by Mike Kearby
Although, later, after the shoot-out, Pure had a few opportunities to settle down, marry, and raise a family, he spurned every chance. He said he couldn’t risk his family to Nate’s revenge. It was his code. He always felt that Nate was alive and gunning for him. And I reckon he was miserable for the rest of his life just by that way of thinking.
In October 1886, two months past his thirty-fourth birthday, Pure wanted to take a ride through the scrub. He hadn’t ridden much at all since the Gunn shoot-out and preferred to travel back and forth to Dogtown by carriage in those years. And his health… well, truth be told, Pure never regained his vitality after we ambushed the Gunns that day in January. He walked all hunched over and looked decades older than he really was. His right arm and hand, once as quick to the holster as any shootist in McMullen County, now hung like deadweight from his shoulder.
Still, I saddled his favorite piebald that morning, and we rode through the brasada like we once did in the wild days of our cowpunching youth. Late in the day, we rode upon Cañón Cerrado. Looking back, I reckon that’s where Pure was headed all along. He rode into the canyon, the place where the misery started and found where we buried Buckshot and the kid…or at least where he recalled them both to be laid. He got off his horse in front of the graves and untied the hot roll from behind his saddle. He spread his sleeping gear on the canyon floor and tucked away inside were those spurs. That was some day, I tell you. A day, that in this old man’s last years, still wells up tears inside me like a spring thunderstorm.
Forty-Nine
September 1886 - Cañón Cerrado, McMullen County, Texas
Pure hung Buckshot Wallace’s spurs from a cactus pad near the old cowboy’s grave.
“I figured it was time to return these,” he said.
July smiled. “I’ll bet they’re tired of hearing that story of his in the great beyond,” he chuckled.
Pure nodded and stared steadily into the cactus.
“What are you thinking on so hard?” July asked.
“Back to that morning.”
“Which morning is that, Pure? The good Lord has certainly afforded you and me more than most men.”
Deep lines wrinkled around Pure’s eyes making him appear much older than his years. “That morning in April.”
July stood in respectful silence.
“I believe it was April.”
July nodded, tight-lipped.
“Wasn’t it April?”
July gentled his hand on Pure’s shoulder. “I believe it was April.”
Pure stretched his neck above his shirt collar and pressed his lips together. “That was some morning.”
“Yes, yes it was. Some morning for sure,” July said.
“I thought the world was ours that morning.”
“The cards sure seemed stacked that way.”
“How’d it all get away from us so quick, July?”
“I don’t know, Pure, it just did that’s all.”
Pure cleared his throat and wheezed out a breath. “I wish I knew,” he said.
July patted his friend’s back. “I reckon that sometimes life is nothing more than an old moss back hiding out in the scrub.”
Pure coughed hard. A small moan followed. “Like a rangy old longhorn, July?”
July’s voice bristled with excitement. “Yeah,” he said. “You know the feeling you get when you reckon you’ve put out the perfect loop?”
Pure’s eyes glistened. He nodded and smiled.
“But you ain’t figured how much that old steer is willing to fight back.”
Pure straightened. “He’s a fighter,” he said. “That’s true enough.”
“He’s fighting for his way of life.”
“He can see the shadow of that lariat in the air,” Pure muttered.
“That’s when those horns get to thrashing the air.”
Pure laughed. “And those backs legs get to kicking toward the sun.”
“He’s fixin’ to run.”
“But which way?” Pure muttered.
“Made many a brush-popper waste a loop trying to know.”
“More than a few of ’em was mine,” Pure chuckled in the recall.
“That’s instinct,” July whispered. “Five hundred years of breeding behavior.”
“Hard to beat,” Pure said.
July turned and nodded at Pure. “But you had to try,” he said.
Pure paused. His eyes watered a bit. “And so did that old moss back.”
July inhaled deeply and tipped his hat back. “Of course he did,” he proclaimed. “The both of you could only do what was bred for you to do.”
“To do contrariwise would be against the code,” Pure uttered in full realization.
July dropped his hand from Pure’s shoulder. “In our time, we could only be what the time demanded we be,” he whispered.
Pure turned his shoulders and looked away from July. He studied the canyon at some length. “Wasn’t really any other way,” he stated.
“Not for us. Not back then.”
“Let’s not speak anymore of this, July.”
“Probably for the best.”
“What’s done is done.”
July wiped the corner of his mouth. “And no amount of talk or regret will ever change that.”
Pure nodded and glanced up at the afternoon sun under a shaded hand. “Might hot out today,” he said.
“Well it’s October.”
“October, you say?”
“Yep.”
“October?” Pure asked in a shaky voice.
“It’s October, Pure.” July said.
“What day?”
July lifted his eyes. “Hmmm. The sixteenth, I believe.”
“Hmmm,” Pure muttered. “Sure feels hot for so late in October.”
“I reckon that’s so.”
Pure lowered his gaze. “July?”
Yep?”
“I’m gonna pull my bedding over in the shade of the canyon wall and rest a bit.”
July nodded. “You want me to drag it over there for you?”
Pure turned and surveyed the wall. He paused for a moment calculating the distance in his head. “Probably best,” he said.
An hour later, July was startled awake by Pure’s snoring. He rubbed his tongue over his bottom lip and then glanced over at Pure. The -R boss slept soundly. July took a deep breath and glanced toward the west wall of the canyon. Lengthening shadows told the lateness of the day. Best get going, he thought. “Pure,” he exhaled and gently shook his friend’s left arm. “We best get saddled and head on back home.”
Pure opened his eyes and rolled his neck to the left. “What?” he said.
“It’s getting late. We best ride out of here if we want to make it back to headquarters before dark.”
Pure yawned. “Yeah,” he said and sat up showing a sullen scowl.
“What is it?” July said.
“Could you get a stick of my gum from out of my front pocket?”
July nodded.
“My arms useless these days, you know.”
July unbuttoned Pure’s front chest pocket. He removed a single stick of Adams No. 1, unwrapped the stick, and then placed it in front of Pure’s mouth.
Pure leaned forward and grasped the gum with his teeth. After a minute of chewing, he rolled the gum into the back of his mouth. His expression showed satisfaction. “Thanks. My mouth was getting powerfully dry.”
July nodded. “We best be going. You ready?” he asked.
“I ’spect so.”
Then a long pause.
“July?”
“Yeah?”
“Where are all the boys?”
July frowned. “The boys, Pure?”
“Yeah, Paint and Isa and the rest?”
Pure glanced around the canyon, confused.
July bent over and placed his hands on his knees. He studied Pure’s face intently and exhaled loudly. “Why they’re all gone, Pure,” he said.
Pure sat quie
t for several seconds. Thinking. “Gone?”
July nodded.
Pure inhaled a deep breath and then asked, “Gone? Gone where?”
July dragged his palm across his mouth and spoke into his hand “To the feud.”
Pure made a face. “All of them?”
July nodded and lowered his hand from his mouth. “Every man one of them,” he said.
Pure nodded and lay back on his bedding. “Boy we had some times out here didn’t we?”
“Not many have had better,” July said.
“And we were always a hundred miles to water weren’t we?”
“Sure seemed so,” July said.
Pure rolled the gum toward his front teeth and chewed on the chicle softly. After some time, he looked up at July and said, “I think I’m going to lay here awhile.”
“But, Pure…it’s getting late.”
“You go ahead. I’ll be ok.”
“But—,”
Pure reached up and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Go on now,” he whispered.
July’s lips trembled slightly. “Pure,” he muttered.
“Go on, now.”
“But…I…I just can’t up and leave without you,” July said.
Pure grabbed the brim of his hat and tilted it up. “I’ll be fine, really I will. I just need a little rest that’s all.”
July looked deep into Pure’s eyes. He grimaced at the sight.
Pure smiled weakly. “Go on. You go on back and fix us up some grub.”
July nodded solemnly. “Ok, Pure,” he said. “I’ll have some biscuits and bacon waiting for you.”
Pure stared blankly into the sky.
July bent over and waved his hand in front of Pure’s eyes.
Pure continued to gaze ahead, unblinking. “I’ll be fine, July…out here with all the boys.”
July fixed a long gaze on Pure’s figure, and then said, “I’ll guess I’ll be leaving now.”
Pure crossed his hands over his chest. “Probably for the best,” he said.
July turned and walked toward his horse. He dragged his shirtsleeve across both eyes as he walked. Yep, he whispered to himself, Probably for the best.
Journal Entry - That October afternoon in 1886 was the last time Pure and I ever spoke to one another. ’Course we really didn’t need to speak then…as a lifetime of talk had come before that moment. And think what you will about Pure or any of us -R buckaroos, there is one fact that can never be disputed…right or wrong; we stayed true to one another and the code, no matter the hardship, no matter the consequence. And I figure that’s about as close to purity as a man could ever achieve in this world.
The History Behind
A Hundred Miles to Water
In A Hundred Miles to Water, the two feuding families, the Restons and the Gunns are actually a mixture of one of the most notorious ranching families in the history of the state of Texas, the Olives.
In 1843, James Olive, moved his family from Mississippi to Williamson County, Texas. James had four sons, Thomas, Ira, Bob, and Isom. Isom, or Print, as he was called, fought on the side of the Confederacy during the Civil War. After the war, Print returned home to Williamson County and with his three brothers soon turned the family holdings into one of the largest cattle operations in Central Texas.
But the Olives, like the open range of the times, were never far removed from lawlessness and violent aggression in protecting their operation. One event in particular, the killing of two rustlers by a torture method practiced by the Spanish, “the death of skins” led to the Olives’ reputation as lawless thugs. The Olives bound the rustlers alive inside wet Olive-branded cowhides and left them on the prairie. The green cowhides shrank in the Texas sun, suffocating both men. The Olives were hauled into to court over the murders but acquitted on both accounts.
In his book, We Pointed Them North, E.C. Abbott, (Teddy Blue), describes hiring on with the Olives in Austin, Texas, in 1879. Abbott writes, “The Olives were noted as a tough outfit – a gun outfit…violent and overbearing men.” Abbott rode up the trail with the Olives in the spring of 1879. He notes that they drove 7,000 horses and an unknown greater amount of cattle to western Nebraska. It was on this drive that Abbott became familiar with the notorious black cowboy and Olive wrangler, Jim Kelly.
Kelly’s parents worked for James Olive. Kelly grew up on the ranch and was well known for his ability to “break” horses. Kelly moved to West Texas in the 1850s but returned to Williamson County after the Civil War where he reunited with a young Print Olive.
Kelly was proficient with any manufacture of gun and soon gained a reputation as a gunslinger. He also became the chief enforcer for Print Olive’s cattle operation. To most along the trail, he was known as the Ebony Gun. One incident involving Kelly was described in Harry Chrisman’s Ladder of Rivers. Chrisman writes of saloon owner Bill Green refusing to sell Kelly a bottle of bourbon. After a string of racial slurs was passed his way, Kelly gripped his pistol and told Green, “I come here to buy a bottle of whiskey, not to be made a fool by a bartender…pass me a quart of that bourbon and I’ll be peacefully on my way.” Green gave in and was later told by a Texas cowboy present during the altercation, “That’s Nigger Jim, Print Olive’s bad nigger. Pay you to treat him right or leave him alone.”
In 1872, after selling his herd in Ellsworth, Kansas, Print became involved in a well-reported gun fight. Print’s foe in the shoot-out was card-cheat, James Kennedy. Kennedy had accused Print of cheating at cards on the previous day and, finding Print at the tables once again, shot Print through the hand, groin, and thigh. Jim Kelly was sitting outside the saloon when the commotion began. Seeing Print’s attacker ready to fire the killing shot, Kelly drew his pistol and shot Kennedy in the thigh. Kelly stayed in Ellsworth with Print until his boss and friend was able to travel back to Williamson County.
In 1878, Print determined that with the disappearing free range and his continued troubles with the law in Texas, it was time to move his operation north. He settled on the Loup River in Central Nebraska strategically situated near the railhead at Plum Creek. By 1879, Print and his brothers owned one of the largest cattle operations in the state, holding thirty thousand head of cattle and several thousand horses. To combat the rustling problems that had dogged him in Texas, Print helped organize the Custer County Livestock Association. He became the organization’s first president, and in turn, Jim Kelly became the association’s chief gunman.
Once again, as in Texas, tensions soon arose between Print’s cattlemen and the ever-growing population of farmers or “sodbusters” as they came to be called. Whenever a dispute arose, whether it was over water rights or furrow boundaries, Kelly was sent in to settle the disagreement with force.
One such disagreement occurred in 1878 between the Olives and two local farmers, Luther Mitchell and Ami W. Ketchum. Print asserted that the two “sodbusters” were stealing and butchering Olive cattle. Sheriff Dave Anderson of Buffalo County, Nebraska deputized a posse led by Bob Olive to arrest Mitchell and Ketchum. In trying to serve the arrest warrant on the sodbusters, Bob was shot and later died.
The remaining members of the posse arrested both Mitchell and Ketchum and started them for Plum Creek in a wagon. However, seven vigilantes seized control of the prisoners before they could reach Plum Creek. The vigilantes were led by Print Olive and Jim Kelly. Mitchell and Ketchum were hanged from an elm tree. Later the men’s bodies were set on fire. The blame for the fire, mistakenly, was placed on Print. After the incident, a new nickname was attached to Print, that of, “man burner.”
Print was convicted in the murders of Mitchell and Ketchum and sentenced to life in prison, but the conviction was overturned on a technicality less than two years later. Jim Kelly had his charges dismissed. Some speculate that Kelly was let go because the jury was intimidated by area ranchers.
Little is known of Kelly’s life after 1880, other than he spent his last years in Ansley, Nebraska. Kelly died in 1912 and is buried in th
e Ansley town cemetery.
Print separated from his brothers in 1882 and set up his own operation north of Dodge City, Kansas. In 1884, after a partner stole all the assets from a business operation, Print found himself broke and owing creditors ten thousand dollars. In 1885 and 1886, the Great Plains was struck by a series of winter storms in what many called the worst winter ever. Print lost over forty percent of his cattle to the storms. He not only owed money, but money was owed to him.
Ruined financially, Print moved to Trail City, Colorado. In Trail City, Print started a stable business to service the growing cattle trade there. In late 1886, he decided to move back to Kansas and set about collecting his debts. One of his clients was Texas cowboy Joe Sparrow, who had once ridden up the trail with an Olive herd. The collection demand resulted in Print drawing his pistol and threatening to shoot the Texas cowboy. Sparrow is reported to have told Print that he didn’t even have money to get a meal. The next day, Print encountered Sparrow once more. Sparrow drew on the unarmed Olive and shot him twice and then finished him off with a shot to the head.
Sparrow was tried and found guilty in Las Animas, Colorado. The decision was overturned due to a “breach of rule.” The jury deadlocked in the second trial. The third trial was moved to Pueblo, Colorado. The jury there found the Texas cowboy not-guilty.
Isom Print Olive was buried in Dodge City, Kansas.
Joe Sparrow died in Tampico, Mexico, in 1924.
