Tuesday, February 14, 2017

LEGENDS OF THE WEIRD WEST: Queho, The Mad Mystic

   Ain’t nobody really knows ol’ Queho. Who he was or what he was truly about. He lived, that’s all anyone’s for sure on. But was he the psycho Indian savage they say? Or just some mysterious hermit or bank robber or rampaging fugitive from justice?
   All of ‘em or none, the Weird West doesn’t care. It takes ‘em as they come and they rarely come stranger'n Queho.
   He was born around 1880 and by the time he died, he had the title of first mass murderer in Nevada. Called him 'The Mad Indian.' There’s no iron-clad evidence for any murders, but why split hairs? Man was a half-breed, and folks all knew what them was like. White folks, anyway.
   His pa was a miner maybe or coulda been a soldier. Brave from a rival tribe? Maybe that, too. His ma, most are sure on, was a member of the Cocopah tribe.  
   Maybe. It’s all gonna be maybes, here. A thing like Queho, I’m not sure we want to know for sure the world had him around. If he did exist like they say, well, give him time. Being dead’s not like to inconvenience him for long.
   He was raised up like any lad, in the beginning. Lived on a reservation out Vegas Way. Did a little ranch work, some house labor. Moody little cuss, they say. Real pissy. Made himself an easy target with a temper like that.
   It’s said he killed his own half-brother in a spat and that started off the whole legend. Some day otherwise. Killed a policeman, a town elder, they say it all. Records we have don’t show any trouble with the law, for sure, until 1910. Got in a scrape with fellow tribal and did him in. Killed two more making his escape.
   So they say.
   They say too, he headed for the El Dorado Mountains. Stopped for supplies on the way, busted up a shopkeeper while robbing his store. Beat him near to death with an axe handle. Some say pick handle. Some say bare handed. Got himself a woodchopper after that. Killed him with a piece of his own timber. Some say shot. Some say stabbed a hundred times and one.
   Posse went after the sumbitch, tracked him to a gold mine. Dead watchman, shot in the back. Maybe stabbed. Maybe hung with his own guts. His badge was gone, they’re sure of that. No. 896. Posse ranged out for 200 miles in search, but came up empty. Spent months on his trail, but by February 1911, called it quits.
   It didn’t stop folks from talkin'. Things went lips to ear to pen to paper and slow and sure, a Weird West legend was born. He was insane, he was possessed, he was wronged, he was smoke and mirrors. Police couldn’t solve their crimes, sure as hell no Indian crimes, so they’d cooked up a patsy. 
   They say.
   Patsy nothin’, come the reply. Who else could possibly be responsible for all them cattle thefts, kidnappings and unsolved murders out here? No man could do all that by himself! Not unless he was the Devil come to life!
   And it just so happened, that’s what Queho was. So they say.
   In the years to come there was the blind man, the miners, the schoolteacher, all dead. The lawman, the rancher and Indian after Indian. All dead. All Queho. Children by the passel. Ate up, mutilated, shot up and stabbed. Parents'd tell their kids: “Straighten up, or Queho’s comin’ for ya!”.
   Years would go between sightings, but soon as a body showed up and no one standing over it covered in blood, it was Queho. Maude Douglas was found outside her cabin in 1919, blasted through with a shotgun. Young boy in her care said the husband did it, but that wasn’t quite possible, what with the Mad Indian’s ‘distinctive footprints’ all over the scene.
   Had a club foot, they say. Made him real easy to track. Strange how they never found him as a result, but that was likely due to his special powers. Mystical powers, they say. Queho would curse the land in his wake and made it treacherous for bounty killers to follow. For anyone to follow. 'The  Curse of Queho' was real enough, even if it was only words. Folks believed, and that was enough.
   Believed too, his life was worth a $3,000 reward. Up from a grand not long before, but after Mrs. Douglas, enough was enough. Police put down some dough, some private citizens, anything that’d help bring that monster to justice.
   A new posse come together then and set out to bring him in. Tracked Queho from the Douglas place into the Muddy Mountains. Through freezing rain and snow, they rode on for two hard months. Found two more bodies, too. Freshly mutilated. The work of Queho. Then two more, but gone down to bones. A pair of miners, lost years before. The work of Queho again.
   On they rode, but no Queho. They rode home, the glowing red eyes of Queho blazing into their backs from his mountain hideaway. Most likely.
   Last time anyone saw the man he was strolling down Fremont Street in Vegas in 1930. By the time police arrived, he was gone.
   Did they find him at last in 1940, digging up some old mine near the Colorado River? They seemed to think so, as the bones had a badge No. 896 right beside ‘em. Shotgun shells too, very same used on Maude Douglas. Of course, couldn’t bury the man right away. Brutal creature like that, no. So he was carted around like Elmer McCurdy himself and ended up in the Vegas Elks’ Club.
   Ol' Queho became the main attraction at the Elks 'Helldorado' celebrations for years after. Even rode in a convertible once, for one of the parades. Times went and changed though and come January 1962, the club wouldn’t have their reputation tarnished by such a garish display. So, off ol’ Queho went, into the local landfill.
   After that he ended up in some private collections, then the museum at the University of Nevada. 1975, a lawyer named Wiley stuck his nose in and got the man dug in proper. He’s at Cathedral Canyon now, out in his home state.
   So they say.
   Might be worth a look if you’re ever out that way.
   Maybe.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

MYTHS OF THE WEIRD WEST: The Devil in the Desert

Charles Skinner’s tale of The Death Waltz is a fine one and don’t need much in the way of improvement. It’s a bit short though, so if anything, I just wanted to tell ‘more’ of it.
So I did.

As always, a click right here brings you to Myths & Legends of Our Own Land, his collection of stories available as a free ebook over on the Project Gutenberg site.

   The years after the Civil War saw the country still smoldering top and bottom for its grand campaign while the western frontier sat unclaimed. Forts dotted it, lantern-lit bastions across the dark desert, but this was no world of men. These were pretenders to civilization, forever locked against the savage Indians eager for war and revenge. Their work was hot and bloody and death waited for each man riding out to clash with those fearsome foes.
   To even pretend toward refinement and society in such a place was foolishness, though there was little else to keep their black notions at bay. Fear for loved ones in battle, worry over a sudden Indian attack, at times just the silence of that unknowable desert, could overwhelm even the staunchest soul.
   So they danced among themselves and held boisterous dinners and played at cards and games. They were little towns unto themselves, these forts and Fort Union was no different. There in the badlands of the New Mexico Territory it laughed and ate and smiled and tried to forget why it was there. And what might happen if it wasn’t.
   Among the young ladies of this particular military station, there was a certain sister-in-law of a captain, who very much embraced the spice of life such a place had to offer. She was very comely so enjoyed too, the courtly attention of many young officers and soldiers there.
   There was a lieutenant in particular, who was especially vulnerable to her charms and devoted himself utterly to her heart in the hopes her hand might follow. His depth of understanding in such matters however, was limited. Her shy glances concealed no longing but rather, boredom. Her joyful laughter at his wit was only for the awkwardness of his delivery. When she touched him on the arm or shoulder, it was for the benefit of other men casting their envious, sidelong glances.
   He was so taken in by her deception that after many weeks, he stood on the verge of declaring himself. When a messenger arrived one day announcing an Apache outbreak to the south, the man took it as a sign. There would be no better chance! When he was given command of the detachment, it only steeled his resolve. There was nothing for him but to race to his lover and bend a knee.
   The girl caught her breath at his words and, hand to her throat, declared indeed, she loved the young man with all her heart. She was his, forever more and – she paused for effect, such was her glee at this childish game – should the horrors of war ever deprive her of her heart’s desire, she would never marry another. Never!
   Oh, I will return, he promised. And he stared deep into her eyes such that she caught her breath once more, quite forgetting herself. Nothing shall ever keep us apart, he said and strode out to his waiting men.
   However, when the soldiers returned three days later, the young lieutenant was not among them. The bride-to-be feigned a few tears and declared herself heartbroken. Seeking out a young captain then, she begged him to sit with her, lest she be alone, a victim of her own dark thoughts.
   For the next few weeks, the young woman surprised herself at her growing attraction to the captain though their wedding announcement soon after was little revelation to anyone.
   The main hall was decorated for the occasion and several long tables were laden deep with rich and sumptuous dishes. Everyone turned out in their dress uniforms and finest tails and all stood silent and respectful as the minister joined the couple in matrimony.
   Then came cheers and applause and the band struck up a rollicking tune. But as the bride and groom swung about their first dance, the doors crashed open and an icy draft gusted over the floor. A shrill, wrenching cry followed and as the guests stared in mute horror, a bloated creature filled the doorway.
   The corpse of a man, dressed in the moldy, tattered remains of an officer’s uniform. A hatchet gash cleaved his skull and the scalp was torn back from the bone. It hung over one eye, the other of which glared into the room, lit from within by a tiny spark of witchfire.
   His muddy boots clomped over the oak planks, trailing chunks of earth as he made for the happy couple. He wrenched at the arm of the bride, tearing her from her husband. The groom had no response, as entranced as the rest of the company and unable to move.
   Clasping the young girl to his blood-spattered chest, the thing turned its witch’s eye upon the band, who suddenly startled themselves into a new number. It was a shrill, off-kilter harmony, the players obviously unaware of their own movements. Strings scraped, horns blared and the demon dance began.
   Around and around they spun, the dead man clutching the bride tighter and tighter. She cried out, then began to choke, then went silent. Her head lolled, her face draining blood with each jarring turn.  Her eyes fluttered then and suddenly, she sagged in his arms.
   The creature let her fall in a jumble of limbs and stared about the room for a long moment. Then he flung his mangled head back for another raw, scathing howl and vanished from sight. As the room returned to itself, there came shouts from outside and the clatter of boots.
   Two men appeared, hats in their hands. Cowboys, who’d come to return the body of an soldier they’d come across. Surely one o' yours, they said, leading several officers out the door. Looks like an Apache got him in the head…


Wednesday, February 8, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The US Camel Corps Part 5


   The 'Camel Experiment', begun in 1855, saw camels imported to the US for potential use in exploring the western frontier. Within five years, a once bold endeavor was so mired in politics and bullshit that the 'experiment' barely existed on paper and the beasts themselves were now scattered all over the country.
   The breakout of the Civil War was obviously the time to bring it all together. If the thing was a film, this here would take place in the last 20 minutes and show how it all worked out. The camels all charge headlong into danger with cannons goin' off and after the North won, Grant could trot across the White House lawn on one, waving and smoking a big cigar. He'd name it Ambrose or Buckeye and there'd probably be a commemorative stamp. Sure, ol' Jefferson Davis went to the other side and the whole damned thing was his idea, but so what? We won! we'd say. We got camels outta the deal!
   After that, there'd be real interest in camel fights for a while, then o' course, camel racing. They'd go over well in zoos and the circus and hey, many actually did. The Transcontinental Railroad wasn't far off, but that didn't do the horse in, so no reason for it to tarnish the camel. In our parallel imagining, geography would relegate them west, and there they'd help in interstate trade (cheaper than a train) or pull other trade up and down from Mexico (which many also actually did).
   Despite the camel's surly attitude and fondness for scaring horses, things would smooth out. We'd keep horses away from 'em for a spell, but they'd get on, eventually. Dogs and cats do it all the time. We'd breed different types and maybe even make them more likeable. Maybe combine the one- and two-humpers into a three. There'd be camel shows and camel breeders and debutantes would ride into their parties on the back of one. Maybe a state funeral for a governor who was especially fond. A big parade of humpers down some main street, little fezzes on their heads. Maybe tassels on the ends of blankets draped over their backs with the name of some local Freemason lodge.
   Emboldened by our experience and expertise, we'd surely take them into the First World War. For any other reason than to scare the shit out of the Germans. Nostalgia for the Old West would find cowboy films made of brave men on camelback racing to save the day. Romance novels would have that scene with the paramours making love in a barn as the camels snorted from their stalls. Mr. Ed would be Mr. Abdul. It'd be the Ford Bactrian, not Mustang. Camelpower, not horsepower.
   People capable of good, solid decisions would have camel sense. Parents would tell their kids to stop cameling around. No one would ever lead a camel to water, because they can go days without it. People would be hungry enough, at times, to eat a camel. However, like the horse, we never would unless absolutely necessary. Such would be the love and admiration we'd have for this beast we brought into our home and so looked to in our hour of need.
   Oh, such a world.
But not ours. We didn't want camels in our world. And not in our 'civil' war. At the dawn of it in 1861, our pal Ed Beale asked Lincoln to make use of the herd he'd brought there years before. Ed would task them with hauling supplies and seeking in-roads for troops. He was denied.
   The mail? In 1863, a request to use camels in this small capacity was also turned down. 1864, Beale's herd was sold off to zoos and circuses. Some, like so many others, were cut loose. 1866, following the war, the 100 or so creatures that remained of the original Camp Verde experiment were also auctioned away, despite the few small, (but helpful) uses we'd been able to wring from 'em.
   Years after, they wandered through towns, through wilds, scattering cattle and still frightening their good friend the horse. They ended up in all over out west, some in the Midwest and many down in Mexico. Some even say Canada. Stories abound about who saw what or when or where this or that animal ended up or what it chased after.
   Fine stories, about a fine time in the Weird West. Shame it didn't all work out like it could've.
   But, like they say, "If wishes were camels..."

Saturday, February 4, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The US Camel Corps Part 4

   Jefferson Davis instituted the 'Camel Experiment' in March 1855, and two men, Henry Wayne and David Porter, imported 70 camels to make it happen. Setting up at Camp Verde, Texas in 1856 and '57, things started off just fine. But politics, personnel and plain and simple prejudice was about to queer the whole deal.
   Camp Verde was up and running, the camels were performing above expectations, but with ol' Jefferson and Mr. Wayne gone, it all tended to idle. The public was aware, the government was aware and things did happen, but not in any one direction.
   Quick aside: It's unknown (at least to my research) what happened to Dave Porter. Oh, his life is a vast record, he had a fine military career before falling in with his pal Henry and got another during the Civil War, but between landing the second camel ship in Texas in '57 and getting an offer to command a steamship in '59, I got no idea.
   It's surely in any number of biographies on the man. I like to think whatever he did, he never missed an opportunity to pick up a lady with what has to be the one of a kind line: "Hey, there. I'm an unofficial camel doctor."
   Any rate, folks hit up Camp Verde for camels all over, but none of it was 'official'. There was no direct backing from the government to truly continue the experiment toward either replacing horses or mules or 'officially' exploring the western frontier. "Hey, long as we got camels, knock yourself out," was the message. "If your little study or expedition helps, we'll take the credit. If not, oh well.   
   And no, we're probably not gonna change a goddamn thing as a result of any of it, good or bad."
One of the curious and undaunted in the face of all this was a man named Edward Beale. Ed was an explorer, best known for the road that bears his name. Called Beale's Wagon Road, it went from Arkansas to California - for the most part - and some of it survives today, courtesy of the park's service. Any rate, Ed knew ol' Jefferson and others in DC and was able to get 25 of the Verde camels (some say 22) for a march out into the world to establish that very trail.
   He set off in summer of '57 and when he arrived that winter, had nothing but high praise. Fact is, Beale kept the animals on his ranch there in California through 1864, when they were finally sold at auction. This, despite their service during the Civil War of messenger and supply work. Our nation's capital didn't care. "Glad they helped out Ed, but nobody asked 'em to," was the message.
   Quick aside: Beale's son, Truxton, would come out around 1912, almost 20 years after his father passed on, and try to compound his daddy's already robust legacy with this  - paraphrased - bit:
"Basically, my old man came up with the idea of the Camel Corps. He was hanging out in Death  Valley with Kit Carson one day (a man who never had an exaggerated word attached to him, as we all know) and was like 'Holy shit, Kit! How good would camels be, right now?' and Kit was like, 'Pretty damn good!'"
   There's varying accounts of how exuberant Trux was on convincing folks of his father's contribution to the Camel Experiment. No doubt, Ed contributed plenty and made detailed records of his adventures with the animals. The man goes down as a prominent figure in frontier history, absolutely. But he didn't come up with the Camel Corps idea.
   Well. From 1857 until the outbreak of the Civil War, others came to Camp Verde and took the animals for government or private work. Or bought the beasts off other herds that began when folks started importing or breeding the beasts themselves. Sometimes, they could be found wandering on their own, cut loose from a troubled owner.
   Surveys, expeditions, mining work, they were put to any number of things. The owners kept journals, wrote letters and made requests for more camels. They made plans to continue the Camel Experiment on their own as well, but still, none of this was 'official' and it bore no mark of a single direction.
   Camels were hardy animals, capable and uncompromising creatures. But they were never 'ours'. They were foreign, irascible and mean as hell. They spooked horses, as said. Their Arab trainers - where these were about - got snubbed or abused or outright ignored. Americans who got trained in their care resisted or fell back to horse handling ways.
   The whole thing caused a feeling that, while the country had a use for camels, the camels themselves lacked a purpose. Strange as it sounds, they'd never been given that 'rubber stamp' of approval. Again, they weren't 'official'.
   If you wanted one, they were there. But there wasn't near enough for the average person to feel anything had changed. Camels were for folks with more time and money than a regular man had. Back channel government programs and wealthy private firms. Not for a homesteader or entrepreneur wondering if he should swap out his horses.
   And when the War broke out, all that shoulda changed.
   Except, nobody asked it to.

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The US Camel Corps Part 3

   March 1855, Secretary of War Jefferson Davis got $30,000 from Congress to import camels for exploration of the western frontier of the United States.  Two men, Henry Wayne and David Porter (Hank and Dave), traveled abroad and brought back with them about 35 of the beasts, landing in Indianola, Texas in May of 1856. The US Camel Corps was born.
   Or should've been. Almost was, let's say.
   The Texans were damn impressed with the exotic creatures and proposed feats to test the animals' supposed strength and endurance. For the three weeks that Hank and Dave and the herd was there, the boys obliged the town, having the camels lift and parade and kneel on command. Indianola was so taken, a man wrote a poem for the Indianola Bulletin (damned if I can find it) and a woman named Mary Shirkey knitted a pair of socks out of camel hair for President Pierce. It's even said Hank sent those kickers on to his old pal Jefferson Davis, who sent them to the Man himself.
   Then came time to march the camels to Camp Verde, nearly 200 miles off. It was there the Army would begin their experiments in earnest, to discover just how well the camel might serve to fully claim the unknown frontier.
   But here was the thing: Why not get more camels, while the getting was good? Things were still fresh, Hank and Dave were excited, the locals were excited and they'd spent less than $10,000 of their 30K. In reply to the boys' letters of jubilation at their own progress, ol' Jefferson dashed off a word:

Boys,

Sounds like it's going gangbusters. I say we go get more o' them sumbitches. I mean, camel socks and poems? That's fantastic news! Strike while the iron's hot, I say. We got the dough, we got the drive. Let's get it done.

Love,
Jeff

   For whatever reason, someone reached out to Captain Crosman to come with (remember now, ol' George's original report had set all this off over a decade before) but again, probably still pissy, he said no. They asked the boys, obviously, but Hank was eager to show off the herd, so they sent Dave instead. Dave and a man named G.H. Heap, who'd been on the original voyage, but in the background, so we didn't pay him any mind. We still won't.
   Besides which, there ain't much to say for that second trip, anyway. It went fine. They departed late summer '56, landed in the Levant November '56, got their camels and turned around. Arrived home to Texas February of '57 with 40-odd camels in tow. They ran up to Camp Verde to join the others and now, the US Camel Corps was over 70 monsters strong.
   Now, while Mr. Heap and Dave had been away the last five, six months, Hank had been experimenting the hell out of the animals. He'd been marching them all over the area, short trips and long, measuring their loads and training the camp's personnel to tie the loads and manage the creatures. But he was worried.
   He didn't have all the authority he wanted (he was just a staff officer, basically an administrator) so he couldn't boss the other soldiers proper, plus, (the politics of the time being what they were) he was thinking ol' Jefferson Davis wasn't long as Secretary of War. He expressed his concerns December of '56 and by February '57, had been called back to Washington.
   He was then relieved of his duties as unofficial head of the unofficial US Camel Corps. It was, after all, still 'an experiment.' Man named Captain Innis Palmer then took Hank's place and would stay in charge there, until the South invaded the camp in '61, during the Civil War.
   And Hank called it for friend Jefferson. March of '57, he was out as Secretary of War and Johnny Floyd was in. Floyd was a big fan of the experiment though, and end of '58, '59 and '60 he proposed to Congress that 1,000 camels be imported for use as service animals in the US Army. He was promptly and consistently ignored.
   Meanwhile, the camels were there and they were damned useful. The Army split the herd and moved them around between '57 and '61 or so, base to base, camp to camp. And these groups bred and grew. But it was hard going. Horses hated 'em, their Arab handlers were scorned and the soldiers and locals just didn't take to the animals.
   Sometimes, hostlers in a given camp just turned them loose to get rid of 'em. Still other times, folks come around and paid up nice to get their hands on a few. It wasn't what the government expected or even wanted but, little by little, the real 'experiment' was underway.
   Camels were ending up all over the place and - as camels do - adapting like hell to it.


Monday, January 30, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The US Camel Corps Part 2

   So in Part One, we wandered the Weird West where Congress passed a law in 1855 for $30,000 to then-Secretary of War Jefferson Davis. This, so ol' Jeff could fix to bring some camels to the United States. He felt these would make fine pack animals and even mounts, toward the expansion of the western frontier following the Mexican American War. Lotta desert out that way, so what better animal to see them through it?
   Only place they felt to get the beasts was the Eastern Mediterranean. What they called back then The Levant. Fertile Crescent is there, Cradle of Civilization, too. Look up Arabian Peninsula on a map of the times and take the north bit of that, then some of Mesopotamia, a bit of Egypt, you pretty much have it. Few other places but that's the general area. They're desert places.
   Camel places.
   They asked George to go, our Captain Crosman, who first came up with the idea of this whole deal. George said no. Maybe he was feeling petulant since everyone shit on his plan for ten years, maybe he was just sane. Who knows.
   So ol' Jefferson sent Major Henry Wayne (his pal helped him out getting the 30 grand from Congress) and a fella named Lt. David Porter. Porter was to take a ship named Supply to Northern Italy, Wayne was to head to England and learn about camels. No internet then so you took a boat to a foreign country. It's just how things were done. The boys were to meet up later and go from there.
   Sure, ol' Jefferson gave Hank plenty of books and all, and the man knew some things, but England had a zoo where they'd kept camels and some folks there had studied the animals close-up. Some gents in Paris too, had used camels fighting in Algeria. For Dave, well, he hung out with the Duke of Tuscany and studied the man's camel herd. In the end, Hank and Dave learned plenty and once they met up in Italy, broke it all down for ol' Jefferson in some letters:

Sir,

Looks like we got two kinds of camels goin' on. Two-hump Bactrians and one-hump Arabians. First one's tough as shit and good for hauling heavy things. Second one is faster than a sumbitch and would make a good mount. We can get one-humps in the Middle East, the two-humpers in Central Asia. We know you want the one-humpers for chasing Injuns, but we think the two-humper is maybe the way to go, all told. We're gonna take the boat around though, and try to get both.

Love,
Hank and Dave

   The boys went to Tunis, Salonica, Constantinople, all over that Levant. What they wanted was a nice, big load of camels. Both kinds, good stock, good price. They looked at camels, bought camels, rode camels, traded camels, everything camels, trying to gather up the best herd. These two guys from America, from a place with no camels, were becoming expert camel folk.
   In fact, a couple they'd added to their growing collection they now knew were no good. In Constantinople, they said 'Well, let's get a few bucks' and sold them to a butcher for about $40. Then in Egypt, the viceroy tried to pawn off a half dozen clunkers and Dave told him to go screw. Then, after a stop in Smyrna, the boys completed their cargo and set out for the States with 33 camels, a good mix of one- and two-humpers. It was February 16, 1856.
   Hank and Dave brought some Arabs and Turks along to help care for the camels during the trip and they kept a 'Camel Journal' outlining the herd's daily routine: diet, illnesses, everything. Having both males and females on board, things happened of course and en route, six calves were born, two surviving.
   Dave was intent upon the calves and kept careful watch, monitoring them and writing up letters to ol' Jefferson about his progress in caring for them. Pretty soon, he was a better camel doctor than the Turk they had. That man was no great shakes and evidence suggests he's the reason the other four calves died. For various ailments, he suggested tickling the camel's nose with a chameleon's tail, or feeding the things cheese if they had a cold.
   For obvious reasons, Dave fired him and promoted himself to the unofficial (though entirely necessary) rank of ship's camel doctor. He saw the beasts through sickness, storms and once (during a stopover in Kingston, Jamaica) 4,000 gawking locals. He took his new capacity very seriously and when the ship finally docked near Indianola, Texas in May 1856, all 33 (and two calves) were safe as kittens.
   The United States finally had its first herd of happy, healthy government-issue camels.

Friday, January 27, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The US Camel Corps Part 1

   Bet you didn't know once upon a time, an Old West time, camels roamed the land like stray dogs. In the days and years following the Civil War, there they were, ornery and mistrustful, snarling at passersby like they owned the place.
   It started with an Army captain named George Crosman, who thought camels would make for good pack animals and transportation. His 1843 report was ignored for years, 'til a Major by the name of Henry Wayne took notice and made a recommendation to the War Department in 1848. This got the attention of future (sort of) president and then-Senator Jefferson Davis, who was on a military affairs committee.
   Davis then took the ball and ran to Congress in 1851 to get an appropriations bill for $30,000 to go get us some damn camels. He may have put a pillow up his back and danced around spitting on folks, but probably not. Truth is, that woulda made more sense to the Senators present. They said no thanks.
   Now understand, this was an Army Appropriations Bill. Meaning it was Discretionary funds. Unlike a Mandatory program, say these days, Social Security or whatever, where the funds get renewed every year no matter what. Discretionary is for a specific thing for a specific time. A department or committee or whoever comes over, asks for dough for this or that thing that year. This case, War Department asks for Army funds. New uniforms, weapons, new campaigns, etc.
   Davis wanted that kind of money. He wanted camel money, tacked onto the Army's yearly appropriations. Uniforms, weapons and maybe a few camels. Every year, Congress would decide what the Army (or whoever) got to spend freely on whatever came into their fool heads, based on these bills. I mention this, so we all know just how bad this man wanted damn camels walking around on American soil.
   Year later, 1852, he come back, but this time, said $20,000. No again, but Congress was split. House said camels sounds great, Senate said no camels. So, at least things were catching on for ol' Jefferson Davis. Public was even taking interest and several stand-up folks, eminent archaeologists and whatnot - who had experience with the animals - said in certain letters to maybe give the whole thing a try.
   (Jumping ahead to 1857, some thought it was such a hot idea, they formed "The American Camel Company" and actually imported a load of the things to Texas. There isn't much known what came of that, but it might explain a few of the brutes being seen near the town of Douglas late as 1941.)
   Back to 1853, Davis returned to Congress and made for another bill. Had his act together (he was Secretary of War, now) and brought Major Wayne and a few others with him and hit on the fact that the western frontier had expanded considerably.
   This, following the Conquest of California in 1846, and the Mexican American War following that. The Mexican Cession that came as a result of everything had given us California, Nevada, Utah and parts of Arizona and New Mexico. Then the Gadsden Purchase on top, and, well: America was a whole lot bigger. Driving the frontier into this new territory, he said, establishing settlements, trade routes, sure as hell fighting Indians or Mexicans or even each other, was a certainty.
   And it was hard for folks to argue him. Far as most knew, this new territory was all mostly desert. Aside from the Texan-Santa Fe Expedition in 1841, no one had really been out there. There were immigrant settlements, sure, military outposts, but it wasn't a proper controlled or well-explored place. Davis was saying "Exactly, let's use an animal adapted to that environment, bring 'em over and try a few things. I'm sick of comin' here every ding-dang year. Just say yes."
   They said no, but he got his money anyway. Who knows how. The bill passed with no mention of camels, but a couple Senators managed to sock away 30 grand for 'The Camel Experiment'. Maybe they liked Davis' camel dance. Any rate, the paper went through and became law in spring of 1855 and ol' Jefferson was on his way.

Monday, January 23, 2017

WEIRD WEST FICTION: Voodoo Bosch

This was a story I started about thirty years ago, my first Weird Western, in fact. I was reading a whole lot of Joe Lansdale o' course, and decided to give it a shot. Science fiction wasn't working for me and my detective novel just wouldn't take. I called it Aztec Gold before it changed to Priests of the Black Sun, then Hayes and the Hellriders. Six, seven years ago I went back to it after oh, at least a decade. Dumped 120 pages of 150 and just got to work. Whole lot about it's changed, but then again, it ain't changed a bit.


CHAPTER 1
THE GAME

   Bosch sat in a town at the edge of the desert and waited to go insane. He drank and played cards and paced the saloon floor. He stood outside and stared into the sun to speed up the process.
   The wind flapped curtains out broken windows and signs swung on chains. The horses tied in front shifted and shook their heads.
   Down the street, a door clapped shut and someone threw their leg over a glossy pinto. High above, the clouds were fat bellied empires, sliding over the too blue sky.   Bosch ruled them in his mind and made rash, violent proclamations. The clouds kept on. The horseman galloped up dust goin’ by, his brim pulled low.
   There was no more war and the gold was gone out the mountain. The town was dying and tryin’a take him with it.
   He’d lost his last ten at the table and thought about selling his Susies. Good Guns. Smiths.
   He had half a bottle left and gulped some, sitting on the saloon porch in his shitty clothes, his only clothes. Shitty jeans and a shitty shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms so long they was glued there. He looked around for his hat and unholstered a gun from his shitty crossed belts and gripped it tight. Good gun, though. He twitched, like it might end up in his mouth.
   “Best be gettin’ then, chief,” said a voice and he looked over. The cardplayer, Grant, tugged up the collar of his duster and stomped down the steps, his men close behind. It was Bosch and Asa, now. A couple whores down the street, maybe. The doc had been around earlier.
   “This it?” asked Grant, his hand on a bay mustang tied to the post.
   Bosch nodded, thinking of that last hand, throwing in his ten and raising the horse on top, hell yes, the saddle too. He’d pointed out the window, Grant nodding and matching the bet with a few notes. Bosch’s hand was laid out to low groans and embarrassed snorts. He’d pounded the table. There’d been three of a kind, goddammit! Then the pacing, the drinking and staring into the sun.
   Grant untied the animal and kept the rein loose, boot in his own stirrup to swing up.
   “Thanks, chief.”
   The group trotted off, leadin’ Bosch’s mount behind.
   “Don’t mind it,” said Asa, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Just addin’ insult to injury.”
   “I ain’t fuckin’ Injun.”
   “Uh huh.”
   “Y’let Injuns in yer fuckin’ saloon?”
   “I do not.”
   “There it be, then.”
   "I got my wagon comin’ in with Doc’s this afternoon.”
   Bosch had his back to the porch post, leg in the street. He nodded and watched Grant’s crew fade in a swelling billow o’ dust.
   “Uh huh.”
   “I’ll leave a few things if y’stay on.”
   “Obliged.”
   “Or come with one of us.”
   Bosch shrugged.
   “Mayor’s gone, Bosch. Don’t need another one.”
   He watched Asa part the wing doors and head on in. Shot him twice through the back and stepped in his blood and sacked the place for a cashbox. Bosch propped the body in a chair and sat across over bottle after bottle, recounting that last hand.
   “Y’hear me?”
   Asa’s shoes appeared in the space Bosch stared at under the wings, somehow not bursting into flame for the intensity of his lurid thoughts.
  “Bosch!”
   He blinked and dragged his stare up the saloon doors.
   “Yeah,” he said, the man’s face spattered with blood. The two exit wounds gaped, big enough to crawl into. Bosch put a palm in his eye.
   “Y’hear me?”
   “Plate o’ beans, I hear ya.”
   “They’re gettin’ cold.”
   Bosch shinnied his shoulders up the porch post and stumbled inside. Slammed his bottle on the bar. He ate the beans and soaked the plate with a heel o’ bread. A glance at Asa, the shelves behind him bare, everything crated in back. In the mirror over the bar room was empty save a table left out for their game, the other three chairs already dragged away.
   He went back outside. Last meal, that was all he needed. Middle of the street he unholstered again, knees sagging. He was breathing heavy through the booze, the sun pounding his back.
   A man needed a smoke, though.
   He swung his head toward the saloon and jerked a shoulder to twist the rest of him after.
   Last meal, last smoke.
   Asa stood behind as he sat on the porch some more, the tobacco fluttering down between his boots. He was shaking too much.
   “I got it, Bosch.”
   He sat down beside and took the curl of paper, the pouch and started rolling. Bosch nearly apologized for killing him. He watched the mountains over the rooftops across.
   “Which o’ them’s left?” he asked.
   Asa licked it shut and put the smoke between Bosch’s lips. A match snapped off the edge of the step.
   “Who?”
   Bosch turned to let him light the end, nodded. He exhaled a gust through his nose. Jerked his head up the street, hand cupped to his chest over an invisible tit.
   “Marlene, I think,” said Asa. “Ellen or Sadie with ‘er. Headin’ south.”
   They were only a half day from the border. South sounded just fine to Bosch. He could kill himself in Mexico just fine. He got up.
   “Hell, three-four hours now,” said the doc, sitting at his desk back of the cathouse. Bosch kept his forearm braced on the doorframe. He swayed. The lantern on the blotter hissed.
   “You aren’t in shape for a throw anyway, Bosch.”
   “Was gonna leave with ‘em.”
   “I see,” Doc kept writing in his ledger. “Ride with me, if you want. Room in the wagon.”
   “Where?”
   “It matter?”
   Bosch didn’t answer. Doc had his head back, staring at the ceiling. His throat was cut, blood like a bib on his chest. Snakes writhed over the desk, rain slashed the windows.
   “Does it?”
   Doc clapped the ledger shut and put it in his split handle bag. He stood and checked the watch in his vest.
   “Wagon’s comin’ before three, they said. Find me at home.”
   He brushed past and Bosch followed him a few feet across the empty front parlor. He stumbled and held a hand out for the counter where Marlene would sit, taking money for the cashbox she kept back there. Bosch weaved behind it, bending down to look.
   He kept falling. 

   If you enjoyed this excerpt, pick up a copy of the book for .99 at any of these online stores by clicking HERE.

Friday, January 20, 2017

LEGENDS OF THE WEIRD WEST: Mailbox Baseball in the Weird West



 
   I believe in aliens like I believe in spooks. I mean, we have to have a soul, look at us! The things we get up to and damn few of them are biologically important. Art, War, Fine French Cooking, we don’t need that stuff. We like it. It pleases us. It pleases the soul. Now, look up into that big black sky at night. Does something to the soul, too. And the brain, if you let it.
   A man can’t stare up at them stars and tell me things only worked out for us. One planet, one bunch of idiots, that’s it. Us. No, it’s too damn much up there. They say best evidence there’s intelligent life in the universe is none’s tried to reach us. I tend to agree. Because we are troublesome. But who’s to say aliens don’t have their own troubles? Troublemakers, say? Grab a ship, head out to the farthest reaches like I used to with my dad’s truck back on the farm. He had a ’56 Ford cab-over, loved that truck. We’d find a place to run out of gas, sit on the flatbed in back. Maybe a girl, some beer, maybe watch those stars. Maybe ride on the hood down the highway or bash a few mailboxes, we did that, too.
   So maybe aliens ain’t come down to shake hands. But nothing saying there ain’t been a few hotrodders out there who let too much of their daddy’s ship get away from ‘em. One goose of the gas pedal and they end up ass over teakettle in our neck of the woods. And what better place to do it than the Old West? Say, Aurora, Texas, 1897.
   Story goes, April 17 of that year, ship crashed on J.S. Proctor’s farm round about 6AM. Right into a windmill, tore up the ship, killed the poor fool inside. Story goes a lot of ways but it starts there. They got a look at the driver, pilot, whatever they thought of what he was, and concluded he was “not of this world”.
   Some even said Martian.
   So, being good Christian folk, they buried the body in the local cemetery, said their prayers (that’s part of it, they said they prayed for him), walked away from his unmarked grave and that was that. They have a sign in the town to this day, outside that cemetery, very official, saying this is where he is. Not exactly, but in that area. Little story about the crash carved in there, too.
   Naturally, reasonable folk can leave that alone. Or not, shit, reason’s a relative thing. Some might say Hell, not even worth considering. Some might not be ready to know if it’s true. Some still, sure it’s false and wanting to rub that in some faces.
   Me, I don’t care one way or the other and let’s just say it did. I like the thought. Old West is a perfect setting for an alien crash. It’s what makes the Weird West possible, stories like that. The blend of intractable frontier land and intractable universe. Lone cowboy on the prairie looks up at the sky, lone alien pilot screaming behind his joystick as he goes down in flames.
   We were exploring still, back then. Maybe they were, too. We were braving a frontier, maybe our neck of the galaxy is the alien’s version of that same thing. We’re the wild natives, dancin’ and hootin’ and scarin’ the hell out of ’em. Bein’ enlightened, they’d leave us alone.
   Like I said, aliens, if they can build ships, they’re smarter’n us. Enlightened and they wouldn’t dream of slumming with our kind. But their kids? See, that’s a different story.
Kids are troublemakers, no matter how far your race has come. This one hitting the windmill, probably stole the keys like I first did on that cab-over. I was 13, rode the hell out of that truck a good 2 miles before I hit the side of my uncle’s barn and tore out two fence posts. Substitute alien ship for Ford pickup and Earth for barn, I think it starts coming together.
   Grave’s unmarked because the kid jumped out the last second. After taking out a windmill, of course. His version of mailbox baseball. Said his sorries, begged the townsfolk to cover for him and off he went. Probably thought he’d have a damn good time down here. Why not? Earth in 1897 was a humdinger.
   William McKinley was President. We’d just invented Dos Equis. (And the aspirin to take for your hangover from it.) A man still carried an iron on his hip. He ranched cattle, mined for copper, walked outside at night and breathed the freshest damn air. We had cities too, but not as many. And not as big. There was a lot of open spaces between things. Lotta room for a kid to hide from his daddy for stealin’ that ship.
   I hid after them fence posts, believe it.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

MYTHS OF THE WEIRD WEST: Cowboy Gods of the Apocalypse

Our friend Charles Skinner (Ghost Train No. 19, remember?) wrote a tale called Sacrifice of the Toltecs, rife with strange notions. When you're done here, give it a read in Myths & Legends of Our Own Land and you'll see what I mean. Loved the scene he set, though, so had to make it my own. It's got nothing to do with Toltecs now, it's just about the West.

And it how it got Weird.

   Centuries past, a Great Empire loomed over the endless desert wastes. Across Mexico and up into what is now Arizona and California. The entire southwest was their world, arenas and temples hunched against the pale, blue sky. They were a mighty people and much feared. Their enemies lurked at their ever-expanding boundary, swords and spears clutched in dark, trembling fists.
   Their king was a vain and pompous man, whose soul was only for his Gods, that they might deliver power and prosperity for all time. His coffers brimmed with an ocean of gold coins, his army stood bristling with weapons upon every ledge and parapet. The Empire’s men were fat and happy, the women were languid and scheming.
   It is no surprise then, they fell prey to luxuriant boredom and ruthless over-confidence. Often the sky rumbled black threats and the borders grew menacing shadows, but they would not abate. The king would merely take a young woman and shove her at the high priest, demanding the Gods be satisfied. The city would choke the temples in their lustful fury and bellow ecstatic cries as the blade was punched deep within the maiden’s heart.
   But the Gods would not be swayed. They owed their lives to the worship of this kingdom, true, but its anguished melancholy was now their own. They looked across the vast, blasted tracts of their own empire and sighed. The time had come to see if the Gods themselves had souls. They cast their eyes below and set to work.
   Then the whole earth shook and great fissures split the underworked fields. Lazy farmers sat up from their naps beneath the trees and gaped at the destruction. Cracks like forks of brutal lightning sliced through the city. Houses burst, shops crashed and the arena fell.
   The king pushed away his concubines and ran to the window. His city threw great clouds of dust and debris and the screams of the dead were deafening. He fled from his chamber and cried for the high priest.
   There was no time to prepare a maiden he knew, for the world would soon end. He grasped the robes of the high priest and pulled him close. “Go to my daughter’s chambers!” he roared, “Drag her to the temple!”
   No Gods could deny the loyalty of an empire willing to sacrifice its own lifeblood.
   Tears streaming, the princess kicked and spat as the robed minions of the high priest wrestled her out of the palace. Outside, chunks of rock tumbled, fires blazed and the dead littered the streets. A cry went up that the reservoir was next and all would be drowned. The high priest whipped his horses to a frenzy, the young woman held tight by his men in the back of the wagon.
   The temple pillars wobbled and fell as the holy retinue galloped inside. The altar stood high upon its dais, shivering in a shaft of sunlight where the ceiling had collapsed. Picking their way over the destruction, the priest pushed the princess onto the warm, black marble and fitted the chains to her wrists and ankles. She thrashed for his prayers and invocations and spit the wine he poured in her mouth.
   A wall of the temple fell outward, crushing a caravan fleeing down the street. Children screamed for their mothers. All was dust and smoke and the frantic silhouettes of the damned within. There was a great boom in the distance. A growl of throaty, raw thunder.
   The reservoir had burst.
   The holy man wiped the blade of his jade knife and kissed it. The princess screamed as it came down, grunting blood through her nose. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. The priest raised his hands to the sky then, palms together, calling upon the will of the Gods. The temple collapsed upon him.
   All was ash and darkness. The ground tore apart and shelves of rock sawed together, spewing magma and spires of flame. The reservoir surged in and swept all before it, carrying a froth of mud and bodies into a deep, grand, canyon that led to the bowels of the earth. For hours the empire was torn asunder amid fire and water and lashing rain.
   And the princess stood over it all, the edges of her spectral form wafting like ribbons. All the maidens past stood with her and they looked into the canyon as a waterfall of shattered stone and broken bodies tumbled over its rim. They greeted these souls as they were torn from the depths and soon, the entire Empire was watching itself die.
   Then the sky opened up and the princess led her people to the world beyond, empty of Gods and pettiness and fear.
   No survivors remained. Only a few foundations, only a few bones sticking up from the mud to ever know an entire world was no more. From now on, there would only be god souls and shadows. Only whispers to suggest the merest sense of far-flung kingdoms and their foolish notions.
   But it would be more than enough, to let men know they were indeed, in a weird land.

Friday, January 13, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The Bloody Benders Part 4

   Well, we know ol’ Hank York was found in that orchard by his brother Colonel Ed. Remember I mentioned that third brother, Alex? Well, ol’ Alex, he was a man with some pull, a Kansas senator who decided upon the results of Ed’s efforts, that a reward would hasten the capture of that sinister slasher family.
   $1,000 back then was a piece of money, no question. About 20 grand these days and that got some attention. Governor of that fine state, Mr. Osborn saw ol’ Alex step up and offered $2,000 on top. Whoever caught them murderin’ sumbitch Benders well, they was in for a hell of a payday.
   The chase was on.
   Of course, before heading off to skate along that razor sharp horizon and bring a vengeful thunder upon the culprits, there were certain…local matters to attend to. The Benders kept to themselves for the most part, sure, but their dread business still meant a certain amount of actual business and that meant accessories.
   They nabbed about a dozen of them type-folks, those lawmen and vigilantes. People of ‘ill-repute’ known to associate with the Benders, the thought likely being, their arrest would, if not produce the whereabouts of their fugitive murderers, at least cultivate some goodwill with respect to their efforts toward finding them. Even ol’ Brockman made the scene again.
   This wasn’t smoke and mirrors, now. Not entirely. Every one that stood in jail or before some judge had their hand in tying up loose ends. Mainly in disposing of, or fencing, the stolen goods of the Bender victims. Hell, they even squared away a member of the Vigilante Committee itself! Oh, Mit Cherry, he’d gone and written up a letter supposed to be from one of the victims, saying he’d arrived safely at his destination.
   The man had not, of course. Had the Benders? It was time to find out.
   After all, wagons did leave tracks and the Benders did leave in one. Some detectives hired on followed these and came upon a handful of half-dead horses teamed to it about ten miles from the Bender Inn. From there, witnesses pointed them along that the Benders (or folks like ‘em) had bought some train tickets.
   In a town south called Chanute KS, the Bender kids left the train and hied toward Texas on their own. Outlaw conclave on the border of Texas and New Mexico awaited and they were not pursued. No, that was the badlands for many reasons and the law hesitated to tread there. Or so they say. Could be that, could also be they were just surmising the kids’ destination and couldn’t afford the expense of being wrong. Ma and Pa, though, stayed on that train and – some say – went east, arriving finally in St. Louis, MO.
   From here, well, no one knows. Stories abound. Everyone says they saw the Benders, chased the Benders, even killed ‘em. Little House on the Prairie gal, Ingalls, said her dad was on a Vigilance Committee gone caught the family and strung ‘em up or shot ‘em, she’s not specific.
   It’s not a tale much believed, mainly for the math. The Ingalls’ moved from the area in 1871 when Miss Laura was 4. Bender story didn’t break until 1873. The others over the years, well, that’s more speculation. There’s even less to support these claims, but at the same time, they’re mostly contemporary with the times. Ms. Ingalls brought hers up long after, in 1937.
   Whether they told the tale in some saloon, or to the law itself, burning, hanging or shooting down the evil Bender clan, it don’t much matter. Not a soul ever brought in a scrap of evidence to support themselves and not a one ever laid claim to that fine pile of money, that 3 grand waitin’ for whoever run ‘em down.
   So folks talked, as folks do. The Benders had escaped and for the next fifty years, would remain so. That is, until it was safe to assume each of them had died. Meantime, there were the tales of who’d killed them, and every so often, a story about how they’d actually just died or been arrested.
   Take the case of an old man fitting Pa Bender’s description, arrested in Idaho for killing someone with a hammer to the head. He was brought in, but cut off his own foot to get out of his leg irons. That worked back then about as well as it would now, and yes, the man bled to death. By the time they got a Kansas deputy out to ID the remains, the corpse had rotted too far. Nevertheless, the folks in our fine potato state took credit for the capture and long displayed the man’s skull in a local saloon as that of Pa Bender. That is, until Prohibition, when the place closed and someone grabbed them bones as a souvenir.
   There’s also the damned strange case of Almira Monroe and Sarah Davis, arrested as Kate Jr. and Ma Bender in 1889. Each accused the other of being either Kate Jr. or Ma, and who really knows why. It’s a host of blog posts to just suss out the details of the preliminary reports. They were crooks, true enough, but it was determined that they were not the ladies in question.
   All in all then, the Benders were long gone. Stayed gone, too. Twenty victims total, they say, once the graves were counted, assumptions were made and body parts got strung back together. Most were claimed and laid to rest where need be. Those that weren’t were re-interred in a specially ordained area south or so of the Bender orchard, called ‘The Benders Mounds’.
   Now, whether it’s an inn at the gateway to the Weird West, or a marker showing the souls claimed upon its threshold, any place got the Bender name on it is one howling with ghosts and daring you to visit.
   I wouldn’t recommend it.

Monday, January 9, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The Bloody Benders Part 3


   The Bender Family has struck! From their little inn beside the Osage Trail, they have claimed at least nine travelers, perhaps even a dozen. A search party has uncovered several shallow graves on the property, a well full of body parts and a mysterious trapdoor by the dining table inside. In the room beneath lay a pool of dried blood. This pointed somehow to the killers’ design, but how?
   Well, no one really knows. But their assumptions aren’t so far-fetched, given the evidence. It was a dining table, after all, so obviously, the devils did their work at mealtime.
Say, a person wanders in, dusty from the road and desires a night’s sleep. Perhaps a meal. Supper, or maybe breakfast. Given the blows cracked on the skulls of the recovered bodies (and those found in the previous years, dumped in the nearby woods) a hammer played a role.
   The traveler sits at the table, perhaps about to eat, perhaps just done. He sits back to review his plate before he begins, or, finished, does so to lay his hands on a satisfied belly. The trapdoor is right there beneath them, what better time? What better position for say, Ma or Pa Bender, even one of the kids to come up behind and…
   WHAM!
   Right on the head.
   It makes some blood, true, but it doesn’t splash. No, it doesn’t flow like it’d have to if that stone-floored chamber below was to be as drowned as it was in the stuff. For that, you need a slit throat.
Who knows who done that, doesn’t matter. The guest reeling from the hammer, they’re easy pickins. Open the trap, dump the body and follow ‘em down. It’s not like movies where you just draw the knife across the windpipe now, no. The windpipe is tough as leather. Like slashing a garden hose or something. You gotta jam that blade in beside the hose and saw like wood. Sometimes even hack at it. Veins and arteries all over the neck. What a show it made, no question.
   The gasps and gurgles done, the room hot and dripping, the killer would wipe their face (oh, they had it all over them, to be sure) the knife was slicked across a skirt or a pantleg and well, who knows? Maybe it was a private deal and they just stood down there, listening to the blood seep between the paving stones. Maybe the whole family was standing around, licking their lips where they got splashed or sucking their fingers. Maybe they just crouched above, peering down the hole, pissed that it wasn’t their turn this time.
   Whatever the case, when it was done, it was done. Then the body was stripped of its goods – even its clothes, in some cases – and hauled back up to bury outside. If they had no goods, well, maybe the Benders didn’t know that and just assumed. Maybe they knew just fine and did it anyway.
   And now, this ain’t total conjecture, no. Talk from folks who’d stayed at the Inn and run afoul of the family – escaping before they could come to harm – do support the previous. A Catholic padre saw one of the Benders hide a hammer when he looked too quick in one direction. He left right after. Gent called Bill Pickering said when he had a problem with seating arrangements at the table, Kate Jr. pulled a knife. Off he went to live another day.
   There were two men arrived on word o’ Kate’s ‘psychic powers’ and decided to stay for a meal. They didn’t sit proper at the table either, and took to a nearby counter. That wouldn’t do. Enter: Pa John Bender and John Jr. looking surly. The guests looked at each other, looked at their meal, looked at the Bender boys. Goodbyes were said and off they went.
   Besides the graves, the body limbs and the bloody room under the trapdoor, the search party also found a dozen or so holes in the ceiling and walls of the inn. Bullet holes, which only supports that folks at one time or another got into a corner there at the Bender Inn and either fought as they died, or fought their way back to life. No one can say.
   So, there it be. The Bender Inn, site of travesty and tragedy, gossip and gore, empty of all but a few lone bodies to tell the tale of a murderous band of homicidal homesteaders. Would that be all? Body parts and shallow graves? Were the Benders to simply flee, free of their crimes?
   Oh, no.
   With the search party led by Colonel York, the near hanging of Brockman and the community uprising over the bodies found, this would not be – excuse the pun – laid to ‘rest’ so easily.
   Word do spread in the west and when it’s Weird, well, it goes that much faster. Heaven and Hell have a way with the mind and those tuned to its frequency are ever so certain of its meaning. And the tune they sang, long before radio scratched out its songs on the curve of empty skulls wondering where the world went was:
   Where were the Benders?
   A fine question and one many sought to answer. The findings of the search party made the news quickly and papers were snapped open in the following days and heads were shook over morning coffee.
   Onlookers soon came to gawk at the Bender Inn and even more reporters swarmed. New York, Chicago, they all wanted to walk the site and breathe those bloody fumes. It didn’t take more than days, weeks, and the Bender Inn was overcome completely. Fools asking questions, making notes, clawing for a piece of history and before long, the whole place was gone to the baseboards.
   Every item in it, every piece of furniture, every knick and knack. Even bricks and stones and bits of wood down in that bloody cellar beneath the horrible trapdoor. They even took pieces of the well. 
   And still, holding those totems close and trying to infer some meaning from them, that question remained:
   Where the hell were the Bloody Benders?

Friday, January 6, 2017

THE REAL WEIRD WEST: The Bloody Benders Part 2


   So the Benders had blown their cover in a hail of kitchen knives and coffee curses. Ed York was hot on their trail, or would be once he got the evidence he was after that the Benders had disappeared his brother the year before.
   But he wasn’t the only one looking to start piecing things together. Several nearby communities were joining forces to point some serious fingers. A few weeks after Ed’s last visit to the inn, a town hall meeting was arranged, attended by seventy-some locals, including Colonel Ed and Pa Bender himself.
   Grievances were aired, questions raised and a decision was come to. It was time to get some search warrants and start turning over every stone in every house between Big Hill and Drum Creek. Pa Bender naturally made use of this information to his great advantage.
   Few days later, lad by the name of William Tole happened by the Bender Inn where lo and behold, a palpable sense of neglect and abandonment seemed to prevail. No one home and the Bender’s animals all appeared to be unfed. It was rough weather coming in though, so after Master Tole recounted his discovery to the township, it was several days before they could investigate.
   Once they did though, they went in force. Hundreds of volunteers came calling, tried and true each and every one, ready to heed the plight of starving chickens where tales of madwomen brandishing butcher knives had failed. Colonel Ed led the charge and off they went to storm the gates of the sinister Bender Inn.
   They weren’t to be disappointed.
   No Benders of course, but no food or clothing, either. Nearly every stitch and scrap had been hauled off, leaving only the dust and silence and the haunting notes of some peculiar smell.
   The search party ran the edges of the room, drawing curtains and opening cabinets. They sniffed to the rafters and down along the floor. And there they had it. A trapdoor by the dining room table, nailed fast. It was short work to pry it up, where they found…!
   An empty room.
   However, there was no missing the blood on its stone floor. It was comprised of several heavy slabs, laid side to side. They called for sledges and spent hours wrecked it up, but no bodies were found. The smell was obviously the blood itself, but enough of it, that it’d soaked into the seams between the slabs and into the soil beneath. It left them all with only one recourse.
   They had to lift the entire cabin.
   Yes, sir that group went shoulder to shoulder and every strong back among them raised up the cabin in their mighty, calloused hands and moved it right out the way. They then got to work digging the soil there, but to no avail. Not a single corpse was found.
   ‘So where’s that leave us?’ someone likely asked.
   ‘I can’t think of a single thing. We looked inside the house, we looked under the house.’
   ‘That’s a real puzzler.’
   ‘What about around the house?’ someone offered.
   ‘Whatdya mean?’
   ‘The yard, say. Y’think someone might be crazy enough to perhaps bury something in the yard?’
   ‘Instead of moving their cabin, depositing bodies there, then moving it back?’
   ‘I know it sounds wild, but my god – what if I’m right?!’
   ‘What if you’re wrong?!’
   Fair enough, it didn’t go quite that far, but Lord only knows why those fools didn’t just hunt around the place first.
   So that’s what they did. Got themselves some long metal poles and starting poking around. They concentrated especially on the garden and orchard, both of which – bear with me folks – appeared to have been freshly dug up and refilled. It was here they found their first body. And where Colonel Ed found his poor brother. Dropped facedown Hank was, barely beneath the surface.
   On they went into the evening hours, marking suspect sites for future excavation. Next day they came back, and sure enough, pulled out eight bodies. Another one was thrown in the well as were several random body parts. Oh, the Benders had been busy, indeed. Damn near every one of ‘em had their head bashed and throat cut. Except one. No apparent injuries on that one, a young girl. Ma and Pa had decided to strangle her or bury her alive, no one’s quite sure.
   Naturally, the whole ordeal pissed them folks right off. They had to point it at someone and if not the Benders, well, maybe someone in that crowd right there by the inn.
   ‘Brockman!’
   ‘Yes?’
   ‘You knew the Benders, didn’t you?’
   ‘Good friends with ’em as a matter of fact.’
   ‘How’d you like us to hang you right here and now?’
   ‘I wouldn’t!’
   ‘Too fuckin’ bad.’
   And up he went on the end of a rope until he passed out. They let him down, woke him up and started asking questions. Where were the Benders? Where were their other victims? Why’d they do it? When they didn’t get the answers they wanted, they strung him up again.
   Eventually, they let ol’ Brockman go and he staggered home like a man who’d been hung several times and yelled at by a crowd of vengeful townfolk. He didn’t know a thing, or maybe, knew things too horrible to speak of. Who can say.
   After all, where had the Benders hied off to? What the hell was their motive in the first place? And how did they do it? Were they dragging folks out of bed of a night and cutting them up? Waitin’ in the shower or closet with them hammers and knives?
   No, they weren’t. Didn’t have showers or closets back in the Old West, anyway. No, the Benders had another method, and in tune with their gibberish speaking, coffee cursing, psychic wizard ways…
   It was pretty damn creepy.
   And plenty weird.