Lincoln County War Survivor: Jim French

Jim French took part in the Lincoln County War.
From regulator to outlaw to settle a score.
Thought he flipped his lid
After joining Billy the Kid,
And nearly dying at McSween's general store.

French was there when Brady raved and cussed,
Just before he and Hindman bit the dust.
But the McSween episode
Turned his blood ice cold,
So he headed for "obscurity or bust."

Billy the Kid Escapes

Once when Billy the Kid was in jail
Bob Ollinger crowed without fail
Until Billy broke free
And with both barrels did he
Plug Bob like a quivering quail

Beckwith Brothers: wearing tarnished tin

When yer' star doesn't shine

very few will pay you any mind.

Just ask John an' Robert Beckwith,

real brothers, an' brothers in law... the tarnished kind.

Ya' see, they were part of the Murphy-Dolan crowd,

who battled the McSween Regulators in the Lincoln County War.

In fact, both brothers took part in stoppin' an' killin' John Tunstall,

an action any reasonable person would abhor.

That was the action that kicked off the war

an' the bloodbath that followed.

Though there was equal callousness on both sides:

the souls of the combatants had hollowed.

John barely made it passed six months

from that infamous day

before he too felt the sting of hot lead.

Though not from the war,

he surprised John Jones rustlin' his herd,

an' when they both drew, Jones shot him dead.

Yet brother Bob had even gone quicker,

just shy of turning twenty.

The day Billy the Kid an' his crew were hold up in McSween's store

as the bullets were flyin' a' plenty.

In a foolish show of bravado Bob stood in clear sight,

walked ta' the store an' tried ta' arrest them alone.

He died in a hail of gunfire with a shot ta' the eye,

as the Bonney crew charged forth

over his corpse that lay prone.

Though McSween bit the dust

on that very spot as well.

Kind of makes ya' wonder

if they carried on in the after-life,

since they were both shot ta' hell.

David L. Anderson: from outlaw to lawman

David L.Anderson, born in eighteen an' sixty-two,

died in nineteen an' eighteen,

with alias' of Billy Wilson an' Buffalo Billy.

Though he weren't as rotten, nor as mean

as most who took ta' the wrong side of the law.

He come into the world in Ohio.

Moved ta' Texas early on,

an' took ta' the range as a young cowboy,

liftin' a burden off his Ma an' Pa.

He resettled at eighteen in White Oaks, New Mexico,

where he took on the moniker of Billy Wilson,

an' ran himself a livery stable.

But he had a weakness in business,

an' he weren't no whiz with figures,

though with the stock an' equipment he was more than able.

Well, he up an' sold in eighty;

considered it a good deal,

but the payoff was in counterfeits,

a damn sharper got the stable in a steal.

No, Billy weren't the wisest

where money was concerned,

he simply went ta' passin' the bills he'd been paid,

with an' awful lesson soon ta' be learned.

Cuz' the system failed young Billy,

a warrant was issued fer' him,

while the one who swindled him got away.

You could say the system created an outlaw that day.

Young Wilson was both scared an' riled,

it sent him on the skid.

He jumped bail immediately,

ran off an' joined another Billy --- Billy the Kid.

Wilson may have started as a greenhorn,

but he learned his lessons quick.

Even a pawn can kill a king,

an the game of life is no lark.

It took grit ta' hang with Billy the Kid,

after all, he weren't no saint.

An' posse's by the dozen were always

chompin' at their heels

like a great white shark.

Though more often than not they out smarted them,

or at least had the better luck.

Like on the night of November 29th of eighty-one,

when both the Kid an' Wilson's horses

were shot an' felled' ta' bloody muck,

an' the two still escaped the posse

on foot in the dark.

However, the subsequent retaliation

coulda' used a bit more plannin'.

But the Kid had a powerful hankerin' ta' get even,

even at the expense of common sense.

So the two joined up with Dave Rudabaugh,

an' grabbed some fresh mounts,

then headed back ta' White Oaks

with the thought of recompense.

When the trio boldly rode into town

they quickly spotted Deputy James Redman,

who had been part of the posse on the previous night.

The three drew steel, an' spent some lead,

but Redman ran for cover,

an' somehow got clean outta' sight.

But the sound of gunfire roused the town

an' dozens of citizens joined in the fight.

So the three desperadoes wisely chose ta' take flight,

gallopin' away

in order ta' fight another day.

A day not far in the future,

in fact, on the 'morrow,

when the posse tracked 'um ta' the ranch of Jim Greathouse.

Where posse leader Jim Carlyle tried a bit of reason,

but found out reason weren't in season with the Kid,

who, in fact, played the louse.

Cuz' on Carlyle's next play

he put himself in harm's way,

exchangin' himself fer' a hostage.

An' though he tried his best

it weren't good enough,

took three ta' the chest

when the Kid flipped his lid.
Then William Bonney took the body
an' crashed it through the window,
shockin' the posse with disbelief,
an' givin' time fer' the three men ta' go.
Now when the posse learned they let them escape
they needed themselves a way ta' vent.
They took it out on the ranch house
an' everything in it,
leavin' nothin' but ash an' stone ta' show.
History later would record that while in the house
Anderson, alias Wilson, had also tried ta' reason with the Kid,
but the Kid was havin' none of it from anyone.
Wilson had reminded him, that at that time,
there wasn't much of a charge against them.
But the Kid opted ta' do his thinkin' with a gun.
Ironically, it was this incident that paved the way
fer' Pat Garrett ta' assume command
of the posse in the area,
all searchin' fer' the gang.
Now with Garrett in charge
the posse set a trap near Fort Sumner, New Mexico,
an' waited fer' the outlaws ta' appear.
An' probably thinkin' of which ones would hang.
Then six of 'um came ridin' up on the 19th of December;
so Garrett, Lon Chambers, an' others
leapt from their cover,
confrontin' both outlaws an' fear.
Now Pat appeared ta' want them alive,
but alive was riskier in the eyes of his men,
who started pullin' triggers an' spittin' lead.
In jus' a few seconds the whole thing was done,
but it obviously wasn't done well;
cuz' only O'Folliard an' Pickett were blown
from their saddles.
Oh yeah, an' Dave Rudabaugh's mount was dead.
The Kid an' Charlie Bowdre
had quickly raced away.
An' Anderson showed his grit
by slowin' ta' pick up Dave.
All four of them made good their escape
without so much as a scratch.
Though as luck would have it,
Anderson's days with the gang were numbered
on account of another trap Garrett did hatch.
They caught him at Stinking Springs,
convicted him of robbery an' murder,
an' sent him off ta' prison at Santa Fe.
Though he quickly escaped an' fled ta' Texas,
ta' the town of Sanderson, founded by kin;
where he ended up spendin' many a day.
He lived there quietly under his real name.
He married, raised a family,
an' ran the Old Cottage Bar.
He eventually gained in popularity,
even got himself elected in nineteen-ought-five:
elected by the town ta' wear their star.
From one side of the law to the other,
an' he proved himself time an' again,
keepin' the peace with a resolute steady hand.
So well in fact he did his job
that when his past did arise
Garrett an' others saw that the charges were counter-manned.
But it has often been said,
"If ya' live by the gun, ya' die by the gun."
An' in the life of Anderson it came true.
It came while tryin' ta' reason with a young cowboy
who was drunk an' brandishing his iron.
Well, Anderson let his guard down
cuz' it was someone that he knew.
His name was Ed Valentine,
an' he ran to a shed an' refused ta' come out.
So Anderson felt it was his duty ta' go in,
but he never made it through the door
before the bullet struck him.
An' by the way, lest I forget ta' mention,
the townfolk were so incensed
at this killin' without no sense,
that they seized the culprit an' commenced ta' lynchin'.
As I end this tale
let me leave ya' with a bit of trivia
connected with David L. Anderson.
It has ta' do with his earlier arrest,
an' I find it kinda' interestin'.
The gun that he surrendered ta' Pat Garrett that day
is suppose ta' be the same one the sheriff used
ta' blow Billy the Kid away.
Although history has never been a hundred percent certain.

Billy the Kid's DNA investigation & Three Chicken Little Towns

     Six years ago Lincoln County Sheriff Tom Sullivan, Captian Mayor Steve Sederwall, and De Baca County Sheriff Gary Graves initiated a new investigation into the death of Billy the Kid.
     The original plan was to exhume the bodies of Billy the Kid and Catherine Antrim, his mother, and use modern-day DNA techniques to prove if the body laid to rest in Fort Sumner was, in fact, the young outlaw.
     In the half dozen subsequent years they have encountered one stonewalling attempt after another. Government officials, agency heads, and private interests have fought hard to halt the continued efforts of Sullivan and Sederwall (Graves has apparently stepped away, there has been little mention of him since), who have turned the investigation into a private affair supported with their own money.
     Even when the two tried a different angle, by way of discrediting the unproven claims of Ollie P. "Brushy Bill" Roberts and John Miller, both professing to be the Kid, the powers that be have done their best to prevent it. Although Sullivan and Sederwall performed an end-around play in Prescott, Arizona, and was able to bypass the government red tape by getting the okay to exhume John Miller through private ownership of private lands.
     I must confess a certain amount of curiosity as to why the findings of that exhumation and testing by celebrated forensic pathologist Dr. Henry Lee have not come to light. I made a couple attempts to contact the Los Angeles office, but have been rebuffed, and the latest online search have discovered that a lawsuit has been filed to have the evidence turned over, but I have been unable to find an outcome at this time.
     Likewise, Sullivan and Sederwall are still stonewalled by the three remaining cities of interest to this case: Fort Sumner and Silver City in New Mexico, and Hico, Texas.
     If this was simply a case of proving or disproving the legend surrounding the controversial death of Billy the Kid it would be little more than a disappointment. But the fact remains that three towns are bringing in big bucks year after year in tourist trade by claiming to be the final resting place of the real Billy the Kid. Which means at least two of those towns; Prescott, Fort Sumner, or Hico; and their government officials are condoning and conspiring to fleece honest tourists with lies. --- Makes you proud to be an American, doesn't it?
     The following poem shows my distaste over the situation.

THREE CHICKEN LITTLE TOWNS

(afraid of Billy the Kid's DNA)

They say the old west was rough and tumble,

it was hard but it was fair,

if you were square with yer' neighbors or strangers when lost.

An' there still were fine folks

who would stand for the truth at all cost.

Lately, however, we see in the west

a different take on the truth in modern-day.

Like the three chicken little towns

afraid of three little letters,

the letters D-N-A.

Now fer' all hermits,

an' any others who might live under a rock or out in space

an' may not have heard over the last several years

how a particular situation,

regarding a not-so-secret investigation,

has gone in an' out of the courts an' news.

It appears Tom Sullivan an' Steve Sederwall

had them a notion

so they put forth a motion

to once an' fer' all

learn the truth.

Now these feller's have dotted their I's

an' crossed their T's

an' tried ta' be upright an' fair.

But each efforts been stalled,

each motions been squashed

by those claimin' authority in the three one-horse towns

who'd rather not have the truth --- but dare.

Ya' see the whole thing surrounds William Bonney,

the infamous Billy the Kid.

Cuz' the tale still holds too much mystery,

not enough facts, an' abundance of fiction,

the myths run free while reality hid.

Don't it seem a bit outta' place

in a country that claims honor an' pride

to allow three or more towns to be robbin' the tourists,

while professin' quite loud,

"This is where poor Billy died?"

Now unless Billy Bonney was a cat with nine lives,

he shouldn't have so many places of rest,

an' yet these three chicken little towns

ain't got the guts ta' O.K. the DNA test.

First is Silver City, next Fort Sumner,

both in New Mexico.

With the third town in Texas,

a puddle-jump called Hico.

Can ya'll imagine that?

What's this country comin' to when a town in Texas,

where they take pride in the Alamo,

no longer has the guts ta' fight fer' the truth?

Course, there was a fourth town,

the town of Prescott, A.Z.,

but an end-around play

by Sullivan an' Sederwall

earned an official "OK"

through private channels on private land

bypassin' the usual P.R. seekin' authority.

An' ain't it funny how the government jack-boots

claim they're actin' in the "public's interest"

when at least two out of three

have definitely

been scamming the public fer' years?

An' I dare any one of those uppity town snobs

a stickin' their noses up at the truth,

ta' prove ta' little ol' me

how they can legitimately

justify highway robbery

by claimin' lies as facts

just ta' coax the tourists back.

An' by the way,

who the hell does Trish Saunders think she's kiddin'?

The so-called spokes-filly

fer' the Billy

the Kid Historic Preservation Society,

yet takin' the side, when all is said an' done,

that'll keep provable history in the dark.

Ain't that a lark

my friends,

how folks claim they're interested in preservin' history,

but they've only got interest in preservin'

their version of it, ya' see,

the truth be damned.

Sadly it all comes down to one thing

the truth might cost them a buck,

they'd rather lose their souls

keepin' pigeons in rows

coughin' up dollars

an' chokin' off common sense here in the so-called land of the free.

Thank God I'm not one of those dummies

who have ta' be struck by a truck

ta' realize my luck,

an' how thankful I am and should be

to not have one speck of those dishonest government officials

DNA in me.

Nobody Knows the Kid

Here is a bit of western poetry outside of the Professor's alias.

As the last rays stole away

an' shadow cast itself upon the panes

the usual flibberty-gibbet an' hem an' haw

took a backseat to another stranger ---

though we'd plum lost count on which number he'd be ---

confessed through whiskey breath

that he knew "the Kid."

Which, as you can surmise

sparked multiple decibels of mutterin' throughout the saloon,

a half-dozen "Glory be's,"

and a unanimous "Do tell."

So seein' he had the floor,

the proverbial spotlight were a'fixed,

he wasted but a moment ta' wet his whistle again,

then commenced his tale.

Well this feller' piled it higher an' higher,

he was a bald-face liar,

even the usual crackpots he way out did ---

cuz' lies are lies, an' facts are facts,

an' truth be known

don't nobody really know the Kid.

Case in point

the multitude with lives out of joint

hopin' ta' cash in on some unearned fame,

sort of... guilt by association,

professin' ta' be "blood kin."

Yet all they've got ta' prove such claims

is that their surname just happens ta' be

Bonney or Antrim.

Woe upon woe to these misbegot's

who do little more than add shame

ta' their name.

Even those who claim McCarty as the proper moniker

maybe no better than the others,

since not one shred of evidence has ever come ta' light,

an' proved beyond a shadow of a doubt,

if'n fact it were the Kid's name,

his mother's maiden name,

or his half-brother's...

his half-brother's pa, that is.

I suppose if'n yer' a gambler "McCarty" makes fer' a best bet,

but the wiser move

is ta' wait til there's evidence ta' prove,

so you can at least speak from a place of intellect.

"Alas," says the stranger, a windin' down his tale ---

slurrin' more words than in the beginnin' ---

"November 23rd in eighteen an' fifty-nine

is a day my friends like no other," says he.

"The day of the birth of my friend, the Kid, ya' see,"

just repeatin' the fib of others before.

If'n he'd checked his facts before speakin'

he'd a found out a certain little truth,

Ash Upson, the predominant tale-spinner fer' Pat Garrett's biography

was a might uncouth,

an' used his own date of birth fer' the Kid's.

In actuality, no certificate of birth has ever come ta' light

ta' verify neither the time nor destination

of when or where the Kid come into the world.

But like others before him, the stranger cared not a wit,

nor had a wit ta' care,

he'd continue ta' jaw-jack fer' as long as the cactus juice flowed.

He went on ta' tell how he stood beside

the Kid's younger brother "Edward" on the auspicious day of matrimony,

an' how he'd even had business dealin's

with the Kid's older brother "Joe."

Jus' perpetuating the illegitimate facts of dimwit myth-makers

too lazy ta' seek out truth over fiction,

or too dang blab greedy

knowin' there's cash ta' be had,

or perhaps jus' free drinks,

to uplift legend over the true ta' life depiction.

Ya' see, there weren't no brother Edward,

an' Joseph was the younger, an' only half ta' boot.

An' both were cast away upon the death of their Ma

when William Antrim, their Ma's last betrothed,

shown himself only half a man

ditchin' his late wife's dependents

so away he could scoot.

Yet such truths never once passed this stranger's lips,

fer' every yarn he did spin

sunk him deeper in

the quagmire of falsehood an' fable.

He said, "Do ya'll recall

the day the Kid first stood tall ---

a mere lad of twelve, protectin' his Ma's... honor

an' blastin' the bejeezus out of a cad,

an' hightailin' it away?"

Except in actuality, the Kid never ran away

til after bein' arrested fer' the simple theft of laundry,

an' his Ma had already passed on from consumption by then.

But that stranger, as if gettin' a second wind,

said, "Set um' up again at the bar

an' at the table"

where he sat down again an' recommenced the fable.

He raised his glass high ta' bid a toast

"To the greatest left-handed gun in the west!"

Obviously unaware of the truth that's come ta' light ---

ta' even many who don't claim ta' know him ---

how the left-hand nonsense started;

cuz' the only known photo of the Kid

is an' old reverse tin-type.

An' since it's reversed

than right is left

an' left is right.

An' since then, as most merely look with a glance,

rarely the truth shall meet.

Factually speakin' the Kid was ambidextrous,

though predominantly used his right.

Now I took a gander at the grandfather clock standin' amongst us

jus' tickin' away the night,

an' I figured that gent,

an' I use the term loosely,

would've stood up an' stumbled out quick

had he known his flappin' jaw,

with each lie now bein' tallied,

would take the power of a magic trick

ta' curtail his soon comeuppance.

But he jus' kept on a jabberin',

addin' to our arsenal ta' go against him.

The next bit of trivia he did offer was how the Kid not only had a finger

but a temper that was quick on the trigger,

an' how he hated ta' speak any negative against him,

cuz' he loved the little cuss.

An' of course he'd stand by every claim jus' like we'd figger'.

But truth be known, most folk, friend or foe,

reporters, an' those he took ta' courtin'

testify ta' his easy goin' ways,

good spirits an' good humor.

'Ceptin' of course, strangers like this feller'

or even Pat Garrett,

who had a specific political agenda ta' perpetuate the rumor.

An' the stranger jus' gulped down another slug of firewater,

an' continued with facts he thought he knew.

He claimed he once offered ---

in secret mind ya', so as not to offend the boy ---

ta' teach poor Billy how ta' read an' write,

on account ta' his illiteracy.

Well, "poor" was the truth,

but "illiterate" ain't.

As a young pup he had a hankerin' ta' write an' read.

An' even without much formal education

he scoured books, dime novels, an' penny dreadfuls.

Showin' more sense than this gent with a head full

of nothin' but fudged facts an' lies.

Lies of the sort he claimed of John Tunstall.

"Such a fine old gent, tried ta' steer the Kid right,

a father figure if there ever was one."

'Cept Tunstall was jus' a mere twenty-four

when he bit the dust,

murdered in the Lincoln County War.

Though it's true he helped the Kid get out of a stint in jail

an' gave him a job ta' boot,

he weren't really fatherly,

an' never even told his close folks about the Kid,

though he mentioned others he did employ.

That tidbit of untruth rings of the Hollywood touch,

it makes fer' better scripts fer' folks ta' enjoy.

Well, ol' whiskey breath kept a talkin',

spillin' his guts like a criminal confession,

irritatin' our eardrums with his squawkin',

jus' like a damn political senate session,

an' makin' jus' about as much sense.

Like claimin' the Kid rode with the infamous Jesse James,

though it's true that they met,

but never shared the same trail dust,

they simply chatted each other up at an eatery.

Ol' Jesse said, "Join me."

The Kid said, "Nix."

An' that's the simple truth of history.

Well that stranger was a snockered now,

with the rot gut flowin' so freely,

an' he slurred most his words,

an' butchered the others,

so we could hardly understand him.

Course it never deterred him,

he jus' kept pavin' manure road

with one shit an' shine-ola claim after another.

Like how the Kid,

allegedly upset fer' losin' forty winks of sleep,

plugged a bellowin' blowhard fer' snorin'.

Too drunk ta' realize he was mixin' up facts,

claimin' feats by the Kid that were actually done

by both Clay Allison an' John Wesley Hardin.

An' then he had to unearth the false recollection so often babbled

how the Kid was "Little Casino"

to his friend of friends "Big Casino" Pat Garrett.

In truth they were acquainted,

but you could never call what they had "true friendship."

Jus' a law dog and an outlaw pup crossin' paths on the trails of life.

Finally the stranger with the diarrhea mouth

was truly windin' it down,

he could hardly hold his head above the table.

Yet he said, "Jus' one last thing I'd like ta' remind ya'll,

how young Billy tallied up a death toll,

killin' a man fer' every year he lived,

that bein' twenty-one."

Except the most notable "kidologists" have come ta' realize

the Kid probably never reached that legal age,

an' the notches on his gun

were less than a dozen,

an' less than a half-dozen fer' those he took out by himself.

There was Frank Cahill an' Joe Grant,

both in self-defense.

An' of course James Bell an' Bob Olinger

while he was escapin' the rope.

Any others were in tussles durin' the Lincoln County affair.

An' history has gone on ta' prove

in that fiasco the Kid never got a break,

even the Govenor failed ta' treat him fair.

Well, the stranger finally shut-up as he passed out with the sauce,

jus' as the first rays of the sun began ta' flicker.

An' the rest of us went into motion,

findin' tar, an' gatherin' feathers,

cuz' it's payback time fer' this city slicker.

Ya' see, this dandy made a heap of mistakes,

but the one that did him in,

was pickin' a bar in Billy's hometown ta' do his drinkin' an' lyin' in.

Sure, we know once a legend is started

the myth will continue ta' grow,

it's always like that when lies are set free

an' truth is kept under a lid.

But only fools tell them where the Kid called "home"

an' the descendants of Billy's contemporaries

attempt ta' keep the record straight.

So this stranger will be sloshed,

an' he'll be fluffed,

an' he'll skedaddle like a tar-baby chick right outta' the state.

An' hopefully learn a lesson that us here in Billy's hometown already know ---

nobody really knows the Kid.