The cattle drives from Fort Worth to Kansas traveled
from river to river at ten miles a day. Most
of the herd bosses followed the Chisolm Trail, crossing into Indian Territory
at Red River Station on the Red River. Cowboys driving north from the Red River often spent a day or night in the
Texas town of Spanish Fort. Spanish Ft. had once been Spanish and it had a
fort, but it never had a Spanish Fort. In the 1760 the French built a fort to
fight the protect against the Taovoyas and Comanche tribes.
At the time that cattle were moving north on the Chisolm Trail, Spanish Fort had a post office, a catholic church, a Masonic lodge, two general stores, five physicians, four hotels, two with ladies, three saloons, a barber, and one of the finest boot maker north of Galveston, Herman Joseph Justin. What the town also had was a passel of outlaw trouble and an opening for a Sherriff.
Drunken cowboys on Saturday night were problem enough, but ever since Big Jim Grissom shot Sherriff Cyrus Nobel in card game at the back of the Red River saloon, the number of wanted men, thieves, and cowboys looking to shoot up the town had grown to the point that the outlaws outnumber the locals.
Jefferson Pine, who friends call lonesome, was just another cow poke looking for a night in town, when he rode into Spanish Fort. He and three other drovers from the Mark W cattle drive had been the night off. They were to rejoin the drive with supplies.
On the way into town Jefferson noted a bullet riddled sign on the Sherriff’s door that read “Check all fire arms” below which another sign read “Sherriff wanted. Apply at Simpson’s mercantile.”
Jefferson had worked as a deputy Sherriff once back in Illinois. After the war, he sort of fell into herding cattle. A job he didn’t love.
On his one night in town, Jeff was looking for a drink of whiskey, a bath, a bed, and a woman, not necessarily in that order. He also needed his right boot repaired.
At the Red River Saloon Jefferson asked the bartender, “Where can a fella get his boot repaired?”
“I sell whiskey,” the bartender answered.
Jefferson put his right boot on the bar, with his big toe sticking out of a hole the size of a silver dollar.
“I’ll take a whiskey, but I heard you have a boot maker in town,” say Jefferson.
“If you know what’s good for you, Cowboy I’d take that boot off the bar,” said a heavy set man two men down from Jeff. “The owner of this fine saloon is Big Ed Grissom. He is happy to take your money, but in his heart, if he has one, he hates you cowboys and your dirty boots”
The man sounded drunk.
“I plan to get a bath,” said Jeff.
“I, on the other hand,” the man continued. “I make my living from repairing boots, even poorly made ones like yours. My name is Herman Justin. Follow me.”
The man took Jefferson to a patched together store front two streets away with a sign that read “boots.”
Inside the walls of the shop were filled with plain and hand tooled boots of all sizes, gun belts, holsters. In the front of the shop was a worktable, a stool and a shoemaker’s metal shoe form. The man had Jefferson remove his boots.
“I’ll fix the hole, put on new heels, and throw in a clean pair of white socks, for fifty cents.”
“I got a pair of socks.”
“I said clean.”
“What do these fancy boots cost?”
“The plain boots are two dollars. The hand tooled boots cost as much as five. Try on a pair if you like.”
“How about one of these gun rigs?” Jefferson picked out single right handed rig.
“You aren’t wearing a gun. Did you check yours at the Sherriff’s office?
“The boss don’t like us wearing a pistol in town. I have one in my saddlebag. It’s from the war, a 44. I’ve been thinking about getting out of those new Colts.”
“The price, depends on the caliber, the length of the barrel, and the quality of the leather. In general, a single plain holster and belt like you have sells for a buck.”
Jefferson ran his hand over the leather on a hand tooled holster, his fingers following the flow of the tooling. “I noticed that some of these holsters are as soft as a cow’s belly and others are hard and stiff,” said Jeff, “Why is that.”
Herman Justin finished hammering on a heel before answering. “It depends on the man and how the gun is used. A cowboy like you needs a gun in case of a rattler or an Indian attack. If he wears a gun at all it should be high on his belt. Easy to get at, but with the hammer tied down. The holster should be soft and easy to move around as the man rides. In the army they have a covered holster they wear backwards so it won’t fall out or get in the way. They don’t need to be fast draws.”
“What if you did?”
“Gun fighters come in all shapes and sizes. It isn’t always how fast you draw, its how good you are with a gun. I heard in Dodge City Wyatt Earp was just as likely to hit you over the head with his gun butt, whereas Old Wild Bill practiced every day and generally entered a fight with two guns drawn.”
“I was a good shot in the war, but I ain’t no fast draw,” said Jeff.
Justin left his bench and searched through a stack of gun belts until he found one cut in the shape of a “Y” To the belt he added a narrow holster that attached through a hole in the belt.
“Try this on,” the man commanded. “And use the ties at the bottom of the holster to attach to you leg. You don’t wan the holster to move when you walk.”
Herman opened a drawer in the bench and pulled out an Army Single Action Remington 1875. Before handing the .44 to Jeff, Herman removed the bullets.
“I’m going to count to three. When I say three, you draw. One, Two Three.”
Jeff got the gun out of the holster, but the hammer wasn’t cocked.
“I wasn’t ready,” said Jeff.
“Dead men never are. If you wear a gun like that, you have to walk around ready. Keep your hand loose with your thumb close to the hammer. The gun has to leave the holster cocked and when it clears and come level, it has to be pointed at the man you plan to shoot. No stiff arm aiming like in the army.”
Jeff tried again and did better. Drawing the gun out of the holster already cocked was easier than he expected. The rig made it easy. The problem was he kept trying to raise the gun to his eyes and point his arm straight out, as he had been taught in the calvary.
“I guess, I’m just an old dog.”
“No, in fact, you are a natural. You just need more practice.”
“How much for the boots and this rig?”
“What gun do you have?”
“Actually, I have a Remington like this one.”
“That gun has the seven-inch army barrel. It will hit what you aim at, but it is big and heavy.”
Justin goes to a different stack and pulls out a similar gun belt with a smaller holster. He hands it to Jeff and then roots in the bench draw pulling out a new Colt Peacemaker, which he unloads before giving it to Jeff.
“This is the Army Colt, the peacemaker with the four and a half-inch barrel. Try it. Colt calls it a saddle gun.”
Jeff puts the gun in the holster and draws it out several times. Even bringing the gun to his eye level, he is faster.
“Like I said, a natural.”
“How much?”
“The Colt is new. It cost me sixteen dollars. However, I’m guessing you could buy an older model for less at the mercantile in the morning.”
“How about the gun belt?”
“The buscadero is five dollars.”
“Buscad- what?”
“I call it a Buscadero. It is Spanish. It means “one who searches.” A fitting name for a lawman or the outlaw he seeks.”
“I want one of these buscadero, but I’m a bit short. Here’s a dollar for my boots.”
Jeff hands Herman a silver coin.
“I should have twenty dollars in the morning. We can decide about price for the gun and the gun belt then.”
“What happens in the morning?”
“I’m going to apply for the job of Sherriff, provided they’ll pay in advance. What about a double rig?”d pulls out a similar gun belt with a smaller holster. He hands it to Jeff and then roots in the bench draw pulling out a new Colt Peacemaker, which he unloads before giving it to Jeff.
“This is the Army Colt, the peacemaker with the four and a half-inch barrel. Try it. Colt calls it a saddle gun.”
Jeff puts the gun in the holster and draws it out several times. Even bringing the gun to his eye level, he is faster.
“Like I said, a natural.”
“How much?”
“The Colt is new. It cost me sixteen dollars. However, I’m guessing you could buy an older model for less at the mercantile in the morning.”
“How about the gun belt?”
“The buscadero is five dollars.”
“Buscad- what?”
“I call it a Buscadero. It is Spanish. It means “one who searches.” A fitting name for a lawman or the outlaw he seeks.”
“I want one of these buscadero, but I’m a bit short. Here’s a dollar for my boots.”
Jeff hands Herman a silver coin.
“I should have twenty dollars in the morning. We can decide about price for the gun and the gun belt then.”
“What happens in the morning?”
“I’m going to apply for the job of Sherriff, provided they’ll pay in advance. What about a double rig?”
At the time that cattle were moving north on the Chisolm Trail, Spanish Fort had a post office, a catholic church, a Masonic lodge, two general stores, five physicians, four hotels, two with ladies, three saloons, a barber, and one of the finest boot maker north of Galveston, Herman Joseph Justin. What the town also had was a passel of outlaw trouble and an opening for a Sherriff.
Drunken cowboys on Saturday night were problem enough, but ever since Big Jim Grissom shot Sherriff Cyrus Nobel in card game at the back of the Red River saloon, the number of wanted men, thieves, and cowboys looking to shoot up the town had grown to the point that the outlaws outnumber the locals.
Jefferson Pine, who friends call lonesome, was just another cow poke looking for a night in town, when he rode into Spanish Fort. He and three other drovers from the Mark W cattle drive had been the night off. They were to rejoin the drive with supplies.
On the way into town Jefferson noted a bullet riddled sign on the Sherriff’s door that read “Check all fire arms” below which another sign read “Sherriff wanted. Apply at Simpson’s mercantile.”
Jefferson had worked as a deputy Sherriff once back in Illinois. After the war, he sort of fell into herding cattle. A job he didn’t love.
On his one night in town, Jeff was looking for a drink of whiskey, a bath, a bed, and a woman, not necessarily in that order. He also needed his right boot repaired.
At the Red River Saloon Jefferson asked the bartender, “Where can a fella get his boot repaired?”
“I sell whiskey,” the bartender answered.
Jefferson put his right boot on the bar, with his big toe sticking out of a hole the size of a silver dollar.
“I’ll take a whiskey, but I heard you have a boot maker in town,” say Jefferson.
“If you know what’s good for you, Cowboy I’d take that boot off the bar,” said a heavy set man two men down from Jeff. “The owner of this fine saloon is Big Ed Grissom. He is happy to take your money, but in his heart, if he has one, he hates you cowboys and your dirty boots”
The man sounded drunk.
“I plan to get a bath,” said Jeff.
“I, on the other hand,” the man continued. “I make my living from repairing boots, even poorly made ones like yours. My name is Herman Justin. Follow me.”
The man took Jefferson to a patched together store front two streets away with a sign that read “boots.”
Inside the walls of the shop were filled with plain and hand tooled boots of all sizes, gun belts, holsters. In the front of the shop was a worktable, a stool and a shoemaker’s metal shoe form. The man had Jefferson remove his boots.
“I’ll fix the hole, put on new heels, and throw in a clean pair of white socks, for fifty cents.”
“I got a pair of socks.”
“I said clean.”
“What do these fancy boots cost?”
“The plain boots are two dollars. The hand tooled boots cost as much as five. Try on a pair if you like.”
“How about one of these gun rigs?” Jefferson picked out single right handed rig.
“You aren’t wearing a gun. Did you check yours at the Sherriff’s office?
“The boss don’t like us wearing a pistol in town. I have one in my saddlebag. It’s from the war, a 44. I’ve been thinking about getting out of those new Colts.”
“The price, depends on the caliber, the length of the barrel, and the quality of the leather. In general, a single plain holster and belt like you have sells for a buck.”
Jefferson ran his hand over the leather on a hand tooled holster, his fingers following the flow of the tooling. “I noticed that some of these holsters are as soft as a cow’s belly and others are hard and stiff,” said Jeff, “Why is that.”
Herman Justin finished hammering on a heel before answering. “It depends on the man and how the gun is used. A cowboy like you needs a gun in case of a rattler or an Indian attack. If he wears a gun at all it should be high on his belt. Easy to get at, but with the hammer tied down. The holster should be soft and easy to move around as the man rides. In the army they have a covered holster they wear backwards so it won’t fall out or get in the way. They don’t need to be fast draws.”
“What if you did?”
“Gun fighters come in all shapes and sizes. It isn’t always how fast you draw, its how good you are with a gun. I heard in Dodge City Wyatt Earp was just as likely to hit you over the head with his gun butt, whereas Old Wild Bill practiced every day and generally entered a fight with two guns drawn.”
“I was a good shot in the war, but I ain’t no fast draw,” said Jeff.
Justin left his bench and searched through a stack of gun belts until he found one cut in the shape of a “Y” To the belt he added a narrow holster that attached through a hole in the belt.
“Try this on,” the man commanded. “And use the ties at the bottom of the holster to attach to you leg. You don’t wan the holster to move when you walk.”
Herman opened a drawer in the bench and pulled out an Army Single Action Remington 1875. Before handing the .44 to Jeff, Herman removed the bullets.
“I’m going to count to three. When I say three, you draw. One, Two Three.”
Jeff got the gun out of the holster, but the hammer wasn’t cocked.
“I wasn’t ready,” said Jeff.
“Dead men never are. If you wear a gun like that, you have to walk around ready. Keep your hand loose with your thumb close to the hammer. The gun has to leave the holster cocked and when it clears and come level, it has to be pointed at the man you plan to shoot. No stiff arm aiming like in the army.”
Jeff tried again and did better. Drawing the gun out of the holster already cocked was easier than he expected. The rig made it easy. The problem was he kept trying to raise the gun to his eyes and point his arm straight out, as he had been taught in the calvary.
“I guess, I’m just an old dog.”
“No, in fact, you are a natural. You just need more practice.”
“How much for the boots and this rig?”
“What gun do you have?”
“Actually, I have a Remington like this one.”
“That gun has the seven-inch army barrel. It will hit what you aim at, but it is big and heavy.”
Justin goes to a different stack and pulls out a similar gun belt with a smaller holster. He hands it to Jeff and then roots in the bench draw pulling out a new Colt Peacemaker, which he unloads before giving it to Jeff.
“This is the Army Colt, the peacemaker with the four and a half-inch barrel. Try it. Colt calls it a saddle gun.”
Jeff puts the gun in the holster and draws it out several times. Even bringing the gun to his eye level, he is faster.
“Like I said, a natural.”
“How much?”
“The Colt is new. It cost me sixteen dollars. However, I’m guessing you could buy an older model for less at the mercantile in the morning.”
“How about the gun belt?”
“The buscadero is five dollars.”
“Buscad- what?”
“I call it a Buscadero. It is Spanish. It means “one who searches.” A fitting name for a lawman or the outlaw he seeks.”
“I want one of these buscadero, but I’m a bit short. Here’s a dollar for my boots.”
Jeff hands Herman a silver coin.
“I should have twenty dollars in the morning. We can decide about price for the gun and the gun belt then.”
“What happens in the morning?”
“I’m going to apply for the job of Sherriff, provided they’ll pay in advance. What about a double rig?”d pulls out a similar gun belt with a smaller holster. He hands it to Jeff and then roots in the bench draw pulling out a new Colt Peacemaker, which he unloads before giving it to Jeff.
“This is the Army Colt, the peacemaker with the four and a half-inch barrel. Try it. Colt calls it a saddle gun.”
Jeff puts the gun in the holster and draws it out several times. Even bringing the gun to his eye level, he is faster.
“Like I said, a natural.”
“How much?”
“The Colt is new. It cost me sixteen dollars. However, I’m guessing you could buy an older model for less at the mercantile in the morning.”
“How about the gun belt?”
“The buscadero is five dollars.”
“Buscad- what?”
“I call it a Buscadero. It is Spanish. It means “one who searches.” A fitting name for a lawman or the outlaw he seeks.”
“I want one of these buscadero, but I’m a bit short. Here’s a dollar for my boots.”
Jeff hands Herman a silver coin.
“I should have twenty dollars in the morning. We can decide about price for the gun and the gun belt then.”
“What happens in the morning?”
“I’m going to apply for the job of Sherriff, provided they’ll pay in advance. What about a double rig?”
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