Guns Of The Old West

Charles Edward Chapel

• Publisher: Normanby Press
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781786258830
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

An Essential Compendium for Any Firearms or Old West Aficionado, richly and comprehensively illustrated.Written by one of the foremost firearms experts of the twentieth century, Charles Edward Chapel's Guns of the Old West is an exhaustively researched document that not only boasts a significant collection of antique Western guns, but also categorizes the firearms into easy-to-reference sections.Starting with an introductory chapter on the origins of guns and their earliest uses on the frontier, Chapel covers everything from muskets to rifles, pistols to revolvers, and shotguns to martial arms. Three whole chapters are dedicated to the rise and fall of the famous Deringer pistol. And as much as Guns of the Old West is an encyclopedic reference manual, it also contains fascinating historical literature that frames the world in which these guns were used. Buffalo guns and hunters are covered, along with martial arms of the post-Civil War era. The gun collection of famous collector and hunter President Theodore Roosevelt is given its own chapter.Illustrated with nearly five hundred illustrations, as well as important artwork from the Western period from artists such as Frederic Remington, Guns of the Old West is an essential work for gun collectors and American history enthusiasts.

XIII—WHEN THE COLT WAS KING: THE IMMORTAL ‘72 MODEL PEACEMAKER, AND OTHERS

“Sam Bass was born in Indiana, which was his native home. Before the age of seventeen, the boy began to roam. He first came out to Texas, a cowboy for to be—A better hearted fellow you scarce could hope to see.”—Ballad of Sam Bass

“Samuel Bass

Born July 21st, 1851

Died July 21st, 1878

A brave man reposes in death here. Why was he not true?”—Epitaph in Round Rock Cemetery

BETWEEN the first line of the song quoted above and the last, forever unanswered question lies a saga of gunplay and violence so typical of the cattle country of the 1870’s and 1880’s that it could have been the history of a thousand other reckless youngsters.

Sam Bass, although a good deal more than just another “poor cowboy who knew he done wrong,” wasn’t greatly different from the average cow-puncher on the north Texas ranges, except for his inborn streak of wildness. Unlike Billy the Kid and Jesse James—contemporaries with whom he was to share the apocryphal reputation of a Western Robin Hood—young Bass was no hate-driven, dedicated killer. Nor was he any great shakes as a fancy pistol artist. There were probably dozens of men who used Colt six-shooters on both sides of the law more dangerous and far more deadly in performance. Among them might be named Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, Clay Allison, and—perhaps the most lethal gentleman of them all—Ben Thompson.

Like the abovementioned men, Bass was to depend on a Colt six-shooter for both his livelihood and his life. The reason why Sam Bass’s exploits are relevant here is that he was not a “special” type; he was a pretty good working cowhand, but one who would rather race good horses than nurse longhorns. That he could do it and still stay within the law is probably a tribute to his virtuosity. But there came the time, when he awoke in Deadwood with a splitting head and a natural desire to help a friend, that sent him on the trail where a man lives by the gun and usually dies by it. Sam Bass did both.

Oddly enough, in each instance, the gun was probably a Colt revolver, Frontier model, caliber .45, center fire.

The “cowboy for to be” landed in Denton County, Texas, sometime in the late ‘60’s, a likable lad not yet twenty, with a go-to-hell gleam in his eye; a youngster who favored a good horse, plenty of excitement, and not too much else. According to the story, he got his first job as cowboy for Sheriff Everhart (Dad, Egan, sheriff of Denton County, according to some versions); he acquired—honestly—a fast little sorrel, famous in the ballad as “the Denton mare,” which successfully backed Sam’s judgment in one cow-town race after another. Given the choice of continuing as a twenty-dollar-a-month cowhand or racing, naturally Sam Bass did what almost anyone else would do. He quit. He liked horses, and they liked him enough to bring him fast and easy money. From northeast Texas he drifted down to San Antonio, then to Uvalde County and other places, wherever there was a county-fair track....

“He fairly coined money and spent it frank and free

He drank the best of whiskey wherever he might be....”

Possibly it was a time when feathers instead of chicken headed Sam’s menu; possibly his winnings were too consistent for his popularity. At any rate, one day in San Antonio, he signed on as point rider with a cattleman named Joel Collins, who was heading a herd that he’d bought on credit up to Deadwood, South Dakota. In the new gold diggin’s, beef helped a man swing a pick and hoist a shovel. They’d pay in dust and nuggets for Texas beef.

From San Antonio, Texas, to the Black Hills of South Dakota was a long and rugged thousand miles of cattle trail, and by the time Collins and his crew reached Deadwood, they had built up a real thirst to settle the trail dust they’d been eating and breathing for the past months.

Deadwood, a wide-open gold camp in 1877, was just the town to take care of weary trail hands. Here, only a year before, Wild Bill Hickok had succumbed to the marksmanship of one Jack McCall, who cautiously had shot the marshal in the back. Here, Collins and Sam Bass might have stared at a swaggering female arrayed in boots, pants, flannel shirt and gun belt, who barged into bars stating in her sea-lion roar that Calamity Jane was by God settin’ ‘em up for the house! Honkytonks, gambling halls, saloons and brothels abounded; there was money to throw at the birds, and six-shooters were worn openly on the hip.

Collins sold the herd, paid off the boys; then, laden with the cattle money, he joined his crew in painting the town—a procedure that had proved perilous, if not fatal, to many a trail boss before him....

The sun was shining when the drover awoke, but it wasn’t shining for Joel Collins. He was engulfed in the dismal realization that last night it had taken almost all the herd money to try to fill inside straights. Now his reputation back in Texas as a fine rancher and an honest man was as empty as his pockets. Panicked and desperate, without credit, he knew he’d be disgraced and likely jailed if he faced his creditors empty-handed. He’d betrayed his friends, and in a country where hundreds of thousands of dollars changed hands on no more than a man’s given word, Collins’ misstep was about the blackest crime in the book. What to do?

This was gold country, and a little “road mining”—the current euphemism for stage-robbing—he thought, might restore his fortunes and his face. Sam Bass, never one to run out on a friend or to be bothered by moral scruple, would back his old boss to the last damned cap. So would another cowboy. But though they stopped several stages, they only succeeded in accidentally killing the driver of one. Badly planned and amateurishly executed, the operation not only had proved unprofitable, but now they’d soon be sought as murderers. Better make themselves hard to find around Deadwood.

Ogallala, on the South Platte, was a wild, end-of-trail town and in that seething throng of Texas cowboys their arrival was unnoticed. Collins and Bass took stock—and it is more than probable, in the light of his later career, that Sam Bass’s voice now became more predominant in making plans. They determined to profit by their past blunders. This time, they’d pick a good target, line it in their sights, and make a killing. If they planned it right, and luck was on their side, they could ride back to Texas with heads high and gold chinking in their pockets.

The target was found. In a couple of nights, on April 18, the UP Express, said to be carrying a heavy gold shipment, was due to stop for water and dispatches at Big Springs, about twenty miles southwest on the South Platte, and close to the Colorado line. That was a good strategic position. To do the job right, they recruited three more from among...

“His chums they was all cowboys, rough and hard as they could be....”

who probably, as the saying went, “had seen the elephant,” and were trustworthy, seasoned hands at extra-legal activities. They rode out at dark studying the ground and perfecting their plans.

The afternoon of the big night, they stopped at Sam Leach’s Mercantile, purchased supplies, a pair of boots and other things. Collins bought a couple of yards of calico from a bolt Leach had on display. Then they casually rode through the dusk down toward Big Springs.

In a hollow near the water tank they dismounted, picketed their horses and checked their armament. As they adjusted the calico masks, someone swore: “Damn threads tickle my chin.” Collins moved, his knife out, and trimmed the cloth. As the distant rumble grew louder and the long, lonesome-sounding whistle hooted, they crawled up the grade toward the rails. They crouched there, waiting, their palms clammy on their pistol grips.

The train left the station and chugged slowly toward the tank, its headlight beam stabbing the blackness and silvering the rails. Collins had already cut the telegraph wires, and as the locomotive and tender ground to a stop beneath the tank’s nozzle, two of the bandits clambered up into the cab. Under the gun, the engine crew drew the fires. Collins and another swung up to the platform and made their way into the express car, getting the messenger busy with the safe. The third pair, having secured the train crew, started working their way through the passengers, shaking them down for arms and cash.

In the express car Collins and his pardner were having a bad time. The safe was equipped with a time lock, which the messenger was unable to open. It seemed that the ex-trail driver and his bunch were still pursued by the hoodoo luck that had fastened onto them in Deadwood. Apparently, all these fine plans would net only what the passengers contributed. About to jump down from the car, Collins spied four small boxes in a shadowed corner. One of the tops was loose, and Collins’ foot shoved it aside. The glint of newly minted twenty-dollar gold pieces struck his eyes. He lost no time....

By dawn, well satisfied with their night’s labors, the six were snoring peacefully in their beds, back in Ogallala.

That morning, Collins, Bass & Company, according to plan, played it cagey, hiding their elation behind stolid poker faces. Their confidence increased as they heard the story of the robbery recounted in their accustomed saloons. This was startling news, indeed. Men could be murdered or killed in gunfights, but it was seldom that a bunch of nervy gents calmly looted the UP Express of $100,000 in gold, without a shot being fired. Not a trace of the bunch who did it, either. A smart, fast job; Jesse James himself couldn’t have done it no slicker....So ran the comments, laudatory rather than otherwise.

Collins and his bunch had reason to strut. Of course, the gold, now cleverly stashed away, was $60,000 rather than $100,000. Passengers had kicked in with another five thousand. Collins, and Bass as well, though tough enough, were not killers—the thought of the Deadwood stage driver who had been killed by an accidental discharge of one of their guns still might have galled them—and the fact that they had pulled this without having to shoot anyone somehow made it seem better.

Collins wondered: Now, at last, he could go back and face his Texas friends, pay them off, and resume his former life as a solid, respected cowman, with the additional satisfaction of a nice little stake in the bank. Or, he could ride his luck for a while. If it held like this, he’d be a rich man before he knew it. Collins the Cattle King...that had a real sound to it!

It’s doubtful if Sam Bass did much wondering. Here was a fine way to get big money-they had agreed on an even split; $10,000 plus was a good stake for any man, and without any sweat. There were plenty of thrills in this occupation, too. He could live high, wide and handsome, as he used to when he was racing, back in Texas. If he did anything, he’d raise blooded horses. He had a lifelong passion for fine horseflesh, just as other men had for gambling, whisky, or women. Not that there was anything wrong with those. But with Sam Bass, horses came first....

By noon, most of the town was out at the hollow near the water tank. It would have been strange if the six robbers had not joined the crowd. Sam Leach, the storekeeper, was certainly there, leaning down to squint at the hoof tracks. While some of the boys acted out their version of the holdup, others were gesticulating, arguing, and making wide guesses, all warmed by the reflected excitement of this astounding crime.

Unlike many others, Sam Leach didn’t wave his arms and try to outshout the amateur detectives. He was still studying the ground, and at one point he leaned down for a closer look. When he straightened up, he had a tiny slip of calico in his pocket. He recognized it at once, just as he remembered who had bought it. Perhaps he passed a few words with Collins and some of his pardners, then said something about having to get back to tend store. He climbed into his rig and headed up the road; a quiet, methodical man, burdened now with a fateful secret.

Back in Ogallala, he paused to read a poster, the ink still damp, which offered $10,000 reward for the capture of the robbers and return of the loot. He reopened his store, fingering the bit of cloth that was to bring violent death to three men and make hunted fugitives of three more.

According to plan, Collins and the others hung around town for a couple of days. The robbery and the reward were still big news, and the men joined in the barroom discussion, watched their drinking, and finally bought necessary supplies—at Leach’s store, of course—for their return trip to Texas. Presently they headed back, six trail-seasoned cowboys with three led pack horses, appearing no tougher than the average, riding easy toward their home range. The dust of their going hid a swarm of sheriffs, special UP and Wells Fargo agents and some U.S. marshals, all bird-dogging for a scent they couldn’t find.

Behind them, too, they left Sam Leach—but not far enough behind....

Some hours after his former customers had started south, Leach pulled down his shutters, locked his store, and saddled his horse. Possibly he left a laconic note: “Gone fishin. Back next week, maybe.” At any rate, he took the trail of the six men and stuck to it, always keeping out of sight during the day, but crawling through brush and rock at night to listen and watch the bandits about their campfire. After three or four days of cautious riding, and nights of Injuning around their camp, Leach’s risky vigil paid off. He held his breath as he watched Collins, within a few yards of where Leach hid, give $10,000 in twenty-dollar gold pieces to each man. He heard them make their plans to split up: Collins and another would head for San Antonio; two more would start for Mexico, Missouri; and Bass and another would aim for Denton.

That was all Sam Leach wanted to know. He lost no time making tracks for the nearest town that had a telegraph and an alert lawman. Before long, the wires stretching south and east were humming with important news.

A day or so later, in Kansas, Collins and his partner led their pack horse into Buffalo Station and were at once confronted by a Wanted poster describing themselves, as well as Bass and his saddle mate.

If Joel Collins had ever pondered whether to return to the fold of respectability or to continue to take his chances along the owlhoot trail, that decision was abruptly yanked from his hands. He knew it now, and together the two bandits wheeled their horses, dug in their spurs, and with the led horse following, lit out down the road. They were too late, however, for a townsman had recognized them and warned a detachment of U.S. cavalry camped on the edge of town. Overtaken and questioned by the troopers, Collins tried to laugh it off. It was useless, and at Collins’ signal both men went for their guns. For once, the horse soldiers didn’t wait to do it by the book. They got in their shots first and when the smoke cleared, two men who had robbed their last train lay dead in the dust, while the pack horse stood up the road a piece, sides heaving from its run under the weight of more than $20,000 in gold.

Of the two bandits who had started for Missouri...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• FOREWORD
• I-HOW GUNS BEGAN
• II-THE KENTUCKY RIFLE AND PISTOL HEAD WEST
• III-FLINTLOCK PISTOLS ON THE FRONTIER
• IV-MUSKET, RIFLE AND CARBINE: AMERICAN MARTIAL SHOULDER ARMS
• V-PEPPERBOXES: PERCUSSION AND CARTRIDGE
• VI-POCKET-SIZED DEATH: DEVELOPMENT OF THE FAMOUS DERINGER
• VII-THE VOICE OF THE DERRINGER: IMITATIONS, COUNTERFEITS AND COMPETITORS OF DERINGER’S POCKET PISTOL
• VIII-TWILIGHT OF THE DERRINGER: BREECH-LOADING CARTRIDGE TYPES; THE DERRINGER IN TRANSITION
• IX-CAPTAIN WALKER’S GUN-HUNT: EARLY COLT REVOLVERS
• X-MARTIAL PERCUSSION HAND GUNS ON THE FRONTIER: U.S. MARTIAL AND SECONDARY MARTIAL PISTOLS AND AMERICAN MARTIAL REVOLVERS
• XI-JOHNNY KEPT HIS GUN: CONFEDERATE FIREARMS IN THE WEST
• XII-REVOLVING SHOULDER ARMS AND RELATED WEAPONS
• XIII-WHEN THE COLT WAS KING: THE IMMORTAL ‘72 MODEL PEACEMAKER, AND OTHERS
• XIV-GUNSMOKE OVER POWDER RIVER: THE WINCHESTER RIFLE
• XV-THE INDIAN CAMPAIGNS: U.S. MARTIAL ARMS OF THE POST-CIVIL WAR ERA
• XVI-BUFFALO GUNS AND HUNTERS
• XVII-THE SHOTGUN GUARDS THE STAGE
• XVIII-THE GUNS OF TEDDY ROOSEVELT
• BIBLIOGRAPHY