Showing posts with label Western Writers of America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Western Writers of America. Show all posts

Monday, September 14, 2026

Tales of the Frontier, Did General Custer Commit Suicide? By G.C. Stevens


General Custer, from Inman's book    

The following compelling story was originally found in the book,   "Tales of the Trails, Short Stories of Western Life, and was written by Colonel Henry Inman who was a well-known figure of the frontier period and Assistant Quartermaster in the United States Army. The story is not an exhaustive scientific analysis, but the opinion of Colonel Henry Inman, who also authored two other books, "The Old Sante Fe Trail and "Salt Lake Trail." Henry Inman was born on July 30, 1837, He was Union soldier, author and was born in New York City, the son of Henry Inman, a painter, and his wife, Jane Riker (O'Brien) Inman. When Henry was a boy his father died and his mother moved to a small farm near Hempstead, Long Island. The youth for a time attended the Athenian Academy at Rahway, N. J., and had further instruction from private tutors. This story was edited by the author of this blog.

From Iman's book,

"These "Tales of the Trail" are based upon actual facts which came under
the personal observation of the author, whose reputation as a writer
of the frontier is national. His other works have met with phenomenal
success, and these sketches, which have appeared from time to time in
the current literature of the United States. Some of the characters around which are woven the thrilling incidents of these "Tales" were men of world-wide reputation; they have long since joined the "choir invisible," but their names as pioneers in the genesis of great States which then formed the theater of their exploits will live as long as the United States exists as a great nation."
-JAMES L. KING, State Librarian TOPEKA, KANSAS, March 1, 1898



A THEORY AS TO GEN. CUSTER'S DEATH.
DID HE COMMIT SUICIDE?
The Theory explained by Colonel Henry Inman

Little is known of the origin of scalp-taking, and that, vague and indefinite: nearly every tribe has some wild, weird legend to account for the custom, but these traditions vary widely as to the cause. That "raising the hair" of an enemy is of great antiquity, there is no doubt, as in the Bible it is related how the soldiers tore the skin from the heads of their whipped foes. All, (sic) or at least all Indian tribes with which I am acquainted, scalp their enemies killed in battle. With the Indian there appears to be some close affiliation between the departed spirit and his hair. I have questioned many a blood-begrimed warrior why he should want a dead man's hair, and invariably there have been assigned a number of reasons, three of which are most prominent: First, it is an evidence to his people that he has triumphed over an enemy; second, the scalps are employed very prominently in the incantations of the "medicine lodge"--a part of their religious rites; third, the savage believes there is a wonderfully inherent power in the scalp of an enemy. All the excellent qualities of the victim go with his hair the moment it is wrenched from his head. If it be that of a renowned warrior, so much the more are they anxious to procure his scalp, for the fortunate possessor then inherits all the bravery and prowess of its original owner. I have known of but one instance in all my experience among the Indians, where a white man taken prisoner in battle escaped death. It was a great many years ago; the party, a dear friend, still living, was a grand old mountaineer,--but the homeliest man on earth, probably. He was red-faced, wrinkled, and pockmarked, with a mouth as large and full of teeth as a gorilla's, and there was no more hair on any part of his head than there is on the head of a cane. He was captured in a prolonged fight and taken to the village of the tribe where the principal chief resided. The latter gave one look at the prisoner, shook his head, and said he was "bad medicine"; that if he was not the "evil spirit" himself, he was closely allied to him. He then ordered his subordinates to furnish him with a pony, loaded him with provisions, provided him with a rifle, and told him to go to his people. This incident, which is a fact, shows that you cannot account for the occasional vagaries of the North-American savage.


The Indians of the Plains and Rocky Mountains would rather, for the reason last above stated, take one scalp of a famous scout or army officer who has successfully chastised them, like Custer, Sully, and Crook, than a dozen of those of ordinary white men. Twenty-six years ago next November I was camping on the high "divide" between the Arkansas river and the Beaver, with a party of Government Indian scouts, members of three friendly tribes,--Osages, Pawnees, and Kaws,--employed by order of Gen. Sheridan in his winter campaign against the hostile Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Kiowas. It was a terribly gusty day, one of those so characteristic of our Plains region at certain times of the year. As with closely wrapped blankets we huddled around our little fire of buffalo-chips, the dust and ashes would rise in miniature whirlwinds and go dancing over the prairies until they exhausted themselves. I asked a venerable chief of the Osages who was present, "Little River," nearly eighty years old, what those fitful spirals indicated, in order to draw from his savage mind his ideas of the forces of nature. He replied: "They are the spirits of some southern Indians, killed and scalped up north, going back to the lodges of their people." I thought that if he had substituted the word "matter" for "spirit"--for everywhere we tread upon the dust of a lost civilization--probably he would have been nearer the truth than in the statement of one of the superstitions of his race.

Sitting Bull from Inman's book

Among the many myths of the American savage, the disposition of the soul after its separation from the body, and its close connection with its scalp, vary according to the religion of the tribe. With some, the "journey to the happy hunting-grounds" begins immediately; with others, the spirit remains near the grave. Again, if an Indian dies away from the lodges of his people, the spirit returns at once to them, where it hovers, as if reluctant to leave. Among the "upper-river tribes" it is believed that before the spirit finally departs from those who have died of wounds received in battle, "it floats toward a great cliff overhanging the Missouri, and carves upon the wall of rock a picture showing the manner of death." It is believed by most Plains tribes that the soul attaches itself to the scalp; that the soul of a person scalped does not suffer from the wounds inflicted on the body, but that the converse is the case where the scalp is not torn off. There are many instances on record where men have been scalped and yet survived the terrible ordeal, but in every case the scalper supposed his victim dead, the latter taking good care that the foeman should not be disabused of the supposed fact. One who kills himself in battle, accidentally or purposely, has positively no hereafter; he is irrevocably lost. Those who are struck by lightning, or die by any other apparently direct operation of the "Manitou" (the Great Spirit), are hurriedly buried where they fall, without any ceremony, and no mound or other mark is erected over them. If after a battle there are found corpses not scalped or their bodies not mutilated, it is certain that those persons came to death by their own hand, for it is part of the religion of an Indian not to scalp or mutilate the body of an enemy who commits suicide. His superstition in regard to persons dying by suicide or by lightning is as religiously observed as any other of his myths. Knowing this deep-rooted superstition as well as I do, I have been led to believe--though the statement may provoke discussion among those who know nothing of the Indian character--that the death of the lamented.

CUSTERS DEATH Gen. Custer in that awfully unequal battle of the "Little Big Horn" was not according to the accepted theory at that time, viz.: that he was killed by the Indian chief "Rain-in-the-face." The tale (which I regard as an idle fiction so far as the facts are concerned) as it has been told a thousand times and copied in the newspapers of the world, is, that one day the General's brother Tom, at one of the military posts where the regiment to which he was attached, the famous Seventh Cavalry (commanded by the General), was stationed, had a dispute with Rain-in-the-face, and struck him. The savage was furious with rage, but suppressed it, and mounting his pony rode off sullenly to his lodge. Years after the death of Gen. Custer, Rain-in-the-face, who unquestionably participated in the battle of the Rosebud (as the action is sometimes called), is said to have related that he killed Gen. Custer, thus avenging himself for the indignity put upon himself by the General's brother Tom, so long before. In all probability the story was made out of "whole cloth" by a certain New York newspaper correspondent, in whose journal it first appeared. I knew him well, and his reputation for unexaggerated truth was far from being as orthodox as he of the cherry-tree fame. (The myth relating to George
Washington chopping down the cherry tree) Because it had a plausibility about it, and was highly sensational, the statement was accepted by the general public, or those who were not familiar with the methods of the North-American savage. No doubt Rain-in-the-face did, as would all Indians, treasure up such a grievance as that of having been insulted by a blow from a white man; but the circumstances of the battle of the Little Big Horn in all its horrors, so far as it is possible to know them, preclude the possibility of Sitting Bull permitting a subordinate chief, as was Rain-in-the-face, to arrogate to himself the right of revenge in the case of such a noted "white warrior" as Custer. If by any probability Rain-in-the-face did kill Custer, he certainly would have scalped him and mutilated his body. Custer was not scalped, nor was his person at all abused; and the reason generally given for this immunity from the common custom of savage warfare is, that the Indians had such a profound admiration for his wonderful bravery that they spared the great "white warrior" that humiliation. This is the weakest point of the whole argument--for the greater the man in the savages' estimation, the more eager would they be to secure his scalp.
THE THEORY OF CUSTERS DEATH My own theory is--and the fact that Custer was not scalped or mutilated is not the only confirmation of it--that the General killed himself to escape the horrible torture that awaited him should he be captured alive. His capture was what Sitting Bull had undoubtedly determined upon, the moment he saw the tide of battle unmistakably turning in his favor. Custer was known to all the Plains tribes; he had given them ample cause to remember him, and these savages would never have allowed an opportunity to capture him alive to be defeated by permitting some aggrieved chief to kill him in order to gratify a personal revenge--the game was too big. The Indians called Custer the "Crawling Panther," because he usually fell upon them with his troopers as stealthily as does that animal upon its prey. To those unacquainted with the methods of the American savage of the Great Plains, the statement that suicide would be infinitely preferable to the chances for life after having been captured by the Indians, may seem overdrawn, and wicked to be thought of. But if they had seen, as I have, the remains of men, women and innocent babes horribly mutilated, burnt, butchered, and hacked to pieces, they too, if they knew such a fate awaited them beyond the possibility of a doubt if captured alive, would unhesitatingly court death by their own hands, suddenly and immediately, rather than wait for the other, a few hours or days more remote, perhaps, but certain, and horrible in its prolonged agony. I know that it was commonly understood, if not actually agreed to among the officers at frontier posts, that each one should reserve the last bullet in his revolver for himself in the event of a horrible contingency. I have known of many officers in the long-ago of my early service among the Indians, who, whenever they went on an expedition against the hostile tribes, invariably had concealed about their persons, easily accessible, a small capsule of prussic acid or some equally potent and swift messenger of death, to be used in case of a possible contingency. Custer, it will be remembered, was shot through the head, and it was a curious coincidence that two or three of his subordinates whose bodies were found near his had been shot in precisely the same manner. In view of all these facts, there can be small doubt that those officers carried out the plan of death determined upon, the moment they recognized the hopelessness of their situation. That the story of Rain-in-the-face, if he ever told it, is not at all likely to be the truth, may be inferred from the fact that the average Indian, as I know him, when discoursing of his own prowess is the most unconscionable liar, and the truth is not in him. Of course if Rain-in-the-face could prevail upon a newspaper correspondent to flatter him in regard to the part he took in a battle in which a great white warrior was defeated, he would rather lie to that correspondent than not; and that is just what Rain-in-the-face did in this instance--provided, always, that the correspondent did not invent the whole tale. The truth of how Custer came to his death can never absolutely be known, for out of that awfully unequal conflict there came but one miserable Crow Indian and Col. Keogh's celebrated horse "Comanche," alive. From the fact that the great soldier was not scalped, the theory I have suggested is certainly more plausible, and will be accepted by all who are familiar with the customs of the Indians, than that story which has made the rounds of the newspapers a dozen times.


references & Further Reading:
TALES OF THE TRAILSHORT STORIES OF WESTERN LIFE BY COLONEL HENRY INMAN Late Assistant Quartermaster, United States Army AUTHOR OF "THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL," "SALT LAKE TRAIL"
(Project Gutenberg)

Maj Henry Inman Jr. (1837-1899) - Find a Grave Memorial

New Study Debunks Tales of Mass Suicide at Custer’s Last Stand | HISTORY

News - Skeletal Study of Custer’s Men Questions Suicide Claims - Archaeology Magazine




Sunday, August 9, 2026

Hammer, Horseshoe and Invention, The Story of an Iowa Renaissance Man


MATTHEW EDEL's 
BLACKSMITH SHOP 

                                 

The sign points the way to Edel's Blacksmith Shop in Haverhill Iowa. Photo by the author

The stories of the true west aren't just about lawman and outlaws. The west could have never been tamed without the steel and grit of hard work and innovation.

-G.C. Stevens

                    HAVERHILL IOWA

On a bright and fair summer day, I took an Iowa road less traveled. I exited the black top and hit the gravel road. I heard my wives voice in my head, say "roll up the windows, or dust will get in the truck, this is Iowa," I heeded the voice, hit the button and as the window slid up, I left a dirty contrail behind me, heading into the Kelly-green hills of a summertime Iowa. I was looking for a small town in Central Iowa called Haverhill. I had seen an informational sign on highway 330 multiple times over the years indicating that there was a historic blacksmiths shop somewhere in the area. I had traveled this route many times, but today, I felt compelled to finally take a look at what was out there. As I tracked the GPS on my phone, I suddenly found myself the small, quaint historic town of Haverhill Iowa. Upon entering Haverhill, I was greeted by rolling cornfields, old buildings and a prominent church steeple, which dominated the landscape. The surroundings were serene and beautiful. I pulled up across the street from old blacksmith's shop which was an old period building with faded wooded siding and a wooden shingle roof. I noticed that the door was open, so I walked in and saw that there was a man sitting on a chair. He greeted me and welcomed me to the Matthew Edel's blacksmith shop. I immediately noticed that this place was not a recreation, but the real thing. It glowed with the patina of days gone by. There was no flooring, only a dirt floor, rusty horseshoes hung from the ceiling, tools still laid where they were left back in 1940 when the doors were locked and the smell of metal and must hung in the air. My tour guide Pat Kopsa guided me through every inch of the Mathew Edel's world and showed me the fruits of his labor. During the tour it became apparent that Matthew Edel was a resourceful innovator, who served the farming community well during his life. The things that he created were carefully left in place for all to see, hand made pliers, horseshoes, gardening tools, and self styled tools invented by Matthew for use on local farms were all present.

                            Matthew Edel & Family: Photo courtesy of the Edel historic site

His hands forged steal, the callus and blackened hands that swung the hammer, the man who toils in the forge, purveyor of goods and services, blacksmith, wheelwright, Ferrier, Inventor and jack of all trades, a rural renaissance man. Strong, resourceful, proud. That was Matthew Edel.

-G.C. Stevens

  Edel Blackmith shop, built 1883  Photo by the author

Matthews was an immigrant from Germany, who settled in Haverhill in 1883 where he built this shop and the house behind on a half-city block. Edel was an entrepreneur, operating a successful business and manufacturer operation.  His hands forged steal: The callus and blackened hands that swung the hammer, a man who toiled in the forge, purveyor of goods and services, blacksmith, wheelwright, Ferrier, Inventor and jack of all trades, a rural renaissance man who was strong, resourceful, proud. That was Matthew Edel. During World War I, Edel also added an automobile service garage to the west end of the blacksmith shop. When Edel died in 1940, his family closed the blacksmith shop and left it intact but idle until the Edel family donated it to the state of Iowa in 1986. It remains a rare example of an authentic 19th-century blacksmith shop. A new building to the west is a working blacksmith shop constructed in 1996 with the help of volunteer blacksmiths. The State Historical Society of Iowa owns and manages the site which was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1983.

                            
 Tour Guide: Pat Kopsa gave me a highly detailed and informative tour of the Edel Blacksmith shop and property. Photo by the author.





Monuments and plaques greet visitors at the front door
Photos by the author


Tools of all kinds and metal parts lay in organized sections
throughout the shop, Photo by the author

The original foot operated bellows which still works hangs from the ceiling
above the forge photo by the author

The original forge which was eventually converted with an electric blower when electricity came to Haverhill Iowa











Tuesday, August 4, 2026

Frontier Photographers: C.M. Flanders: By G.C. Stevens

 


All photos are from the authors collection
Photo collecting is like another form of archaeology, in that some photos have their own type of cuneiform etched into them by the Photographic Artists who created them. If we are lucky, some of these artifacts have the names of the subjects in the photo written on the back. If we're really lucky, additional information could also appears on the back of the photo if another person, such as a relative took some due diligence to record more data on the photo. Though in most cases the antique photos are as blank as the face of the sphinx in Egypt, and all we are left with is the faces of the person(s), who sat for the picture. But luckily many cabinet cards bare the names, logos and artworks of the photographers and the companies who employed them embossed on the front of each photo, and many of them are from the early days of the frontier (1860's-1890s) Photographers. Author, Carl Mautz, captured the names and the essence of the frontier "Shadow Catchers" in his book, "Biographies of Western Photographers". One of the Photographers listed was Charles M. Flanders, who was active in Corydon Iowa from 1889-1892. This towns name conjures up images of outlaws because eighteen years prior in 1871, the famed outlaw Jesse James had robbed the Ocobock Bank in Corydon, as I looked at the pictures, I wonder if any of the people in the in the photos below were old enough to remember when that happened? But alas... We may never know.
CM Flanders:
Name appears in the book "Biographies of Western Photographer", by Carl Mautz (Pg# 225)
Flanders, Charles M. 
Flanders had a studio in Glenwood, Mills County, in the 1890s. NSA reports a single view seen of a group of women posed by piano in studio. Burgess lists Humeston (1887–1892), Corydon (1889–1892), and Glenwood (1895–1897) 
ref  IOWA STEREOGRAPHS 
LIBRARY & ARCHIVES RESEARCH CENTERS 
(515)281-6200
History.Research@iowa.






Member 



102084 Visitors, a Major Milestone! By G.C. Stevens

 

                                               

 ANOTHER MILESTONE! 

The Central States Lawman and                Outlaw Historic Association blog, breaking records!

 102084 visitors!

I'm very proud of the CSL&OHA blog and what we have accomplished here! The success here was easy, 

because it's a labor of love and collaboration with many other writers, artists, genealogists and reenactors.

Central States, Lawman and Outlaws Historic Association: Dusty Trails Books

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The Secret Army of Historians: By G.C. Stevens

 

Union Spy at Camp Griffin 1861, Photo Courtesy of the Library of Congress

It's in the dark of the wee hours of the morning as the photos and clues are laid out on the table. The fingers are flying about the keyboard and arrangements are made to gather more information. Another lead is found, another historic society contacted, another state historical library queried, another document is in the mail, another page in the book has been written. The secret/not so secret agents of historic preservation and truth are on the prowl. Who are theses brave and diligent fools who dare operate outside the confines of the paid and controlled gatekeepers of history? 
There is a cadre of legendary men and women who test the boundaries of narratives, who seeks the truth in great detail, they stand against canned knowledge of grand opinionated diplomas to dig out the truth of family and local history. They are unpaid and sometimes unloved and even threatened because their bravery. They work against the current forces of evil, as the storm rolls in an attempt to crush their spirit's, but these hero's cannot be deterred.  They are bloodlines of their ancestors, the keepers of their family history, the Indiana Jones of their time. They possess hard drives of digital information and possess an attic full of documents and photos.  Theses people come from all walks of life, they are living historians, genealogists, writers and average everyday people, who's mission comes from the heart.
-G.C. Stevens

Saturday, May 23, 2026

A Morning at the Occidental Hotel: By Jefferson Glass

 

Author Jefferson Glass

“Do you love me, Jane? Or was that just whiskey talkin’ last night?”

The quilt fell to her waist as she sat up beside him in bed and lit a cheroot. “What do you think?” she asked grinning coyly as she exhaled a ring of smoke.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been with a woman quite as enthusiastic . . . or as vocal as you,” he answered.

“If I did, what use would I have for a no-account outlaw such as yourself?” she prodded.

“No-account?” he exclaimed. “I’ve got a place down on Blue Creek, I’ll have you know. Filed on in Douglas and everything.”

“Oh, so you’re going to be a big cattle rancher, huh? You don’t know nothin’ about cows ‘cept how to rustle ‘em.”

“Horses,” he corrected.

“So, you’re moving up to horse-thief,” she scoffed as she took another long pull on her cigar. “You always have liked a fast pony when you’re running from the law.”

“No, I’d go straight.”

“Straight to Hell at the end of a rope most likely,” she blew another smoke-ring.

“You never answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“Do you really love me?”

“We can have another toss right now,” her sly grin returned. “I’ll show you.”

“Just a minute,” he responded as he climbed out of bed and slid his pants on. “I’ll be right back.” He pulled his suspenders over his bare shoulders and slipped out the door down the hall to the privy.

Jane sat on the side of the bed considering the question… she hadn’t been with a man since Bill got killed. The urge had been building inside her for a week when she rode into town yesterday afternoon and paid for her room. She’d crossed the street and bought a calico dress then came back to take a bath in hot water with perfumed soap, unlike stripping down beside a cold stream in the middle of nowhere. When she proceeded to put on the dress, she realized her lack of lady’s undergarments. The men’s drawers she usually wore beneath her overalls would not suffice, so she dressed without any.

The cool breeze from below enhanced her mood as she descended the stairs to the saloon for supper. She was drinking a beer with her steak when he walked in from the dusty street beating the remnants of the trail from his clothing with his hat. It had been a while since she’d seen him. Good looking, smiling and friendly as always, he dropped a coin on the bar and ordered whiskey.

“Care to join me?” she asked.

The man squinted toward her; not yet accustomed to the darkness indoors she thought.

The woman at the corner table looked familiar as she sat looking across her meal at him. Plain yet almost handsome in her calico dress, he couldn’t quite place her. He recognized the voice when she spoke, but struggled to identify where he’d heard it. As he crossed the room it suddenly came to him. Her normal attire had always been a man’s pants and shirt covered by an oversized coat with a slouch hat on her head. The comprehension brought a toothy grin. She cleaned up quite agreeably.

“Hello, Jane,” he greeted pulling up a chair. “You look nice this evening.”

*****

The calico dress that had laid on the floor, now draped across a chair by the window. He glanced out onto the empty street below before noticing the piece of paper laying on the dress.


Butch,

I’ll be seeing you around.

J. Canary

Stories of the Frontier and Wild West!

Photographer C.H. Hall, Witness to History, Springfield Illinois: By G.C. Stevens

  A very common carte de visite, in good condition purchased on ebay, subject unknown  Sometimes a rather inexpensive purchase of a photo ca...

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