African American Cowboys: An Important Part of America’s History by Shirleen Davies

After the civil war, many freed African Americans looked west for a better life. While white and black cowboys worked well together on the range with so much to do, African American cowhands were usually given the less pleasant tasks such as night watches, fording the streams first to test the waters, and horse breaking. Breaking wild horses was difficult and dangerous work, which often involved big falls, broken bones, torn ligaments, and even having your lungs pulled loose from the chest wall because of the horse’s violent bucking.  

African American Texas Cowboys

Making their days more difficult, living in town involved segregation for African American cowboys. They weren't allowed in most saloons and those that did let them in forced them to stay at one end of the bar.

Even so, many African American’s became western heroes. In some cases, famous outlaws. Here are just a few of the famous African American cowboys who shaped the west.

Bass Reeves

Bass Reeves was the first black U.S. Deputy Marshal west of the Mississippi River. He was an impressive figure in a big cowboy hat, and boots polished to a gleaming shine. He always rode a large white stallion and had two Colt pistols in his gun belt, butt forward for a fast draw. Ambidextrous, he seldom missed his mark. Reeves was also a master of disguises, sometimes appearing as a cowboy, farmer, gunslinger, or outlaw.

Reeves earned his place in history as the most successful lawman in Indian Territory, arresting more than 3,000 outlaws. Many believe the classic Lone Ranger character was based on him.

Addison Jones’ unparalleled skills at breaking wild broncos were legendary. Whenever he showed up at a roundup, everyone was relieved, since he could top off horses other cowboys feared. Unlike most cowhands whose bodies couldn’t hold up to the punishment after 30, Jones was still breaking high-spirited horses until his early 70s.

Jones was a great all-around cowboy, who could best most men in all areas: bronc riding, roping, and cattle driving. He is mentioned in memoirs by cattlemen and cowhands who worked with him as one of the greatest cowboys in Texas and New Mexico.

Cherokee Bill Goldsby

Cherokee Bill Goldsby, the son of a Cherokee mother and an African-American “Buffalo Soldier” was one of the roughest, toughest, meanest outlaws in the west. He had to flee his hometown at 18 after he shot a man for beating up his younger brother. Bill was sure he’d killed him, though the man recovered. Cherokee Bill fled to the Creek and Seminole territory, where he joined up with outlaws Jim and Bill Cook.

The authorities tracked them down and in a shoot-out, that followed, Bill killed lawman Sequoyah Houston, then escaped. His sister Maud hid Bill until he shot her husband when he saw him beat her.

He rejoined the Cook brothers and robbed banks and trains across Oklahoma, shooting anyone who got in their way. The gang even held up the depot of the Missouri Pacific railroad, then rode hard for two hours to rob the railway agent in the next town over.

Cherokee Bill dodged the posse for a long time but was eventually captured and sentenced to death for the murder of an innocent bystander during the robbery of a General Store. However, a friend smuggled Bill a pistol in jail so he could break out. A gunfight with the guards was a standoff until they got another prisoner to negotiate Cherokee Bill’s surrender. Bill was hanged March 17, 1896. He’s buried in the Cherokee national cemetery in Oklahoma.

Robert Bob Lemmons

Robert Lemmons was one of the greatest mustangers of all time. Born a slave, he gained his freedom at seventeen at the end of the civil war. He moved to Dimmit County, Texas and started working for rancher, Duncan Lammons, who taught him about horses and gave Robert the surname of Lemmons.

No other cowboy equaled Lemmons skill and talent for catching mustangs, which were in high demand for roundups. Lemmons' method was to isolate himself from humans so he could infiltrate the heard and gain its trust. Then, by mounting the lead stallion, he took control of the herd, which followed him into a pen on a nearby ranch. At age twenty-two, he bought his own ranch and during his life he amassed 1,200 acres of land and impressive holdings of horses and cattle.  Later, Robert and his wife Barbarita Lemmons were fondly known as people who helped their neighbors during the Great Depression. 

Charlie Willis was a famed Texas bronco buster, cattle drover, and songwriter. He began breaking wild horses at the age of 18 and was a regular cattle drover along the famous Chisholm Trail. Today, Charlie is most well-known for writing the song “Good-bye, Old Paint” about his trusted horse on the Chisholm Trail. Charlie Willis lived to a ripe old age and was buried in 1930 in the cemetery next to his property in Bartlett, Texas.

Bill Pickett Bull Dogger

Hendrick Arnold was a hero of the Republic of Texas as a guide and spy during the Texas Revolution. He emigrated from Mississippi with his parents, Daniel Arnold, a white man, and Rachel Arnold, a black woman, in the winter of 1826 to Stephen F. Austin's colony on the Brazos River. Arnold took part in the battle of Concepción and in the Siege of Bexar. Arnold also served as a spy. Posing as a runaway slave, he infiltrated the Mexican camps. Through information Arnold supplied, Sam Houston was able to keep tabs on Santa Anna. It’s believed that Arnold`s intelligence prompted Houston to change his battle plan, which resulted in Texas’ victory at the Battle of San Jacinto.

Bronco Sam

After the revolution, Arnold was rewarded for his service with land beside the Medina River, a few miles northwest of where Bandera is today, and he also operated a gristmill in San Antonio. Hendrick Arnold died in the cholera epidemic in Bexar County in 1849 and was buried on the banks of the Medina River.

Angel Peak, book 12, Redemption Mountain historical western romance series, includes a sub-plat set in the historic town of Austin. It is available in eBook and paperback.

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Oregon Trail Romance

by Rain Trueax

 map drawn by my daughter when she was at university

Having lived on what was an original homestead claim for 40 some years, the story of the trek west to Oregon has a very personal connection to my life. We have two of the wheels from the covered wagon that had traveled that trail. My interest in the journey though went back to my youth. The struggles these people went through, the very real dangers, were the very essence of adventure to my young mind.

You know, there are certain historic events that take on mythic qualities. In America, some of those have had lasting consequences, others not so much: Boston Tea Party; Revolutionary War; Lewis and Clark Expedition; Indian Battles; Pony Express; Building of the Railroads; Civil War; and on any list, the westward migration across the American continent.

When the United States government wanted to consolidate its power over this nation, the answer was to give away land. One such act was the Donation Land Claim Act of 1850:

"Arguably the most generous federal land sale to the public in American history, the law legitimized the 640-acre claims provided in 1843 under the Provisional Government, with the proviso that white male citizens were entitled to 320 acres and their wives were eligible for 320 acres. For citizens arriving after 1850, the acreage limitation was halved, so a married couple could receive a total of 320 acres. To gain legal title to property, claimants had to reside and make improvements on the land for four years."

"The Donation Land Law was significant in shaping the course of Oregon history. By the time the law expired in 1855, approximately 30,000 white immigrants had entered Oregon Territory, with some 7,000 individuals making claims to 2.5 million acres of land. The overwhelming majority of the claims were west of the Cascade Mountains. Oregon’s population increased from 11,873 in 1850 to some 60,000 by 1860." William G. Robbins in Oregon Encyclopedia

These giveaways attracted people from all walks of life. Mostly they were neither unusually rich nor poor. It cost around $1000 to acquire all needed to make the 2200 mile journey from Independence, Missouri to the Willamette Valley. For a family of four, that meant wagon, clothing, tent, bedding, livestock, 600 pounds of flour, 400 pounds of bacon (packed in barrels of bran), 100 pounds of sugar, 60 pounds of coffee and 200 pounds of lard. Add to that sacks of bean, rice, dried fruit, salt, vinegar and molasses. Eggs packed into cornmeal were then used to make bread.

 photo of pioneers at Oregon Trail Interpretive Center, Baker City, OR

If they brought a milk cow, butter was made by putting the morning's milk in buckets that churned it during the day’s travel (which illustrates how enjoyable riding in that wagon would be). They waited for the grass to green up in the spring and then hoped to beat the snows before they went over the last mountain ranges. If they brought something too heavy to make the whole journey, it would be left along the road. Worse, that road was littered with graves, which for the Oregon Trail wasn’t so much from Indian attacks as cholera and accidents.

Fortunately, for our understanding what they went through, some of the pioneers kept journals. We can read past the cold facts of the journey, to their own words, which tell of the sacrifices and difficulties they faced for the hope of a better life in Oregon.

“Then cholera took my oldest boy. His sister Isabel fell beneath the wagon And was crushed beneath the wheels.” from Overland 1852

 “The children and myself are shivering round and in the wagons, nothing for fires in these parts, and the weather is very disagreeable.” Amelia Stewart Knight, 1853

“This is the ninth case of death by violence on the route, three of whom were executed, the others were murdered. This route is the greatest one for wrangling, discord and abuse of any other place in the world, I am certain.”   Abigail Scott Duniway

It was into this saga, of hope and loss, sacrifice and danger, struggle and victory, that I set my first Oregon historical romance, Round the Bend. I first told the story of Matt and Amy verbally to my cousin during family gatherings. It was a simple story back then but it always held my interest.

When I decided to put it onto paper, I typed it out an old Royal. At the same time, I was doing a lot of research, back in the days where that meant a card catalog. Through the years, I'd improve on it; and when computers came along, I typed it into one. I continued to edit it as I'd come to see more depth in my characters and, of course, always research for enriching details-- trying to avoid using so many that they drowned my hero and heroine's story. 

This wasn't the first book I published from my backstories. I hesitated on it, not sure anyone would see what I did in this journey toward the Promised Land, and this young couple, who both had a lot to learn beyond the physical travails they were facing. 

At seventeen, Amelia Stevens, having grown up in a nurturing environment, is full of dreams and the many books she’s read. When her best friend, since childhood, Matthew Kane tells her he has other feelings for her, she pushes him away. He's ruining everything.

At almost twenty-one, Matt has already seen too much of the hard side of life. He holds few illusions about the trip or his own future. His family is as different from hers as darkness to light. Even if Amy changed her mind, it really couldn't work. She deserves someone more like the handsome wagon train scout, Adam Stone.

Round the Bend tells a story of the purest of love and the most driven of hate. It is the story of the westward march of pioneers. Most of all, it is the story of how a man’s highest ideals can change his life and that of others. Heat level (with 1 least and 5 most) is ♥♥♥♥. It, to my surprise, ended up being book one in a series of four about the settling of Oregon and one family.

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  Romances with an Edge

BABY, IT'S COLD OUTSIDE by E. AYERS

It’s winter in the northern hemisphere and for most of us that means cold weather. The further north, the colder it gets. So we snuggle with a cozy throw on a comfy soft sofa, wearing materials that have been scientifically designed to keep us warm, and stare at a fireplace that’s connected to a remote control. Can you image living without such luxuries?

Yes, there are still quite a few of us that have real fireplaces that must be tended with wood. I have coal fireplaces, quite a few of them. And one fireplace that can use either coal or wood. Coal fireplaces tend to not be as deep. As I sit here my fireplace is casting a warm glow into my living room and tossing extra heat into the room. It’s beautiful. It’s electric. I popped in the fake logs and plugged it into the outlet. My real heat comes from an oil boiler. I got rid of the wonderful old boiler because I couldn’t take care of it and getting parts were very difficult. It was leftover from the mid-1800’s, and by the time it was yanked out of here it was quite old. It appears to have once been coal fired and then converted to oil. Big, bulky, and certainly not efficient, the old cast iron unit was broken into pieces and removed. Ah, here comes the wonderful super efficient new one that probably will cut my oil consumption to almost nothing.

No such luck! That was wishful thinking. Thousands of dollars later, this super-efficient tiny thing with stickers proclaiming its value in BTUs that seem to promise cheap use, it guzzles just as much oil, and I no longer have radiant heat in that brick room to keep my water pipes from freezing and to warm the brick wall to the kitchen. Now the bricks are icy cold to touch. And the oil bill has really has not changed. It’s probably gone up based strictly on gallons used.

Yes, I whine. It’s part of living in a house that dates before the Civil War. And when something happens and there’s no heat… I freeze. I’ll bundle up until only my nose can be seen. But let’s rewind the years.

My father was born at the beginning of the 1900’s in a farmhouse that was actually much bigger than my 3,000 sq ft city house. They had wood fireplaces and some wood stoves. The first stove to fire up every morning was the kitchen stove fueled by wood. My dad swears he never dilly-dallied because if he was the first one up behind his grandmother, he got to sit on the stove and get warm. Yes, directly on the kitchen stove. That meant the icy cold metal would warm under him.


He’d pull off his nightgown that he used for sleeping and get dressed for the day. Little boys wore dresses back then. Even in the winter, little boys did not really wear long pants. At least proper little boys didn’t wear long pants, but if he was doing chores then he had coveralls. It was kind of an honor to get to wear shorts or kickers instead of a dress. Boys had to be in their teens to wear long pants. And that fashion held until about WWII. I saw pictures of my older brothers in knickers in the 1930’s and the younger of the brothers in the early 1940’s in his knickers as a young teen.

Backing up again, my father would jump on the kitchen wood-fired stove and sit while getting dressed until it got too hot, and he had to jump off. It was large household and the first ones downstairs got sit on the stove. The first thing his grandmother heated on the stove was water. There was no hot water heater. So anything that you wanted to do, you needed water. His grandmother would fill several large pots with water before retiring. Often they were frozen solid in the morning even though they were inside the house.  That's cold!

Houses weren’t insulated very well, if at all. Historically, batts of grass were used in the attic until we began to use fiberglass, and that, too, has really changed over the years. Houses leaked, and the warmth escaped, as the cold penetrated, it allowed the snow to sneak through any cracks especially around the windows, unless it was hotter than Hades, and then the super heat worked its way inside the house. I know the house where my father grew up wasn’t insulated, nor did it have an attic. The attic was finished with a wooden floor and used for the older children in that multi generational house. Besides my father said that batting encouraged mice. So houses were cold in the winter and it was important to stay warm while sleeping.

There were wool blankets. After many years of use, if the moths didn’t get them, they were virtually felted. The survivors were thick and heavy. Very heavy...curl your toes over sort of heavy, especially if you were a child.

The other option was quilts. Feather quilts were common and when someone like my dad who lived on a farm, there were lots of feathers from the chickens. There was also down quilts. The down feathers were the teensy-tiny feathers and it took lots of those to fill anything. They were saved for important things such as down quilts, down pillows, etc. If you’ve never experienced the difference, well… Feather and down quilts, also called duvets, were more apt to leak a feather. The quill would poke through almost any fabric and without fail poke whoever was under it or on it. But those little, darn, down feathers would also work their way out and they had tiny pointed quills. Quilts were used both under the sleeper and over the sleeper. The quilts were often tucked inside something like a big pillowcase made for a quilt. Usually the quilt was buttoned into place so that the quilt didn’t shift within the big pocket. That way the quilt cover could be washed because washing quilts is… Crazy. The feathers mat and it’s terrible. So the cover keeps them cleaner.

Today most say to have professionally cleaned. Back then, the concept of professionally cleaned meant anyone other than main female of the house. When my sister bought a duvet about 20 years ago, she called me up laughing. “You won’t believe how it says to clean the quilt. Dry Clean Only.”

If you like the smell of dry cleaning... But for years quilts were washed and fluffed and you can't use a dryer on them and... So most people prefer a quilt filled with cotton or a polyester filler.

When my sister discovered her new duvet with the matching cover was lacking buttons and her quilt would shift, she called me again.

“Okay, dear sister. Go buy four kilt safety pins. That should work.” Perfect. Problem solved. Her duvet was secured with big gold pins. No shifting.

We think of the beautiful quilts that we love to make today, and those were never meant for everyday use. They were hope chest items and used on the marital bed mostly for show. The average quilt was made from scraps or worn out clothes. Often they were quilted over quilts. That made them warmer. Sometimes they covered the walls or windows. Sometimes they even were used on the floors.

If you’ve snuggled under wool blankets and layers of quilts, you know how warm you can stay. Even as a small child growing up in a “modern” home, I froze. My parents figured if the thermostat was set 65F, the house was plenty warm. I guess the way they grew up, it was. Our great big fireplace and an ample supply of hardwood were supposed to provide plenty of heat when mixed with a big furnace in the basement. But climbing into that cold bed and snuggling under the layers of wool blankets and between two big down quilts took only a few minutes to adjust to my body temperature keep me toasty warm.

No longer do I do that. I set thermostat at one temperature and sleep under a nice cozy blanket. If it’s extra cold, I have some really warm fuzzy PJs. I might awaken to discover that my pipes have frozen in the brick room that houses that new fuel-efficient boiler, but I will be warm. And yes, I still own a pretty patchwork quilt, a few fancy down quilts and a couple of duvets with covers. I have no desire to go back into the 1800’s and freeze my my toes, my tush, or any other part of my anatomy! Nor do I want to discover that the hand pump is frozen solid and there will be no water.


Although not a fail safe, my heating buddy comes in the fall and services my boiler, and the oil company has me on an auto fill. They track the cold days and promise that I won't run out of oil in my tank. I like my modern life even though I pay enough money for oil each month to build several nice houses in the 1800’s and probably a small town each winter. I fill my car’s gas tank for what most men made in the whole year. Today, life is good – not perfect, but it still beats stepping back in time. But there's nothing like a cozy room, a comfy chair, a warm blanket, and a really good book. And I'm certain that women back then who could read, loved a good book just as much as we do, because some things never change. Stay warm! Stay safe! And count the good things we have.

HOW WIRE WON THE WEST

By Christi Corbett

When it comes to settling the American west, many images come to mind: teams of oxen pulling overloaded Conestoga wagons across dusty plains. Tattered wagon covers flapping in the wind. Horses—ridden by rough men barking out orders—trotting alongside wagon trains. Weary travelers depending on a seasoned trail guide who used landmarks and stars in the sky to lead his charges to a new life. The bravest of men, women, and children traveling thousands of miles across the country, and then spreading out across a new land.

Cowboy hats and log cabins. Gunslingers and outlaws. Campfires, canteens, and coffee. Buffalos and barbed wire.

Wait, barbed wire?

Yes, barbed wire. It’s not as well-known as everything I listed above, but as I learned a few years ago, barbed wire was vital to the settling of the American west.

My interest in the subject started during a visit to the Applegate Pioneer Museum in my small town of Veneta, Oregon. The place is crammed with all sorts of displays from pioneer days, so I made my way slowly through them all, happily inspecting artifacts from years gone by.

Then, in a dark room at the back of the building, crowded between other bits of pioneer memorabilia, I discovered a dusty picture frame. Inside was a display of several lengths and types of barbed wire.

A few of the many types
of barbed wire

At first, I wondered what sharp pieces of wire had to do with taming the west. Then, I went home and did some research.

*Settlers in the prairie areas needed a cheap, reliable way to keep their animals in, and predators out. Fences made of barbed wire solved the problem of lack of local wood. 

*Barbed wire outraged both cowboys and Native Americans, earning it the nickname the “Devil’s Rope”.

*Gunfights, and even deaths, resulted from large gangs of masked men participating in “fence-cutting wars”.

*In 1880, one barbed wire factory produced enough wire to surround the earth ten times.

Nowadays, inventive repurposing of barbed wire is happening. A glance through Etsy or Pinterest can give plenty of ideas and examples of “artsy” ways to use or display barbed wire.

Thanks for reading!

More about Christi

Christi Corbett had an early love for the written word. As a child she could often be seen leaving the library with a stack of books so tall she used her chin to balance them in her arms.

Over the years she’s put her love of writing to good use; in addition to writing over three hundred television commercials, she earned the position as head writer for a weekly television show. She left her television career when she and her husband found out they were expecting twins, but she couldn’t leave writing altogether.

She’s now an award-winning author, writing stories of brave men and spirited women settling the American west. 

Connect with Christi:

Email at christicorbett@gmail.com

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Website at https://christicorbett.wordpress.com/

SEVEN SISTERS by ARLETTA DAWDY

In the closing days of 2018 news stories out of Southern California told of two nuns of the order of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondolet stand accused of embezzlement of educational funds to the tune of $500,000.

Very different stories are told of the order in 19^th century Tucson and form an important part in my book HUACHUCA WOMAN.  I have extracted and edited parts of the story and hope you find it “newsworthy.” Josephine, Violet and Maggie are fictional characters whose depression, loss and physical ailments take them to Tucson in the mid-1920’s where they learn life-sustaining lessons from the Sisters. Asthmatic Thelma and Sister Bernadette are also fictional.

The Sisters of St. Joseph have their origins in 17^th century LePuy, France. By the late 19^th century, the order had expanded in Europe and across the Atlantic. In 868. Bishop Jean Baptiste Salpointe of Tucson began his campaign to bring sisters from Carondelet, Missouri to administer educational and medical services to residents, including 
Indians.                                                                                                             
       Bishop Salpointe


By a northern, very long route it wasn’t until March 1870 that the Seven Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondolet arrived in San Diego to continue in May nearly 200 miles to the village of Tucson. Therein lies a tale of stress, hardship and humor.

The seven sisters were primarily from France and had unusual names: Mother Emmerentia Bonnefoy, sisters Euphrasia Suchet, Maxine Croissat, Ambrosia Arnichaud, Martha  Peters from Ireland and Canadian widow Monica Corrigan.



In HUACHUCA WOMAN, after a day of toil, the guest residents and one of the sisters gather in the library for mediation and quiet time.

+ + + + +

“I’ve found the most wonderful little treasure,” Thelma announced to the evening gathering. “It’s the journal of Sister Monica, one of the original Seven Sisters.”

            Sister Bernadette looked up from her missal. “That was some trip of misery and hardship but also of wonder.”

Re-enactment, San Diego, 2006?

            “Oh, you’ve read it then.” Thelma was downright disappointed. She thought she’d found a long forgotten manuscript hidden in the looming shelves.

            “Every novitiate reads the diary in the first weeks in convent. We nurture respect and honor for the Seven. And the diary reminds us that our lot in life is blessed because of the pain they cut ahead of us.”

            By now, Maggie, Violet and I (Josephine) were very interested. “What happened to them?” asked Violet.

            Thelma looked to Sister who nodded to her to tell. She said, all in a gush, “They traveled with only one guide and a wagon across hot desert lands and later traveled mostly at night. They had to deal with the proposals of drunkards and lonely ranchers, thousands of dead cattle and sheep along the trail, want of water, blistering heat and near naked Pima Indians and threatening Apaches. They had only one blanket between them in the earliest stage of their trip and, often, some of them slept under the wagon or in the brush or on rocks heated by the day’s sun.”

+ + + +

            Thelma moved to the long table and, as we crowded around to look at the manuscript, we saw someone had made pencil drawings of their journey. Sister Bernadette said they were the work of Sister Martha, another of the Seven.

+ + + +

“Do you have a favorite tale?” I asked Sister.

“There are so many and I’ve always wished to know more details. But there is the story of how, on their third night, piercing howls came from Sister Martha and the driver. Sister wanted to add more logs to the fire and lifted a likely log from a pile of leaves only it wasn’t a log. It was the driver’s leg. He’d covered himself with leaves from the cottonwoods nearby to ward off the cold and they’d given each other a mighty scare.”           

“That’s a good one,” laughed Violet. “Tell us another, Sister.”

“Their crossing of the Colorado River was harrowing. The Good Lord was looking out for them that day. The sisters remained in the carriage as it loaded onto the raft but, when the raft went one direction, the carriage shifted in the other. The sisters were left dangling over that icy turbulence with only the weight of a fallen horse keeping them from going down. Just imagine their fear and bravery.”

“And there’s the time Mother Emmerentia took the wrong fork in the road and had to be tracked down,” said Thelma. “The only problem was that when the driver chased her, she didn’t recognize him and ran faster. The priest who had joined the party at the Arizona border and Sister Martha had to retrieve her.”

“Even Mother Superiors aren’t always in the right!” came from Sister Bernadette. We chatted on for another little while before saying our goodnights and heading to our rooms along the gallery. Sweet jasmine met us at the door and nighttime crickets chirped out in the garden. A frog resounded from near the well. I hoped he wasn’t down it. The skies were heavy with glittering stars gathering in the deepening blue. I sighed at the peace and beauty of nature and friendships.

+ + + +

           

                                                  

References:
Sister Monica Corrigan, Trek of the Seven Sisters, Carondolet Publications
Jeff Smith, Nuns On The Run, article in the San Diego Record, July 6, 2006
 Photos by Google Images


Arletta Dawdy writes from Northern California with a focus on Arizona and California History.

THE MORGAN HORSE By Cheri Kay Clifton

I'm going to make the bold statement that I bet all the Sweethearts of the West are horse lovers.  Many of you may be horse owners, of whom I am truly envious!  Actually, it would be nice to know how many of our authors are equestrians.  Although I've never owned a horse, over my lifetime I've had the joy of riding many horses.

The two breeds of horses I've always admired are the Morgan (a genetic breed) and the Pinto (a color breed), both of which I chose for my two main characters, Laura and Grey Wolf, to ride in my first book, Trail To Destiny.

I found out the Morgan was one of the earliest horse breeds developed in the United States and after reading that the United States Equestrian Federation stated, "a Morgan is distinctive for its stamina and vigor, personality and eagerness, and has a reputation for intelligence, courage and a good disposition, I knew he was the perfect choice for my heroine, Laura, to ride on her journey west.  I named him Sonny after a beautiful horse I'd enjoyed riding on scenic trails in the Smokey Mountains.

All Morgans trace back to a single foundation sire, a stallion named Figure, who was born in West Springfield, Massachusetts in 1789.  At age three, he was given to a man named Justin Morgan as a debt payment.  As was the practice of the day, Figure became known by his owner's name, the Justin Morgan horse.  This colt was the founding sire of the Morgan breed.

After Justin Morgan's death, Figure moved on to other owners and spent a life working on farms, hauling freight, and as a parade mount at militia trainings.  He spent his life working and died in 1821 from an untreated kick received from another horse.  His three most famous sons - Sherman, Bulrush and Woodbury - carried on his legacy to future generations of Morgan horses.  They come in a variety of colors although they are most commonly bay, black and chestnut.

 These beautiful steeds were used as cavalry mounts by both sides in the American Civil War.  They were in much demand due to their endurance, weight carrying ability, strong short back, excellent feet and legs, and a calm and cheerful temperament with an abundance of natural style that appealed to the Cavalry officers.  

Many tributes to these hard-ridden heroes are displayed in paintings, as public statuary, as well as some rare mounted hides and heads staged in proud museums.  Famous Morgan, Rienzi (also known as Winchester) was ridden by General Philip Sheridan to rally his Union troops and was preserved and is at the Smithsonian museum.

General Philip Sheridan Memorial Civil War Bronze Statue 

Depicts Sheridan riding his horse, Rienzi

Washington, D.C.

Little Sorrel was a Morgan ridden by Confederate General Stonewall Jackson in his Civil War campaigns.  After Little Sorrel's death in 1886, his hide was mounted at the Virginia Military Institute Museum, where it's still a popular attraction. The taxidermist took the bones as partial payment and gave them to the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh, something that never sat right with Southerners. The VMI Museum got the bones back , cremated and interred them in 1997, on the parade grounds, at the feet of a statue of General Jackson.  "It's the right thing to do," said the curator.

Today, Little Sorrel stands near the raincoat that Stonewall Jackson was wearing when he was mortally wounded. The coat is displayed so that visitors can see the bullet hole.

 General George Armstrong Custer rode several Morgans.  One of his favorites was a horse named Dandy.

"Sighting the Enemy," equestrian statue by Edward Clark Potter of

General George Custer at Gettysburg, located in Monroe, Michigan.

Since Custer was not killed in this battle, his horse is depicted with

all four feet on the ground.

While Morgan enthusiasts have stated that the horse Comanche, a survivor of the Custer regiment after the Battle of the Little Big Horn, was either a Morgan or a Mustang/Morgan mix, records of the U.S. Army and other early sources argue that claim, stating more likely he was of "Mustang lineage" with possibly "Spanish" blood.  Many also believed Custer rode Comanche, but in fact, Captain Myers Keogh owned and rode the bay horse into battle.

Although Comanche was touted as the sole horse to survive the famous battle, many horses survived and were taken by the Indians.  But the Indians had no use for a horse that couldn't dodge a bullet.  Two days after the Custer defeat, a burial party investigating the site found the severely wounded horse and transported him by steamer to Fort Lincoln, 950 miles away, where he spent the next year recuperating. Comanche remained with the 7th Cavalry, never again to be ridden and under orders excusing him from all duties. Most of the time he freely roamed the Post and flower gardens. Only at formal regimental functions was he led, draped in black , stirrups and boots reversed, at the head of the Regiment.

Comanche, aging but still in good health, continued to receive full honors as a symbol of the tragedy at Little Bighorn. Finally, on November 7, 1891, about 29 years old, Comanche died of colic.  The horse is currently on display in a humidity controlled glass case at the University of Kansas Museum of Natural History in Lawrence, Kansas.

Comanche taxidermy 

I hope you enjoyed reading about the Morgan Horse, including many of the breed's faithful steeds and in addition, the truth about the famous horse, Comanche.

I'll end with a horse quote by Chris LeDoux...

"Sit tall in the saddle, hold your head up high, keep your eyes fixed where the trail meets the sky and live like you ain't afraid to die, don't be scared, just enjoy the ride." 

Sources: https://wikipedia.org/wiki/Morganhorse

                https://www.roadsideamerica.com

                https://morganhorse.com

                https://wikipedia.org/comanche_(horse)

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