Etiquette for the Victorian Child

While doing research for my new holiday novella, I came across a list of etiquette rules for the Victorian Era child. Since my heroine, Madeline is forced to deal with her brother’s  spoiled children on a daily basis, I thought I’d mix the rules of proper behavior with bits from a scene in the nursery.

Etiquette for the Victorian Child          

Talk in a low even voice.

As she rounded the turn on the third floor landing, the first shrill notes of the children’s

screeching reached her ears. She sighed. This would not be a story-and-a-quick-kiss sort of night.

Always greet members of your family when entering a room.

“Oh Miss,” Molly cried as Madeline pushed open the door. Toys and books lay scattered across the area rug. Alex was jumping on his bed, and little Penelope sat in the middle of the floor screaming.

Never argue with your elders, they know best.

“Alex, you will cease that infernal jumping.”

“No. I want a story.”

“Alex, do not argue with your elders.

Never run up and down stairs or across the room.

“She wants to go to Mother’s party.” Alex explained as he continued to bounce up and down.

Beneath his bare feet, a crater-like indentation had formed in the center of the horsehair mattress.

Never whine or frown when spoken to by your elders.

“Penelope, you are too young to attend the ball, and all the tears in the world will not change that.” The little girl snuffled and looked up, her lower lip protruding in a pout.

Do as you are told in a pleasant and willing way.

Molly steered the little girl away from the dress toward the wash basin on the other side of the room.

Madeline wasn’t sure what happened, but the next moment Molly cried out, and Penelope began shrieking.

“She bit me!” Molly cupped her wounded hand to her breast.

Never talk back to older people, especially your mother and father.

“I never touched the child.” Molly exclaimed.

“Yes, she did.” Alex argued as he jumped. The tails of his nightshirt billowed and sagged above his ankles. “I saw her. She hit Penelope.”

Keep yourself clean and neat looking at all times.

“Alex, please get into bed. There will be no stories tonight. Penelope, you will apologize to Molly, and if there is any more biting, you will lose desserts for a week. Now go with Molly and wash your hands and face.”

Never contradict anyone under any circumstances. It is very impolite.

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I am to be married and will be moving far, far away.”

Alex fell back on the bed laughing. “You’re not getting married. You’re lying. No one wants you. You’re a ’barrasment. Father said so.”

Madeline stiffened as though she’d been slapped. She bit her lip against the pain. They weren’t close, but she never imagined her brother would betray her like that with a child. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her gown and removed her spectacles. Hooking them behind her ears, she pushed aside the hurt and stepped toward the boy, her hands on her hips.

“Get yourself into this bed right now, young man, or I will…”

He glared at her defiantly.

Her mind raced. “I will march outside, cut a switch from the nearest tree, come back here, and apply it directly to your backside.”

“You can’t do that,” he declared though a shadow of doubt crossed his features.

A rapid knocking sounded on the nursery door. Madeline glanced toward Molly, who hurried past her to answer it.

Alex rolled off the bed. “Mother will never let you hurt us.”

“It won’t matter. I am leaving.” She watched Alex wrestle with this logic even as she wondered why she was arguing with a six year old.

“Miss,” Molly called.

Madeline turned.

Waving both hands, Molly urged Madeline to come quickly. Her heart skipped with excitement as she hurried across the room. James had arrived.

Blurb: After a magical waltz in a winter wonderland with the only man who has ever made her believe she is beautiful, Madeline Winthrop doesn't think life could be anymore perfect--until the night of the Christmas ball when she learns everything James Sullivan has told her is a lie.

Revenge against Madeline's brother forces James to do what ever is necessary to get back what was stolen from him, even if he has to use Madeline to do it. But the one thing he doesn't count on is the way she makes him feel.

Coming Soon from The Wild Rose Press

www.kathyotten.com

Source- www.victoriaspast.com

An Old-Time Tale

By Paisley Kirkpatrick

There's a tale the old-timers used to tell in the sunbaked streets of old Tombstone -- the thrilling tale of Schieffelin's gold. Millions of people have read about him and seen the monument to him on the highway near Tombstone -- Ed Schieffelin.

Ed liked the excitement of being right up against the earth, trying to find her gold. He went into California first and then after a few years, to the Grand Canyon country. While there he joined some scouts who were fighting Apaches and ended up going with them into southern Arizona. He quit them to prospect in the Huachuca Mountains. He stayed in the vicinity of a camp of soldiers. When one of them asked him what he was looking for, he answered, "Oh, just stones."

"The only stone you'll ever get in this country will be a tombstone," the soldier said.

The first claim Ed staked out he named Tombstone, and from it the town took its name -- which also led the first newspaper of the town to be named Tombstone Epitaph.

The Tombstone claim did not prove to be very rich, nor did his next claim, the Graveyard. The Tough Nut made him rich in silver and gold. He and his brother and a third partner traded off part interest in the mine to moneyed men who put up a mill to refine the ore. In 1879 the mine was paying $50,000 a month. For a while, Ed Schieffelin hauled the bullion from his mine to Tucson, but got restless and went to prospecting again.

In 1880 he and his brother sold out for $600,000 -- $300,000 each -- and he went to prospecting farther off. When their third partner sold out for a real fortune later, he subtracted $300,000 for himself from the sum and divided the remainder equally between himself and the two Schieffelins.

In 1897 Ed bought a fine outfit in San Francisco: wagon, mules, tools, especially fine cooking utensils, and plenty of provisions and struck north. At Grants Pass, Oregon, he saw an eighteen-year-old boy named Charlie Williams working around a blacksmith shop and asked if wanted to go into the mountains. The boy was eager to go. Ed was happy he now had a helper. They stopped on Day Creek and camped in an abandoned cabin. Ed told Charlie they could go no farther in a wagon, but would make this place headquarters while he prospected in rough country. He told Charlie he could go off for a few days as he himself would be away from camp a while. Both left.

When Williams returned to the cabin, he found the dead body of Ed Schieffelin. Ed had apparently been sitting, breaking stones with a hammer when he died. The rocks were found to be very, very rich in gold. The camp seemed not to have been molested by anybody, but some of the new cooking utensils were missing. The theory developed that Ed had taken the utensils himself and made a kind of sub-camp near where he had struck the rich ore.

Prospectors hunted for the location from which Ed brought in samples. For a long time they hoped to find the missing cooking utensils as a marker. Any camp would have been made convenient to water. When no cooking utensils could be found, the prospectors searched everywhere for the gold, near the old cabin on Day Creek and far out from it. They never located the site. Its whereabouts died with Ed Schieffelin.

True West, October, 1958 issue -- written by J. Frank Dobie

KANE'S PROMISE IS HERE!

Last year, I started to write a short story for a western anthology that I wanted to

submit to. I had an idea that wouldn’t let me go, no matter how hard I tried to shake it off. I normally write romance. But this story was to be a western, with no romance involved. My “what if” concerned the long reaching effects of an Indian massacre and kidnapping on a young white boy, Will Green.

To tell a story like that, I was going to have to be inside the boy’s head. So the story would have to be told from the first person POV—something I just never do. It’s always been a temptation of mine to write something in first person. But could I pull it off? First person, a boy, a child. I had to try, because there was just no other way to do it.

Once I began to write KANE’S REDEMPTION, I could see that the “short story” was not going to remain “short.” The word count limit for stories for the anthology was 5,000 per story. When I stopped to count, I was already at double that amount. I laid the story aside and started another shorter story in order to finish it in time to submit. But when I came back to KANE’S REDEMPTION, I was free to make it as long as it needed to be.

By the time the story ended at around 25,000 words, I knew that it truly wasn’t finished, even then. So much had happened to young Will and Jacobi Kane, the man who rescued him from the Apache, that I knew this was going to be a series of novellas. In the first book, Will and Jacobi forged quite a relationship, first of necessity and then of a father/son bond. But that relationship was only just beginning.



I wrote KANE’S PROMISE, book 2 in the series, that carries them on into the next year of Will’s life. When a posse comes calling to ask Jacobi Kane to help them track the Apache, will he go? He’s made a promise to his first wife to avenge her, as she lay dying in his arms, but now he has other responsibilities.

Ten-year-old Will is torn between staying with his pregnant stepmother and following Jacobi. He must make a gut-wrenching decision. But they are a family now, and family helps one another, no matter what.

BLURB:
Kane's Promise, the second in a series of three, is the continuation of Kane's Redemption, the story of Will Green, a young boy whose family was murdered by the Apache, and Jacobi Kane, the man who rescued Will from the Indians.

In Kane's Promise, Jacobi Kane must lead a band of lawmen in their mission to find and annihilate the remnants of the Apache renegades who were responsible for killing Will's parents and Kane's wife and children.

But Will knows he belongs at Jacobi Kane's side—not left behind in the safety of the cabin. Once they find the Apaches, all hell breaks loose.

Can Kane protect Will and see this battle to a final end?

EXCERPT: Will and Jacobi are getting ready to leave Colbert’s Ferry Station when Marshal Eddington, one of Jacobi’s old nemeses, decides to cause trouble. He has just insulted Jacobi in front of everyone, and Will, unable to stand Jacobi’s silence, jumps down from his horse and attacks the unsuspecting marshal. Jacobi pulls Will off, but Eddington draws Jacobi into the fight. Here’s what happens:

“I ought to kill you!” Eddington’s eyes were murderous, and now that I had regained my senses, it dawned on me I had made us an enemy for life by making him look foolish in front of the other men. He looked back and forth at me and Jacobi, so I wasn’t certain who he meant to kill, but I was pretty sure he meant me.

Jacobi turned to look at Eddington, rising swiftly to close the few steps between him and the marshal. “If you ever lay a hand on him, Oscar, you’ll answer to me.”
Eddington was busy wiping the blood off his face but he looked up at Jacobi, his thick lips twisting in a sneer. “Go on. Tell me you know a hundred ways to kill me, and all of ’em would make me wish I’d never come into the world at all!”

“You said it, Eddington. Not me.”

Eddington took a final disgusted swipe with his dirty bandana at the trail of blood that kept trickling from his nose.

“I believe ’em, Kane,” he spat. “All those rumors about you bein’ part Injun your own self. You’re no better’n Laughing Wind hisself. A murderin’—”

Jacobi jumped for Eddington, who had quickly gone for his knife. Jacobi landed squarely atop the marshal’s belly and delivered a hammering blow to his jaw at the same time. He easily knocked the marshal’s blade out of his hand as if it were child’s play. Eddington let out a loud “oomph” when Jacobi’s fist connected with his belly.
But Eddington had learned a few tricks of his own, and he was surprisingly quick to be as fat as he was. I’d always felt sorry for his horse, having to tote him all over creation, as heavy as he had to be.

Jacobi knew what Eddington’s next move would be before he made it, it seemed like. I’d only seen Jacobi fight twice before. The first time was when Red Eagle found us and tried to jump us. I could tell both Jacobi and Red Eagle knew they were fighting for their lives, but I couldn’t see much, bein’ as how it was in the middle of the night. The fight Jacobi and Laughing Wind had had was just as serious—a fight to the death, for Laughing Wind. But, in the heat of the battle that had been going on around me, I hadn’t absorbed the skill Jacobi had. The way he rolled and punched and parried Eddington’s blows was like some kind of a dance.

After a few seconds, it was all over. I knew it wouldn’t take Jacobi long to end what he’d started.

Eddington had stopped trying to fight and was covering his head, instead. He was making the little girl noises again. Jacobi had sure beat the hell out of him, and it made my heart glad. I reckoned Jacobi understood just how I’d felt only a few minutes ago. I knew there wouldn’t be one word of lecture from him about me tearing in to Marshal Eddington, when he’d gone and done the same thing his own self. He rolled away from Eddington and came to his feet, breathing hard and just looking at the marshal for a few seconds. Then, he reached down and picked up his hat, dusting it off.
The other men had all gathered around, and even Mrs. Colbert and her daughters had come outside and stood watching. Marshal Eddington began to holler like a wild man when he saw everyone watching him.

“I’ve got witnesses! Kane, you’re going to pay, one way or another! You and that whelp of yours—”

Jacobi took a step forward, planting his foot squarely on Eddington’s wounded thigh, directly over the bullet hole.

“Son of a bitch!” Eddington screamed. He tried to roll, but Jacobi dropped to his knees, grabbing Eddington’s arm and twisting as he kept his weight on the wound.

“Don’t threaten me, Eddington. Never, ever threaten my family, or me.” He leaned close and spoke so softly no one else but me and Marshal Eddington could hear. “Don’t force me to pick one of those ‘hundred ways’, Marshal. I promise you, I will do it.”

Today I’m giving away a copy of KANE’S PROMISE to one lucky commenter. Please leave a comment along with your contact info to be entered—easy, huh?

You can find KANE’S PROMISE as well as KANE’S REDEMPTION here at my Amazon site:
Cheryl's Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/cherylpierson

Kane’s Redemption is available at Barnes and Noble for Nook, and Kane’s Promise should be there as well by the end of the week.

Look for part 3 of the series, KANE’S DESTINY, in the fall! Don’t forget to leave a comment to enter the drawing for a copy of KANE’S PROMISE.

WHERE WRITERS GET IDEAS

By Caroline Clemmons

Every author is asked a gazillion times where he/she gets ideas for all his/her stories. People who aren’t writers--ie, normal people--don’t have all these people in their head talking to them. No, writers (at least most of us) aren’t schizophrenics and don’t have disassociative disorder. We have muses.

Muse at work

Muses are wonderful. Yep, and those muses consist of characters who talk to us until we write their story to get them to shut up. Not that we EVER want them to stop talking! Just the loudest ones, the ones who demand their story now, which is why we translate their epic from our muse to the computer as fast as possible. If you’ve ever wondered why an author slips in stories between releases of a series, that may be one reason.

Yesterday, Lauri Robinson said in her excellent post that writers are always writing, even when we are doing totally unrelated tasks. At the same time, we are always acquiring new ideas. Everything we see or hear becomes a “what if” kernel for a story plot.

For instance, on Thursday my friend told me her son, who is working in another state while his wife and daughter remain here, was very ill and had been to the ER. All the time she was relating her son’s experience, the friend part of me deeply sympathized with her. The writer part of me, though, was thinking, "Hey, what a great story idea! This would make such a good book if the heroines were....”

Muses sprinkle
fairy dust ideas

Don’t think I’m callous. I really do sympathize not only with a mother worried about her son, but with the ailing son stuck many states away from home. Terrible situation, but that’s what makes a great story. While sympathizing with her, the situation ignites my muse.

Even when we stare off into the distance, we are writing. This is hard on family members, who sometimes may think we’re not paying attention to the conversation. (We’re probably not.) My husband once asked me what I was staring at each day when I looked at our hay meadow from the breakfast room window. The answer is nothing. It’s just a pleasant scene to observe while I’m thinking, but sometimes I see only what's in my head, not anything real. One of my favorite cartoon comics is an old Shoe strip which shows him with his feet on his messy desk while staring off into space for a couple of frames. He almost looks as if he could be dozing. His nephew comes by and says something to him. Shoe snaps, “Can’t you see I’m writing?”
Fortunately, my husband is a true Hero and realizes my blank stares or semi-doze
states equate working out plots.

Staring into space
can be writing

Author Meg Chittendon said, “Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.”

And we are simply incurable. There is no 12-Step Program for writers. That’s all right with me. There’s nothing I’d rather do than write. Although, I really enjoy having people read my books, especially if they have kind things to say.

One idea source I haven't experienced, but which many others have, is dreams. Some authors have entire books come to them in dreams. Others dream initial ideas. I just sleep. If I've been worrying because a scene doesn't feel right, then sometimes when I awake the next morning, the idea comes to me of what's needed to correct the scene. That's as much as I can claim.

Except for years in Southern California from ten months to age seven, I grew up in Texas. My husband and I live on a small acreage in rural North Central Texas. As early as I can remember, my father talked about his ancestors moving from Georgia to Texas in the 1800's. His stories fueled a love of history, especially Texas history. You can understand why each of my books is primarily set in Texas. In the event you are interested, and I hope you are, here are links to all my books, not just the romances.

Each is available from Amazon at .
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_17?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=caroline+clemmons&sprefix=Caroline+Clemmons
Those labeled with TWRP are also available from The Wild Rose Press at
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=638
My page at Smashwords is https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/CarolineClemmons

ALMOST HOME - contemporary mystery Amazon, Smashwords
BE MY GUEST contemporary romance Amazon, Smashwords
BRAZOS BRIDE historical romance Book One, Men of Stone Mountain trilogy, Amazon
DIGGING FOR DEATH cozy mystery, book one of Heather Cameron series
Amazon
HAPPY IS THE BRIDE historical novella, Amazon, Smashwords
HOME, SWEET TEXAS HOME contemporary romance TWRP
LONG WAY HOME historical novella, Amazon, Smashwords
OUT OF THE BLUE contemporary time travel romantic suspense TWRP
SAVE YOUR HEART FOR ME historical novella TWRP
SNOWFIRES contemporary romance, Amazon, Smashwords
THE MOST UNSUITABLE HUSBAND historical romance, Book Two, Kincaids
Amazon, Smashwords
THE MOST UNSUITABLE WIFE historical romance, Book One, Kincaids
Amazon, Smashwords
THE TEXAN’S IRISH BRIDE historical romance TWRP

Thanks for stopping by!

Me with cup of tea, and my cat Bailey
wanting to be petted

What does a writer do when not writing?

http://www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com/

I always cringe when asked that question. I believe, for the most part, a writer is always writing. We may not be putting words on paper, but other than when we’re sleeping (and even then dreams are often writing related) a writer is always doing something that has to do with writing. Plotting while driving, building characters while waiting in line and ‘people watching’, taking vacations that include research, attending conference, workshops, and groups, etc. etc.

So, what do I do when I’m not sitting at the computer?

Spending time with my family. That is number one for us. We have three granddaughters, two step-grandsons and three granddogs and lots of family activities. I am one of eight children and my husband is one of four so rarely does a weekend go by when we aren’t gathering at or hosting a family event. 

We have property in the northern part of the state, about six hours from our home, and especially during the summer months, we travel up there as often as possible. 

Our home is five miles from town, and though we don’t have any animals to tend, (other than an inherited little dog) we do have fruit trees, raspberry and strawberry patches, and a garden. (The granddaughters have grown to expect us to keep them well supplied with jams and jellies all winter.)

 Hubby and I are both NASCAR fans. I also enjoy cooking, baking, sewing, crocheting, knitting, wood crafts, reading, flower gardening, and pistol shooting. Oh, and hubby owns an auto repair business he runs out of our home, and I work full time for a senior companion company.  

Therefore, when I’m not writing, I could be doing any number of things, but there’s always a story flowing in the back of my mind.

Books released in 2012:

January 1: Disobeying the Marshal (Harlequin, Mills & Boon)

February 1: Testing the Lawman’s Honor (Harlequin, Mills & Boon)

May 1: The Sheriff’s Last Gamble (Harlequin, Mills & Boon)

May 23: Sing to Me, Cowboy (The Wild Rose Press)

August 29: Sheriff McBride (this had been part of an anthology and is being re-released as a single title (The Wild Rose Press))

September 1: What a Cowboy Wants (Harlequin, Mills & Boon)

September 18: His Christmas Wish (All A Cowboy Wants for Christmas Anthology (Harlequin, Mills & Boon))

October 16: Unclaimed Bride (Harlequin, Mills & Boon)

Release date yet to be determined: A Soldier for Christmas (this had been part of an anthology and is being re-released as a single title (The Wild Rose Press))

The other question I’m always asked is which book is my favorite. They each trigger special memories and hold special places in my heart for various reasons. If I had to choose from the stories released this year, The Sheriff’s Last Gamble is the one that flew onto the page. I couldn’t type fast enough to get that story out, and Sing to Me, Cowboy was so fun because it’s part of the Honky Tonk Hearts Series. See, even in that I can’t choose just one. And of course, the one I’m writing right now is my favorite at the moment. ;)

MARSHAL DALLAS STOUDENMIRE: A CURE AS BAD AS THE DISEASE?

By Kathleen Rice Adams

El Paso City Marshal Dallas Stoudenmire, 1881
(courtesy El Paso County Historical Society) 

Desperate times call for desperate measures…and in April 1881, El Paso, Texas, was about as desperate as a town could get. Four railroad lines had converged in the city, bringing with them gamblers, gunmen, and “ladies of questionable virtue.” Within spitting distance of Old Mexico and the lawless western territories, El Paso became a haven for vagabonds, thieves, murderers, and other criminals.

The city was not entirely without a law-and-order presence. The county sheriff’s office was only fifteen miles away—a half-day’s ride on horseback. Fort Bliss was closer…but the Army had its hands full defending settlers from Indians and cross-border marauders. Nearest of all was an entire company of the Texas Rangers Frontier Battalion, headquartered right there in town. Even a force of forty fearsome men who a few years later would adopt the motto “one riot, one Ranger” couldn’t be everywhere at once, though, especially when they had a 1,250-mile unruly border with Mexico to police.

El Paso needed a tough city marshal, and it couldn’t seem to find one. During the eight months starting in July 1880, the town employed four different men in the position. One resigned after two months in office. Another was relieved for “neglect and dereliction of duty.” A third was allowed to resign after a dispute over his pay left El Paso full of bullet holes. By April 1881, the town drunk wore the badge because he was the only man who would take the job.

City fathers thought they were in luck when, on April 11, they enticed a six-foot-four shootist with experience as a soldier, Texas Ranger, and city lawman to claim the marshal’s star. Dallas Stoudenmire, 36, was described by newspapers of the day as a temperamental, physically imposing man with an even more imposing reputation for gunplay.

Dallas Stoudenmire had the barrel of this 1860 Colt Army revolver sawed
off so the gun could be concealed. The Colt was retrieved from the El Paso
street where Stoudenmire was killed in a shootout on September 18, 1882.
 (courtesy The Peacemakers: Arms and Adventure in the American West by R.L. Wilson)

Born in Alabama, Stoudenmire enlisted in the Confederate army at 15. After the war, he migrated to Texas and joined a company of Rangers tasked with subduing renegade Indians in the southern part of the state. Only 20, Stoudenmire reportedly “killed a few men” during his year with the Rangers, ostensibly in the line of duty.

After that, he drifted through Texas, working as a carpenter, a wheelwright, and a sheep rancher before turning to the profession that eventually led him to the job in El Paso: hired gun. Stoudenmire was said to be quick and accurate on the draw, but a hot temper and a fondness for drink frequently caused him trouble. When a saloon brawl in 1877 left bullet holes in several people—including Stoudenmire—he was arrested. He escaped in short order, only to find himself wanted again less than a year later, after he and a couple of compatriots left several men dead in a shootout over a herd of cattle.

Stoudenmire lit out for New Mexico, soon coming to rest as marshal of Socorro in the northern part of the territory. By early 1881, he was back in Llano County, Texas. That’s where the El Paso city fathers found him.

It would take them only a few short days to realize they’d made a mistake, but a total of thirteen violent, frightening months would pass before they removed him from office. Ultimately, only Stoudenmire’s untimely demise freed the city of his presence. Some called the man a criminal with a badge; others credited him with doing more than any other single individual to tame El Paso’s lawless element.

The trouble started three days after Stoudenmire pinned on the marshal’s star. In an incident that came to be known as the Four Dead in Five Seconds Gunfight, Stoudenmire’s twin .44 Colts dispatched three people—one an innocent bystander attempting to take cover. The other two were an accused cattle rustler and one of El Paso’s former city marshals. The fourth casualty, whose death at the hands of the alleged cattle rustler started the ruckus, was a county constable. Stoudenmire, unscathed, received a raise.

Three days later, friends of the dead men hired another former El Paso city marshal to assassinate Stoudenmire. In the course of firing eight or nine shots at his attacker, Stoudenmire obliterated the would-be assassin’s privates.

In May 2001, Dallas Stoudenmire’s Smith & Wesson American,
serial number 7056, sold at auction for $143,000. His El Paso
city marshal’s badge sold for $44,000 in a separate lot.
(courtesy Little John Auction Service catalog, May 2001)

The notorious gunman continued to collect enemies while he performed some aspects of his job admirably. Even his detractors credited him with a steel-nerved ability to face down miscreants, six of whom he reportedly introduced to Boot Hill. Stoudenmire collected fines and taxes with alacrity, at the same time shooting dogs whose owners neglected to pay the $2 annual license fee. He angered the local religious community by using a prominent church’s bell for target practice while he policed the streets, usually in the middle of the night. The jail and prisoners were well tended, but the marshal’s records were a mess, and unauthorized expenditures caused friction with the city council.

Stoudenmire also drank heavily, often on duty, leading the editor of the El Paso Times to call into question his fitness as an officer of the law. When the Texas Rangers took an interest in Stoudenmire’s idiosyncratic approach to law enforcement, he called them a pack of cowards and liars and tried to get the entire force banned from El Paso, without success.

The city decided it had endured enough in February 1882, when Stoudenmire and his new bride returned from their wedding trip to find her brother murdered and the accused killer absolved of charges. Vowing revenge, Stoudenmire went on a violent drinking binge. One writer called his behavior “as irresponsible and dangerous as the town hoodlums.” Right away the city council passed a resolution mandating a stiff fine for any lawman caught drinking in public. Since Stoudenmire collected the fines, the law was woefully ineffective.

Public sentiment against the marshal had reached a crescendo…and so had the city council’s fear of the monster they had created. In May the council called a meeting to fire Stoudenmire, but when the marshal showed up drunk and waving his infamous Colts, the meeting quickly adjourned. Two days later he sobered up and resigned.

Despite the public’s ill will, Stoudenmire and his wife remained in El Paso. The now ex-marshal continued to drink, get into fights, and settle arguments with his guns; nevertheless, in July he was appointed deputy U.S. marshal.

Over the next few months, Stoudenmire’s feud with the man accused of his brother-in-law’s murder escalated. Stoudenmire mocked and insulted the man and his two brothers in public, daring them to fight. When other citizens ventured an opinion about his behavior, Stoudenmire cursed and threatened them. The El Paso Lone Star warned “citizens stand on a volcano,” and the streets might be “deluged with blood at any moment.”

On September 18, the volcano erupted. Stoudenmire and the three brothers met in a saloon and argued. One of the brothers and Stoudenmire drew their guns. Stoudenmire was hit twice: The first bullet broke his gun arm, and the second bullet knocked him through the saloon’s batwing doors. Lying in the street, Stoudenmire pulled his second gun and wounded his attacker just before another of the brothers killed him with a shot to the head. The wounded brother pistol-whipped the body.

Separate trials acquitted the brothers of murder. They left El Paso and died of natural causes in 1915 and 1925.

Stoudenmire’s widow buried him in Colorado County, near Columbus, Texas, where they had been married a few months earlier. The Freemasons, of which he was a member, paid all funeral expenses for the destitute widow. Although a commemorative marker documenting his Confederate service exists, no stone marks his gravesite, and all records of its location have been lost.

An obituary in the Colorado [County] Citizen called Stoudenmire “a brave and efficient officer, and very peaceable when sober.”

Kathleen Rice Adams

A journalist in real life, Kathleen Rice Adams also is an editor and ghost writer of non-fiction books. She much prefers romancing fictional western antiheros one protagonist at a time.

STETSON , THE BOSS OF THE PLAINS

By Gini Rifkin

Gini Rifkin, Author

          I was delighted when Caroline invited me to quest blog on Sweethearts of the West. Although I have published two Medievals and two Victorians, my first western novella, SPECIAL DELIVERY, was released in May, and I’m thrilled to be heading into cowboy country.

       Brushing up on history of the American West, I felt it was essential to study the Stetson phenomenon. I needed to know if geographically my hero would have access to purchasing one of these hats, and if they were common or even in existence in the time period I chose for my story. I’m a stickler for detail regardless of the era, spend hours researching, and hope the end result is a story that feels real and offers a painless subliminal learning experience.

Here’s what I discovered about……..

                                   THE HAT THAT WON THE WEST

A cowboy without his hat is
simply a man on a horse.

       The concept of a broad-brimmed hat with a high crown worn by a rider on horseback can be seen as far back as the Mongolian horsemen of the 13th century. A tall crown provided insulation, the wide brim, shade. In hot, sunny climates, hats evolved to have extremely wide brims, such as the sombrero of Mexico.

        Before John Batterson Stetson created the “The Boss of the Plains”, men who drove cattle and worked the range sported any number of hat styles. They generally wore whatever headgear was required at their previous profession so it wasn’t unusual to see them in a sailor hat, a beret, derbies, Civil War paraphernalia, and even top hats. None of these were very useful out on the prairie. And luckily this was soon to change and a legend was about to be born.  

A cowboy and his horse are partners

         John Batterson Stetson started his life in East Orange, New Jersey in 1830. His father, Stephen Stetson, was a successful hatter and taught his children the hatting trade. But having developed tuberculosis as a young man, a doctor advised John B. to move west and in 1859 he struck out for St. Joseph, Missouri.

      While there, he tried to join the Union Army in the early 1860’s but was rejected do to his poor health. Undefeated he worked as a bricklayer which went fairly well until the river flooded and washed his business away. At loose ends, he joined a group heading west to the gold fields of Colorado.

      This didn’t “pan out” but during his stay in the mountains, he fashioned a head covering from beaver hides. After a mule driver paid him a $5 gold piece for the hat right off his head, Mr. Stetson, being no fool, decided to refine, manufacture and sell this type of product.

       By 1865 he was back in Philadelphia working in the hat manufacturing trade. A year later the “Boss of the Plains” came into being, and after that, came the front creased Carlsbad, destined to become “the” cowboy style. The Stetson® hat has captured the essence of the west, has become an American icon, and is now an indelible part of western history.
                                                 

 The Stetson®

           The rugged individualism of the West was perfectly represented by a hat that could be shaped differently by each wearer—a punched-in crown, a bended brim, a braided leather band—all were different ways to make a Stetson® one’s own.

         By 1886, Stetson owned the world’s biggest hat factory. Situated in Philadelphia it employed nearly 4,000 workers. And by 1906, the factory was putting out about 2 million hats a year. John B. transformed hat making from a manual to a mechanized industry by introducing iron cutting and shaping machines, and by improving quality control. He was also among the first U.S. tycoons to offer benefits to reward workers for hard work. He dispensed free health care to employees and gave shares in his company to valued workers. As a philanthropist, he founded Stetson University in Deland, Florida, and built a Philadelphia hospital.

Stetson's Hat Factory

             Inside the cowboy hat is a memorial bow to past hatters, who developed brain damage from treating felt with toxic mercury (which gave rise to the expression "Mad as a Hatter"). The bow on the inside hatband at the rear of the hat resembles a Skull and crossbones. Early hatters used mercury in the making of their felt. Their bodies absorbed mercury, and after several years of making hats, the hatters developed violent and uncontrollable muscle twitching. The ignorance of the times caused people to attribute these strange gyrations to madness, not mercury.

Other Hat Types offered by Stetson

                    SINGING COWBOYS IN TEN GALLON HATS


         In the 19th century and first half of the 20th century, a hat was an indispensable item in every man’s wardrobe. Stetson focused on expensive, high-quality hats that represented both a real investment for the working cowboy and a statement of success for the city dweller.

       Early on, Stetson® hats became associated with legends of the West, including “Buffalo Bill” Cody, Calamity Jane, Will Rogers, and Annie Oakley. It is said that George Custer rode into the Battle of Little Big Horn wearing a Stetson®. Later on, Western movie cowboys were quick to adopt the Stetson®. Many were drawn to the largest most flamboyant styles available. Tom Mix, an early-20th century movie star, wore a ten gallon hat (my Mom rode in his car).

Tom Mix in a Ten Gallon Stetson

      Texans were known for their preference for the "Ten Gallon," model, possibly so named for its enormous crown which at least appeared to be able to hold ten gallons were it to be dipped into a stream and used as a pail. An early Stetson® advertising image, a cowboy dipping his hat into a stream to provide water for his horse, symbolized the Cowboy hat as an essential part of a stockman’s gear.

         According to Win Blevins' DICTIONARY OF THE AMERICAN WEST (p388), the term "ten-gallon" has nothing to do with the hat’s liquid capacity, but derives from the Spanish word galón (braid), ten indicating the number of braids used as a hat band.
 

A cowboy was seldom without his hat

         The first American law-enforcement agency to adopt Stetson’s western hat as part of their uniform was the Texas Rangers. In the Second Boer War, the flat brimmed Stetson® became the standard issue of the second Canadian Contingent, becoming recognized throughout the British Empire as a symbol of Canada. Canadian police, The Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) Red Serge dress uniform includes a Stetson® with a flat brim.

Royal Canadian Mounted Police
adopted flat brimmed Stetsons®

     John B. created not only a hat but an image, a daydream inducing piece of clothing that has survived into the 21st century. A cowboy today might carry a GPS gizmo on his belt rather than an 1851 Colt Navy, but the hat is still the same. Tonight I'll be dreaming of Stetsons® and the men who wear them!

Don't know if this is a Stetson®,
don't care! ☺

            My late husband Gary and I spent many years re-enacting the Mountain Man Era, attending rendezvous and making our own clothes accouterments, and foofaraws. It was a brilliant learning experience for my writer’s treasure trove of sights, sounds, smells, and just plain old tales of adventures.

Gary and Gini Rifkin

       For me, the road to publication has been long and arduous, yet well worth the tears and effort. My best advice, if I dare presume to give any, would be to rise out of the ashes of your rejection letters, and like the heroines in your books, don’t give up. And write not only what you know, but what you love. Never let age determine your dreams. My first romance was released one month before my 60th birthday.            
    Please visit www.ginirifkin.com and http://ginirifkin.blogspot.com                

SPECIAL DELIVERY only $1.99
At Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/Special-Delivery-Love-Letters-ebook/dp/B00801Q3RK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1339978207&sr=1-1&keywords=Gini+Rifkin

 and The Wild Rose Press
http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=176_146&products_id=4838

and other online stores.

Clover City, Colorado—1888

      A mysterious letter and the drop-dead handsome town marshal, are the last things Mariah expects to find making rounds as a midwife.

      Mariah McAllister plans to be married before her next birthday. Too bad Marshal Virgil Kincaid barely knows she’s alive. Not one to give up easily, she’s determined to show him she has an abiding passion for more than her work.

     Virgil Kincaid loved a woman once—after she broke his heart, he spent three years in prison. Women can’t be trusted, no matter how good they look. He’s sworn off relationships in favor of Saturday night poker games. Life is simple—the way he wants it…until a stranger turns up dead in the road.

     Forced to work side by side with Mariah, Virgil begins to wonder if she might be his second chance at love. As they trade kisses and oh so much more, he’s willing to take the gamble. But when a killer threatens their once peaceful town, all bets are off.

SPECIAL DELIVERY Excerpt:
        Virgil Kincaid was a prime cut of man. Over six feet tall, he made Mariah’s five-foot seven height seem less gawky and awkward. And he was built for action, long and lean with broad shoulders—shoulders she hankered to hold onto—and with narrow hips—hips she could easily envision pressed up against her own.

      And then there were his eyes. Gray as the sky in winter, full of secrets, revealing nothing. Virgil had been the town Marshal for nearly three years, yet no one knew where he’d come from or how long he intended to stay. What would it take to light a fire in those eyes and put settling down in his thoughts?

       Her gaze drifted lower and latched onto the front of his Levi’s. A picture of what he might look like naked skittered across her mind and her cheeks grew hot at the imagining.

       “You done lookin?” he asked.

        Her gaze snapped up to meet his and the heat of humiliation replaced the lustful warmth.

        “Yes,” she babbled, “there doesn’t seem to be anything of interest here.”

        “Really?” he challenged, with a cocky grin and a raised brow.

         He stepped closer and stood so near she could smell the man scent of him as she tried to ratchet her breathing down to a more normal rate.

        “You’re a very unusual woman, Miss McAllister.”

        “Is that good or bad?” she dared to ask.

        “I’m not sure yet.”

Gini Rifkin lives and plays in Colorado where the moon rises over the prairie and the sun sets over the Rocky Mountains. When she's not reading or writing, she's caring for her Noah’s Ark of rescued animals. At present she has a chaotic but happy family of ducks, geese, goats, donkeys and cats. If you see her in a crowd she’ll probably be the one wearing a hat. It’s not quite a fetish but she's working on it.