Of course, it all depends on PERSPECTIVE.
Scotland looks so small HERE (and on most maps), BUT. seen up close, or as shown in the James Bond film Skyfall (2012), it just seems to go on FOREVER.
All a matter of perspective. ;-)
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Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Friday, March 22, 2019
A Matter of Scale - UK vs Texas ...
I LOVE this pic I found online, EXCEPT for the Irish rotation (which I NOTED on the pic) ...
Of course, it all depends on PERSPECTIVE.
Scotland looks so small HERE (and on most maps), BUT. seen up close, or as shown in the James Bond film Skyfall (2012), it just seems to go on FOREVER.
All a matter of perspective. ;-)
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Of course, it all depends on PERSPECTIVE.
Scotland looks so small HERE (and on most maps), BUT. seen up close, or as shown in the James Bond film Skyfall (2012), it just seems to go on FOREVER.
All a matter of perspective. ;-)
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Sunday, March 23, 2014
"The Cisco Kid ...
... had killed six men in more or less fair scrimmages, had murdered twice as many (mostly Mexicans), and had winged a larger number whom he modestly forbore to count. Therefore a woman loved him."
If those words seem to not fit the image many of you old enough to remember early movies and a television series about a Mexican-American Robin Hood of the old west recall, ...
... including running (for a while, until it eventually failed) a magazine he called "The Rolling Stone"...
Here he found a new life, getting from observation and listening (not from experience, for he was never a cowboy) the originals for his Western characters and scenes. He recalled them when he began writing and publishing stories under the name of O. Henry. He cranked out a mighty pile of them between his first in 1899 until his death (from alcoholism) in 1910.
In 1907, he published this ...
############################################
The Caballero's Way
by O. Henry (William Sydney Porter)
(Published 1907, now in Public Domain)
The Cisco Kid had killed six men in more or less fair scrimmages, had murdered twice as many (mostly Mexicans), and had winged a larger number whom he modestly forbore to count. Therefore a woman loved him.
The Kid was twenty-five, looked twenty; and a careful insurance company would have estimated the probable time of his demise at, say, twenty-six. His habitat was anywhere between the Frio and the Rio Grande. He killed for the love of it — because he was quick-tempered — to avoid arrest — for his own amusement —any reason that came to his mind would suffice. He had escaped capture because he could shoot five-sixths of a second sooner than any sheriff or ranger in the service, and because he rode a speckled roan horse that knew every cowpath in the mesquite and pear thickets from San Antonio to Matamoras.
Tonia Perez, the girl who loved the Cisco Kid, was half Carmen, half Madonna, and the rest — oh, yes, a woman who is half Carmen and half Madonna can always be something more — the rest, let us say, was humming-bird. She lived in a grass-roofed jacal near a little Mexican settlement at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio. With her lived a father or grandfather, a lineal Aztec, somewhat less than a thousand years old, who herded a hundred goats and lived in a continuous drunken dream from drinking mescal. Back of the jacal a tremendous forest of bristling pear, twenty feet high at its worst, crowded almost to its door. It was along the bewildering maze of this spinous thicket that the speckled roan would bring the Kid to see his girl. And once, clinging like a lizard to the ridge-pole, high up under the peaked grass roof, he had heard Tonia, with her Madonna face and Carmen beauty and humming-bird soul, parley with the sheriff's posse, denying knowledge of her man in her soft mélange of Spanish and English.
One day the adjutant-general of the State, who is, ex officio, commander of the ranger forces, wrote some sarcastic lines to Captain Duval of Company X, stationed at Laredo, relative to the serene and undisturbed existence led by murderers and desperadoes in the said captain's territory.
The captain turned the colour of brick dust under his tan, and forwarded the letter, after adding a few comments, per ranger Private Bill Adamson, to ranger Lieutenant Sandridge, camped at a water hole on the Nueces with a squad of five men in preservation of law and order. Lieutenant Sandridge turned a beautiful couleur de rose through his ordinary strawberry complexion, tucked the letter in his hip pocket, and chewed off the end of his gamboge moustache. The next morning he saddled his horse and rode alone to the Mexican settlement at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, twenty miles away.
Six feet two, blond as a Viking, quiet as a deacon, dangerous as a machine gun, Sandridge moved, among the Jacales, patiently seeking news of the Cisco Kid.
Far more than the law, the Mexicans dreaded the cold and certain vengeance of the lone rider that the ranger sought. It had been one of the Kid's pastimes to shoot Mexicans "to see them kick": if he demanded from them moribund Terpsichorean feats, simply that he might be entertained, what terrible and extreme penalties would be certain to follow should they anger him! One and all they lounged with upturned palms and shrugging shoulders, filling the air with "quién sabes" and denials of the Kid's acquaintance.
But there was a man named Fink who kept a store at the Crossing — a man of many nationalities, tongues, interests, and ways of thinking.
"No use to ask them Mexicans," he said to Sandridge. "They're afraid to tell. This hombre they call the Kid — Goodall is his name, ain't it? — he's been in my store once or twice. I have an idea you might run across him at — but I guess I don't keer to say, myself. I'm two seconds later in pulling a gun than I used to be and the difference is worth thinking about. But this Kid's got a half-Mexican girl at the Crossing that he comes to see. She lives in that jacal a hundred yards down the arroyo at the edge of the pear. Maybe she — no, I don't suppose she would, but that jacal would be a good place to watch, anyway."
Sandridge rode down to the jacal of Perez. The sun was low, and the broad shade of the great pear thicket already covered the grass-thatched hut. The goats were enclosed for the night in a brush corral near by. A few kids walked the top of it, nibbling the chaparral leaves. The old Mexican lay upon a blanket on the grass, already in a stupor from his mescal, and dreaming, perhaps, of the nights when he and Pizarro touched glasses to their New World fortunes — so old his wrinkled face seemed to proclaim him to be. And in the door of the jacal stood Tonia. And Lieutenant Sandridge sat in his saddle staring at her like a gannet agape at a sailorman.
The Cisco Kid was a vain person, as all eminent and successful assassins are, and his bosom would have been ruffled had he known that at a simple exchange of glances two persons, in whose minds lie had been looming large, suddenly abandoned (at least for the time) all thought of him. Never before had Tonia seen such a man as this. He seemed to be made of sunshine and blood-red tissue and clear weather. He seemed to illuminate the shadow of the pear when he smiled, as though the sun were rising again. The men she had known had been small and dark. Even the Kid, in spite of his achievements, was a stripling no larger than herself, with black straight hair and a cold marble face that chilled the noonday.
As for Tonia, though she sends description to the poorhouse, let her make a millionaire of your fancy. Her blue-black hair, smoothly divided in the middle and bound close to her head, and her large eyes full of the Latin melancholy, gave her the Madonna touch. Her motions and air spoke of the concealed fire and the desire to charm that she had inherited from the gitanas of the Basque province. As for the humming-bird part of her, that dwelt in her heart; you could not perceive it unless her bright red skirt and dark blue blouse gave you a symbolic hint of the vagarious bird. The newly lighted sungod asked for a drink of water.
Tonia brought it from the red jar hanging under the brush shelter. Sandridge considered it necessary to dismount so as to lessen the trouble of her ministrations.
I play no spy; nor do I assume to master the thoughts of any human heart; but I assert, by the chronicler's right, that before a quarter of an hour had sped, Sandridge was teaching her how to plait a six-strand rawhide stake-rope, and Tonia had explained to him that were it not for her little English book that the peripatetic padre had given her and the little crippled chivo, that she fed from a bottle, she would be very, very lonely indeed.
Which leads to a suspicion that the Kid's fences needed repairing, and that the adjutant-general's sarcasm had fallen upon unproductive soil.
In his camp by the water hole Lieutenant Sandridge announced and reiterated his intention of either causing the Cisco Kid to nibble the black loam of the Frio country prairies or of haling him before a judge and jury. That sounded business-like. Twice a week he rode over to the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, and directed Tonia's slim, slightly lemon-tinted fingers among the intricacies of the slowly growing lariata. A six-strand plait is hard to learn and easy to teach.
The ranger knew that he might find the Kid there at any visit. He kept his armament ready, and had a frequent eye for the pear thicket at the rear of the jacal. Thus he might bring down the kite and the humming-bird with one stone.
While the sunny-haired ornithologist was pursuing his studies the Cisco Kid was also attending to his professional duties. He moodily shot up a saloon, in a small cow village on Quintana Creek, killed the town marshal (plugging him neatly in the centre of his tin badge), and then rode away, morose and unsatisfied. No true artist is uplifted by shooting an aged man carrying an old-style .38 bulldog.
On his way the Kid suddenly experienced the yearning that all men feel when wrong-doing loses its keen edge of delight. He yearned for the woman he loved to reassure him that she was his in spite of it. He wanted her to call his bloodthirstiness bravery and his cruelty devotion. He wanted Tonia to bring him water from the red jug under the brush shelter, and tell him how the chivo was thriving on the bottle.
The Kid turned the speckled roan's head up the ten-mile pear flat that stretches along the Arroyo Hondo until it ends at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio. The roan whickered; for he had a sense of locality and direction equal to that of a belt-line street-car horse; and he knew he would soon be nibbling the rich mesquite grass at the end of a forty-foot stake rope while Ulysses rested his head in Circe's straw-roofed hut.
More weird and lonesome than the journey of an Amazonian explorer is the ride of one through a Texas pear flat. With dismal monotony and startling variety the uncanny and multiform shapes of the cacti lift their twisted trunks and fat, bristly hands to encumber the way. The demon plant, appearing to live without soil or rain, seems to taunt the parched traveler with its lush gray greenness. It warps itself a thousand times about what look to be open and inviting paths, only to lure the rider into blind and impassable spine-defended "bottoms of the bag," leaving him to retreat, if he can, with the points of the compass whirling in his head.
To be lost in the pear is to die almost the death of the thief on the cross, pierced by nails and with grotesque shapes of all the fiends hovering about.
But it was not so with the Kid and his mount. Winding, twisting, circling, tracing the most fantastic and bewildering trail ever picked out, the good roan lessened the distance to the Lone Wolf Crossing with every coil and turn that he made.
While they fared the Kid sang. He knew but one tune and he sang it, as he knew but one code and lived it, and but one girl and loved her. He was a single-minded man of conventional ideas. He had a voice like a coyote with bronchitis, but whenever he chose to sing his song he sang it. It was a conventional song of the camps and trail, running at its beginning as near as may be to these words:
Don't you monkey with my Lulu girl
Or I'll tell you what I'll do—
and so on. The roan was inured to it, and did not mind.
But even the poorest singer will, after a certain time, gain his own consent to refrain from contributing to the world's noises. So the Kid, by the time he was within a mile or two of Tonia's jacal, had reluctantly allowed his song to die away — not because his vocal performance had become less charming to his own ears, but because his laryngeal muscles were aweary.
As though he were in a circus ring the speckled roan wheeled and danced through the labyrinth of pear until at length his rider knew by certain landmarks that the Lone Wolf Crossing was close at hand. Then, where the pear was thinner, he caught sight of the grass roof of the jacal and the hackberry tree on the edge of the arroyo. A few yards farther the Kid stopped the roan and gazed intently through the prickly openings. Then he dismounted, dropped the roan's reins, and proceeded on foot, stooping and silent, like an Indian. The roan, knowing his part, stood still, making no sound.
The Kid crept noiselessly to the very edge of the pear thicket and reconnoitered between the leaves of a clump of cactus.
Ten yards from his hiding-place, in the shade of the jacal, sat his Tonia calmly plaiting a raw-hide lariat. So far she might surely escape condemnation; women have been known, from time to time, to engage in more mischievous occupations. But if all must be told, there is to be added that her head reposed against the broad and comfortable chest of a tall red-and-yellow man, and that his arm was about her, guiding her nimble small fingers that required so many lessons at the intricate six-strand plait.
Sandridge glanced quickly at the dark mass of pear when he heard a slight squeaking sound that was not altogether unfamiliar. A gun-scabbard will make that sound when one grasps the handle of a six-shooter suddenly. But the sound was not repeated; and Tonia's fingers needed close attention.
And then, in the shadow of death, they began to talk of their love; and in the still July afternoon every word they uttered reached the ears of the Kid.
"Remember, then," said Tonia, "you must not come again until I send for you. Soon he will be here. A vaquero at the tienda said to-day he saw him on the Guadalupe three days ago. When he is that near he always comes. If he comes and finds you here he will kill you. So, for my sake, you must come no more until I send you the word."
"All right," said the ranger. "And then what?"
"And then," said the girl, "you must bring your men here and kill him. If not, he will kill you."
"He ain't a man to surrender, that's sure," said Sandridge. "It's kill or be killed for the officer that goes up against Mr. Cisco Kid."
"He must die," said the girl. "Otherwise there will not be any peace in the world for thee and me. He has killed many. Let him so die. Bring your men, and give him no chance to escape."
"You used to think right much of him," said Sandridge.
Tonia dropped the lariat, twisted herself around, and curved a lemon-tinted arm over the ranger's shoulder.
"But then," she murmured in liquid Spanish, "I had not beheld thee, thou great, red mountain of a man! And thou art kind and good, as well as strong. Could one choose him, knowing thee? Let him die; for then I will not be filled with fear by day and night lest he hurt thee or me."
"How can I know when he comes?" asked Sandridge.
"When he comes," said Tonia, "he remains two days, sometimes three. Gregorio, the small son of old Luisa, the lavandera, has a swift pony. I will write a letter to thee and send it by him, saying how it will be best to come upon him. By Gregorio will the letter come. And bring many men with thee, and have much care, oh, dear red one, for the rattlesnake is not quicker to strike than is 'El Chivato', as they call him, to send a ball from his pistola."
"The Kid's handy with his gun, sure enough," admitted Sandridge, "but when I come for him I shall come alone. I'll get him by myself or not at all. The Cap wrote one or two things to me that make me want to do the trick without any help. You let me know when Mr. Kid arrives, and I'll do the rest."
"I will send you the message by the boy Gregorio," said the girl. "I knew you were braver than that small slayer of men who never smiles. How could I ever have thought I cared for him?"
It was time for the ranger to ride back to his camp on the water hole. Before he mounted his horse he raised the slight form of Tonia with one arm high from the earth for a parting salute. The drowsy stillness of the torpid summer air still lay thick upon the dreaming afternoon. The smoke from the fire in the jacal, where the frijoles blubbered in the iron pot, rose straight as a plumb-line above the clay-daubed chimney. No sound or movement disturbed the serenity of the dense pear thicket ten yards away.
When the form of Sandridge had disappeared, loping his big dun down the steep banks of the Frio crossing, the Kid crept back to his own horse, mounted him, and rode back along the tortuous trail he had come.
But not far. He stopped and waited in the silent depths of the pear until half an hour had passed. And then Tonia heard the high, untrue notes of his un-musical singing coming nearer and nearer; and she ran to the edge of the pear to meet him.
The Kid seldom smiled; but he smiled and waved his hat when he saw her. He dismounted, and his girl sprang into his arms. The Kid looked at her fondly. His thick black hair clung to his head like a wrinkled mat. The meeting brought a slight ripple of some undercurrent of feeling to his smooth, dark face that was usually as motionless as a clay mask.
"How's my girl?" he asked, holding her close.
"Sick of waiting so long for you, dear one," she answered. "My eyes are dim with always gazing into that devil's pincushion through which you come. And I can see into it such a little way, too. But you are here, beloved one, and I will not scold. Qué mal muchacho! not to come to see your alma more often. Go in and rest, and let me water your horse and stake him with the long rope. There is cool water in the jar for you."
The Kid kissed her affectionately.
"Not if the court knows itself do I let a lady stake my horse for me," Said he. "But if you'll run in, chica, and throw a pot of coffee together while I attend to the caballo, I'll be a good deal obliged."
Besides his marksmanship the Kid had another attribute for which he admired himself greatly. He was muy caballero, as the Mexicans express it, where the ladies were concerned. For them he had always gentle words and consideration. He could not have spoken a harsh word to a woman. He might ruthlessly slay their husbands and brothers, but he could not have laid the weight of a finger in anger upon a woman. Wherefore many of that interesting division of humanity who had come under the spell of his politeness declared their disbelief in the stories circulated about Mr. Kid. One shouldn't believe everything one heard, they said.
When confronted by their indignant men folk with proof of the caballero's deeds of infamy, they said maybe he had been driven to it, and that he knew how to treat a lady, anyhow.
Considering this extremely courteous idiosyncrasy of the Kid and the pride that lie took in it, one can perceive that the solution of the problem that was presented to him by what he saw and heard from his hiding-place in the pear that afternoon (at least as to one of the actors) must have been obscured by difficulties. And yet one could not think of the Kid overlooking little matters of that kind.
At the end of the short twilight they gathered around a supper of frijoles, goat steaks, canned peaches, and coffee, by the light of a lantern in the jacal. Afterward, the ancestor, his flock corralled, smoked a cigarette and became a mummy in a gray blanket. Tonia washed the few dishes while the Kid dried them with the flour-sacking towel. Her eyes shone; she chatted volubly of the inconsequent happenings of her small world since the Kid's last visit; it was as all his other home-comings had been.
Then outside Tonia swung in a grass hammock with her guitar and sang sad canciones de amor.
"Do you love me Just the same, old girl?" asked the Kid, hunting for his cigarette papers.
"Always the same, little one," said Tonia, her dark eyes lingering upon him.
"I must go over to Fink's," said the Kid, rising, "for some tobacco. I thought I had another sack in my coat. I'll be back in a quarter of an hour."
"Hasten," said Tonia, "and tell me — how long shall I call you my own this time? Will you be gone again to-morrow, leaving me to grieve, or will you be longer with your Tonia?"
"Oh, I might stay two or three days this trip," said the Kid, yawning. "I've been on the dodge for a month, and I'd like to rest up."
He was gone half an hour for his tobacco. When he returned Tonia was still lying in the hammock.
"It's funny," said the Kid, "how I feel. I feel like there was somebody lying behind every bush and tree waiting to shoot me... I never had mullygrubs like them before. Maybe it's one of them presumptions I've got half a notion to light out in the morning before day. The Guadalupe country is burning up about that old Dutchman I plugged down there."
"You are not afraid — no one could make my brave little one fear."
"Well, I haven't been usually regarded as a jack-rabbit when it comes to scrapping; but I don't want a posse smoking me out when I'm in your jacal. Somebody might get hurt that oughtn't to."
"Remain with your Tonia; no one will find you here."
The Kid looked keenly into the shadows up and down the arroyo and toward the dim lights of the Mexican village. "I'll see how it looks later on," was his decision.
At midnight a horseman rode into the rangers' camp, blazing his way by noisy "halloes" to indicate a pacific mission. Sandridge and one or two others turned out to investigate the row. The rider announced himself to be Domingo Sales, from the Lone Wolf Crossing. He bore a letter for Senor Sandridge. Old Luisa, the lavandera, had persuaded him to bring it, he said, her son Gregorio being too ill of a fever to ride. Sandridge lighted the camp lantern and read the letter. These were its words:
DEAR ONE:
He has come. Hardly had you ridden away when he came out of the pear. When he first talked he said he would stay three days or more. Then as it grew later he was like a wolf or a fox, and walked about without rest, looking and listening. Soon he said he must leave before daylight when it is dark and stillest. And then he seemed to suspect that I be not true to him. He looked at me so strange that I am frightened. I swear to him that I love him, his own Tonia. Last of all he said I must prove to him I am true. He thinks that even now men are waiting to kill him as he rides from my house. To escape he says he will dress in my clothes, my red skirt and the blue waist I wear and the brown mantilla over the head, and thus ride away. But before that he says that I must put on his clothes, his pantalones and camisa and hat, and ride away on his horse from the jacal as far as the big road beyond the crossing and back again. This before he goes, so he can tell if I am true and if men are hidden to shoot him. It is a terrible thing. An hour before daybreak this is to be. Come, my dear one, and kill this man and take me for your Tonia. Do not try to take hold of him alive, but kill him quickly. Knowing all, you should do that. You must come long before the time and hide yourself in the little shed near the jacal where the wagon and saddles are kept. It is dark in there. He will wear my red skirt and blue waist and brown mantilla. I send you a hundred kisses. Come surely and shoot quickly and straight.
THINE OWN TONIA.
Sandridge quickly explained to his men the official part of the missive. The rangers protested against his going alone.
"I'll get him easy enough," said the lieutenant. "The girl's got him trapped. And don't even think he'll get the drop on me."
Sandridge saddled his horse and rode to the Lone Wolf Crossing. He tied his big dun in a clump of brush on the arroyo, took his Winchester from its scabbard, and carefully approached the Perez jacal. There was only the half of a high moon drifted over by ragged, milk-white gulf clouds. The wagon-shed was an excellent place for ambush; and the ranger got inside it safely. In the black shadow of the brush shelter in front of the jacal he could see a horse tied and hear him impatiently pawing the hard-trodden earth.
He waited almost an hour before two figures came out of the jacal. One, in man's clothes, quickly mounted the horse and galloped past the wagon-shed toward the crossing and village. And then the other figure, in skirt, waist, and mantilla over its head, stepped out into the faint moonlight, gazing after the rider. Sandridge thought he would take his chance then before Tonia rode back. He fancied she might not care to see it.
"Throw up your hands," he ordered, loudly, stepping out of the wagon-shed with his Winchester at his shoulder.
There was a quick turn of the figure, but no movement to obey, so the ranger pumped in the bullets — one — two — three — and then twice more; for you never could be too sure of bringing down the Cisco Kid. There was no danger of missing at ten paces, even in that half moonlight.
The old ancestor, asleep on his blanket, was awakened by the shots. Listening further, he heard a great cry from some man in mortal distress or anguish, and rose up grumbling at the disturbing ways of moderns. The tall, red ghost of a man burst into the jacal, reaching one hand, shaking like a tule reed, for the lantern hanging on its nail. The other spread a letter on the table.
"Look at this letter, Perez" cried the man.
"Who wrote it?"
"Ah, Dios! it is Senor Sandridge," mumbled the old man, approaching. "Pues, senor, that letter was written by 'El Chivato,' as he is called — by the man of Tonia. They say he is a bad man; I do not know. While Tonia slept he wrote the letter and sent it by this old hand of mine to Domingo Sales to be brought to you. Is there anything wrong in the letter? I am very old; and I did not know. Valgame Dios! it is a very foolish world; and there is nothing in the house to drink—nothing to drink."
Just then all that Sandridge could think of to do was to go outside and throw himself face downward in the dust by the side of his humming-bird, of whom not a feather fluttered. He was not a caballero by instinct, and he could not understand the niceties of revenge.
A mile away the rider who had ridden past the wagon-shed struck up a harsh, untuneful song, the words of which began:
Don't you monkey with my Lulu girl
Or I'll tell you what I'll do—
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Ok! I have some pretty sharp people among my readers, and I suspect that more than a few of them already know about the O. Henry/Cisco Kid connection.
What I wondered about was whether there was an actual incident that inspired the story, I'm confident there was, and that I've found it.
In a much earlier post ("Possibly a good movie ..."), the second part was about taking a very fine book and making a very sorry movie from parts of it.
The movie was "Texas Rangers (2001)" and it turned out to only have a few names in common with ...
"Taming The Nueces Strip" by George Durham
This book is still in print, from the University of Texas Press, and of course from Amazon.com (if they don't have something, it probably doesn't even exist).
It is primarily the story of Georgia farm boy George Durham's experience of serving with the Texas Rangers during the period of 1875 and 1876, under the command of Captain Leander H. McNelly, in an outlaw-infested region known as the Nueces Strip.
When Texas was the Mexican state of Tejas, it was separated from Coahuila by the Nueces River, which ran down to the Gulf of Mexico at Corpus Christi.
After Texas won its Independence in 1836, it claimed land down to the Rio Grande River, establishing its border there. That claim was upheld by the United States when Texas allowed itself to be annexed to the U.S. in 1845, but Mexico repudiated that claim and tried to treat that part of the state as its own, resulting in the Mexican-American War.
The area between the two rivers (the Nueces Strip) became a magnet for local desperadoes, and for cattle thieves from Mexico trying to liberate what they referred to as "Grandma's cattle".
It didn't help things much that the aftermath of the Civil War left most of the Southern states (including Texas) in an unholy, anarchistic mess. To deal with that, in 1875 newly elected Governor Richard Coke created a special force within the Rangers, to be commanded by McNelly, and tasked with cleaning up the Nueces Strip.
He had some imaginative (but direct) approaches to the problem, as illustrated after a Mexican bandit gang had made a raid on a store in Nuecestown, a bit northwest of Corpus Christi. Among the things they took were ...
eighteen brand-new Dick Heye saddles, which were what you'd now call the Cadillacs of the saddle world. They were heavily studded with silver conchos in a pattern that you could tell half a mile away, a fact that proved to be the death warrant for many a man.
McNelly was very interested in those saddles. Upon learning from the store owner that he had some more on order, but they weren't in yet, he studied a moment, and then told him:
"When they come, don't sell a one until I tell you differently." He turned to Sergeant Armstrong and ordered, "Describe those saddles to the Rangers. Make sure they understand exactly. Then order them to empty those saddles on sight! No palavering with the riders. Empty them! Leave the men where you drop them, and bring the saddles to camp."
Among other things on his plate was also dealing with anglo outlaws; in particular one John "King" Fisher, a friend of John Wesley Hardin and a guy who casually wandered back and forth on both sides of the law, and may have even been responsible for one of the earliest road signs in Texas -- where a road split into two directions, on one a sign nailed to a tree warned,
"This is King Fisher's road.
Take the other."
He was a cattle rancher and also a cattle rustler as well. Certainly an outlaw by definition, but sometimes also The Law (serving as a sheriff several times), meeting his end by being gunned down, along with his friend Ben Thompson (yet another "been there and done that" as both outlaw and law officer, born in England; his family emigrating to Austin, Texas when he was a kid) in an ambush at the Vaudeville Theatre in San Antonio, Texas in 1884.
Most of the above was lifted from my "Possibly" post. What was not in that post was this ...
McNelly (and most other Ranger Captains kept a book (The Book) in which were listed names and what other information was available on various outlaws and desperadoes they were after. They updated it as much as possible.
From chapter 8 ("Betrayal") of "Taming" ...
Before we moved the next morning Casoose rode in with a compadre. He caucused with Captain, and Captain called us into formation and cleared this new man. He was down in The Book as "Old Blas". Nothing else. Captain told us to scratch him and see no harm came to him. Captain never did order him back into The Book, and the old cutthroat used that clearance for forty years - until Pershing crossed over and flushed him out and killed him.
Blas was a crafty old butcher. Years later, when one of the Rangers stole Old Blas' girl friend, he rigged up a deal whereby this Ranger killed her by mistake one foggy morning - a neat trick that was told to the writer O. Henry who made a story out of it.
Borrowing (once again) from Paul Harvey: "And now, you know the rest of the story. :-)
-
If those words seem to not fit the image many of you old enough to remember early movies and a television series about a Mexican-American Robin Hood of the old west recall, ...
Pancho and The Cisco Kid - from tvacres.com
... it's because the original story that they claimed was the basis was nothing of the kind.
In 1880, eighteen-year-old William Sidney Porter left his native North Carolina and arrived in Austin, Texas, to begin a number of careers,...
William_Sydney_Porter_as_young_man_in_Austin - from wikipedia
... including running (for a while, until it eventually failed) a magazine he called "The Rolling Stone"...
From www.cowboysandindians.com
Here he found a new life, getting from observation and listening (not from experience, for he was never a cowboy) the originals for his Western characters and scenes. He recalled them when he began writing and publishing stories under the name of O. Henry. He cranked out a mighty pile of them between his first in 1899 until his death (from alcoholism) in 1910.
In 1907, he published this ...
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The Caballero's Way
by O. Henry (William Sydney Porter)
(Published 1907, now in Public Domain)
The Cisco Kid had killed six men in more or less fair scrimmages, had murdered twice as many (mostly Mexicans), and had winged a larger number whom he modestly forbore to count. Therefore a woman loved him.
The Kid was twenty-five, looked twenty; and a careful insurance company would have estimated the probable time of his demise at, say, twenty-six. His habitat was anywhere between the Frio and the Rio Grande. He killed for the love of it — because he was quick-tempered — to avoid arrest — for his own amusement —any reason that came to his mind would suffice. He had escaped capture because he could shoot five-sixths of a second sooner than any sheriff or ranger in the service, and because he rode a speckled roan horse that knew every cowpath in the mesquite and pear thickets from San Antonio to Matamoras.
Tonia Perez, the girl who loved the Cisco Kid, was half Carmen, half Madonna, and the rest — oh, yes, a woman who is half Carmen and half Madonna can always be something more — the rest, let us say, was humming-bird. She lived in a grass-roofed jacal near a little Mexican settlement at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio. With her lived a father or grandfather, a lineal Aztec, somewhat less than a thousand years old, who herded a hundred goats and lived in a continuous drunken dream from drinking mescal. Back of the jacal a tremendous forest of bristling pear, twenty feet high at its worst, crowded almost to its door. It was along the bewildering maze of this spinous thicket that the speckled roan would bring the Kid to see his girl. And once, clinging like a lizard to the ridge-pole, high up under the peaked grass roof, he had heard Tonia, with her Madonna face and Carmen beauty and humming-bird soul, parley with the sheriff's posse, denying knowledge of her man in her soft mélange of Spanish and English.
One day the adjutant-general of the State, who is, ex officio, commander of the ranger forces, wrote some sarcastic lines to Captain Duval of Company X, stationed at Laredo, relative to the serene and undisturbed existence led by murderers and desperadoes in the said captain's territory.
The captain turned the colour of brick dust under his tan, and forwarded the letter, after adding a few comments, per ranger Private Bill Adamson, to ranger Lieutenant Sandridge, camped at a water hole on the Nueces with a squad of five men in preservation of law and order. Lieutenant Sandridge turned a beautiful couleur de rose through his ordinary strawberry complexion, tucked the letter in his hip pocket, and chewed off the end of his gamboge moustache. The next morning he saddled his horse and rode alone to the Mexican settlement at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, twenty miles away.
Six feet two, blond as a Viking, quiet as a deacon, dangerous as a machine gun, Sandridge moved, among the Jacales, patiently seeking news of the Cisco Kid.
Far more than the law, the Mexicans dreaded the cold and certain vengeance of the lone rider that the ranger sought. It had been one of the Kid's pastimes to shoot Mexicans "to see them kick": if he demanded from them moribund Terpsichorean feats, simply that he might be entertained, what terrible and extreme penalties would be certain to follow should they anger him! One and all they lounged with upturned palms and shrugging shoulders, filling the air with "quién sabes" and denials of the Kid's acquaintance.
But there was a man named Fink who kept a store at the Crossing — a man of many nationalities, tongues, interests, and ways of thinking.
"No use to ask them Mexicans," he said to Sandridge. "They're afraid to tell. This hombre they call the Kid — Goodall is his name, ain't it? — he's been in my store once or twice. I have an idea you might run across him at — but I guess I don't keer to say, myself. I'm two seconds later in pulling a gun than I used to be and the difference is worth thinking about. But this Kid's got a half-Mexican girl at the Crossing that he comes to see. She lives in that jacal a hundred yards down the arroyo at the edge of the pear. Maybe she — no, I don't suppose she would, but that jacal would be a good place to watch, anyway."
Sandridge rode down to the jacal of Perez. The sun was low, and the broad shade of the great pear thicket already covered the grass-thatched hut. The goats were enclosed for the night in a brush corral near by. A few kids walked the top of it, nibbling the chaparral leaves. The old Mexican lay upon a blanket on the grass, already in a stupor from his mescal, and dreaming, perhaps, of the nights when he and Pizarro touched glasses to their New World fortunes — so old his wrinkled face seemed to proclaim him to be. And in the door of the jacal stood Tonia. And Lieutenant Sandridge sat in his saddle staring at her like a gannet agape at a sailorman.
The Cisco Kid was a vain person, as all eminent and successful assassins are, and his bosom would have been ruffled had he known that at a simple exchange of glances two persons, in whose minds lie had been looming large, suddenly abandoned (at least for the time) all thought of him. Never before had Tonia seen such a man as this. He seemed to be made of sunshine and blood-red tissue and clear weather. He seemed to illuminate the shadow of the pear when he smiled, as though the sun were rising again. The men she had known had been small and dark. Even the Kid, in spite of his achievements, was a stripling no larger than herself, with black straight hair and a cold marble face that chilled the noonday.
As for Tonia, though she sends description to the poorhouse, let her make a millionaire of your fancy. Her blue-black hair, smoothly divided in the middle and bound close to her head, and her large eyes full of the Latin melancholy, gave her the Madonna touch. Her motions and air spoke of the concealed fire and the desire to charm that she had inherited from the gitanas of the Basque province. As for the humming-bird part of her, that dwelt in her heart; you could not perceive it unless her bright red skirt and dark blue blouse gave you a symbolic hint of the vagarious bird. The newly lighted sungod asked for a drink of water.
Tonia brought it from the red jar hanging under the brush shelter. Sandridge considered it necessary to dismount so as to lessen the trouble of her ministrations.
I play no spy; nor do I assume to master the thoughts of any human heart; but I assert, by the chronicler's right, that before a quarter of an hour had sped, Sandridge was teaching her how to plait a six-strand rawhide stake-rope, and Tonia had explained to him that were it not for her little English book that the peripatetic padre had given her and the little crippled chivo, that she fed from a bottle, she would be very, very lonely indeed.
Which leads to a suspicion that the Kid's fences needed repairing, and that the adjutant-general's sarcasm had fallen upon unproductive soil.
In his camp by the water hole Lieutenant Sandridge announced and reiterated his intention of either causing the Cisco Kid to nibble the black loam of the Frio country prairies or of haling him before a judge and jury. That sounded business-like. Twice a week he rode over to the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, and directed Tonia's slim, slightly lemon-tinted fingers among the intricacies of the slowly growing lariata. A six-strand plait is hard to learn and easy to teach.
The ranger knew that he might find the Kid there at any visit. He kept his armament ready, and had a frequent eye for the pear thicket at the rear of the jacal. Thus he might bring down the kite and the humming-bird with one stone.
While the sunny-haired ornithologist was pursuing his studies the Cisco Kid was also attending to his professional duties. He moodily shot up a saloon, in a small cow village on Quintana Creek, killed the town marshal (plugging him neatly in the centre of his tin badge), and then rode away, morose and unsatisfied. No true artist is uplifted by shooting an aged man carrying an old-style .38 bulldog.
On his way the Kid suddenly experienced the yearning that all men feel when wrong-doing loses its keen edge of delight. He yearned for the woman he loved to reassure him that she was his in spite of it. He wanted her to call his bloodthirstiness bravery and his cruelty devotion. He wanted Tonia to bring him water from the red jug under the brush shelter, and tell him how the chivo was thriving on the bottle.
The Kid turned the speckled roan's head up the ten-mile pear flat that stretches along the Arroyo Hondo until it ends at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio. The roan whickered; for he had a sense of locality and direction equal to that of a belt-line street-car horse; and he knew he would soon be nibbling the rich mesquite grass at the end of a forty-foot stake rope while Ulysses rested his head in Circe's straw-roofed hut.
More weird and lonesome than the journey of an Amazonian explorer is the ride of one through a Texas pear flat. With dismal monotony and startling variety the uncanny and multiform shapes of the cacti lift their twisted trunks and fat, bristly hands to encumber the way. The demon plant, appearing to live without soil or rain, seems to taunt the parched traveler with its lush gray greenness. It warps itself a thousand times about what look to be open and inviting paths, only to lure the rider into blind and impassable spine-defended "bottoms of the bag," leaving him to retreat, if he can, with the points of the compass whirling in his head.
To be lost in the pear is to die almost the death of the thief on the cross, pierced by nails and with grotesque shapes of all the fiends hovering about.
But it was not so with the Kid and his mount. Winding, twisting, circling, tracing the most fantastic and bewildering trail ever picked out, the good roan lessened the distance to the Lone Wolf Crossing with every coil and turn that he made.
While they fared the Kid sang. He knew but one tune and he sang it, as he knew but one code and lived it, and but one girl and loved her. He was a single-minded man of conventional ideas. He had a voice like a coyote with bronchitis, but whenever he chose to sing his song he sang it. It was a conventional song of the camps and trail, running at its beginning as near as may be to these words:
Don't you monkey with my Lulu girl
Or I'll tell you what I'll do—
and so on. The roan was inured to it, and did not mind.
But even the poorest singer will, after a certain time, gain his own consent to refrain from contributing to the world's noises. So the Kid, by the time he was within a mile or two of Tonia's jacal, had reluctantly allowed his song to die away — not because his vocal performance had become less charming to his own ears, but because his laryngeal muscles were aweary.
As though he were in a circus ring the speckled roan wheeled and danced through the labyrinth of pear until at length his rider knew by certain landmarks that the Lone Wolf Crossing was close at hand. Then, where the pear was thinner, he caught sight of the grass roof of the jacal and the hackberry tree on the edge of the arroyo. A few yards farther the Kid stopped the roan and gazed intently through the prickly openings. Then he dismounted, dropped the roan's reins, and proceeded on foot, stooping and silent, like an Indian. The roan, knowing his part, stood still, making no sound.
The Kid crept noiselessly to the very edge of the pear thicket and reconnoitered between the leaves of a clump of cactus.
Ten yards from his hiding-place, in the shade of the jacal, sat his Tonia calmly plaiting a raw-hide lariat. So far she might surely escape condemnation; women have been known, from time to time, to engage in more mischievous occupations. But if all must be told, there is to be added that her head reposed against the broad and comfortable chest of a tall red-and-yellow man, and that his arm was about her, guiding her nimble small fingers that required so many lessons at the intricate six-strand plait.
Sandridge glanced quickly at the dark mass of pear when he heard a slight squeaking sound that was not altogether unfamiliar. A gun-scabbard will make that sound when one grasps the handle of a six-shooter suddenly. But the sound was not repeated; and Tonia's fingers needed close attention.
And then, in the shadow of death, they began to talk of their love; and in the still July afternoon every word they uttered reached the ears of the Kid.
"Remember, then," said Tonia, "you must not come again until I send for you. Soon he will be here. A vaquero at the tienda said to-day he saw him on the Guadalupe three days ago. When he is that near he always comes. If he comes and finds you here he will kill you. So, for my sake, you must come no more until I send you the word."
"All right," said the ranger. "And then what?"
"And then," said the girl, "you must bring your men here and kill him. If not, he will kill you."
"He ain't a man to surrender, that's sure," said Sandridge. "It's kill or be killed for the officer that goes up against Mr. Cisco Kid."
"He must die," said the girl. "Otherwise there will not be any peace in the world for thee and me. He has killed many. Let him so die. Bring your men, and give him no chance to escape."
"You used to think right much of him," said Sandridge.
Tonia dropped the lariat, twisted herself around, and curved a lemon-tinted arm over the ranger's shoulder.
"But then," she murmured in liquid Spanish, "I had not beheld thee, thou great, red mountain of a man! And thou art kind and good, as well as strong. Could one choose him, knowing thee? Let him die; for then I will not be filled with fear by day and night lest he hurt thee or me."
"How can I know when he comes?" asked Sandridge.
"When he comes," said Tonia, "he remains two days, sometimes three. Gregorio, the small son of old Luisa, the lavandera, has a swift pony. I will write a letter to thee and send it by him, saying how it will be best to come upon him. By Gregorio will the letter come. And bring many men with thee, and have much care, oh, dear red one, for the rattlesnake is not quicker to strike than is 'El Chivato', as they call him, to send a ball from his pistola."
"The Kid's handy with his gun, sure enough," admitted Sandridge, "but when I come for him I shall come alone. I'll get him by myself or not at all. The Cap wrote one or two things to me that make me want to do the trick without any help. You let me know when Mr. Kid arrives, and I'll do the rest."
"I will send you the message by the boy Gregorio," said the girl. "I knew you were braver than that small slayer of men who never smiles. How could I ever have thought I cared for him?"
It was time for the ranger to ride back to his camp on the water hole. Before he mounted his horse he raised the slight form of Tonia with one arm high from the earth for a parting salute. The drowsy stillness of the torpid summer air still lay thick upon the dreaming afternoon. The smoke from the fire in the jacal, where the frijoles blubbered in the iron pot, rose straight as a plumb-line above the clay-daubed chimney. No sound or movement disturbed the serenity of the dense pear thicket ten yards away.
When the form of Sandridge had disappeared, loping his big dun down the steep banks of the Frio crossing, the Kid crept back to his own horse, mounted him, and rode back along the tortuous trail he had come.
But not far. He stopped and waited in the silent depths of the pear until half an hour had passed. And then Tonia heard the high, untrue notes of his un-musical singing coming nearer and nearer; and she ran to the edge of the pear to meet him.
The Kid seldom smiled; but he smiled and waved his hat when he saw her. He dismounted, and his girl sprang into his arms. The Kid looked at her fondly. His thick black hair clung to his head like a wrinkled mat. The meeting brought a slight ripple of some undercurrent of feeling to his smooth, dark face that was usually as motionless as a clay mask.
"How's my girl?" he asked, holding her close.
"Sick of waiting so long for you, dear one," she answered. "My eyes are dim with always gazing into that devil's pincushion through which you come. And I can see into it such a little way, too. But you are here, beloved one, and I will not scold. Qué mal muchacho! not to come to see your alma more often. Go in and rest, and let me water your horse and stake him with the long rope. There is cool water in the jar for you."
The Kid kissed her affectionately.
"Not if the court knows itself do I let a lady stake my horse for me," Said he. "But if you'll run in, chica, and throw a pot of coffee together while I attend to the caballo, I'll be a good deal obliged."
Besides his marksmanship the Kid had another attribute for which he admired himself greatly. He was muy caballero, as the Mexicans express it, where the ladies were concerned. For them he had always gentle words and consideration. He could not have spoken a harsh word to a woman. He might ruthlessly slay their husbands and brothers, but he could not have laid the weight of a finger in anger upon a woman. Wherefore many of that interesting division of humanity who had come under the spell of his politeness declared their disbelief in the stories circulated about Mr. Kid. One shouldn't believe everything one heard, they said.
When confronted by their indignant men folk with proof of the caballero's deeds of infamy, they said maybe he had been driven to it, and that he knew how to treat a lady, anyhow.
Considering this extremely courteous idiosyncrasy of the Kid and the pride that lie took in it, one can perceive that the solution of the problem that was presented to him by what he saw and heard from his hiding-place in the pear that afternoon (at least as to one of the actors) must have been obscured by difficulties. And yet one could not think of the Kid overlooking little matters of that kind.
At the end of the short twilight they gathered around a supper of frijoles, goat steaks, canned peaches, and coffee, by the light of a lantern in the jacal. Afterward, the ancestor, his flock corralled, smoked a cigarette and became a mummy in a gray blanket. Tonia washed the few dishes while the Kid dried them with the flour-sacking towel. Her eyes shone; she chatted volubly of the inconsequent happenings of her small world since the Kid's last visit; it was as all his other home-comings had been.
Then outside Tonia swung in a grass hammock with her guitar and sang sad canciones de amor.
"Do you love me Just the same, old girl?" asked the Kid, hunting for his cigarette papers.
"Always the same, little one," said Tonia, her dark eyes lingering upon him.
"I must go over to Fink's," said the Kid, rising, "for some tobacco. I thought I had another sack in my coat. I'll be back in a quarter of an hour."
"Hasten," said Tonia, "and tell me — how long shall I call you my own this time? Will you be gone again to-morrow, leaving me to grieve, or will you be longer with your Tonia?"
"Oh, I might stay two or three days this trip," said the Kid, yawning. "I've been on the dodge for a month, and I'd like to rest up."
He was gone half an hour for his tobacco. When he returned Tonia was still lying in the hammock.
"It's funny," said the Kid, "how I feel. I feel like there was somebody lying behind every bush and tree waiting to shoot me... I never had mullygrubs like them before. Maybe it's one of them presumptions I've got half a notion to light out in the morning before day. The Guadalupe country is burning up about that old Dutchman I plugged down there."
"You are not afraid — no one could make my brave little one fear."
"Well, I haven't been usually regarded as a jack-rabbit when it comes to scrapping; but I don't want a posse smoking me out when I'm in your jacal. Somebody might get hurt that oughtn't to."
"Remain with your Tonia; no one will find you here."
The Kid looked keenly into the shadows up and down the arroyo and toward the dim lights of the Mexican village. "I'll see how it looks later on," was his decision.
At midnight a horseman rode into the rangers' camp, blazing his way by noisy "halloes" to indicate a pacific mission. Sandridge and one or two others turned out to investigate the row. The rider announced himself to be Domingo Sales, from the Lone Wolf Crossing. He bore a letter for Senor Sandridge. Old Luisa, the lavandera, had persuaded him to bring it, he said, her son Gregorio being too ill of a fever to ride. Sandridge lighted the camp lantern and read the letter. These were its words:
DEAR ONE:
He has come. Hardly had you ridden away when he came out of the pear. When he first talked he said he would stay three days or more. Then as it grew later he was like a wolf or a fox, and walked about without rest, looking and listening. Soon he said he must leave before daylight when it is dark and stillest. And then he seemed to suspect that I be not true to him. He looked at me so strange that I am frightened. I swear to him that I love him, his own Tonia. Last of all he said I must prove to him I am true. He thinks that even now men are waiting to kill him as he rides from my house. To escape he says he will dress in my clothes, my red skirt and the blue waist I wear and the brown mantilla over the head, and thus ride away. But before that he says that I must put on his clothes, his pantalones and camisa and hat, and ride away on his horse from the jacal as far as the big road beyond the crossing and back again. This before he goes, so he can tell if I am true and if men are hidden to shoot him. It is a terrible thing. An hour before daybreak this is to be. Come, my dear one, and kill this man and take me for your Tonia. Do not try to take hold of him alive, but kill him quickly. Knowing all, you should do that. You must come long before the time and hide yourself in the little shed near the jacal where the wagon and saddles are kept. It is dark in there. He will wear my red skirt and blue waist and brown mantilla. I send you a hundred kisses. Come surely and shoot quickly and straight.
THINE OWN TONIA.
Sandridge quickly explained to his men the official part of the missive. The rangers protested against his going alone.
"I'll get him easy enough," said the lieutenant. "The girl's got him trapped. And don't even think he'll get the drop on me."
Sandridge saddled his horse and rode to the Lone Wolf Crossing. He tied his big dun in a clump of brush on the arroyo, took his Winchester from its scabbard, and carefully approached the Perez jacal. There was only the half of a high moon drifted over by ragged, milk-white gulf clouds. The wagon-shed was an excellent place for ambush; and the ranger got inside it safely. In the black shadow of the brush shelter in front of the jacal he could see a horse tied and hear him impatiently pawing the hard-trodden earth.
He waited almost an hour before two figures came out of the jacal. One, in man's clothes, quickly mounted the horse and galloped past the wagon-shed toward the crossing and village. And then the other figure, in skirt, waist, and mantilla over its head, stepped out into the faint moonlight, gazing after the rider. Sandridge thought he would take his chance then before Tonia rode back. He fancied she might not care to see it.
"Throw up your hands," he ordered, loudly, stepping out of the wagon-shed with his Winchester at his shoulder.
There was a quick turn of the figure, but no movement to obey, so the ranger pumped in the bullets — one — two — three — and then twice more; for you never could be too sure of bringing down the Cisco Kid. There was no danger of missing at ten paces, even in that half moonlight.
The old ancestor, asleep on his blanket, was awakened by the shots. Listening further, he heard a great cry from some man in mortal distress or anguish, and rose up grumbling at the disturbing ways of moderns. The tall, red ghost of a man burst into the jacal, reaching one hand, shaking like a tule reed, for the lantern hanging on its nail. The other spread a letter on the table.
"Look at this letter, Perez" cried the man.
"Who wrote it?"
"Ah, Dios! it is Senor Sandridge," mumbled the old man, approaching. "Pues, senor, that letter was written by 'El Chivato,' as he is called — by the man of Tonia. They say he is a bad man; I do not know. While Tonia slept he wrote the letter and sent it by this old hand of mine to Domingo Sales to be brought to you. Is there anything wrong in the letter? I am very old; and I did not know. Valgame Dios! it is a very foolish world; and there is nothing in the house to drink—nothing to drink."
Just then all that Sandridge could think of to do was to go outside and throw himself face downward in the dust by the side of his humming-bird, of whom not a feather fluttered. He was not a caballero by instinct, and he could not understand the niceties of revenge.
A mile away the rider who had ridden past the wagon-shed struck up a harsh, untuneful song, the words of which began:
Don't you monkey with my Lulu girl
Or I'll tell you what I'll do—
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Ok! I have some pretty sharp people among my readers, and I suspect that more than a few of them already know about the O. Henry/Cisco Kid connection.
What I wondered about was whether there was an actual incident that inspired the story, I'm confident there was, and that I've found it.
In a much earlier post ("Possibly a good movie ..."), the second part was about taking a very fine book and making a very sorry movie from parts of it.
The movie was "Texas Rangers (2001)" and it turned out to only have a few names in common with ...
"Taming The Nueces Strip" by George Durham
This book is still in print, from the University of Texas Press, and of course from Amazon.com (if they don't have something, it probably doesn't even exist).
It is primarily the story of Georgia farm boy George Durham's experience of serving with the Texas Rangers during the period of 1875 and 1876, under the command of Captain Leander H. McNelly, in an outlaw-infested region known as the Nueces Strip.
When Texas was the Mexican state of Tejas, it was separated from Coahuila by the Nueces River, which ran down to the Gulf of Mexico at Corpus Christi.
After Texas won its Independence in 1836, it claimed land down to the Rio Grande River, establishing its border there. That claim was upheld by the United States when Texas allowed itself to be annexed to the U.S. in 1845, but Mexico repudiated that claim and tried to treat that part of the state as its own, resulting in the Mexican-American War.
The area between the two rivers (the Nueces Strip) became a magnet for local desperadoes, and for cattle thieves from Mexico trying to liberate what they referred to as "Grandma's cattle".
It didn't help things much that the aftermath of the Civil War left most of the Southern states (including Texas) in an unholy, anarchistic mess. To deal with that, in 1875 newly elected Governor Richard Coke created a special force within the Rangers, to be commanded by McNelly, and tasked with cleaning up the Nueces Strip.
He had some imaginative (but direct) approaches to the problem, as illustrated after a Mexican bandit gang had made a raid on a store in Nuecestown, a bit northwest of Corpus Christi. Among the things they took were ...
eighteen brand-new Dick Heye saddles, which were what you'd now call the Cadillacs of the saddle world. They were heavily studded with silver conchos in a pattern that you could tell half a mile away, a fact that proved to be the death warrant for many a man.
McNelly was very interested in those saddles. Upon learning from the store owner that he had some more on order, but they weren't in yet, he studied a moment, and then told him:
"When they come, don't sell a one until I tell you differently." He turned to Sergeant Armstrong and ordered, "Describe those saddles to the Rangers. Make sure they understand exactly. Then order them to empty those saddles on sight! No palavering with the riders. Empty them! Leave the men where you drop them, and bring the saddles to camp."
Among other things on his plate was also dealing with anglo outlaws; in particular one John "King" Fisher, a friend of John Wesley Hardin and a guy who casually wandered back and forth on both sides of the law, and may have even been responsible for one of the earliest road signs in Texas -- where a road split into two directions, on one a sign nailed to a tree warned,
"This is King Fisher's road.
Take the other."
He was a cattle rancher and also a cattle rustler as well. Certainly an outlaw by definition, but sometimes also The Law (serving as a sheriff several times), meeting his end by being gunned down, along with his friend Ben Thompson (yet another "been there and done that" as both outlaw and law officer, born in England; his family emigrating to Austin, Texas when he was a kid) in an ambush at the Vaudeville Theatre in San Antonio, Texas in 1884.
Most of the above was lifted from my "Possibly" post. What was not in that post was this ...
McNelly (and most other Ranger Captains kept a book (The Book) in which were listed names and what other information was available on various outlaws and desperadoes they were after. They updated it as much as possible.
From chapter 8 ("Betrayal") of "Taming" ...
Before we moved the next morning Casoose rode in with a compadre. He caucused with Captain, and Captain called us into formation and cleared this new man. He was down in The Book as "Old Blas". Nothing else. Captain told us to scratch him and see no harm came to him. Captain never did order him back into The Book, and the old cutthroat used that clearance for forty years - until Pershing crossed over and flushed him out and killed him.
Blas was a crafty old butcher. Years later, when one of the Rangers stole Old Blas' girl friend, he rigged up a deal whereby this Ranger killed her by mistake one foggy morning - a neat trick that was told to the writer O. Henry who made a story out of it.
Borrowing (once again) from Paul Harvey: "And now, you know the rest of the story. :-)
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Saturday, April 13, 2013
COME AND TAKE IT
Apparently, the City Council of New Rochelle, NY was offended when the United Veterans Memorial & Patriotic Association replaced a worn-out American flag at the New Rochelle Armory and flew this flag below it ...
This is what is known as the Gadsden Flag. It has been a part of our history since before the Stars and Stripes, and has flown from the mainmasts of some of our first Naval vessels.
Because it was adopted by some groups within the Tea Party (as a protest over our rights being trampled on) some City Council member complained about it being "hateful" and wanted it taken down. The City Manager had more sense and chose to leave it alone, but was overridden by the City Council and the flag was taken down. The Council voted 5-2 to refuse to let the veterans restore it.
See Outrageous! Gadsden Flag Removed By New York Town For Being An “Offensive” Tea Party Symbol
If they got their panties in a twist over that, just imagine their reaction to ...
That is the Gonzales Flag.
The earliest shots in the Texas Rebellion were fired at Gonzales, Texas. Prior to the Battle of the Alamo (in March 1836) tensions had been building up for several years between the Mexican authorities and the Texian settlers.
In 1831, they had given the settlers of Gonzales a small cannon to help against frequent Comanche raids. Not wanting to leave such a weapon in the hands of potential opponents, they decided to take it back. The settlers balked, and sent out word to neighboring settlements for help.
When a contingent of Mexican troops arrived to take the gun, they were greeted by a large party of armed Texians carrying that banner with its invitation. A brief skirmish resulted in two Mexican soldiers killed, and one Texian injured (to be fair to the Mexicans, they were not under any orders to start a war and withdrew to prevent a bad situation from becoming even worse than it already was).
But, this was the first known instance of armed Texians taking on the Mexican army, and that genie was not about to go back into the bottle. While not readily apparent on that day (02 Oct 1835) events were set into motion that I honestly don't know if could ever have been stopped.
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From the Gateway Pundit post linked below
Because it was adopted by some groups within the Tea Party (as a protest over our rights being trampled on) some City Council member complained about it being "hateful" and wanted it taken down. The City Manager had more sense and chose to leave it alone, but was overridden by the City Council and the flag was taken down. The Council voted 5-2 to refuse to let the veterans restore it.
See Outrageous! Gadsden Flag Removed By New York Town For Being An “Offensive” Tea Party Symbol
If they got their panties in a twist over that, just imagine their reaction to ...
From conservativeblogscentral.blogspot.com
That is the Gonzales Flag.
The earliest shots in the Texas Rebellion were fired at Gonzales, Texas. Prior to the Battle of the Alamo (in March 1836) tensions had been building up for several years between the Mexican authorities and the Texian settlers.
In 1831, they had given the settlers of Gonzales a small cannon to help against frequent Comanche raids. Not wanting to leave such a weapon in the hands of potential opponents, they decided to take it back. The settlers balked, and sent out word to neighboring settlements for help.
When a contingent of Mexican troops arrived to take the gun, they were greeted by a large party of armed Texians carrying that banner with its invitation. A brief skirmish resulted in two Mexican soldiers killed, and one Texian injured (to be fair to the Mexicans, they were not under any orders to start a war and withdrew to prevent a bad situation from becoming even worse than it already was).
But, this was the first known instance of armed Texians taking on the Mexican army, and that genie was not about to go back into the bottle. While not readily apparent on that day (02 Oct 1835) events were set into motion that I honestly don't know if could ever have been stopped.
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Saturday, November 12, 2011
Don't write off Rick Perry just yet.
Reports of Rick Perry's demise, over his memory lapse in Tuesday's debate, are greatly exaggerated.
Dr. Jerry Pournelle's take on the Michigan debates. …
The Michigan Debate: Candidates 9, Moderators 0; The Cain Affair
(Emphasis mine)
As to Perry, he had a momentary fit of absentmindedness as he tried to remember the names of the Departments of the government that he would eliminate the day after his inauguration: Commerce, Education, and – and he couldn’t remember. Gov. Romney suggested EPA, and for a moment Perry accepted that, then recalled that it’s an Agency, not a Department. Given another chance to name the Department he would eliminate, he once again had a lapse of memory. Eventually he realized, as everyone who has listened to his previous speeches already knew, that it was the Department of Energy.
...
But when all is said and done, while the incident was embarrassing, it was hardly definitive. It doesn’t show Perry more or less qualified to be President. We know that Perry has been an effective and re-elected governor of a prosperous state. We know that candidates can be dependent on a teleprompter and get elected. We know that Perry’s lapse of memory was both temporary and unimportant.
...
...but my conclusion from the debate is that all the candidates are alive and well, any one of them would be capable of beating Obama, and any one of the would be infinitely superior to the current president.
...
I came away much relieved.
That's Dr. Pournelle's perspective. Here's mine ...
I don't recall anyone ever describing Rick Perry as an ace debater, but I also have difficulty in recalling just how much help that ability is to actually getting the job done as Governor, or as President of the United States.
1600 Pennsylvania is currently occupied by one who is supposed to be a fantastic debater (although I've yet to see any evidence of that -- all the supporting praise comes from a media that drools over his every pronouncement), but going by his actual performance over the last three years, is debating skill going to be your definitive test of the man you will vote for?
Really?!!!
-
Dr. Jerry Pournelle's take on the Michigan debates. …
The Michigan Debate: Candidates 9, Moderators 0; The Cain Affair
(Emphasis mine)
As to Perry, he had a momentary fit of absentmindedness as he tried to remember the names of the Departments of the government that he would eliminate the day after his inauguration: Commerce, Education, and – and he couldn’t remember. Gov. Romney suggested EPA, and for a moment Perry accepted that, then recalled that it’s an Agency, not a Department. Given another chance to name the Department he would eliminate, he once again had a lapse of memory. Eventually he realized, as everyone who has listened to his previous speeches already knew, that it was the Department of Energy.
...
But when all is said and done, while the incident was embarrassing, it was hardly definitive. It doesn’t show Perry more or less qualified to be President. We know that Perry has been an effective and re-elected governor of a prosperous state. We know that candidates can be dependent on a teleprompter and get elected. We know that Perry’s lapse of memory was both temporary and unimportant.
...
...but my conclusion from the debate is that all the candidates are alive and well, any one of them would be capable of beating Obama, and any one of the would be infinitely superior to the current president.
...
I came away much relieved.
That's Dr. Pournelle's perspective. Here's mine ...
I don't recall anyone ever describing Rick Perry as an ace debater, but I also have difficulty in recalling just how much help that ability is to actually getting the job done as Governor, or as President of the United States.
1600 Pennsylvania is currently occupied by one who is supposed to be a fantastic debater (although I've yet to see any evidence of that -- all the supporting praise comes from a media that drools over his every pronouncement), but going by his actual performance over the last three years, is debating skill going to be your definitive test of the man you will vote for?
Really?!!!
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Thursday, October 06, 2011
Obviously, we Texans haven't a clue as to how to get things done ...
... as evidenced by this from Jerry Pournelle's Steve Jobs RIP; education, space, proscription, and debt. Lots of debt. On that page, go down a bit and look for the letter entitled "FEMA". It's about two ladies that went out to the area where the fires were being fought and set up their own organization to help the firefighters.
...
Here are some stories about the Tricounty fire in Montgomery, Grimes, and Waller County, Labor Day week, 2011. (Just northwest of Houston)
...
Kenna moved on to the Unified Command Post at Magnolia West High school. She looked at what the fire fighters needed, and she made calls and set it up.
...
As exhausted firefighters (most of them from local VFDs with no training or experience battling wildfires) and workers came into the school after long hours of hard labor, dehydrated, hungry, covered with soot and ash, they got what they needed. They were directed through the commissary, where they got soap, eye wash and nasal spray, candy, clean socks and underwear, and then were sent off to the school locker rooms for a shower. HEB then fed them a hot meal and they got 8 hours sleep in a barracks, then another hot meal, another pass through the commissary for supplies to carry with them out to the lines, including gloves, safety glasses, dust masks and snacks, and back they went.
One of the imported crews from California came into Unified Command and asked where the FEMA Powerbars and water were. He was escorted to the commissary and started through the system. He was flabbergasted. He said FEMA never did it like this. Kenna replied, ”Well, this is the way we do it in Texas.”
...
Mind you, all of this was set up by 2 Moms, Kenna and Tara, with a staff of 20 simple volunteers, most of them women who had sons, daughters, husbands, and friends on the fire lines. Someone always knew someone who could get what they needed – beds, mechanics, food, space. Local people using local connections to mobilize local resources made this happen. No government aid. No Trained Expert.
...
FEMA came in and told those volunteers and Kenna that they had to leave, FEMA was here now. Kenna told them she worked for the firefighters, not them. They were obnoxious, bossy, got in the way, and criticized everything. The volunteers refused to back down and kept doing their job, and doing it well. Next FEMA said the HEB supplies and kitchen had to go, that was blatant commercialism. Kenna said they stayed. They stayed.
...
The upshot? A fire that the experts from California (for whom we are so grateful there are no words) said would take 2-3 weeks to get under control was 100% contained in 8 days.
...
I considered asking Dr. Pournelle for permission to reproduce the entire letter in this post, but that would be a strain on hospitality and, as it was a letter from another, that permission might not be his to grant.
Besides, some of you need practice at clicking on links anyway, and you really should click on that link I provided near the top of this post, just to fill in the ellipses. They make for fascinating reading, and I've only pity and despair for those too lacking in curiosity to do so.
Addendum a few minutes afterward - Is this unusual for this area? Not in the least. See also MORE ON THE HURRICANE IKE AFTERMATH, from September 10, 2008. It's just the way we are.
Another addendum - Why is it "just the way we are"?
I was lucky enough to be born in Texas. But many Texans were not so blessed, although they got here as soon as they could. :-)
A lot of people down here are from somewhere else. Houston has seen waves of emigration from other states, from time to time.
When I first moved here, in 1964, the population of Houston was a bit over half a million. Today, it is well over two million within the city limits, and approaching five million within the metro area.
In the late 70's, when the rust-belt states (Michigan in particular) were in recession, so many came here, that a PBS special noted ...
"over a million people poured into Houston, looking for jobs, and found them!"
During that period, it did indeed seem like the Michigan license plates outnumbered the locals.
Believe it or not, most of us did not resent that. Some did (even we are cursed with a few complainers), but most of us saw those expatriate Michiganders as folks who, instead of moaning and whining about their lot, actually did something about it.
In the pioneer days, that was truly a big deal, as
"the cowards never started and the weaklings died along the way".
Today's times are a bit less drastic, but even now to pull up stakes and move 1300 to 1400 miles to better your situation is very daunting to many; downright terrifying to some.
Wimps don't do that. To those of you who have joined us in that way, let me tell you that most us of have nothing but respect for you, are glad to have you with us, and simply can never get enough of you. You enrich our state; by being here and making it worth bragging about.
One result of that is a significantly higher percentage of folks who are inclined to fix their own problems instead of waiting for others to do it for them. Thus, the fortitude and self-reliance shown in the two linked articles above are not at all surprising. It would be far more of a surprise if they were not evident.
So, to all of you who have joined us from somewhere else:
Thank you!
Oh, by the way - I've seen a couple of other posts linking to this one, and commenting favorably about it. Please remember, I'm mostly reporting on an original post by Dr. Jerry Pournelle (linked near the top), and all I've done is to use it as an opportunity to brag about my state. Pournelle (or more properly the one who sent the letter to him) deserves all the credit for the points made about FEMA vs the volunteers.
Ok?
Update - 07 Oct 2011 - This post is linked at Volunteerism vs. Bureaucracy in which commenter Politicalprincess_007 takes us to task for inaccuracies in the TriCounty fire incident and provides sources refuting the impression of FEMA being the villain there. See her comments; she makes a very good case.
As far as I can see, it in no way invalidates the main point of the post (emphasizing self-reliance and volunteerism), so I'm letting my post stand as is; with this very important clarification added.
-
...
Here are some stories about the Tricounty fire in Montgomery, Grimes, and Waller County, Labor Day week, 2011. (Just northwest of Houston)
...
Kenna moved on to the Unified Command Post at Magnolia West High school. She looked at what the fire fighters needed, and she made calls and set it up.
...
As exhausted firefighters (most of them from local VFDs with no training or experience battling wildfires) and workers came into the school after long hours of hard labor, dehydrated, hungry, covered with soot and ash, they got what they needed. They were directed through the commissary, where they got soap, eye wash and nasal spray, candy, clean socks and underwear, and then were sent off to the school locker rooms for a shower. HEB then fed them a hot meal and they got 8 hours sleep in a barracks, then another hot meal, another pass through the commissary for supplies to carry with them out to the lines, including gloves, safety glasses, dust masks and snacks, and back they went.
One of the imported crews from California came into Unified Command and asked where the FEMA Powerbars and water were. He was escorted to the commissary and started through the system. He was flabbergasted. He said FEMA never did it like this. Kenna replied, ”Well, this is the way we do it in Texas.”
...
Mind you, all of this was set up by 2 Moms, Kenna and Tara, with a staff of 20 simple volunteers, most of them women who had sons, daughters, husbands, and friends on the fire lines. Someone always knew someone who could get what they needed – beds, mechanics, food, space. Local people using local connections to mobilize local resources made this happen. No government aid. No Trained Expert.
...
FEMA came in and told those volunteers and Kenna that they had to leave, FEMA was here now. Kenna told them she worked for the firefighters, not them. They were obnoxious, bossy, got in the way, and criticized everything. The volunteers refused to back down and kept doing their job, and doing it well. Next FEMA said the HEB supplies and kitchen had to go, that was blatant commercialism. Kenna said they stayed. They stayed.
...
The upshot? A fire that the experts from California (for whom we are so grateful there are no words) said would take 2-3 weeks to get under control was 100% contained in 8 days.
...
I considered asking Dr. Pournelle for permission to reproduce the entire letter in this post, but that would be a strain on hospitality and, as it was a letter from another, that permission might not be his to grant.
Besides, some of you need practice at clicking on links anyway, and you really should click on that link I provided near the top of this post, just to fill in the ellipses. They make for fascinating reading, and I've only pity and despair for those too lacking in curiosity to do so.
Addendum a few minutes afterward - Is this unusual for this area? Not in the least. See also MORE ON THE HURRICANE IKE AFTERMATH, from September 10, 2008. It's just the way we are.
Another addendum - Why is it "just the way we are"?
I was lucky enough to be born in Texas. But many Texans were not so blessed, although they got here as soon as they could. :-)
A lot of people down here are from somewhere else. Houston has seen waves of emigration from other states, from time to time.
When I first moved here, in 1964, the population of Houston was a bit over half a million. Today, it is well over two million within the city limits, and approaching five million within the metro area.
In the late 70's, when the rust-belt states (Michigan in particular) were in recession, so many came here, that a PBS special noted ...
"over a million people poured into Houston, looking for jobs, and found them!"
During that period, it did indeed seem like the Michigan license plates outnumbered the locals.
Believe it or not, most of us did not resent that. Some did (even we are cursed with a few complainers), but most of us saw those expatriate Michiganders as folks who, instead of moaning and whining about their lot, actually did something about it.
In the pioneer days, that was truly a big deal, as
"the cowards never started and the weaklings died along the way".
Today's times are a bit less drastic, but even now to pull up stakes and move 1300 to 1400 miles to better your situation is very daunting to many; downright terrifying to some.
Wimps don't do that. To those of you who have joined us in that way, let me tell you that most us of have nothing but respect for you, are glad to have you with us, and simply can never get enough of you. You enrich our state; by being here and making it worth bragging about.
One result of that is a significantly higher percentage of folks who are inclined to fix their own problems instead of waiting for others to do it for them. Thus, the fortitude and self-reliance shown in the two linked articles above are not at all surprising. It would be far more of a surprise if they were not evident.
So, to all of you who have joined us from somewhere else:
Thank you!
Oh, by the way - I've seen a couple of other posts linking to this one, and commenting favorably about it. Please remember, I'm mostly reporting on an original post by Dr. Jerry Pournelle (linked near the top), and all I've done is to use it as an opportunity to brag about my state. Pournelle (or more properly the one who sent the letter to him) deserves all the credit for the points made about FEMA vs the volunteers.
Ok?
Update - 07 Oct 2011 - This post is linked at Volunteerism vs. Bureaucracy in which commenter Politicalprincess_007 takes us to task for inaccuracies in the TriCounty fire incident and provides sources refuting the impression of FEMA being the villain there. See her comments; she makes a very good case.
As far as I can see, it in no way invalidates the main point of the post (emphasizing self-reliance and volunteerism), so I'm letting my post stand as is; with this very important clarification added.
-
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Possibly a good movie ...
... or not. A Tale of Two Books -- from print to film.
(18 Sep 2011 - Updated at the very end)
(25 Sep 2011 - Final Update - The bottom line - at the bottom of the post)
When exiting the auditorium of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2" (yes, I am a fan; especially of the books, although the movies have been a mixed lot), I spied the following poster on the wall ...
"Oh, Great! ...", I thought, ".... another damned remake."
Sam Peckinpah (probably best known for "The Wild Bunch") made The Killer Elite in 1975, about a group of mercenaries working for the CIA, in which one of them gets shot up and crippled in a double-cross from one of the others. It was mostly about the revenge of that guy and was not among Peckinpah's best by a long shot; redeemed only by the presence of James Caan, Arthur Hill and Robert Duvall.
The poster above shows Jason Statham (good), Robert De Niro (promising, although he's made some weird choices lately) and Clive Owen (whom I've liked ever since "The Bourne Identity" and "Sin City").
So far, so good. But, what's this "Based on a true story" business below their names? That doesn't square with it being a remake.
Oh! It turns out that this is not a remake of Peckinpah's film after all. Buried in the fine print is "Based on "The Feather Men" by Sir Ranulph Fiennes".
WHOA!!! Now, it's really starting to look interesting. I have that book ...
Right there, on the back, you can read why I'm intrigued.
What made me pick up the book in the first place was the name "Fiennes" at the bottom of the cover, wondering if he was related to Ralph ("Rafe", as the Welsh pronounce it -- or so I've been told) Fiennes, whom I first saw as the camp commandant in "Schindler's List", and has lately been Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter movies.
It turns out that Sir Ranulph (God only knows how that is pronounced; "Ran" said to go with the "obvious" pronunciation) is a second cousin, a Polar explorer and mountain climber, and a lot of other things.
From the Trivia section on his Internet Movie DataBase (IMDB) page ...
Born posthumously 7 March 1944. His father had been Colonel of Royal Scots Greys Regiment. Fiennes joined the same regiment, and after blowing up the Doctor Dolittle (1967) film set as a prank, left for two more years in the Omani Army. (You might want to keep the "prank" part in mind on his advice as to how to pronounce his name. :-)
He was in the running to be the next James Bond after Sean Connery. He was in the last six and had a meeting with Mr Broccoli (Albert "Cubby" Broccoli owned the film rights and was the producer) but unfortunately Cubby said his hands were too big and he had a face like a farmer!
He suffered a heart attack, Britain's biggest killer, on June 7 2003. Shortly after recovering, he ran seven marathons in seven days on six continents.
26th October: Patagonia, S. America
27th October: Falkland Islands
28th October: Sydney, Australia
29th October: Singapore, Asia
31st October: London, Europe
31st October: Cairo, Africa
2nd November: New York, North America
That picture above is from this article: Fiennes relishes marathon feat. The article actually says seven continents, but they must have attached the Falklands to Antarctica to pull that off.
Climbed Mount Everest on the 21 May 2009 after his third attempt.
The damned kid is two years younger than I am, so I'm not jealous of him climbing that mountain while I sometimes have difficulty even walking out to the car. I'm not. I'M REALLY NOT!!! :(
In short, one Hell of an interesting guy, and worthy of a movie just about him.
A damned fine writer as well; he writes a gripping tale of the events in the book that's supposedly the basis for this movie.
So, why the "... or not." in the first line of my post?
From a synopsis on the IMDB (Internet Movie DataBase) ...
When his mentor (Robert De Niro) is taken captive, a retired member of Britain's Elite Special Air Service (Jason Statham) is forced into action. His mission: kill three assassins dispatched by their cunning leader (Clive Owen).
... which makes me feel that somebody went and paid good money for the rights to a book, chose not to use its title, and then jettisoned most of the story. Wouldn't be the first time by a long shot, and I've ceased to wonder what goes on in the minds of people who make those kind of decisions.
Because of the three leads, I'll almost certainly check it out, but at present, my feelings are frankly a mixture of anticipation and dread.
You see, this ain't the first time I've been down this particular road.
Around the end of 2001, I came across a poster for this ...
A long time ago, when I lived in Michigan, I came across a copy at one of my favorite used-book stores, The Curious Book Shop in East Lansing (they are still in business; I just looked).
This book is still in print, from the University of Texas Press, and of course from Amazon.com (if they don't have something, it probably doesn't even exist).
It is primarily the story of a Georgia farm boy's experience of serving with the Texas Rangers during the period of 1875 and 1876, under the command of Captain Leander H. McNelly, in an outlaw-infested region known as the Nueces Strip.
When Texas was the Mexican state of Tejas, it was separated from Coahuila by the Nueces River, which ran down to the Gulf of Mexico at Corpus Christi.
After Texas won its Independence in 1836, it claimed land down to the Rio Grande River, establishing its border there. That claim was upheld by the United States when Texas allowed itself to be annexed to the U.S. in 1845, but Mexico repudiated that claim and tried to treat that part of the state as its own, resulting in the Mexican-American War.
The area between the two rivers (the Nueces Strip) became a magnet for local desperadoes, and for cattle thieves from Mexico trying to liberate what they referred to as "Grandma's cattle".
It didn't help things much that the aftermath of the Civil War left most of the Southern states (including Texas) in an unholy, anarchistic mess. To deal with that, in 1875 newly elected Governor Richard Coke created a special force within the Rangers, to be commanded by McNelly, and tasked with cleaning up the Nueces Strip.
He had some imaginative (but direct) approaches to the problem, as illustrated after a Mexican bandit gang had made a raid on a store in Nuecestown, a bit northwest of Corpus Christi. Among the things they took were ...
eighteen brand-new Dick Heye saddles, which were what you'd now call the Cadillacs of the saddle world. They were heavily studded with silver conchos in a pattern that you could tell half a mile away, a fact that proved to be the death warrant for many a man.
McNelly was very interested in those saddles. Upon learning from the store owner that he had some more on order, but they weren't in yet, he studied a moment, and then told him:
"When they come, don't sell a one until I tell you differently." He turned to Sergeant Armstrong and ordered, "Describe those saddles to the Rangers. Make sure they understand exactly. Then order them to empty those saddles on sight! No palavering with the riders. Empty them! Leave the men where you drop them, and bring the saddles to camp."
Among other things on his plate was also dealing with anglo outlaws; in particular one John "King" Fisher, a friend of John Wesley Hardin and a guy who casually wandered back and forth on both sides of the law, and may have even been responsible for one of the earliest road signs in Texas -- where a road split into two directions, on one a sign nailed to a tree warned,
"This is King Fisher's road.
Take the other."
He was a cattle rancher and also (sometimes) a cattle rustler as well. Certainly an outlaw by definition, but sometimes also The Law (serving as a sheriff several times), meeting his end by being gunned down, along with his friend Ben Thompson (yet another "been there and done that" as both outlaw and law officer, born in England; his family emigrating to Austin, Texas when he was a kid) in an ambush at the Vaudeville Theatre in San Antonio, Texas in 1884.
A very multi-layered man, he was reduced in the movie to a ruthless killer and nothing more, going out in a blaze of gunfire from the Rangers. Not a bit of subtlety left and not even Alfred Molina could do anything with the role to make it interesting (and that's saying something, given that Molina is an amazingly good actor; you'd just never know it from this example).
I truly believe that there is one Hell of a fine movie waiting to be made from this book, but "Texas Rangers" just ain't it. The only things the book and movie have in common are a few names, and that's it.
Look for the book, and don't waste even a dollar on renting the movie.
Whether "Killer Elite" gets as badly mangled remains to be seen, but you should understand now if I'm leery of getting my hopes up too much.
Update - 18 Sep 2011 - When I'm intrigued by a movie, I do my level best to avoid reviews of it before I see it. I accidentally came across a blurb about "Killer Elite" saying that Robert De Niro's performance is much like what he did in "Ronin", Statham is, well, Statham; a force of nature, and that Clive Owen is in full "Sin City" mode here.
Ok! That last part settles it; I am definitely going to give it a look.
Final Update - 25 Sep 2011 - That IMDB synopsis I quoted, way up above, is very misleading, as are some of the trailers for this movie.
While technically accurate, because of cutting, you aren't seeing what you think you are seeing in those trailers. I recognized quite a bit from the original story, but they made some major spins to certain events and characters (big surprise there, right?).
Biggest surprise to me (as a purist who usually hates changes from book to movie) was how much I liked the result; probably because of absolutely first-rate work by Statham, De Niro and Owen.
Bottom line: Amazingly Good!
-
(18 Sep 2011 - Updated at the very end)
(25 Sep 2011 - Final Update - The bottom line - at the bottom of the post)
When exiting the auditorium of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2" (yes, I am a fan; especially of the books, although the movies have been a mixed lot), I spied the following poster on the wall ...
"Oh, Great! ...", I thought, ".... another damned remake."
Sam Peckinpah (probably best known for "The Wild Bunch") made The Killer Elite in 1975, about a group of mercenaries working for the CIA, in which one of them gets shot up and crippled in a double-cross from one of the others. It was mostly about the revenge of that guy and was not among Peckinpah's best by a long shot; redeemed only by the presence of James Caan, Arthur Hill and Robert Duvall.
The poster above shows Jason Statham (good), Robert De Niro (promising, although he's made some weird choices lately) and Clive Owen (whom I've liked ever since "The Bourne Identity" and "Sin City").
So far, so good. But, what's this "Based on a true story" business below their names? That doesn't square with it being a remake.
Oh! It turns out that this is not a remake of Peckinpah's film after all. Buried in the fine print is "Based on "The Feather Men" by Sir Ranulph Fiennes".
WHOA!!! Now, it's really starting to look interesting. I have that book ...
Right there, on the back, you can read why I'm intrigued.
What made me pick up the book in the first place was the name "Fiennes" at the bottom of the cover, wondering if he was related to Ralph ("Rafe", as the Welsh pronounce it -- or so I've been told) Fiennes, whom I first saw as the camp commandant in "Schindler's List", and has lately been Lord Voldemort in the Harry Potter movies.
It turns out that Sir Ranulph (God only knows how that is pronounced; "Ran" said to go with the "obvious" pronunciation) is a second cousin, a Polar explorer and mountain climber, and a lot of other things.
From the Trivia section on his Internet Movie DataBase (IMDB) page ...
Born posthumously 7 March 1944. His father had been Colonel of Royal Scots Greys Regiment. Fiennes joined the same regiment, and after blowing up the Doctor Dolittle (1967) film set as a prank, left for two more years in the Omani Army. (You might want to keep the "prank" part in mind on his advice as to how to pronounce his name. :-)
He was in the running to be the next James Bond after Sean Connery. He was in the last six and had a meeting with Mr Broccoli (Albert "Cubby" Broccoli owned the film rights and was the producer) but unfortunately Cubby said his hands were too big and he had a face like a farmer!
He suffered a heart attack, Britain's biggest killer, on June 7 2003. Shortly after recovering, he ran seven marathons in seven days on six continents.
26th October: Patagonia, S. America
27th October: Falkland Islands
28th October: Sydney, Australia
29th October: Singapore, Asia
31st October: London, Europe
31st October: Cairo, Africa
2nd November: New York, North America
Climbed Mount Everest on the 21 May 2009 after his third attempt.
The damned kid is two years younger than I am, so I'm not jealous of him climbing that mountain while I sometimes have difficulty even walking out to the car. I'm not. I'M REALLY NOT!!! :(
In short, one Hell of an interesting guy, and worthy of a movie just about him.
A damned fine writer as well; he writes a gripping tale of the events in the book that's supposedly the basis for this movie.
So, why the "... or not." in the first line of my post?
From a synopsis on the IMDB (Internet Movie DataBase) ...
When his mentor (Robert De Niro) is taken captive, a retired member of Britain's Elite Special Air Service (Jason Statham) is forced into action. His mission: kill three assassins dispatched by their cunning leader (Clive Owen).
... which makes me feel that somebody went and paid good money for the rights to a book, chose not to use its title, and then jettisoned most of the story. Wouldn't be the first time by a long shot, and I've ceased to wonder what goes on in the minds of people who make those kind of decisions.
Because of the three leads, I'll almost certainly check it out, but at present, my feelings are frankly a mixture of anticipation and dread.
You see, this ain't the first time I've been down this particular road.
Around the end of 2001, I came across a poster for this ...
Somewhere in the fine print (of the original poster in the theater) is
"Based on "Taming The Nueces Strip" by George Durham".
Do I also have that book? What a silly question. ...
A long time ago, when I lived in Michigan, I came across a copy at one of my favorite used-book stores, The Curious Book Shop in East Lansing (they are still in business; I just looked).
This book is still in print, from the University of Texas Press, and of course from Amazon.com (if they don't have something, it probably doesn't even exist).
It is primarily the story of a Georgia farm boy's experience of serving with the Texas Rangers during the period of 1875 and 1876, under the command of Captain Leander H. McNelly, in an outlaw-infested region known as the Nueces Strip.
When Texas was the Mexican state of Tejas, it was separated from Coahuila by the Nueces River, which ran down to the Gulf of Mexico at Corpus Christi.
After Texas won its Independence in 1836, it claimed land down to the Rio Grande River, establishing its border there. That claim was upheld by the United States when Texas allowed itself to be annexed to the U.S. in 1845, but Mexico repudiated that claim and tried to treat that part of the state as its own, resulting in the Mexican-American War.
The area between the two rivers (the Nueces Strip) became a magnet for local desperadoes, and for cattle thieves from Mexico trying to liberate what they referred to as "Grandma's cattle".
It didn't help things much that the aftermath of the Civil War left most of the Southern states (including Texas) in an unholy, anarchistic mess. To deal with that, in 1875 newly elected Governor Richard Coke created a special force within the Rangers, to be commanded by McNelly, and tasked with cleaning up the Nueces Strip.
He had some imaginative (but direct) approaches to the problem, as illustrated after a Mexican bandit gang had made a raid on a store in Nuecestown, a bit northwest of Corpus Christi. Among the things they took were ...
eighteen brand-new Dick Heye saddles, which were what you'd now call the Cadillacs of the saddle world. They were heavily studded with silver conchos in a pattern that you could tell half a mile away, a fact that proved to be the death warrant for many a man.
McNelly was very interested in those saddles. Upon learning from the store owner that he had some more on order, but they weren't in yet, he studied a moment, and then told him:
"When they come, don't sell a one until I tell you differently." He turned to Sergeant Armstrong and ordered, "Describe those saddles to the Rangers. Make sure they understand exactly. Then order them to empty those saddles on sight! No palavering with the riders. Empty them! Leave the men where you drop them, and bring the saddles to camp."
Among other things on his plate was also dealing with anglo outlaws; in particular one John "King" Fisher, a friend of John Wesley Hardin and a guy who casually wandered back and forth on both sides of the law, and may have even been responsible for one of the earliest road signs in Texas -- where a road split into two directions, on one a sign nailed to a tree warned,
"This is King Fisher's road.
Take the other."
He was a cattle rancher and also (sometimes) a cattle rustler as well. Certainly an outlaw by definition, but sometimes also The Law (serving as a sheriff several times), meeting his end by being gunned down, along with his friend Ben Thompson (yet another "been there and done that" as both outlaw and law officer, born in England; his family emigrating to Austin, Texas when he was a kid) in an ambush at the Vaudeville Theatre in San Antonio, Texas in 1884.
A very multi-layered man, he was reduced in the movie to a ruthless killer and nothing more, going out in a blaze of gunfire from the Rangers. Not a bit of subtlety left and not even Alfred Molina could do anything with the role to make it interesting (and that's saying something, given that Molina is an amazingly good actor; you'd just never know it from this example).
I truly believe that there is one Hell of a fine movie waiting to be made from this book, but "Texas Rangers" just ain't it. The only things the book and movie have in common are a few names, and that's it.
Look for the book, and don't waste even a dollar on renting the movie.
Whether "Killer Elite" gets as badly mangled remains to be seen, but you should understand now if I'm leery of getting my hopes up too much.
Update - 18 Sep 2011 - When I'm intrigued by a movie, I do my level best to avoid reviews of it before I see it. I accidentally came across a blurb about "Killer Elite" saying that Robert De Niro's performance is much like what he did in "Ronin", Statham is, well, Statham; a force of nature, and that Clive Owen is in full "Sin City" mode here.
Ok! That last part settles it; I am definitely going to give it a look.
Final Update - 25 Sep 2011 - That IMDB synopsis I quoted, way up above, is very misleading, as are some of the trailers for this movie.
While technically accurate, because of cutting, you aren't seeing what you think you are seeing in those trailers. I recognized quite a bit from the original story, but they made some major spins to certain events and characters (big surprise there, right?).
Biggest surprise to me (as a purist who usually hates changes from book to movie) was how much I liked the result; probably because of absolutely first-rate work by Statham, De Niro and Owen.
Bottom line: Amazingly Good!
-
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Who do the Democrats fear most?
Best way to get a handle on that is to see who they attack the most. You do not waste your ammunition on someone who doesn't matter.
Sarah Palin's easily the reigning champion there, with the biggest bullseye of all painted on her back, and she just will not fall. That she's my personal favorite shouldn't come as a shock to any who know me. You will underestimate her at your peril. :-)
Michele Bachmann has had to contend with "Are you a flake?" from one of the biggest flakes on the air (other than Chris Matthews), Chris Wallace.
And now that our governor Rick Perry seems very likely to enter the race, the heavy artillery is being zeroed in on him.
Sarah Palin's easily the reigning champion there, with the biggest bullseye of all painted on her back, and she just will not fall. That she's my personal favorite shouldn't come as a shock to any who know me. You will underestimate her at your peril. :-)
Michele Bachmann has had to contend with "Are you a flake?" from one of the biggest flakes on the air (other than Chris Matthews), Chris Wallace.
And now that our governor Rick Perry seems very likely to enter the race, the heavy artillery is being zeroed in on him.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Fw: How Dry Is It In Texas?
About three weeks ago, one of my best friends forwarded an email to me, which I in turn forwarded by publishing it as a post.
Another good friend forwarded the following email to me, and here I go posting it as well.
That last post resulted in a commenter opening up on me with both barrels, about factual inaccuracies in that email, and I received an education.
This time, I'm gonna use the email as inspiration, and as a skeleton for a much larger and more diverse post. In other words, I'll probably go all over the map.
*********** Start of email **********************
*********** End of email **********************
Now, I'm sure you will be shocked, shocked I tell you, to learn that Texas is no stranger to extremes in anything, including weather.
In 1836, Santa Anna surprised the defenders of the Alamo by showing up much sooner than anyone expected. This was the day of Napoleonic warfare, and the General considered himself (and styled himself) "The Napoleon of the West". Of all of the Napoleon wannabes that came along after the original, he was probably the best by far.
That type of warfare requires a large train of supplies, usually wagons pulled by oxen. The Texians expected him to wait until spring before moving out because of considerations of forage for those oxen and for the cavalry's horses.
But, the General was a gambler and got underway in mid-February. He lost that gamble a bit; a blue norther coming straight out of Canada, down the plains and hitting his army (without proper winter gear; some of the soldiers even barefoot) with a blizzard that cost him as many casualties as the battle itself.
Update - 19 Jul 2011 - Ah, Hell!! - Every word of that anecdote above is accurate; Santa Anna's army truly did get hit with a freak blizzard while on their way to San Antonio, and did suffer casualties as a result, but further research discloses that this event happened in northern Mexico. They had not crossed into Texas yet, and neither did the snow (over a foot), making the anecdote interesting, but utterly useless as an example of Texas weather extremes. Oh, well... :(
Visitors to Texas also tend to notice that it gets hot here as well.
The quote, "If I owned both Hell and Texas, I'd live in Hell and rent out Texas", attributed to both General William T. Sherman and General Philip Sheridan probably evolved from a much more mundane, "Damn, it's hot down here!"
It's been that way since before there was a Texas.
If you get all of your info from The Weather Channel or the mainstream media, you'd think we've had nothing but record after record after record recently. But, that just ain't the case.
About seven weeks ago, I published a memory-lane post ( Just 50 years ago today ... ) about my 19th birthday, on 25 May 1961, and things going on at that time.
Now, let me bore you with birthday # 10, in May of 1952, in San Antonio, Texas.
I got my first bike; a brand new J.C. Higgins from Sears, Roebuck.
I'm not sure if a whole week went by before I got my first cast, after taking a spill and landing on my elbow, cracking it. Dad had to rush home to drive me and mom to the doctor, where the cast was put on, costing about $50.00 if I recall correctly.
I think the bike went for almost that amount, and that we paid about that much in monthly rent. As a mechanic in 1952, I doubt his weekly take-home pay was much (if any) higher. I do recall that he was less than thrilled at this turn of events.
Shortly after, mom took me (still in the cast) and my brother to spend a few weeks with her parents and some cousins of mine in rural Arkansas, the money for the trip having already been put aside (I think).
1952, going by train both ways. Going up was by a steam-powered train from San Antonio to Fort Smith, Arkansas, winding though small towns like Palestine, Texarkana, and so on, taking maybe 15 or 16 hours to get there. Coming back was a special treat; her parents driving us down to Little Rock so we could ride Missouri Pacific's Texas Eagle back to San Antonio, doing the roughly 600 mile trip in maybe 10 hours.
Before we started back, the cast had already been removed and my arm back to normal. So, upon return, I proceeded to wear out that bike, in San Antonio summer, and got myself introduced to heat exhaustion. Scared the Hell out of mom (and me too, for that matter).
As I noted above, it does get hot down here. Triple-digit temperatures were not at all unusual in San Antonio at that time; we just called it "summer".
Back in those days, before every house on the block had a TV, they ran newsreels in the movie theaters, between the features.
A staple of them, every summer, was a shot in New York City, Philadelphia, Chicago, D.C, or Los Angeles with the announcer going ,"How hot is it?", and then showing someone cracking an egg over the pavement and watching it fry. I suspect that whoever put the summer newsreel together would be drummed out of whatever guild or union they belonged to if they failed to include that.
Now, I know (because Al Gore tells us so) that we are living in the "End Times" because of "global warming", "climate change", or whatever they will come up with next.
My problem with being so damned old is that my memory goes back a long way, and although I've had a scare or two about my recollection, when I took the trouble to look things up and check them out, I found that memory to be working just fine.
Along with that age comes a little bit of cynicism about the fact that nearly all of the "cures" proposed for AGW, climate change, or whatever involve putting people who couldn't even run a lemonade stand in absolute totalitarian control of every aspect of our lives.
Am I exaggerating? Consider Energy Secretary Steven Chu's recent defense of banning incandescent light bulbs, "We are taking away a choice that continues to let people waste their own money."
This arrogant snot is literally telling you that you are just too damned stupid to make your own decisions; so they have to do it for you. They absolutely believe this. They truly believe that, "for your own good", you must get their permission for whatever it is you feel like doing.
If you doubt that, then you do not even begin to comprehend the mindset of these people.
-
Another good friend forwarded the following email to me, and here I go posting it as well.
That last post resulted in a commenter opening up on me with both barrels, about factual inaccuracies in that email, and I received an education.
This time, I'm gonna use the email as inspiration, and as a skeleton for a much larger and more diverse post. In other words, I'll probably go all over the map.
*********** Start of email **********************
How Dry Is It In Texas?
Cows are giving powdered milk.A buddy in Longview said he'd killed a mosquito that was carrying a canteen.
A man in Dime Box said the chicken farmers were giving their chickens
crushed ice to keep them from laying hard-boiled eggs.
In Lake Palestine , they caught a 20 lb catfish that had ticks on it!
But just this week, in Bryan, a fire hydrant was seen bribing a dog.
It's so dry in Texas that the Baptists are starting to baptize by sprinkling, the Methodists are using wet-wipes, the Presbyterians are giving out rain-checks, and the Catholics are praying for the wine to turn back into water.Pray for rain!
*********** End of email **********************
Now, I'm sure you will be shocked, shocked I tell you, to learn that Texas is no stranger to extremes in anything, including weather.
In 1836, Santa Anna surprised the defenders of the Alamo by showing up much sooner than anyone expected. This was the day of Napoleonic warfare, and the General considered himself (and styled himself) "The Napoleon of the West". Of all of the Napoleon wannabes that came along after the original, he was probably the best by far.
That type of warfare requires a large train of supplies, usually wagons pulled by oxen. The Texians expected him to wait until spring before moving out because of considerations of forage for those oxen and for the cavalry's horses.
But, the General was a gambler and got underway in mid-February. He lost that gamble a bit; a blue norther coming straight out of Canada, down the plains and hitting his army (without proper winter gear; some of the soldiers even barefoot) with a blizzard that cost him as many casualties as the battle itself.
Update - 19 Jul 2011 - Ah, Hell!! - Every word of that anecdote above is accurate; Santa Anna's army truly did get hit with a freak blizzard while on their way to San Antonio, and did suffer casualties as a result, but further research discloses that this event happened in northern Mexico. They had not crossed into Texas yet, and neither did the snow (over a foot), making the anecdote interesting, but utterly useless as an example of Texas weather extremes. Oh, well... :(
Visitors to Texas also tend to notice that it gets hot here as well.
The quote, "If I owned both Hell and Texas, I'd live in Hell and rent out Texas", attributed to both General William T. Sherman and General Philip Sheridan probably evolved from a much more mundane, "Damn, it's hot down here!"
It's been that way since before there was a Texas.
If you get all of your info from The Weather Channel or the mainstream media, you'd think we've had nothing but record after record after record recently. But, that just ain't the case.
About seven weeks ago, I published a memory-lane post ( Just 50 years ago today ... ) about my 19th birthday, on 25 May 1961, and things going on at that time.
Now, let me bore you with birthday # 10, in May of 1952, in San Antonio, Texas.
I got my first bike; a brand new J.C. Higgins from Sears, Roebuck.
I'm not sure if a whole week went by before I got my first cast, after taking a spill and landing on my elbow, cracking it. Dad had to rush home to drive me and mom to the doctor, where the cast was put on, costing about $50.00 if I recall correctly.
I think the bike went for almost that amount, and that we paid about that much in monthly rent. As a mechanic in 1952, I doubt his weekly take-home pay was much (if any) higher. I do recall that he was less than thrilled at this turn of events.
Shortly after, mom took me (still in the cast) and my brother to spend a few weeks with her parents and some cousins of mine in rural Arkansas, the money for the trip having already been put aside (I think).
1952, going by train both ways. Going up was by a steam-powered train from San Antonio to Fort Smith, Arkansas, winding though small towns like Palestine, Texarkana, and so on, taking maybe 15 or 16 hours to get there. Coming back was a special treat; her parents driving us down to Little Rock so we could ride Missouri Pacific's Texas Eagle back to San Antonio, doing the roughly 600 mile trip in maybe 10 hours.
Before we started back, the cast had already been removed and my arm back to normal. So, upon return, I proceeded to wear out that bike, in San Antonio summer, and got myself introduced to heat exhaustion. Scared the Hell out of mom (and me too, for that matter).
As I noted above, it does get hot down here. Triple-digit temperatures were not at all unusual in San Antonio at that time; we just called it "summer".
Back in those days, before every house on the block had a TV, they ran newsreels in the movie theaters, between the features.
A staple of them, every summer, was a shot in New York City, Philadelphia, Chicago, D.C, or Los Angeles with the announcer going ,"How hot is it?", and then showing someone cracking an egg over the pavement and watching it fry. I suspect that whoever put the summer newsreel together would be drummed out of whatever guild or union they belonged to if they failed to include that.
Now, I know (because Al Gore tells us so) that we are living in the "End Times" because of "global warming", "climate change", or whatever they will come up with next.
My problem with being so damned old is that my memory goes back a long way, and although I've had a scare or two about my recollection, when I took the trouble to look things up and check them out, I found that memory to be working just fine.
Along with that age comes a little bit of cynicism about the fact that nearly all of the "cures" proposed for AGW, climate change, or whatever involve putting people who couldn't even run a lemonade stand in absolute totalitarian control of every aspect of our lives.
Am I exaggerating? Consider Energy Secretary Steven Chu's recent defense of banning incandescent light bulbs, "We are taking away a choice that continues to let people waste their own money."
This arrogant snot is literally telling you that you are just too damned stupid to make your own decisions; so they have to do it for you. They absolutely believe this. They truly believe that, "for your own good", you must get their permission for whatever it is you feel like doing.
If you doubt that, then you do not even begin to comprehend the mindset of these people.
-
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