group Two. A darkly handsome New Yorker, he had a quick wit and a devil may care attitude that belied a thoughtful second nature.

“Colonia Dublán.”

Dargue looked at his watch, puzzled. “Don’t you think it’s a bit late, sir? We’ll never get that far before dark.”

“We might make it. Let’s show the General what the First can do.”

Dargue shook his head as the barracks exploded in frenzied activity. Pilots and co-pilots scrambled into their flight gear. Mechanics and ground crew hurried down the stairs and ran for the planes. Sixty-five minutes later seven of the eight Jennies idled smoothly in their blocks beside Deming Road.

Foulois sat in the forward cockpit of his Jennie buffeted by prop wash. He looked down the row of aero planes at the thick carpet of dust streaming behind them. He made goggled eye contact with each pilot. One by one they gave him a gauntleted thumbs-up signal. He turned to Ted and nodded. The mechanic pulled the chocks out from under the carriage wheels and ducked under the bottom wing.

The Jennie rolled onto the road. Foulois swung the tail around pointing the nose south. He jammed the throttle to the floor, beginning his takeoff roll. The second Jennie taxied into position behind him. JN Alpha rolled down the road, picking up speed. The tail lifted at takeoff speed. He eased the column back. The nose came up as she rotated airborne. The ground fell away. She climbed like a sleek grey goose set against soft white puff balls in the late afternoon sky. He banked a lazy wide circle over Columbus. The burnt shell of the Commercial Hotel reminded him of the reason the First Aero Squadron had this chance to prove itself.

Below workers busily disposing of debris or rebuilding the damage stopped what they were doing to look skyward. People came out of houses and stores drawn by the throaty rumble of powerful engines filling the sky. One by one the great grey birds lifted off Deming Road to circle the town. The display of U.S. military might was a breathtaking sight. The townsfolk looked on, satisfied Villa and his bandits had no idea what a hornet’s nest they’d stirred by their foolhardy attack on Columbus. Well, they’d know soon enough.

Foulois watched his birds fall into formation, two flights of four minus one. The mechanics would deal with the engine problem on Flight Group Two JN Delta. Mechanical failure was a fact of aviation life. Regrettable, but he couldn’t wait. He completed his circle. He pointed the nose of his ship at the southern horizon and crossed into Mexico.
The Jennies leveled off at four thousand feet and settled in at a comfortable cruising speed of sixty miles an hour. A mottled carpet of sand, sage and scrub passed below. Mountains smudged the horizons to the west and southeast. Little else disturbed the barren landscape. Foulois let his mind play ahead. Out here, a column of cavalry would stand out for miles from the air. The mountains might be a different matter. Mountains had air currents that would test an aviator’s skill. They didn’t have a training manual for that, just instinct, reaction and a bit of luck.

The Book is called Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

For all his killing, rustling and other crimes, the only thing Billy the Kid wanted once the Lincoln County War was over, was a pardon. That’s right, a pardon. Most everyone involved in the war got one from Governor Lew Wallace. Everyone except the Kid. Billy could never get his head around the fact he was singled out. So he kept trying.

White Oaks

It wasn’t much as law practices go, even by frontier standards. A tent for an office, a practice that handled the routine work of helping miners secure their claims. Once the field played out, the work would too. But for the time being the clientele paid in gold and that kept Ira Leonard in whiskey, tobacco and vittles. Apart from soiled linen and a halfhearted attempt at a tie, his scruffy unkempt appearance had more in common with his clients than a barrister at law. This afternoon like most, he dozed on his cot wrapped in a blanket still a bit fuzzy from the prior evening’s consumption. Somewhere nearby boots crunched dry scrabble close enough to rise above the wind. Somebody tapped the tent pole, setting the canvas off in an annoying flap.

“S’cuse me, Mr. Leonard.”

He cracked a red-rimmed eye. The kid had a dull-looking gap-toothed grin, sloped shoulders and an utterly disreputable appearance, nearly the equal of his own, should he get out of bed, which he had little intention to do.

“I’m in need of a little lawyerin’.”

“What the hell, can’t you see I’m busy here?”

“I can pay.”

“Course you can. Your claim won’t get up and walk away. Come back later.”

“I don’t got a claim. I need help with a letter.”

“A letter?” He propped himself on one elbow and blinked against the offending sunlight. “What sort of letter?”

“A letter to Governor Wallace.”

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He discovered himself awake in spite of his best intentions. Damn it. Well at least it wasn’t another damn claim filing. He belched, relieving a measure of last night’s dyspepsia. “What do you want with the governor, boy?”

“A pardon, old man. Now are you gonna help me or not?”

“A pardon?” He sat on the edge of the cot and shook his head to clear it. At least this interruption made for more interest than his run-of-the-mill inconveniences. What do you need a pardon for?”

“Murder.”

He pulled a sour expression. “You guilty?”

“If I wasn’t, what the hell would I need a pardon for?”

“Honest felon, I like that. What’s your name, son?”

“William Bonney.”

“Billy the Kid.”

“Some call me that.”

“You’re askin’ for one hell of a letter.”

“Ain’t that why lawyers get paid? Now you gonna lawyer me or not?”

Leonard scratched the stubble on his chin. He shrugged. “Hell, it’s only pen and ink. You think Governor Wallace will pay any heed?”

“He owes me a pardon. He promised one if I testified again’ Jimmy Dolan.”

“As I recall that case, you never testified.”

“No, but I would have.”

“Well there you have it. That should make all the difference a man could imagine. Why do you need a lawyer to write your letter?”

He shook his head. “I tried writin’ him a couple of times. I didn’t get no pardon. Everyone else what fought in the war got pardoned. Why not me? I got one comin’. Maybe you can find the words to convince him.”

He scratched his head again, squinted at the Kid, grimaced and twisted up the gumption to stand. “All right, I’ll try, but no guarantees.”

The Kid smiled crooked.

Leonard stumbled out of the tent. He pulled a chair up to a camp desk set under a canvas top, drew a sheet of paper from a leather case and dipped a pen in an ink pot. “Have a seat.” He pointed to a second chair. “I need the particulars. Who’d you kill?”

“Sheriff William Brady.”

He arched a bushy brow over a watery red eye. “This story gets better by the minute.” He scratched a note.

“Him and Buckshot Roberts.”

“A double murder.” He made another note.

“Nah, there was others. I just ain’t been charged with none of them.”

“I see. Well at least we have that to be grateful for. And why is it that, in your opinion, you deserve to be pardoned?”

“Like I told you, everyone else was.”

“Yes, I recall that now. Any other pertinent facts I should consider?”

“Yeah, the governor promised me a pardon.”

“In the matter of your testimony that didn’t happen.”

“That’s right.”

Leonard scratched the bristles on his chin. He shook his head. “Don’t know as that helps the case.”

“Hell’s bells, t’wouldn’t a made no difference. You know Dolan got off.”

“Ah yes, I’d forgotten that subtlety. No chance the prosecutor might see that differently.”

“Huh?”

He waved the question aside with his pen. “Nothing. Anything else?”

The Kid thought a moment. “Nope, that’s about it.”

“Come back tomorrow.”

Billy liked the legal letter. It had plenty of to wits and wherefores. He paid Ira Leonard twenty dollars for it. Governor Wallace tore it up.
The Book is called A Question of Bounty: The Shadow of Doubt

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

You might not recognize this historical figure by his given name. He came from humble circumstances, yet he found a way to step out of obscurity and poke the United State government in the eye. He did it with an audacity that brought us to the brink of war at a time when war was the last thing this country was prepared for.

Carrizal, Mexico
November 14, 1913

Doroteo Arango stood beside Sergeant Luca seated at the telegraph key. He waited impatiently for a reply. Waiting annoyed him. The head-shot body of the station master lay in a corner of the small passenger lounge, a pool of fresh blood spread around the faceless body. Outside the cramped depot, a heavily laden supply train waited for orders. The engine idled, a thin column of smoke drifted on a light breeze. His troops strung out along the line of boxcars prepared to board. His message to the federal commander at Cuidad Juárez informed him the telegraph lines to Chihuahua had been cut. The report suggested Chihuahua may be under rebel attack. Arango expected the commander would recall the Chihuahua supply train. No point in adding spoils to the rebel prize, eh?

Born June 6, 1878 to an indigent sharecropper on one of the largest haciendas in Durango, Arango was the eldest of five children. He received no formal education. From an early age he worked the Patron’s estate to support his family. At age sixteen an incident occurred that would change his life. The Overseer of the estate made an advance on the virtue of his younger sister. Enraged, Doroteo shot him. The boy escaped with his life by fleeing into the mountains. There he became an outlaw. A career that began with petty thievery grew in audacity and plunder. He found that by sharing the spoils with the poor, the people would protect him. He cultivated the reputation of a Robin Hood, taking from the rich and giving to the poor that which he did not keep for himself. The affection of the people naturally drew him to the revolutionary causes of land reform and social justice.

He supported the reforms of Francisco Madero’s revolution. The Revolution thrust him into a position of leadership for his fearless daring. Madero’s assassination angered him deeply. Huerta’s treachery marked a return to the injustices inflicted on the people by the Diaz government. He’d thrown his support and his troops behind the self-proclaimed rebel First Chief, Venustiano Carranza. They’d overthrown Diaz. Now they would remove Huerta. The supply train made a good start to equip and provision his growing army. A good start, but he needed more, much more. He needed the prize in Cuidad Juárez.

The day grew warm, the small depot hot and stuffy. The telegraph key remained maddeningly silent amid the flies buzzing about the pool of blood. Waiting annoyed him nearly as much as disloyalty. The disloyal he could shoot. Waiting would not yield to a bullet. He hunched his sloped shoulders, clasped his hands behind his thick middle and began to pace. At thirty-two, the humble Arango had transformed himself from audacious bandit to charismatic rebel leader, a champion of the oppressed. He had dark skin, wavy black hair, a thick moustache and strong jaw. His eyes defined him best. Dark brown, they possessed the hypnotic quality of a snake, a hair’s breadth from a violent spark. He wore a rumpled khaki uniform and dusty wide brimmed sombrero. Bandoliers crisscrossed his chest. He wore a Colt revolver on his hip, a gun he used with the speed and accuracy of a fabled gunfighter. He could be affable and charming one minute and deadly murderous the next. He demanded respect born of traditional Mexican machismo. He prized loyalty in his men. He favored sweets, ice cream, soda, beautiful women and fine horses. An expert horseman, some called him Centaur of the North, others called him el Tigre or the Jaguar. All regarded him as mercurial and dangerous.

At last the line chattered to life. Sergeant Luca scratched the characters with a pencil as the message came in.

“What does he say?” Arango could not hold his impatience.

“Return to Juárez.”

A slow smile lifted the corners of his moustache. He stomped out to the depot platform, his riding boots thumping the rough wooden planks.

“Mount the train.” The order echoed up the tracks. He turned to the young officer awaiting his instructions. “Tell the engineer, we return to Juárez.”

On November 15th the bandit Arango, better known as the rebel leader Francisco Pancho Villa and his Divisíon del Norte rolled into an unsuspecting Cuidad Juárez. They captured the city without firing a shot.

The Book is called Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

Some who challenge the notion Billy the Kid may have survived Pat Garrett’s claimed killing, do so on the belief a notorious outlaw like the Kid couldn’t simply go straight. Common sense does seem stacked against the possibility. But if you got close enough to a hangman’s noose to smell the hemp, you just might grow up.

April 17, 1881

The campfire snapped and popped sending showers of sparks into a cold black sky. Bell and Olinger sat beside the fire with plates of hardtack, jerky and beans. The circle of firelight illuminated the wagon beyond the comfort of its warmth. Billy huddled on a bench, cast in orange and black shadow bars. He shivered with the cold. The beans had gone cold on his tin plate by the second forkful.

“Hey J. W., its cold out here. How about lettin’ me sit by the fire some?”

Bell glanced at Olinger. “He’s all chained up, Bob. Don’t seem like it’d do any harm.”

Olinger scowled. “Get used to it, Kid. The only place you’re goin’ is to a cold grave. The next heat you see is likely to be in hell.”

“Com’on, Bob,” Bell said.

“Let him be.” He turned toward the wagon. “You ever seen a hangin’, Kid?”

No answer.

“Too bad if you haven’t. It’d give you something to think about besides bein’ cold. Me, I seen quite a few back in Fort Smith. The first thing the good people of Lincoln have to do is build you a gallows. One with a trap door that breaks clean. You cain’t have a good hangin’ without a clean drop. In Fort Smith they did enough hangin’s, they had a permanent gallows. You always got a clean drop on that gallows. They had good hangmen too. No substitute for experience when it comes to a good hangin’. Those boys knew how to tie that noose proper. They knew where to put that big old knot for the best chance to break your neck. That’s a good hangin’, when they break your neck. If I was you I’d be most worried about the hangman. Don’t expect they got that much experience up in Lincoln.”

“All right, Bob, ain’t that about enough?”

“Shut up, J. W. I’m just givin’ the boy there somethin’ to think about. It’ll take his mind off the cold. Yeah, Kid, I’d be worried about gettin’ a good hangin’ in Lincoln. You don’t see many bad hangin’s in Fort Smith, but I heard about a few. See if your neck don’t break, you choke to death. A lot of swingin’ and kickin’ goes into that. You piss your pants. Your face gets uglier than ordinary. The hood mostly hides that, but it must not feel too good. Sure looks ugly, though. Course that ain’t the worst hangin’. A real bad one can take your head off. Imagine that. The body falls through the trapdoor. So does the head, unless a course it lands on the scaffold. Then it just sort a rolls around there, spillin’ blood all over. The noose just swings. Yup a bad hangin’ is what I’d worry about. Some inexperienced hangman don’t know how to do it proper. That’d worry me.”

“Go to hell, Olinger.”

“Maybe someday, Kid, but you’ll be there long before me. Sleep well.”

The Book is A Question of Bounty: The Shadow of Doubt

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul

Did you know the United States Army M-1913 saber was designed by the army’s first Saber Master? Probably not. Most people have no reason to know that; but I bet you’ll recognize the Saber Master. Don’t think so? How about George S. Patton? Yup. Check it out.

Cavalry School
Saumur, France
August, 1913
Steel clashed, the ringing punctuated by grunts and the slap of boot leather on the polished wooden floor. Afternoon sun spilled through high arched windows warming the exertions of the sparring partners. Spears of reflected light flashed from arcing blades. Softer rays diffused to a tawny glow on rich oiled wood. The swordsmen circled warily, searching for an opening- feint, stroke, stroke, thrust, counter clash.

A distinguished white haired gentleman with a crisply trimmed goatee clapped his hands impatiently. “Monsieur Patton, where is your parry? You must parry. A counter stroke does not constitute defense!”

Patton welcomed the break. Sweat soaked his padded tunic. He lifted his mask to the top of his head and wiped sweat from his eyes. “I find little opportunity for victory in defense, Monsieur Clery.” He inclined his head in the direction of his opponent. “To give a man of Monsieur Giraude’s skill the opportunity to organize his attack is to invite disaster. I prefer to carry the attack to my opponent. Let him take defensive action. I shall grant him no quarter.” He punctuated the statement with a wide toothy grin.

“Aggression suits your nature Lieutenant, but you’ve come here to become a Master of the Sword not to indulge your personality disorder. To truly master the sword you must be a complete swordsman. You simply must have a defense. One never knows when one’s life may depend on it.”

“The man who relies on defense in combat is already dead. The only matters in question are the timing and circumstance.”

Clery chuckled. “The brash exuberance of youth. Monsieur Giraude, if you would please give the good Lieutenant here an opportunity to learn some defense. Monsieur Patton, you will parry. En garde!”

Patton hated defense. He put his usual meticulous effort to the task for the good of the goal. He would be the army’s first Saber Master. Once the goal was achieved, defense would be a condition he visited on his adversaries.

Want more? The Book is called Boots and Saddles: A Call to Glory

https://www.amazon.com/author/paulcolt

Ride easy,
Paul