Criminals in general, and Cosa Nostra organized crime members in particular, are a clannish breed. They do not normally socialize outside of their crime circles, as they have serious trust issues.

But not Crazy Joe Gallo. He publicly hobnobbed with counterculture musicians, poets and artists in Greenwich Village during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. The 5’ 6’ tall Gallo reportedly wrote poetry, painted and read existential philosophy. He yearned to be a poet – albeit one that shakes down local businesses.

Along with his older brother Larry and younger brother Albert, known as “Kid Twist,” Joe Gallo ran a particularly vicious crew of Brooklyn extortionists and murderers who were connected to the Profaci crime family.

Life published photos of the Gallo crew; a collection of oddball criminals called Peanuts, Pete the Greek, Tarzan, Louie Cadillac, Mondo the Midget, Vinnie the Sicilian, Roy Roy, the Worm, Big Lollypop, Little Lollypop and Ali Baba, the Egyptian knife thrower. Jimmy Breslin’s satirical novel, The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight, brilliantly captured the colorful and violent gang.

Now we also have Tom Folsom’s nonfiction book on Joe Gallo, The Mad Ones: Crazy Joe Gallo and the Revolution at the Edge of the Underworld (Weinstein Books).

Larry was the brains of the Gallos, Folsom informs us, but Crazy Joe was the character. The Gallo brothers were reputedly the hit men who killed mob boss Albert “the Mad Hatter”Anastasia in 1957 as he sat in a barber chair in Manhattan. They also killed “Frankie Shots” Abbatemarco, a major mob bookmaker in 1959.

The brothers believed themselves to be under-rewarded so they took on the boss, Joe Profaci. Newspaper and magazine reporters wrote numerous pieces about the Gallo- Profaci mob war.

In 1961 Gallo went to prison for threatening a store owner within earshot of New York City detectives. Profaci died and Joe Colombo took over the crime organization. He settled the beef with the Gallos by promoting Larry.

When Joe Gallo came out of prison in 1969, he resumed his fight for leadership of the organization, only this time with Joe Colombo.

Breslin’s The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight came out in 1969 and the film, staring Jerry Orbach as a character based on Gallo, came out in 1971. Gallo disliked the book and film as he believed it made him out to be a clownish hoodlum.

Gallo invited actor Orbach to dinner. They became friends and the Orbachs’ introduced Gallo to their successful entertainer friends. They embraced Gallo as their celebrity chic gangster. Gallo’s enormous ego was stroked by the entertainers.

Colombo was gunned down in 1971 at an Italian-American rally, reputedly on orders from Gallo. Gallo in turn was murdered on April 7, 1972. He was shot by gunmen as he celebrated his 43rd birthday at Umberto’s Clam House on Mulberry’s Street in Manhattan.

Gallo’s shooting death made for a good newspaper story then and it makes for a dramatic end to Folsom’s book today.

Paul Davis also writes an espionage blog for GreatHistory.com. His web site can be viewed here. He can be reached at pauldavisoncrime@aol.com

Artists always talk about their muse. What’s yours?

You know, I’m not totally sure. I think it depends on what aspect of the writing experience we’re talking about. I have about six books – stories if you will – in my head that I haven’t written yet. I’m blessed that I don’t even know what ‘writer’s block’ is. For my characters, my source of inspiration is the folks I’ve met along the way. Again, I’m blessed to have had a varied career in which I’ve met endless characters worthy of note. I merely place them in a historical context and describe them. Ah, but The Muse, the female personification of inspiration to persevere, to create, that would be my wife, Rosemary … the wind beneath my wings.

I’ve always thought that good historical fiction is a great way to get people interested in history and can even be a learning tool. Would you agree?

Absolutely. My interest in history and in the Civil War in particular, began with Stephen Crane’s Red Badge of Courage. It has been nurtured by such greats as C.S.Forester, Patrick O’Brian, Bernard Cornwell, and Jeff Shaara. Fiction is meant to entertain, where non-fiction’s primary purpose is to enlighten or inform. Historical fiction, well-written and well-researched, can provide the best of both worlds. I guess that would be my ultimate goal – that my stories are entertaining, provocative, and historically informative. I love the thought that I might inspire others to look more into the Crimean War, or Lincoln’s vulnerability.

Your main character, Ian Carlyle, cut his teeth during the Crimean War and then found adventure and intrigue in America during the Civil War. What’s next for him?

I’ve been pondering that for some time. My Muse gave me the answer. I intend to combine my military background with my law enforcement background. Ian will find himself in Saskatchewan, Canada, where he accepts a temporary commission as an Inspector in the North-West Mounted Police, and is faced with a serial killer. This was before anyone knew what that dubious title meant. Its kind of a “Criminal Minds” set in the rugged and wild northwest territories in the 1880’s. The working title is “The Ear Collector.” I’m researching now and enjoying it tremendously. I’ve written a basic outline and a few key chapters.

Finally, do you have any advice for anyone interested in entering the realm of historical fiction?

First, they must pay their dues and acquire the skills involved to write fiction in the first place. I found out that you can not avoid that process, even if you think you can write well. It’s essential. I’m talking about fictional writing skills like story, character development, drama, and dialogue. But there is more to writing historical fiction.

I believe most writers who tackle legitimate historical fiction are at their core researchers and historians. That is a blessing and a curse. The blessing part is obvious – an abiding passion for what you love – history. The curse is not so obvious.

Too much knowledge has an inherent danger – boredom! I call it ‘the hose effect.’ We learn so much neat stuff (for us) while researching that we want to tell it all to the reader. As an example, a sentence like: He took his Model 1853 Enfield, caliber 0.577, rifle musket, with the 39 inch barrel, and shot John at 500 yards, just short of the weapon’s effective range. Distracting, boring – I suspect so to the average reader, who is likely not a dead-on historian. As opposed to something like: In spite of the distance, he took his Enfield rifle, aimed, and shot John dead.

So what advice do I have? It’s simple – the story is everything. The detail makes it richer, deeper … but too much detail distracts, indeed detracts, from the story…and the story is everything. This is a fine balance to attain, and we all make mistakes, but it is a worthy effort.

So what works for me in writing historical fiction – get a good story first. Fill it with rich characters, good dialogue, not too much narrative, and lots of drama. Also fill it – the first time through – with as much historical detail as you must…get it out of your system. Then rewrite, rewrite, and rewrite. Each time and at every turn ask yourself, “Does it add to the story?” If not, it’s history. Make paragraphs and chapters short so it moves quickly. Write every chapter like a scene in a movie. Then have friends who are not into history at all read what you’ve written. Have them write the word “Boring” in the margin where the story bogs down…then rewrite again.

I know the folks will want to know more about you and read your work. Where might they go to do so?

My web site is http://www.willhutchison.com/. They can also purchase books direct at www.buybooksontheweb.com.

I like history. Not the history that I was taught in grade school. Not even the history that I was taught in college. That history all seemed so boring. It didn’t jump off of the pages of the circa 1970 text book and come to life. It was not relevant or important to who I was, whom I might become. It was education by rote.

One plus one equals two

I before E except after C

No taxation without representation

ZZZZZZZZZZ…Boring!?? There was one exception. In middle school my fellow classmates and I were presented a social studies course on local history. We learned about Chief Cobmoosa, a steamboat named Paragon, and a French fur-trader by the name of Daniel Marsac. I began to realize that history was also about me, not just about things that existed before my time and beyond my grasp. History was no longer flat and lifeless. It was important and vibrant. It gave me dimension.

History was also part of my family life, especially on Sunday mornings. Church services were not part of our weekly ritual. But there was a ritual to Sunday. On that day of the week, history came to life at the breakfast table. My father would tell stories about growing up in a small town during World War II, his experiences in the Marine Corps, attending a one-room school, and working on the family farm. Each week would bring a new story about an event or experience that came before me. Stories that were an important part of my history. I discovered things about my parents that might have otherwise been lost. And, I became acquainted with family that I never met:

My great grandmother, Edna Weitz, who caught the attention of my great grandfather, Henry Alden Johnson, as she rode her bicycle (the kind with the big wheel in front) past his farm on her way to teach school.

My Great Uncle Morse (Henry’s son), who once tried to pass a truck while riding his bicycle. He survived the attempt, but his arm was broken in the process.

A distant cousin, who in the 1800’s, killed her children and herself. Her husband discovered the bodies upon his return from work.

But, despite the stories my parents told, there were two individuals that felt lost to me. My paternal grandmother, Rosetta Boughner Johnson, ran off with another man in the early 1940’s, leaving behind my father, my uncle and my grandfather. And my maternal grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, who died when my mother was in the eighth grade.

I did not want to learn about these people through stories. I wanted my grandfather to be living and breathing. And, I wanted to know if my grandmother was still alive, where she was, and if she ever wondered about the family she left behind. I would eventually get answers to some the questions I had about my grandmother, but that is another blog for another time.

My grandfather came from a large family. He was one of ten siblings. Nine boys and one girl. At family reunions I would watch my grandfather’s siblings interact with their grandchildren and children. I was often envious of my cousins. They knew their grandparents. I wanted to know mine. I wanted to know how he smelled. I wanted to know what his voice sounded like. I wanted to know if his eyes really twinkled when he smiled, like my mother told me. Other times, I was simply curious. Which of his siblings was he most like? And despite my curiosity, it wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned the unique stories of George, Henry, Andrew, Ernie, Ollie, Gerald, Michael, Jacob and Kate. I was so concerned with what was not, that I did not take the time to get acquainted with what was.

My Great Uncle, Michael, has spent countless hours compiling his family history. Like the stories my dad used to tell at the breakfast table, the stories and information that my Uncle Mike has compiled help me to understand more about who I am. They also helped me to discover more about the grandfather I never knew, and the family from which he came.

Five of my grandfather’s brothers (Henry, Michael, George, Andy and Jacob) were in the service during World War II.

Henry John Hoover was working at the Fisher Body Plant in Pontiac, Michigan, when the United States entered WWII. He enlisted in the Navy just prior to being drafted.

On June 5, 1944, Henry spent the night aboard a ship in the English Channel, arriving at Omaha Beach the next morning, as the first D-Day landings were getting underway. That evening, his regiment was taken closer inland and placed upon a ship that “had been sunk for a breakwater.” When the sunken freighter came under fire, the LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) that had transported the regiment to their position cut free of the freighter leaving Henry and 114 other men behind. The Coast Guard eventually arrived, taking the men back to sea. Henry then volunteered to go ashore, staying in France until August of 1944. He was later sent to Okinawa , where he remained until the end of the war.

Henry died on March 26, 1995, one month shy of his 85th birthday.

Michael Clarence Hoover volunteered for service in March of 1941. He served in the Army, training to become a pilot. His first ride in an airplane was also his first training flight. Michael was eventually assigned to the 466th Bomb Group, where he piloted a B-24. The 466th flew its’ first combat mission, bombing Berlin, Germany, on March 22, 1944, for which the 466th received an official commendation from General James H. Doolittle. Michael flew a total of 32 combat missions over France , Belgium , Holland and Germany . Including missions on June 5th, 6th and 7th, to help the Allied Forces on D-Day. On July 23, 1944 the 466th flew their last mission at the battle of Saint Lo in France .

Michael was awarded the Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He currently resides in Jacksonville , Florida with his wife Pauline.

George Kasper Hoover was drafted into service in 1942, at the age of 34. He spent seven months in North Africa , participating in the Tunisian and Algeria-French Moroccan campaigns. George received the Bronze Star for his actions in the Tunisian campaign:

“…On January 31, 1943, Private Hoover voluntarily manned an antitank gun and, although subjected to heavy fire, succeeded in destroying the hostile emplacment. Private Hoover’s heroic initiative was instrumental in the capture of important objectives.”

In July of 1943, George was in Gela , Sicily when, for four days, his regiment was heavily engaged. He and the other members of his regiment received Presidential Unit Citations:

“The regiment pushed inland, encountering intense enemy artillery, tank and machine gun fire. Lacking armored support, this battalion repulsed a savage enemy attack with three 37-mm guns, a few rocket guns and small arms. When enemy tanks overran the battalion’s position…the men stood fast and fought gallantly and furiously at close range destroying and routing enemy tanks with rocket gun fire…Distinguished bravery and Spartan efforts enabled this organization to repel the attacking forces. When its’ position was cut in two and the battalion commander was wounded and evacuated, the men fought heroically and made important advances…after a bitter engagement meted out a decisive defeat to the enemy.”

On June 6, 1944, George and his regiment were among the first to storm the beaches at Normandy . He also participated in campaigns in North France, Rhineland and Central Europe . His decorations and citations include: Bronze Star Medal, Distinguished Unit Badge with one ribbon, Bronze Oak Leaf Cluster, Good Conduct Ribbon, European-African Middle Eastern Theater Ribbon with one Silver Star and two Bronze Battle Stars, and five Overseas Service Ribbons.

George Kasper Hoover died on July 12, 1988, at the age of 80.

John Andrew Hoover and Jacob Vincent Hoover also served during WWII, but never saw active duty.

My grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, died in 1953, at the age of 37. He was younger than I am now. I have read the newspaper articles that tell the story of his “tragic death.”

“The father of four school-age daughters was dead on arrival at Butterworth Hospital Tuesday morning after coming in contact with a 6,900 volt power line. The accident occurred while Hoover and other employees of the municipal light plant were installing a new transformer.”

It seems ironic that my grandfather would die at such as young age and that his brothers would survive WWII. But that’s history and such is life.

Everywhere, all around me is history. The person driving too slow on the freeway. The cranky cashier at the grocery store. The old lady at the library who always wants to talk a little too long. My Great Aunts and Uncles. They are all history.

I want my children to know who they are. I want them to know who came before them. I will tell them stories at the breakfast table.

I like history.

Ms. Cobell’s suit alleged that the U.S. Department of the Interior, in collusion with energy companies, had neglected its solemn fiduciary responsibilities to the Indians by absconding with mineral royalties since the late 1800s.  Accountants for the firm of Price-Waterhouse conducted the initial review of the government’s books – that is, the books they could find.  Their report minced no words: it appeared that as much as $50 billion had gone missing over that time, and maybe more.  In 2003, a conservative Texas judge by the name of Royce Lamberth, who, from the beginning, had presided over the case in federal district court in Washington D.C., ruled in favor of the plaintiffs.  Along the way, he three times cited sitting secretaries of the Interior for contempt of court for their chronic foot-dragging, malfeasance, and bureaucratic double-talk.  Now that the basic question of culpability was settled, the protracted and contentious accounting nightmare could begin in earnest.   Or could it?

“Alas,” declared Judge Lamberth in words seldom heard from a federal bench, “our modern Interior Department has time and again demonstrated that it is a dinosaur – the morally and culturally oblivious hand-me-down of a disgracefully racist and imperialist government that should have been buried a century ago…For those harboring hope that the stories of murder, dispossession, forced marches, assimilationist policy programs, and other incidents of cultural genocide against the Indians are merely the echoes of a horrible, bigoted government-past that has been sanitized by the good deeds of more recent history, this case serves as an appalling reminder of the evils that result when large numbers of the politically powerless are placed at the mercy of institutions engendered and controlled by a politically powerful few.”

In 2005, at the insistent urging of the Bush White House and the Interior Department’s lawyers, who accused Judge Lamberth of being “too harsh on the government” in their motion seeking his dismissal, Judge Lamberth was removed from the case.

Last week, this sordid scandal finally inched its way toward some kind of closure when Ms. Cobell and her lawyers, along with the Department of Justice and the Department of the Interior, announced that they had arrived at a $3.4 billion settlement.  In real dollars and cents, this will amount to a $1,000 payment to every named plaintiff in the lawsuit, and President Obama, who characterized this suit as “a stain” on the nation, hailed the settlement as “an important step towards sincere reconciliation” between the government and the Indians.  As a presidential candidate, Obama had pledged himself “to resolving this issue, and I am proud that my administration has taken this step today.”

After he had spent his fair share of time in the West dealing with both whites and Indians, General William T. Sherman gave the best definition of an Indian reservation that I’ve ever heard:  “A parcel of land set aside for the exclusive use of Indians that is surrounded by thieves.”  This entire sordid episode grew out of the thievery of both the federal and state governments in the 19th century.  Between them, they managed to steal an estimated 125 million acres of treaty protected homelands from native tribes.  Ms. Cobell’s lawsuit may have settled – for the moment – the question of stolen mineral royalties, but only a fool, as Judge Lamberth suggested with such articulate fervor, would think this is the last we’ll hear of it.

Paul VanDevelder is the author of Coyote Warrior: One Man, Three Tribes, and the Trial that Forged a Nation, and Savages and Scoundrels: The Untold Story of America’s Road to Empire through Indian Territory.

That’s generally the standard version in every movie I have ever seen. Looks good. Very dramatic. Very romantic. Unfortunately, it’s bosh.

How did it really unroll? Here’s what a reporter for the New York Herald encountered when he and a friend entered a Comanche camp one day:

Our advent was duly announced by a drove of snarling, snapping curs, of all sizes, colors and conditions. Two great clubs with which we had provided ourselves beforehand alone prevented a complete rout…Our movements, however, were most cautiously performed by backing in the direction we wished to proceed and thus preventing a dash on our heels. The noise of our approach as developed by the dogs, started a few old squaws who came out of their lodges, and by giving vent to a few gutturals completely silenced the growling storm.

This is how another white man described his entry into another Indian camp:

After making our way through the midst of hundreds of dogs, everyone of which appeared to exert his vocal and explosive powers to the utmost, filling the air with…the most horrid din of snaps, snarls, yelps, growls, and howls…we found a convenient place for lariating our ponies and mule…We then proceeded to the lodge of…the head chief…being escorted by most if not all the dogs in the community, still continuing their deafening clamor, and crowding upon us to the degree that we had to keep them off with clubs.

Man! It’s bad enough facing hundreds of Indians who might pump you full of arrows with just one wrong move. But first you have to fight your way with a club through packs of “snarling, snapping curs.” All this is more than enough for me to ask: “Is this trip really necessary?”

The next Cowboy & Indian movie you watch, look for the dogs and clubs. Bet you don’t see them, but let me know if you do. Romance ends where history begins.

Will, you’ve had a pretty colorful history yourself. Can you give us some of your background and tell us how you became a history geek?

I was born in a small log cabin in Toronto, Canada … OK, let’s skip to the juicy bits …

I enlisted in the Marine Corps at 17, and served in various capacities from infantry grunt, to guided missile fire control technician, to the Military Police and criminal investigations. I graduated from Syracuse University with a degree in Philosophy, with Honors.

My combat experience, which has served me well in writing about war, was just short of two tours in Vietnam. While there I worked closely with Vietnamese Army Military Police, Korean Military Police, the CIA, the Phoenix Committee, and other agencies on drug interdiction and other special operations.

As a military criminal investigator I investigated all types of crime including robbery, rape, and homicide, but specialized in undercover narcotics investigations. I worked drug cases in the States for a time, then went to Europe. I served undercover in Amsterdam, Belgium, and Frankfurt, Germany, eventually becoming Chief of the military Level One Drug Team in Europe.

On my return to the States I was eventually assigned as Chief of the Illegal Drug Branch of the Army Criminal Investigations Command (USACIDC). This actually began my writing career in earnest. I wrote and revised CID manuals for Drug Investigations, Criminal Intelligence, and Undercover Operations, as well as worldwide drug threat assessments focusing on the impact of illegal drugs on military personnel stationed in foreign countries.

On retiring as a military officer I went to work for the US Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s Office of Investigations (USNRC OI), as a Senior Special Agent, investigating program fraud, sabotage, and terrorism. My writing focus shifted to incredibly boring endeavors like annual reports and budgets, but my literary skills improved. I retired from Government service as the Asst/Director of the Office of Investigations. Now I do occasional law enforcement consulting work, the odd photography project, and write historical fiction.

After retirement from the Government I thought I might explore writing for myself, under my own name for a change. I tried writing non-fiction history, but it didn’t get very far. I was bored. Thus, I tried fiction writing, and loved it from the outset.

As far back as I can recall, I’ve had a passion for military history, and have lectured on the American Civil War for over twenty years. I think part of the fascination has to do with the research involved and my investigative background. Historical research is very much an investigation. You come up with theories, develop evidence, conduct interviews, put it all together and come up with a conclusion. Writing historical fiction was an obvious direction and choice.

To me historical fiction needs a foundation in historical reality. Thus, it took me two and a half years of intense research before I wrote my first novel, Follow Me to Glory. The sequel, bringing Ian Carlyle into the American Civil War, was easier research because I’ve been studying this period for most of my life.

I’ve heard you use the term, “flying under the radar of history”, in your approach to historical fiction. Your latest book is about an attempted assassination of Abraham Lincoln when he comes to dedicate the cemetery at Gettysburg. We know it won’t be successful. So how do you maintain the suspense?

Flying under the radar means to me that you try diligently not to change any major part of history. This is especially difficult when some of your characters are real historical figures, and you are giving them life and dialogue. It is, however, possible if you remain steadfast to history.

I create a group of fictional characters who carry the story as heros, villlians, or participants in the action, then I weave them in with real people of the time. The story takes place at a level beneath the actual historical line. Ian Carlyle, for instance, isn’t a general or a major politician. He’s a company commander, a staff officer, a British observer on McClellan’s staff, or a military liaison officer at the British legation – all minor positions in the big historical picture.

My latest book is a perfect example, a story about a fictitious assassination attempt on Lincoln. We know there were such threats and attempts. The story is thus plausible. We know he had terrible security and we know he went to Gettysburg for the address. We know his bodyguard, Ward Hill Lamon, was concerned for his safety in Gettysburg…the story is even more plausible…Could it have happened? We know it fails, but how does it fail? How does the hero foil the plot? Who are the bad guys? What will happen to them?

Someone once said fiction is drama, and drama is conflict. Even if you know the end, you can create drama within the tale. After all, in most crime dramas, the bad guy gets caught. The questions are how does he get caught, who catches him, and am I, the reader, invested in the characters – both good guys and bad guys. In historical fiction you can add questions like: Is the story believable? Could it have happened? Is the background and setting authentic and plausible? Is the dialogue real for the historic period?

Some time as Lincoln rode back to DC by train, Lamon might have said to him quietly, “Say, Abe, there was an attempt to assassinate you back there in Gettysburg. Not to worry, we took care of it.” Lincoln might nod his head and resume looking out the train window as it rolled east toward Washington … Below the radar of history … a minor footnote at best, yet a good story when you’re involved in reading it.

To learn more about Will Hutchinson, visit his website. You can also purchase books directly at www.buybooksontheweb.com.

If you will recall, France had possession of most of the land from the Appalachian Mountains to the Mississippi River prior to the French and Indian War (1754-1763). After defeating France, Britain acquired this territory, one that would soon stir a pot of issues.

In order to prevent clashes between native tribes inhabiting this chunk of land and American colonists eager to expand their horizons, the British, by dint of the Proclamation of 1763, forbade the colonists from crossing the Appalachian Mountains to settle. This regulation, like many others imposed by the British, was largely ignored. As an obvious consequence, violent confrontations between the settlers and Indians ensued. These frontier skirmishes would continue up to and through the American Revolution, after which this territory once again changed hands, from British to American.

Once in American hands, many states simply extended their borders along their existing lines of latitude. For example, North Carolina now claimed a cross-section of land from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. Its eyes were bigger than its appetite though, for they were not interested in shelling out money (hard to come by after the expenses incurred by the war) to protect its citizens from Indian attacks, or more accurately, from attempts to protect their lands.

Not sure what to do, North Carolina decided in 1784 to give this land to Congress, but then did an about-face and reclaimed it. Not willing to wait around and see what side of the waffle would flip up next, the frontier leaders got together in Jonesborough on August 23, 1784 and declared their independence from North Carolina.

Complete with governor, militia, legislature, and Constitution, the self-proclaimed state of Franklin got itself organized and ready to petition for official statehood. John Sevier, a noted Indian-fighter and hero of the Battle of Kings Mountain during the Revolutionary War, was elected governor. Beginning with three counties, Franklin soon grew to eight, taking in over 10,000 new migrant families. Nevertheless, Franklin received only seven of the required nine votes needed for admission to the United States when it applied in 1785.

Perhaps Franklin would have made it if it had set some boundaries and stuck to them. But Sevier continued to assault Cherokee towns in the hopes of expanding Franklin’s borders. By the ‘Treaty of Coyatee, more of a pretext than a treaty, Franklin seized all Cherokee land north of Little Tennessee River…. The United States Government by the Treaty of Hopewell, in 1785, refused to recognize Franklin’s claims, and placed the Cherokee boundary at the old line.”

Franklinites gave a big frontier finger to this and continued to harass the Cherokee. Talk about biting the hand that one wants to be fed by.

If these antics weren’t enough, Franklin actually considered making an alliance with Spain, located just across the Mississippi. Apparently, North Carolina had had enough and sent in troops. After a minor skirmish in February of 1788, John Sevier was arrested and Franklin called it quits.

Ignoring United States treaties and contemplating alliances with foreign powers seem like pretty good reasons why statehood might be refused. I can’t help but think, though, that it was really Franklin’s official currency that torpedoed its chances – animal skins. “According to one account…the governor…got a salary of 1,000 deer skins; the chief justice 500 deer skins; the governor’s secretary 500 raccoon skins; the treasurer 450 otter skins.” Just when the United States government was having enough trouble under the Articles of Confederation extracting money from the states, the last thing they needed to deal with was wagon-loads full of animal hides stinking up the coffers. Envision, also, the hassle of paying federal taxes. On line B, enter number of animal skins and species. Subtract number of musket-ball holes found in skins and enter on line C. Complete the Hide Worksheet and enter total on line D.

State or no state, Franklin does offer to us an interesting footnote in the westward expansion of the United States.

Few of us really want to die, but none of us want to die in pointless ways like the above. There are good ways to go and there are bad ways to go. There is something unworthy, or shameful, or unjust, or unfair, or just not cricket to clock out after being beaned in a baseball game. Or how about the relatives of that man swallowed by the snake? What do they talk about at the funeral? No one wants their obituary to read: Elmer Fudd, 56, died at home yesterday after choking on a chicken bone. These sort of deaths negate an entire lifetime simply because an odd or ridiculous demise sticks; it is the last, lingering thing we remember of the victim. No matter how much was accomplished, no matter how many good deeds done, no matter how many Nobel Prizes won, the grand culmination of years and years of living is: He had his head chopped off by a helicopter blade. That will be the last mortal act of the deceased and the first thing remembered by the living: She tripped and fell into a vat of acid.

The way I definitely don’t want to go? “You’re kidding? . . . A piece of space junk fell and hit Tom square in the skull?” Or “Poor Tom, ha, ha . . . And, to think, he was a vegetarian and killed like he was . . . smashed flat by a meat wagon as he walked across a Wendy’s parking lot!”

No, if we must go down then let us go “in our sleep,” or just via a simple heart attack, or please, just with normal lung or brain cancer. Better still, let a man go down doing something grand, something heroic: Like dying while saving a bus full of nuns as the runaway vehicle is about to careen over a cliff, or while rescuing caged animals at a burning pet store, or in a gunfight after killing all three muggers attempting to rob and kill a woman. Now those are deaths I can live . . . rather, those are deaths I can die with.

My dream death: To just drop stone cold while I am walking by myself along the banks of the Big Muddy. If I miss the river and fail to get flushed away to the Gulf of Mexico, that’s okay too, just as long as my body is never found. I will fertilize the tree I fall near, or provide food for some scavenging animals, will be no fuss or bother to anyone, and will save the county 5K in funeral expenses.

Final Note: Two years or so ago, a guy was killed in Kansas City in a fight over a woman. Where? The Wild West Saloon. Poor devil.

Final Final Note: TV Westerns and movies aside, not everyone in the Old West died in a gunfight, Indian massacre or buffalo stampede; some actually died by drowning, lightning or a kick in the head from a mule. One man back then apparently misjudged the speed of an ox cart in Denver and was run over and killed; another Westerner visiting New York City was struck dead by a horse-drawn trolley barreling down Broadway at maybe 3-5 mph. Apparently, outrunning a stampede or dodging lead in Dodge was one thing; avoiding speeding ox carts and trolleys in the cities was another.

On this day, you might want to read what those veterans and the people waiting at home thought while wars were going on. You can find a collection of World War II War Letters on our partner site, HistoryNet. These are selections from The Legacy Project, which collects and preserves wartime letters, which partners with World War II magazine to present these samplings from the project to the general public.

Reading the handful of markers in the murk was difficult. The largest was raised by the Union Pacific Railroad, Eastern Division (AKA Kansas Pacific) and dedicated to six workers who were ambushed and killed by Cheyenne Indians in late 1867. All the men, “track laborers,” are buried together beneath this monument.

P.S. Ashley, Foreman (Wisconsin)
Thomas Carney (Iowa)
Charles Watson (Canada)
John Harrington (Kansas City)
Pat Rafferty (Kansas City)
Hugh McDonaugh (Denver)

Nearby, boxed in an aluminum case covered with plexiglass, is a much smaller marker. This block of limestone, maybe one foot by two, is also in memory of the six men slain but since it was hand carved a short time after the event it seems much more personal. One can almost feel the pathos with each tap on the chisel. Even had the light been better, it would have been difficult to decipher the marker since both the spelling and carving were crude.

IN MEMORAIM of Mr. McDONNEY.
FIVE (?) . . . PERSONS HERE TO. ME. UNKNOWN.
TO THIER MEMORY
WE CARVED THIS STONE.
KILLED BY
INDIANS
IN THE YEAR 1867

Dock William
carver

Now, for those who grew up with Grade-B Westerns, reality check time: Death by Indian was not just an arrow to the back, maybe a lifted scalp, end of story. In a blink, legs, hands, feet, ears, eyes, noses, heads, and privates could be chopped off and table arranged for maximum effect: speed gutting was another favorite. If the Cheyenne were not pressed for time they might enjoy a day-long barbecue – victim staked out, small embers placed at select parts of his body, never enough to kill, just enough to entertain. Point being: To find your co-workers cut and/or roasted alive was obviously something one would never forget.

A few feet beyond these stones, arrayed in a row, are five more small stones, still sunk in the sod. A large Scottish family named Seth were traveling by boat up the Mississippi River, Victoria-bound. Disease swept the decks and before the craft could even dock in St. Louis five of the children were dead of typhoid. For reasons not given, the mother, Jeanne, also was “lost” and the grieving husband and father could do little else but continue to his new Kansas homestead with the three surviving children. Just when he brought the bodies is not clear but, by the summer 1873, all had eventually joined him here on the High Plains. A new marker, raised in 2008 by a descendant, Ernest Seth of California, tells the story. Once more, and unlike TV Westerns, nothing quick and sweet about this form of dying either. Those who suffered the typhoid could expect ferocious fevers of 104 °F; acute dehydration, chronic diarrhea, stomach extension, and delirium unto madness were other symptoms; and this howling horror could continue for a fortnight until life finally released its grip. To have witnessed five of your children go through this simultaneously? Well, what mother or father might not be ”lost” to the trauma?

Indian attacks and disease. That is the extent of the little graveyard, but what lessons learned about the perils of pioneering. The silence and serenity now in this little nook contrasts starkly to the hideous end each occupant experienced. Eleven bodies . . . 11 terrible ends. Requiescant In Pace.