Murder on the High Plains

Last time, we examined awards, photos and memorabilia on Calvin’s mantle in his Quien Sabe house. A floor lamp made from the skulls and racks of two large bucks locked in mortal combat served as a reading lamp by Calvin’s easy chair. The bucks could not disentangle themselves and died together. Calvin found them on the ranch. He said their last words were, “You can have her.”

Family photos lined the walls of the hall. Calvin pointed and named each, pausing to clear a catch in his throat when he pointed toward Billy, the son he lost to cancer at 28.  Billy was movie-star-handsome.  Calvin told me he had won all-around cowboy in the Amarillo Ranch Rodeo several times. 

As I looked at Billy’s picture, I thought of the poem I had recently read about mettle. Calvin’s mettle had been tested as mine never had. And he had passed. Instead of using crutches like alcohol to deal with a tragedy, he had propelled himself to be a better father, grandfather, husband, and manager of men.

Billy’s children, Zack and Zane, were still riding their father’s trophy saddles. Billy had his own string of horses and started branding them with a cross during the years he battled cancer.  His sons now jointly own his string of horses.  They have a ZZ brand of their own, but also kept the cross in honor of their father.   

The boys live in the ranch bunkhouse and make cowhands during the summer. I learned that one grandson had recently won a trophy buckle at a dummy roping in Amarillo. As we walked outside in the pre-dusk cool, the kids all carried chicken ropes (short ropes used for roping everything that moves and everything that doesn’t).  

As we watched Grandson Zack, sixteen and already six-four, work colts in a round pen, the subject of another classmate came up. I think there were only about twelve in our class and half were girls. One of the boys we’ll call Joe (not his real name). Joe took charge of the family farm for his mother after his father died when he was a sophomore in high school. Joe was a big guy at sixteen with huge hands. The story of Joe and his wife Mary that Calvin told is complex and almost unbelievable, so bear with me.

I had heard that Joe had been shot and killed by a ranch hand a few years before and that his wife Mary (not her name, either) was in prison for being involved, but I was not sure of the details.  Thinking of our old friend meeting a violent death and the shy girl we knew in high school in prison was incredible to me. 

Joe’s wife Mary was in the class below us.  Joe and Mary went steady all the time I knew them. They were model students and seemed mature beyond their years.  Several years after they were married and had a family of their own, Joe and Mary took in a problem teenager, grandson of a friend in Adrian.  Joe put him to work on the farm and was a pretty tough taskmaster.

But Mary and her eldest daughter admittedly allowed the boy to seduce them.  The assumption is that the boy grew afraid that Joe would find out and kill him. Most of Joe’s friends agreed that was a distinct possibility. One evening while Joe was reading the newspaper at his kitchen table, the troubled teen approached from behind and shot him in the back of the head. Joe was later pronounced dead at the scene.

When the teen killer was arrested, he implicated Mary in the planning of the murder.  She was accused of delaying her call to the police after the shooting, allowing the killer time to get away and possibly delaying life saving measures for Joe.  Mary and her teen lover were each sentenced to 35 yrs in prison. 

Calvin’s stepson Troy (Linda’s son by a previous marriage), married Joe and Mary’s daughter (let’s call her Jane). Jane subsequently divorced Troy but maintained a relationship with ex-in-laws Calvin and Linda.

In fact, Troy and Jane’s daughter was employed at the ranch doing housework.  More complications: The granddaughter’s son from a second husband was staying in the bunkhouse at the ranch—a testament, it seems to me, of the depth of Calvin’s and Linda’s kindness, forgiveness, and hospitality.

I had heard that the teen killer had recanted his assertion that Mary was involved. I leaned on the round pen and asked if Mary was still in prison. Calvin answered, “Joe’s still dead, ain’t he?”

Next time: An forgettable morning and day on a huge Texas ranch.

A Visit to the Who Knows Ranch

About two years after reuniting with high school buddy Calvin in Abilene, I finished the sixth draft of my first novel, In the Rivers Flow. I had read enough books to learn that selling novels is a lot tougher than selling non-fiction. I decided to attend my first writers’ conference. Maybe talk to some real authors. My expectations were low, but I hoped to discover if what I had written was anything close to worthwhile.

An article in Writers Digest magazine drew me to the Panhandle Professional Writers Conference in Amarillo.  I was impressed by the line-up of speakers, especially Elmer Kelton, but I also wanted to drive out to the stomping grounds of my youth and to see the ranch Calvin managed. If the conference turned out to be a waste of time and money, at least I could rekindle a few old memories. Daddy had been gone for more than thirty years and Mother almost two. I felt a need to reconnect to the Panhandle farm we had left forty years earlier.   

When I traveled on business, I planned trips down to the last detail; every minute accounted for. Now, I had the freedom (and the determination) to be spontaneous. I had some vague ideas about what I might do in the Panhandle, but I left a day early and decided to just let things happen.

I was surprised at my spontaneity when I blew past Amarillo without stopping at a motel. I found myself in Channing (north and west of Amarillo) on a June day about quitting time. The town had not changed much since I played high school sports there. Calvin and I had attended school in Adrian (about an hour south). 

I found a small grocery store and asked if anyone knew Calvin. Of course, the owner and all the patrons did. I got directions to the Quien Sabe. I asked the proprietor where the ranch name came from. He told me about a Mexican who drove the ranch’s first herd of cattle to Texas. When asked the name of the unusual brand on the cattle, the Mexican replied, “Quien Sabe?”  (Who knows?).  The brand is two semi-circles and resembles an odd T to me.

The ranch entrance was only a few miles out of Channing and not far from Old Tascosa, the home of Boys Ranch. Our family moved to the Panhandle when I was a boy and I often felt a strange feeling of déjà vu at certain places. The Matador Ranch was one such place, Old Tascosa was another.

From a scene in Rivers Ebb: Jake climbed the arena fence, sat on the top rail, and let that been-here-before feeling wash over him.

I felt that been-here-before feeling as I stopped at the railroad crossing leading to the ranch. From high school, I remembered that the railway was The Fort Worth and Denver and was called the Denver Road. It ran from Fort Worth through Wichita Falls, Childress, Amarillo, Dalhart, to Texline (another déjà vu place), where it connected with the Colorado and Southern.

Here’s Jake in Texline in Rivers Ebb: He stopped at the sidewalk and looked down the street.  A row of cottonwoods had been planted to separate the field crops on the east side of the street from the houses on the west.  A few scattered trees that looked distressed from lack of water dotted some yards, but the snow was falling on hard dirt, not grass lawns. A horse bowed-up against the blowing snow stood beside a small tin barn in the middle of the mostly-small, mostly-stucco houses.

I guess I expected to see an impressive entrance of some sort because I knew the ranch was big. But just north of the dirt road, only some letters on stone announced the Quien Sabe. As whirls of dust followed me down the road, I saw a more impressive sight.

Big evergreen shrubs lined the drive toward what looked like an oasis in the desert. Live Oaks, poplars, and other trees surrounded a compound sitting on a high spot.  There was a huge native stone house on the left with a stone fence around it. I later learned that this was the abode of ranch owner Joe Kirk Fulton, who inherited the ranch from his father. Joe Kirk chose to live in more hospitable Hill Country, but stayed in the big house when he visited the ranch. 

A smaller, but more than adequate brick house was on the right. Calvin was filling a cattle spray tank when I drove up. I am not the type to be a surprise guest, but my excuse for dropping in was just to find the place, maybe wangle an invitation to come back after the conference for a tour.

It had been two years since we met in Abilene for the first time in forty years, but Calvin showed no surprise at seeing me again, acting as if I dropped in frequently. A three-month-old colt kicked up his heels in the yard fenced with horse wire as I stepped out of my pickup. Calvin pointed toward the colt as he finished filling the spray tank. “His mama didn’t have any milk, so we’re bottle feeding him.”

“Got a name?” I asked.

“We named him Iffy, because he had such a rough start we didn’t think he’d make it.”

I apologized for just dropping by, explained my reason for coming to Amarillo, and asked if I might come back for a tour the day after the conference.

“You had your supper yet?”

Less than an hour later, I sat at a table covered with plates of fried buffalo (grown on the ranch) steaks, garden salad, fruit salad, cornbread, navy beans and ham, fried okra, corn, cake, Jell-o, and iced tea—all prepared by Calvin’s wife Linda.

Three grandchildren at the table were friendly and polite to this intruder, and I got the definite feeling that guests for supper were not uncommon. As we dug into the buffalo steaks, Calvin told me that he had lost thirty pounds on the Atkins Diet.  

After supper, he took me on a tour of his home. Tastefully furnished in Panhandle style, the walls were covered with photos and artwork by famous photographers and artists who had come to the ranch to capture a ranching lifestyle that is rare and disappearing. 

Remember Jay Dusard, the famous photographer who took the photo of Julie Hagen (“the old hag” on my horse packing trip to Wyoming)? He had been to the ranch for a photo shoot and his work was on the wall. There were also photos that had appeared in “Western Horseman” and other well-known magazines. I recognized R. W. Hampton, famous singer and poet, in lots of the pictures.  I was recently gifted with one of his CD’s and he mentions the Quien Sabe, calling it the “Kin Sabe”. I thought it was pronounced “Cane Sabby”. He had worked for Calvin several times. There was also one of Sam Brown, cowboy poet and author and a schoolmate of Calvin’s and mine. We always knew that Sam would be a working cowboy.It was in his genes.

I stopped at a photo of a huge rock with this crude carving—William Bonney—1881.  Calvin told me the rock was only a few miles from where we stood. Billy the Kid is known to have frequented nearby Tascosa, bringing in herds of stolen horses to sell.  He also frequented the bawdy houses. It is likely that someone carved his name there shortly after his death in 1881, but nobody knows for sure. Of course, it is possible that Billy was there that year and did the carving himself.  

On the mantle, Calvin’s own trophy buckle had a prominent place. He had won all around cowboy at the Coors Ranch Rodeo the previous year. Beside the buckle was a framed, moving tribute written to him by a woman who had observed him at the rodeo. She had not known him, but wanted to recognize his leadership of his rodeo team and the way he interacted with his wife, children and grandchildren.

Calvin was easy-going in high school and his charm and wit had mellowed him into a father and grandfather who displays gentle firmness in his interactions with all his family members.  I had noticed it at the supper table, but the tribute confirmed it.

Beside the woman’s tribute stood a framed essay written by a grandson about the most influential person in his life. The essay about Calvin had won them a trip to the Big Texan steakhouse in Amarillo.

Next time: A test of mettle on this great Texas ranch.     

A Voice from the Past

When I took a sabbatical from the financial services field, I never imagined that it would be permanent. Walking away from knowledge and skills I had spent most of my adult life accumulating and honing seemed, well, dumb, even incomprehensible.

But my list of things to do before I die included a few things that I might be too old to do before long. So I rationalized my sabbatical as a chance to check off a few things on that list while I still had the physical stamina and desire to do them. I’m glad I checked them off, because I don’t think I have the energy now.

Shortly after I extricated myself from most of the entanglements of my profession, I got a call at home one night from cousin Shep challenging me to retrace our grandparents’ and parents’ journey across Texas in a covered wagon in 1918. To his surprise, I accepted.

That trip changed my life for the better. I chronicled that trip in Biscuits Across the Brazos.

It gave me the confidence to pursue a few other dreams that were starting to look a little less plausible. After that, anything seemed possible.

I have posted here about my horse packing trip in Wyoming (taken while I still had to go to work every day). You can see that a lot of my dreams had to do with fulfilling the cowboy life I had imagined for myself as a boy, but had put aside to make a living and support a family.

With newfound freedom, it was not unusual for me to choose a dream one day and leave to fulfill it the next. In other words, I was having the time of my life. On a whim, I drove to Alpine for the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in cold February. One day, I will write about the morning  legendary author and story-teller Paul Patterson brushed away snow on a bench at a chuckwagon breakfast and sat down beside me.

Paul told me that he was a good friend of Elmer Kelton’s and that Kelton had illustrated and written the foreword to one of Paul’s books. At that time, Kelton was the most prolific and beloved writer of westerns alive, but I had not known that he was also a talented artist.  Friend Robbie Plunkett is a big fan of Patterson’s books.

Before leaving the Big Bend area, I dropped in on Ft. Davis, Marfa, Marathon and the Gage Motel, and Terlingua, home of the Chili Cook off. I still marvel at the carefree freedom I felt as neither distance nor obstacles seemed to matter. I was hungry for different experiences after being tied to schedules, desks and telephones for thirty years.

I became a regular at the Abilene Western Heritage Classic. I enjoyed sitting alone in the stands for hours watching ranch cowboys show their ranch horses. I marveled not only at their horsemanship, but their style, the tall-topped boots, big spurs, colorful wild rags, and big hats.  

Always a lover of tack, I relished watching what they put on their horses’ backs and heads and in their mouths. I was fascinated by romel reins, bosals, mecates, and the little grass ropes that the cowboys tucked under their belts. I was intrigued by the pull harnesses that replaced breast harnesses. Many years earlier, my fascination with tack and love for good boots had inspired me to open a western wear store called Chute I. 

On my second trip to the Abilene Classic, I was sitting in the stands watching ranch team roping when I heard a deep voice holler, “Yeah!” as a roping team made a clean run with two feet caught. The voice seemed like an echo from my past. I looked around for the source, but could not find him.

As the competition drew to a close and the winning team was announced, I heard the voice again. It was a distinctive voice, one I knew I had heard before, but I just could not place it. It came from a mouth that seemed to be full of something like bubble gum or chewing tobacco. A  throaty, bass sound, almost slurred.

On the third cheer, I saw a large man stand with a clenched fist, a sign of approval for the ranch team in the arena. He wore a hat that matched his size. When he walked past me, the large hat kept his face shadowed, but I knew who he was.

The voice was older, mellower, like it was emerging from the long, dark, tunnel of my past and just waking up from a long sleep. I followed him and another cowboy out of the arena, waiting for a break in a conversation that seemed very serious, but they entered a room open only to ranch rodeo contestants before I could approach.

I waited almost an hour for him to reappear, still engaged in deep conversation with the same cowboy. I followed behind them, enjoying myself, taking time to observe everything he wore from the tall riding heels on his boots, the large spur rowels, and the huge palm leaf hat, looking for a sign of the seventy-pounds-lighter boy I once knew.

 Finally, the other cowboy peeled off and I stepped beside my old friend, matching him stride for stride, looking straight ahead. He glanced in my direction, nodded and kept walking.

For a second, I thought I had made a mistake. I had not seen him or spoken to him in almost forty years. But no, this had to be Calvin.  

I purposely bumped him enough to take him off stride. He turned again. I smiled and he put out his hand. “Well, damn, Jimmy Ainsworth, you got old, didn’t you?”

“Tried to stop it, but it just took hold.”

He patted his stomach. “Guess I’ve changed a little myself.”

“You have, but I recognized your voice.”

We talked a few minutes, trying to cover forty years, recalling raucous tales from our teen years, but he had a team of ranch cowboys and stock to look after and had to prepare for the ranch rodeo that night. He introduced me to his ranch hands from the Quien Sabe Ranch. I watched as they tended their horses and checked their tack for the events that night.

Calvin had been ranch manager at Quien Sabe for more than twenty years. I was surprised. I had always thought of my old friend as a wheat and milo farmer. But when I thought back, he had a black horse he called “Old Stud” and hired out to do daywork as a cowboy when his family could spare him from the farm.

I watched his team compete that night and saw how the years had made him into a genuine ranch cowboy, an occupation I had aspired to during our years of roaming the Panhandle countryside and playing sports together. I thought I could best him team roping, but he had me beat in all the other events. He had both horse sense and cattle sense, and was clearly the leader of the team in that arena. The other cowboys, mostly younger, obviously looked up to him.

About two years after meeting Calvin in Abilene, I completed the first draft of my first novel. I had read a lot of books about writing and decided to attend my first writers’ conference and try to connect with real authors. My expectations were low, but I hoped to discover if what I had written was anything close to worthwhile. I chose Amarillo because I wanted to see the Quien Sabe and my old home place. I would be a trip I would never forget.

Truth, Fiction and Families

This is an excerpt from presentations made for East Texas Historical Association and Tarleton University a few years back.


I have a grandson who is named for two fictional characters in my books. Well, they are real people with fictional names.  I love the confusion. It inspires questions about our history. I even catch myself referring to my family members by their fictional names. I am surprised when readers recognize someone else in a character who is actually based on myself. 

I cannot decide if I should be flattered or disappointed when that happens.  I do know that I enjoy getting to be child, father, grandfather, and even mother when I write.  It was cathartic trying to get inside my parents’ and grandparents’ heads during times of crisis as well in ordinary living. Anton Chekhov said, “Any idiot can face a crisis—it is this day-to-day living that wears you out.” 

I like to read about conflict and tension, but I also like to read about day-to-day living. I like a lot of that interspersed with my action and thrills.

This is a tranquil, day-to-day living excerpt from Chapter 5 of In the RiversFlow.

On the back porch, Jake drew water from the cistern and poured some into a wash pan and some into an empty Garrett’s snuff glass…. He removed his toothbrush from the snuff glass and mixed baking soda and salt for toothpaste. As he brushed, Griffin Rivers and Buddy came through the pasture gate. Griffin rode Buddy all the way to the back porch and relaxed in the saddle while his grandson rinsed and spat over the shelf into the yard.

This scene, of course, is not filled with tension, but it shows a little slice of the  characters’ daily lives.

Real characters and fictional ones definitely blur, but what about events? Same thing.  Few who lived in Delta County during the fifties will fail to recognize a scene in Rivers Crossing in which a young girl drowns in a cistern. I first wrote the scene exactly as it happened because it occurred less than a mile from my childhood home, and I was at the scene that terrible day.  However, the editing process required me to change it because the truth was so unbelievable.  For those of you who have read Rivers Crossing and those of you who will, two people died in that cistern on that awful day—not one.

Have people challenged me about changing that? I expected many readers to help me out with the real facts. I have received many e-mails and letters about this part of the book—even several phone calls, but not one challenge. People who lived there during this time seem to intuitively know that I am aware of what really happened.   Other readers are left with a believable story. Many have written me about their own recollections of the day and night it happened, including a future physician who was on the scene with his physician father.   

I do not believe this event has been recorded for history anywhere other than in local newspapers at the time.  Is it harmed because the story I wrote is not factual?  You decide.