GRAVE HUMOR: AMUSING LAST WORDS IN THE WEST by Vonn McKee

 

While dying is not funny business, there’s no denying that some people utter some downright entertaining epigrams during their final moments on earth. Of course, there are plenty of unforgettably noble last words, but I submit that once Sam Houston summoned his remaining iron will to speak the words, “Texas––Texas! ––Margaret!” that nobody else could possibly top that. Why even try?

But those funny guys … especially the funny doomed guys, even if they didn’t mean to be amusing … they deserve special recognition, I believe, for using their last breaths to leave the crowd smiling, or at least wanting to smile. 

THIS IS FUNNY...

Some were famous, like Doc Holliday, who ended his life of gunfighting and wisecracking in a sick bed. With a glance down at his bootless feet, he declared, “This is funny.” You see, he always figured to die with his boots on, pistols blazing.

Some of the most interesting dying words were spoken by people who would have otherwise faded into Old West obscurity. Their memorable farewells are about all we know about them.

GALLOWS HUMOR

Sheriff Henry Plummer of Bannack, Montana, was hanged by vigilantes who suspected him of illegal activities. The sheriff held onto his bravado to the end and dryly remarked, “Give me a high drop, men.”

The Hanging Judge, Isaac C. Parker of Ft. Smith, Arkansas, dispensed of six murderers in a day. One of them, Sam Fooy, would have thumbed his nose at the judge and onlookers had his hands not been tied. He left them with, “I am as anxious to get out of this world as you are to see me go.”

John Owens murdered a man over five dollars in Buffalo, Wyoming, and couldn’t wait to get on with the show. “What time is it?” he said. “I wish you’d hurry up. I want to get to hell in time for dinner.”

A Nebraska farmer, Lee Shellenberger, was charged with killing his eleven-year-old daughter. Before the trial date, a lynch mob dragged him from the jail. Shellenberger was most indignant and delivered a threat just before the rope tightened. “If there is such a thing as haunts, I will do it, for I recognize several of you.”

We don’t know the name of the wise guy who was hanged at Yuma Penitentiary in 1887, but his punch line lives on. When asked why he was smiling, he replied, “Well, I was just thinking. You guys have got to walk back up there in the heat. I don’t.”

PARTING SHOT 

An outlaw named Bill Gallagher confronted tough rancher John Slaughter near Ft. Sumner, New Mexico, and decided to charge him on horseback. Slaughter coolly shot the man down. As Gallagher lay dying, he closed with a little self-analysis. “I needed killing twenty years ago, anyway.”

SHARP WIT

The Texas Panhandle produced plenty of tough characters. Sostenes L’Archeveque was one of them. Even his friends grew tired of his violent, troublemaking ways. They invited him over for a meal, then proceeded to ambush him. After being shot and stabbed, L’Archeveque still had plenty of fight left in him. He spat at his attackers, “You pull that knife out of my back and I’ll kill every one of you!”

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HEY, Y'ALL...WATCH THIS! 

Having been educated at a white man’s school, a Kickapoo woman named Oo-Lath-La-Hi-Na tried to avert an attack by soldiers who apparently didn’t realize her tribe as friendly.

“I will go out and talk with the white Captain. He thinks we are Comanches. The white men won’t shoot a woman.”

A caravan of wagons stopped for the night near Battle Mountain, Nevada, in August of 1857. One of the pioneers, Smith Holloway, declined to join the circle of wagons and camped away from the group, despite warnings of potential Indian attacks. After an uneventful night, Holloway arose and announced his last words, "Wake up, everyone. No redskins in sight!"

Four robbers were holed up in a cabin near Kokomo, Colorado when Deputy/Detective M. E. Conrad crashed through the door. Seeing no guns elsewhere in the cabin, Conrad grilled the men, forcing them to walk over to their beds, throw back the covers, and prove they weren’t bad guys. “Boys, we must see what you have got under those blankets,” he said, just before he learned the truth.

For more fascinating accounts of Western characters and their send-offs, I recommend Garry Radison’s book, LAST WORDS: DYING IN THE OLD WEST. And watch your words, my friends. They could well outlive you.

All the best,

Vonn

VONN McKEE
“Writing the Range”
2015 WWA Spur Finalist (Short Fiction)
2015 Western Fictioneers Peacemaker Finalist (Short Fiction)



www.vonnmckee.com
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A Sacred Path

I live a couple of miles from the northern terminus of the Natchez Trace Parkway, which the National Park Service describes as “a 444-mile drive through exceptional scenery and 10,000 years of North American history.” The two-lane billboard-free road meanders north from the delta lowland of Natchez, Mississippi, to the rolling hill country near Nashville, Tennessee. Motorists will meet no eighteen-wheelers and see no fast-food neon, but will probably have to brake for plenty of deer and wild turkey.

The parkway more or less follows an ancient footpath that began as an animal track thousands of years ago, maybe even ten thousand. Bison traversed between southern grazing lands and salt licks on the Cumberland Plateau. Later, prehistoric mound builders used the Trace to move between villages. Its native wanderers eventually included the Choctaw, Chickasaw and the Natchez. 

European explorers utilized the old path but its heaviest use was from about 1785 to the 1820’s when the “Kaintucks” of the Ohio River Valley floated goods downriver to the ports of Natchez and New Orleans and returned on foot via the Trace. It was notoriously dangerous: organized gangs of (literal) cut-throats lay in wait for the travelers. Robbery was the least crime feared on the journey.

Today, the biggest threat of traveling the Natchez Trace might be mindlessly enjoying the scenery rather than eyeing your speedometer. Park rangers abound. (I can vouch for the fact that the speed limit is a strict 50 miles per hour.

                           

                                                  

      The Natchez Trace Parkway at Birdsong Hollow, near Franklin, Tennessee           (USDOT Image)

Occasionally, I drive for a ways down the parkway just to relax and take in the sights. I think about those who walked here…the mysterious natives whose burial mounds can be seen along the route. John James Audubon may have sprawled on a boulder to sketch a cocky bluejay. I imagine the tramping of Andrew Jackson’s foot soldiers on their way to fight the Battle of New Orleans.

                                        A few sections of the Old Trace remain.

Near Mile 386, is a memorial to America’s greatest pathfinder Meriwether Lewis, who died here at Grinder’s Stand. The details are sketchy and historians are divided as to whether he was murdered or perhaps committed suicide. He was known to suffer from what President Andrew Jackson called “sensible depressions of mind.”

                    Here lies Meriwether Lewis. Milepost 385.9, near Hohenwald, Tennessee           (NPS Image)

Sometimes my Sunday drive over the Natchez Trace, and all those ancient footprints, turns philosophical. As a writer, I recognize that I follow a path that is not only well-worn, but that has been worn very well. Particularly in the western genre, we have just one time period to write about and just so many character types to choose from. The possible scenarios come (and please, Lord, let them come) from an unseen creative well.

My hope is that I can, now and then, find a new way to say the old thing, to delight a reader with a previously-unvoiced expression or description. But a look at my own bookshelf tells me the hard truth. Others have ridden this way. Bret Harte. Mark Twain. Grey…L’Amour. McMurtry…McCarthy. Wister…Leonard. I’m a piker…and I know it. A greenhorn, if you will.

Oh, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take the journey. I’m not only writing for readers. I write for the love of the genre and the great period of American history that it represents.

There’s another reason I write too. You see, others ride behind. Someone has to point the way. With every story, we keep the old trail worn, revered, relevant.

Vonn McKee is Louisiana-born but has called Nashville, Tennessee, home for over twenty years. She has spent time in the music business, the construction business, and has even waited a few tables along the way. Vonn has written songs, radio jingles, magazine articles, short stories and is at work on her first novel. She has a real heart for historical fiction, especially the Old West.

You can keep up with the latest news at https://www.facebook.com/VonnMcKee.

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