The Americans Ll

By Donald La Fon

The Americans II is a collection of four short stories about La Fons pirate relatives, cowboys in the old West and a female robber, Pearl Hart, who was involved in the last stagecoach robbery in America. There are historical nuggets preceding each story that highlights or explains an aspect of that story.

Brotherhood depicts the dedication between twin brothers when one wrestles a bear for cash and then bravely rides hundreds of dangerous miles to save his brother.

The Bandana is about Lance Wittrys challenges to survive and thrive despite the dangers on a cattle drive.

In Brazil and Back, the adventures of John Dhu Mordecai McKinney, a one-time slave turned pirate, meets Marietje Mary Sebring in Brazil.

Pearl Harts difficult life is the focus of The Last Stagecoach Robbery. Abandoned by her husband, she struggles to survive by joining an ill-fated stagecoach robbery in the Arizona territory.

Experience the actions, thoughts, and feelings as these brave Americans strive for better futures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524643850

Donald La Fon

At a young age my parents introduced me to the historical places near our home in Tippecanoe County, Indiana, and helped develop a sense of appreciation for historical events. We visited the Battle of Tippecanoe battleground, the site of Fort Ouitanon, Fort Michilimackinac and other historic sites where I began learning about the people involved in historical events and places. My grandmothers also encouraged my research efforts. We spent days touring the old family home sites, visiting cemeteries where family members are buried, and relating family history. Later, my college education and my respect for my ancestors’ efforts enabled me to research and write about their experiences. I have visited other battle sites of the Revolutionary War, War of 1812, and the Civil War in Vincennes, Gettysburg, Franklin and Chattanooga, Tennesee, and King’s Mountain, South Carolina. I also have visited Greeneville, Tennessee, capitol of Franklin; Davy Crockett’s cabin; McKinney and Pineville, Kentucky; the Cumberland Gap; several presidents’ homes; Meramec Cavern; Washington, D.C., and Spruce Pine, North Carolina. I have walked where American heroes lived, fought, and died.  I have read their letters and diaries.  I have visited mines and swung a sledge in Spruce Pine, N.C., where my distant relatives worked and I have visited their gravesites, I have visited portions of the Erie Canal and have researched about the laborers who built it.  I have ridden on a train, a river boat, and canoed extensively in all seasons.  And, I have visited numerous libraries to gather information for my stories. All this research was done for the sake of authenticity in my writing and to honor our ancestors.

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© 2017 Donald La Fon. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  01/31/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4386-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-4385-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016917701

Front cover and all inside maps and drawings are by Donald La Fon.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

RUSTLING

THE BANDANA

PIRATES, PRIVATEERS, BUCCANEERS, AND COSAIRS

BRAZIL AND BACK

CANNIBALISM

BROTHERHOOD

MOLLY PITCHER

THE LAST STAGECOACH ROBBERY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks to my wife, Diana, and our six children for their support; my parents, siblings and in-laws for their continued support, the librarians who have helped me research for my stories, and those good folks who have read my stories and given me their feedback.

And my thanks to my editor, Kathryn Naylor, Jeremy McGurr for his insights and encouragement, and Walter Klingaman for his technical help and support.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

America’s migrations moved westward from the seaside landfalls, past the falls line, through the mountain passes, down the rivers, across the vast inland plains, and finally, over the biggest obstacle, the Rocky Mountains.

Slowed and intensified by various wars of liberation and conquest the tide was unstoppable.

Many families gambled on the opportunity for land and freedom. Some lost and many won.

They came from all continents to join the amazing American experiment with Democracy.

Most of those families moved from impossible situations toward hope.

Many arrived penniless, did not speak the language, and had no frontier survival skills.

Most learned quickly how to fit in and thrive.

Those who did not adapt lived and struggled on the fringe or were eliminated.

The McKinneys arrived from Ireland at different times and places, moved inland, and started marrying and multiplying.

Some blazed trails; some founded towns, businesses, and farms; and many fought foreign armies, Indians, and lawlessness to protect their opportunity.

Along the way they mixed with their neighbors the Boones, the Seviers, the Youngers, the Lees, the Akins, and other founding and building families.

Nobody had to explain the American Dream or Manifest Destiny to the McKinneys.

They lived it.

HISTORICAL NUGGET

RUSTLING

For consumption or profit, stealing animals has been done by individuals, roving gangs, and army foragers from the dawn of time.

Animal thefts in the Colonies began as soon as pioneers landed on the East Coast.

Indians, neighbors, rustlers, and hungry rival armies targeted farmers’ barnyards and fields for easy prey.

Surreptitious and sudden raids would yield animals that could quickly be converted into a meal or profit for those willing to risk capture or punishment.

Late in the Civil War, during the siege of Petersburg, VA, a daring raid by Rebel cavalry led by General Wade Hampton and 3,000 cavalry stole the Union Army’s herd of 2,500 cattle.

The Beefsteak Rangers rode 25 miles through and around the Union lines to steal the herd and then pushed the rustled cattle safely back to their lines.

The starving Rebel army feasted on the almost two million pounds of beef and the battle, the war, and the loss of life continued.

Throughout the West, cattle were stolen for food, to start or enhance herds, and for illicit gain.

Indians, homesteaders, ranchers, and rustlers all had their own methods and reasons for stealing cattle.

Prior to the Civil War, cattle in Texas had little value and were left unattended to roam and multiply. Following the war, the demand from Eastern markets for beef to eat grew and the cattle became more valuable.

Ranchers began branding loose or Maverick cattle adding them to their herds to increase profits.

The penalty for getting caught with cattle of dubious ownership or altered brands was quick and generally involved gunplay, a tall tree, and a short length of rope for those caught rustling.

In addition to six-gun protection, ranchers developed a system of branding their cattle on the left hip with hot irons to burn their unique brand into the hide for easy and permanent identification.

Ear notching also was a method used to identify cattle.

Sometimes both branding and ear notching were used by ranchers to identify and protect their cattle.

The most notorious episode involving alleged rustling was the Johnson County Wars in Wyoming in which wealthy ranchers hired a small army of Texas gunmen to kill suspected rustlers.

A series of outrageous and illegal events included the hanging of Cattle Kate Maxwell and culminated with the intervention of federal troops from Ft. McKinney.

Today’s stringent laws, improved identification, increased prevention, and aggressive law enforcement have almost stopped rustling.

THE BANDANA

I looked up from the job I was workin’ on to see Lem Dobs standin’ there, all 230 pounds of meanness of him, smilin’ all cocky like an’ wearin’ my blue bandana with a black star sewn on it.

Sarah Wilkes, my gal back in Texas, had it made for me an’ Dobs was on the prod to start trouble with me.

I was one of the youngest riders in camp an’ Dobs an’ his two compadres, Chu Chu Chavez an’ Smoke Chilton, enjoyed playin’ tricks on me an’ a couple other riders.

This was not part of the regular hazin’ our trail boss, Colin McKinney, allowed to happen. Mr. McKinney knew the strain of the trail drive would ease if us riders had some fun from time to time.

But he also knew to keep a tight rein on the doin’s around his herd. He was all business when it came to takin’ care of an movin’ his herd an’ we knew it.

The first week of the drive he’d run off one of the riders who had brought along a couple bottles of tanglefoot whiskey an’ had got too drunk one night to ride the next mornin’.

When Mr. McKinney had Buckshot our cook to throw the drunk’s gear off the chuck wagon the drunk had tried to take a swing at the boss there in the early dark of false dawn but Mr. McKinney just sidestepped the blow an’ clipped the drunk square on his chin with a hard right fist.

We left the unconscious man, his horse, an’ his gear in the grass an’ cow chips right there on the trail. Then we went about the serious business of movin’

2,000 cantankerous cattle, the life’s work of two ranch owners, 350 miles up the trail once we left Texas headin’ to Abilene.

We had to get the herd movin’ an’ lined out in order which took some hard ridin’ at the start until the leaders of the herd got out in front an’ the ornery ones stopped runnin’ off towards the brush. We all rode hard until we got the herd settled to a travel routine.

We had a steady supply of fresh horses an’ we sometimes switched out an’ rode four horses a day just keepin’ the herd bunched an’ movin’ north. The horses worked hard an’ so did we.

Just getting’ out of Texas wasn’t easy. When we got to Doan’s Crossin’ on the Red River where we had to figure out how to cross the herd. Mr. McKinney was one to cross each river we came to before we settled down for the night just in case any rainstorms up river caused the river to flood with us on the wrong side.

Well, we just started pushin’ them down the bluff on our side of the river where there was a mite of flat space before they hit the water. Once we got them across the river, we pushed the leaders up the bank to let the slow cattle have a place to touch land. Otherwise, cattle in the back of the herd might falter an’ drown.

We lost a few head to the river but not near as many as we could have if the river was flooded an’ movin’ fast. We used a ferry there for our cook’s wagon an’ our gear.

We’d headed on the trail north with our herd out of west Texas on the Chisolm Trail towards Abilene and the railhead there.

On the trail about a month now we’d suffered through storms, one short stampede, an’ the loss of one good rider to snake bite. Smitty got up one mornin’ an’ forgot to shake out his boots. A small rattler had used a boot an’ it bit Smitty on the bottom of his foot. His leg swole up an’ he couldn’t breath. Smitty died a real quick but ugly death.

Mr. McKinney ran us off to move the herd while he and Buckshot attended to buryin’ our snake-bit compadre.

Not long after we got the herd trail broke we got hit by a heller of a storm.

We saw the clouds pilin’ up off in the distance to the west an’ they just got taller an’ blacker movin’ fast towards us an’ the herd. All I could see from north to south was the storm.

The first lightenin’ bolt an’ the thunder were almost together. Large hail started hittin’ everything in sight.

The herd jumped into a crashin’, bawlin’ full gallop out of control an’ straight north across the prairie.

This was our first stampede as a trail crew with this herd but most of us had talked about the chance of stampedes an’ Mr. McKinney had told us what he wanted done in a stampede.

We let ’em run a couple miles to tire the herd an’ then, as we approached some tree-covered hills on our right we turned the herd leaders to the east just before we got to the trees.

The stampedin’ front of the herd turned back south to keep from runnin’ into the trees an’ they commenced millin’ in a large, crowded circle until they tired an’ stopped. We’d kept the herd together as best we could an’ although they’d run a few miles we got them stopped before they scattered everywhere.

Hours after the stampede an’ the cattle bedded down for the night we had coffee an’ a scant supper of jerky an’ three of us drew night rider duty. Mr. McKinney told Buckshot to make the usual evenin’ cook fire just for coffee but he didn’t want any bangin’ pots an’ pans to stampede the herd again.

The next mornin’ six of us rounded up a few hundred strays. It was just busy work since the cattle had gotten used to bein’ in a herd. As I moved around on the sides of the herd I got to see some of the same cattle movin’ together in groups within the herd. The rest of the crew saw to the cavvy of about 100 head of horses. Luckily, none of us had gotten seriously injured in the stampede.

Mr. McKinney had us hold the herd there for the day so we all could rest up a bit. There was plenty of grass an’ water for the cattle an’ horses.

After I grabbed some shuteye over in the shade of the trees I got up, grabbed some thick, black coffee an’ some more jerky.

I’d noticed my gear wasn’t tied like I’d left it the day before. Like the other riders I kept personal things like my shavin’ gear, letters, a pair of clean socks, an’ the bandana Sarah Wilkes had given me all wrapped up in my war sack. She had wanted me to have somethin’ to remind me of her while I was gone.

When I woke up from my quick nap, everybody else was out tendin’ to the herd. I looked around and saw Lem Dobs walkin’ towards the chuck wagon and he had my bandana tied around his fat greasy neck.

Dobs an’ his friends always carried themselves kinda edgy but now it was clear to me I’d have to fight him because he wouldn’t give up my bandana.

I straightened up slowly lookin’ at Lem, Chu Chu, an’ Smoke tryin’ to read the situation. Seemed like it was time to let fists do the talkin’.

That’s my bandana, Lem, an’ I want it back now, I said to him lookin’ him square in the eyes.

I sensed Dobs was part bully from the way he sometimes abused his horses. He used a lot more spur on his mounts than any of the rest of us an’ Mr. McKinney bein’ the trail boss he’d once commented to Dobs about the poor condition of his mounts.

Dobs is not a man to take orders from any man but the boss an’ even then if Mr. McKinney wasn’t the man he is, Dobs would have started a rukus there an’ then.

Mr. McKinney approached Dobs out by the remuda a few days on the trail.

Dobs had ridden in to swap horses an’ to grab a bite of Buckshot’s cookin’.

The flanks of Dobs’ horse were fairly cut up an’ bloodied from Dobs’ overuse of spurs.

Most of us used large, round, dull spurs but Dobs favored small, cartwheel spurs which he had sharpened to cut quicker an’ deeper.

Just sittin’ an’ listenin’ to the campfire talk I learned Dobs an’ his saddle compadres were sent to the drive from the O bar O ranch which had half the cattle in the herd.

Several times I’d thought maybe Dobs an’ his buddies got sent to us to get them away from their home ranch to give the other O bar O riders a break from Dobs’ meanness an’ aggravation.

All in all, it takes tough men to move a herd of cattle hundreds of miles through dust, floods, stampedes, rustlers, hostile Indians, storms, and long waking hours in the saddle and short nights of sleep for months on end.

Dobs was more than tough. He was a bully an’ much larger than me. He stood four inches taller than my 5’ 8" an’ out weighed my 160 by 70 pounds.

Even Buckshot wasn’t in camp. He’d gone off fetchin’ water to refill the chuck wagon water barrel.

It would be three against one an’ none of the three of them had any reason or thought to pull their punches. Dobs smiled an evil grin an’ answered, I don’t think yor man enough to take it back, Wittry, but here. He untied the bandana an’ tossed it towards me but it fell to the ground in front of me an’ just out of my reach.

To pick up the bandana would put me within easy strikin’ distance an’ down low where I knew Dobs would try to kick me in the head.

Both Chavez an’ Chilton were smilin’ an’ Chavez was openin’ an’ closin’ his fists kinda nervous like he was getting’ ready to use them. Chilton had a quirt in his right hand an’ was slappin’ it lightly against his chaps coverin’ his right thigh an’ his eyes looked real bright an’ eager in anticipation. Chavez an’ Chilton sidestepped to my left an’ right.

I knew then that this could get real ugly real fast an’ I would use all my fightin’ skills an’ experience I’d learned back home fightin’ with my brothers an’ neighbors.

Still, those were friendly tussles compared to what Dobs had in mind.

As I bent over to pick up the bandana I turned slightly to put my right side facin’ Dobs to set my feet so I could rise up, step to my left to get out of the way of Dobs’ kick an’ then follow through with my right fist.

Back home on the farm in Kentucky all us Wittry boys had reputations as bein’ pretty hand with our fists.

As the youngest of us four boys—Bob, Charlie, Sam, an’ me, Lance—I learned to survive a rough an’ tumble life long before I came out west after the Civil War.

Dobs started forward as I expected but immediately stopped as we all heard the heavy click, click of twin hammers of a shotgun bein’ pulled back one at a time.

That sound was serious an’ we all knew it for what it was. We froze. Even a man holdin’ a pair of sixes won’t gamble against one shotgun.

Hobs, Chavez, an’ Chilton all turned their heads to my right an’ I turned slowly to see what they were lookin’ at.

Buckshot had come back to the wagon, had heard us talkin’, an’ had slid his sawed-off shotgun from under the wagon seat. He was holdin’ it cradled in the crook of his raised left elbow with his right fingers ready to pull the triggers, an’ casually pointed in the general direction of Dobs an’ his two partners.

Lets keep this fair, why don’t we boys? Buckshot said lookin’ first at Chavez an’ then at Chilton. Both men then stepped back three steps an’ then kept their hands in plain sight.

Common sense on a drive was that only a fool argued with a skunk, a mule, or a cook. This cook was holdin’ a loaded an’ cocked shotgun.

Sure, Buckshot, Dobs said smilin’, We was just goin’ to have some fun with Lance here.

Chu Chu, you an’ Smoke back off an’ stay out of it, ordered Buckshot as he motioned them over to one side with the business end of his scatter gun.

Me an’ Dobs loosened our gun belts. He tossed his to Smoke an’ I laid mine on the branch of a dead log with the gun an’ holster on top for easy access.

We both turned to face each other an’ moved in closer as we circled looking for an advantage over the other.

Even in a fair fight I was in trouble. He outweighed me an’ had at least four inches more reach.

Dobs was overconfident from easy fights against inexperienced fighters where he’d used his weight an’ reach to advantage to win quick. He also figured a 17-year-old like me for easy pickin’s.

Suddenly, he moved to kick me in the groin with his right leg. I blocked it with my left shin. Then he threw a loopin’ right I blocked with my left forearm. I saw confusion replace confidence in his eyes.

I quickly moved my left foot forward an’ streaked a straight right fist to his mouth that hit with such force blood splattered as his lips became bloody pulp an’ he stumbled backwards a half step.

As I backed up he tried to kick me again in my groin. I blocked his second kick an’ knew I could whip him.

This time I set my feet an’ used my full weight as I clobbered him just over his left eye. Blood spewed out the big gash. I waded in an’ hit him with two jabs to his stomach followed by a right an’ left to his cheeks. Each time I hit his face it cut open an’ blood flew. His face was now a mass of raw an’ bleedin’ flesh.

Dobs tried to wipe the blood out of his eyes, looked down at his bloody left palm, stepped back, an’ with a mad an’ wild growl he lunged at me.

Just before he got his arms around me I side-stepped to my left an’ threw a huge right under his outstretched arms to his gut. He didn’t see the punch comin’ an’ my fist was buried into his middle.

He fell face first with a muffled thud into the crushed prairie grass an’ didn’t move except he was pawin’ the ground while tryin’ to catch a breath of air.

I stood there with my chest heavin’ an’ covered with sweat an’ Dobs blood.

Dobs had not landed one punch. I enjoyed my victory.

Moments earlier I figured Dobs an’ his pals had me cold an’ I was goin’ to take a beatin’. I’d hoped to get in a few good licks before the three of them whipped me.

As I looked up I saw Chavez an’ Chilton lookin’ at Dobs layin’ there. Their faces showed mixed feelings of confusion an’ a dab of contempt as they looked at Dobs.

I turned to thank Buckshot an saw Harvey Deele, Charlie Delk, Hoyt Doyel, an Mr. McKinney. Mr. McKinney had been out scoutin’ ahead of the herd to check out grass an’ water