I have a friend named Wyatt Earp. Who would name their child Wyatt Earp? Well, if you were an Earp, it would make sense if you wanted your newborn son to have your legendary relative’s name. Wyatt is the great-grandnephew of the legendary Wyatt Earp. To make that even better, he has a home in, you guessed it, Tombstone, Arizona.
Every time we talk, Wyatt tells me a story of Wyatt Earp or some other legendary characters like Henry “Doc” Holliday or Bat Masterson. One of those times, I told him a story from my life, and he turned that story back on me and challenged me to write it down. When I did, he challenged me to write a book about it. I finally accepted his challenge and wrote that memory into my first book, Texas Ranger Cal Johnston’s – The Wanted!
This is the actual story Wyatt challenged me to write.
I was 17 years old in a place of uncharted wilderness, where few, if any, had ever gone. I was unwillingly thrust into an unnerving, mind-numbing event like I had only read about in books. That experience shaped much of who I am and influenced how I viewed justice from that point on.
That real-life event, for the most part, is Chapter 2 in my western novel “Texas Ranger Cal Johnston’s – The Wanted” (Stay tuned for future publishing information!). That is what I lived.
One of my best friend’s father had taken a job with a surveying company to ride horses through a wild country where no maps had been drawn and few had explored. Planes had flown over the region, but the overgrowth was so dense that cameras captured only treetops and a few rocks. Technology at that time was primitive compared to what we can capture today of dense, unexplored areas.
A survey company was hired by a utility to conduct a regional exploration. So, an expedition was launched with a surveyor, my friend’s father, to lead the expedition, a working cowboy to tend the horses, and a cook. Then there was my friend Jack and me. We would be out for weeks with no backup, help, or means of communication. In my case, no girls! I hesitated, but was finally convinced to go.
After weeks of exploring deep woods and mountains, we came upon a town that shouldn’t have existed in that wilderness, but did. The town was populated by people who had no option of returning to civilization. The town had a small restaurant that I can describe as much like a cantina.
Early in our meal, a big man who looked way beyond angry blasted his way into the cantina and grabbed a young boy who looked about 16 years old and dragged him out of the cantina. As the man was yanking and dragging the protesting boy, the man shouted at him to put on the pistol he was trying to force the boy to take. We realized this situation was going to become absolutely none of our business. We made no attempt to ask questions or leave the cantina.
As we were finishing our meal, we noticed that all the patrons had moved outside onto the boardwalk in front of the cantina. It was as if they were waiting for something to happen. They were.
We were eager to see what was happening out front. The little old man, the owner, put his hand on my shoulder and on my friend’s father’s, and told us to stay put. He said to us, “If you want to leave this town and keep your health, stay put.” He added, “Witnesses don’t leave town.”
As eager as I was to keep my head on my shoulders, I was still curious. But then, I saw the people out front suddenly jerk as if they were startled, and I immediately heard a loud pistol blast. One shot. The crowd got loud with their indecipherable jabbering. Shortly thereafter, they began milling back into the cantina, definitely muting their conversations as they looked at us.
As we began to rise from our chairs to leave, we could hear men saying things like, “They’re leaving?” and “Who said they could leave?” Those harsh words began to deeply concern my friend’s father and the others. However, the old man came out to quell the talk and told everyone that while they all were outside, he let us know that he had all our names and where we were from, and told us that if we so much as mentioned the existence of their town, they would hunt us down and kill us. While that explanation still left some people skeptical, the old man told us to immediately get on our horses and leave town, never looking back. He walked out with us and remained there until we were out of sight.
We left in a run.
Until now, all these years later, I have not spoken about that experience. While I hadn’t witnessed the shootout directly, I could make out through the slivers of space between the people standing out front, I could see a small bit of the shootist’s body quickly move as he pulled his pistol and fired that one shot. In those slivers between the people outside, I didn’t see the pistol discharge, but I could see the pistol’s smoke. Not the shootist’s face or his body. Only a little of his pistol arm. Not the pistol or his hand. Out of the building’s side window, I could see a figure flying backwards and falling out of view of the window. It was ghastly enough knowing what I assumed had taken place, even though I did not see the full episode or the body afterwards.
The old man told us the boy had raped the shootist’s daughter and beaten her to a condition where she had to stay under the town doctor’s care for two days until she recovered enough to go home. There was no town sheriff or any notice of any law enforcement. They didn’t have any by design, so what happened was seen in their eyes as justice served.
While Wyatt challenged me to write this story, in my book, my inspiration came from my desire to tell a story of significance that would impact my protagonist, Texas Ranger Cal Johnston. And, do so in such a way as to influence and sway Cal’s understanding of Cactus not just as a town of assorted criminals, but as a culture created by its reformed residents. And, create the conflict between Cal’s acceptance of Cactus’ culture, against, and opposed to, the values held within his Texas Ranger Oath. To most, there would not be, could not be a remedy between the two; Cal finds his way to disentangle and become resolute in balancing both. Something his superiors could never measure.
