Tag Archives: Old West

Top 5 Grossest and Most Repulsive Things In Frontier History

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Here we go (drumroll please):

Hand carved human skull from the Yucatan.

5. Mountain man, Peg Leg Smith (not known by that name at the time), takes an Indian arrow in the knee and amputates his own leg with his knife in front of all the men in his camp – early 1830’s, Nuevo Mexico.

4. Alfred Packer is accused of murdering and eating five of his prospecting companions in the high mountains of Colorado – February, 1874, Colorado Territory.

3. Cortes’s Spanish conquistadors doctor the battle wounds of both horses and men with rendered fat (oil) taken from the bodies of Aztec dead. Next to branding captive women and killing hundreds of thousands with smallpox, this may be the grossest thing Cortes’ men did – Vera Cruz, Mexico, New Spain, 1519.

2. Emperor Montezuma’s Aztec priests use flint knives to cut out the heart of a living victim, chop off the head to let it roll down the temple steps, throw the hacked-off arms and legs to the waiting crowd for food, and save the victim’s torso to feed the zoo animals. During the fighting of the Noche Triste (Sad Night), the Aztec’s sacrifice several Spaniards in plain sight of where the other conquistadors are fighting to keep from becoming sacrifices themselves. Aztec warriors hold the impaled heads of Spanish horses on long poles to intimidate their enemy – Tenochtitlan (Mexico City), Mexico, New Spain, 1520.

1. Sand Creek Massacre – Col. John Chivington and 700 troops and volunteers attack Black Kettle’s peaceful Cheyenne village, even though the chief was flying a U.S. flag. The troops murder, scalp, and mutilate men, women, and children. Among the atrocities, one of the attackers is said to have made a tobacco pouch of a Cheyenne man’s scrotum. Famous scout and mountain man, Kit Carson, a man who had fought Indians himself, called Chivington and his men “dirty hounds” – Nov. 29, 1864, Colorado Territory.

Disclaimer: The horrors and atrocities of the Revolutionary War, Civil War, and other wars of the Americas prior to 1900 were so numerous and daunting as to be in a category of their own.

Texas Longhorns

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Texas Longhorns came in a variety of colors. Old-time cattlemen could often tell what part of Texas (which gene pools) herds came from by the color of the cattle’s hides (red, black, motley, roan, brindle, gray, etc.).

You always hear how cowboys used to be tougher in the old days, but few mention that the cattle of the Old West were tougher too.  The Texas Longhorn wasn’t the gentle, feed sack animal that populates the pastures and rangeland of many modern ranches and livestock farms.  The longhorn was a descendant of the Spanish cattle the conquistadors brought to Mexico, and by the trail drive era from Texas to the Kansas railroads, those longhorns had almost 300 years for natural selection to whittle the population down to one of the toughest cattle breeds on the face of the earth.  Early Texas colonists often hunted the longhorns like deer – they were that wild.

Later, the Civil War scattered many of the longhorns that had been semi-domesticated over the years to mix and mingle with those maverick cattle still running wild in the Texas brush.  In the late 1860’s and throughout the 70’s, with the cattle market booming, hundreds of thousands of those wild longhorns went up the trail.  Unbranded, mavericks were soon in short supply.  A man wanting to operate on a shoe string had little choice but to go after the worst of the worst, which were those outlaws wild and crafty enough to avoid being captured.  Those outlaw longhorns, some of them with horns in excess of six feet, would often tree a man afoot, and charge a man on horseback when on the prod.  They were gathered from the thickets via traps or fast horses and good ropers.  Capturing them wasn’t the end of the challenge.  Getting them to market was a feat in itself.

Horn growth and frame size often depended on nutritional merits of the region where the longhorn lived. Age was also a primary factor. The term “mossyhorn” usually meant a large steer, cow, or bull who had evaded roundup long enough for its horns to grow massive – time enough for moss to grow on them just like that on tree bark).

Those trail herds, sometimes as many as 2, 500 cattle, would spook at almost anything and stampede at the drop of a hat.  Some of the worst of the runners, fighters, and bunch-quitters took some special handling.  Many experienced foremen would turn down a soured or outlaw herd, as they were too much trouble to handle.  Cowboys would often sew up the eyelids of an especially unruly cow-critter.  Cattle are herd animals, and the temporarily blinded steer or cow would hang close to the comforting sounds of its fellow herd members.  If the animal became “herd broke” the cowboys might eventually rope and throw it to cut the stitches from its eyelids.  Cattle that wouldn’t stay with the herd were often “tailed.”  A skilled rider would steer his horse close to a running longhorn, grab its tail and tuck in under his right leg, and then spur ahead and steer left.  The bunch-quitter was unceremoniously “busted,” much like modern steer tripping.  Sometimes it took a couple of tailings and bustings to break a longhorn from trying to escape.  Like many of the pioneer types, the longhorn could be a little unruly, independent, and stubborn when it came to its freedom.

Longhorns could thrive anywhere, from the salty mesquite plains of the Gulf Coast to the high country of Montana.  They were as tough and stringy as a piece of beef jerkey left lying in the hot sun for a week.  Longhorn cows raised their calves among bears, wolves, mountain lions, coyotes, and jaguars with nothing to ward those predators off but a set of horns and a fighting spirit.  They could make do on scanter diet, and walk farther than any cattle breed ever known.  However, the need for such a tough customer ended with the long trail drives and the setttling of the frontier.  Short-legged, heavier muscled, better fattening European breeds like the Hereford, Shorthorn, and Angus were gradually mixed with the longhorn until it almost disappeared.  After the Turn of the Century, a few breeders managed to save the longhorn, and supporters still tought the qualities of the wildest of Texas’ native offspring.  The longhorn’s day may have passed, but it will forever remain a Texas icon, just like the Alamo or the bluebonnet.

Trail drivers often told stories of blue lightning tickling across a longhorn herd’s horns during a thunderstorm. When pressed close together, the rattle of those horns was a distinct sound. There are tales of steers so old and large that their horns had to be sawn off to get them up the ramp and through the door into a train’s boxcar.

The Greatest Western Never Told Writing Contest – sponsored by High Hill Press and Brett Cogburn

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Here you go – the “why,” the “how,” the “what,” and the “what for,” about the greatest, latest writing contest to hit the web in, well, the last second or two…

I’ve long wanted to write Western novels that could eclipse the standard, formulaic, shoot-em up genre fiction that so many readers have come to expect from any book with a Western title.  Why can’t a Western address social issues?  Why can’t a Western be more about characters and the trials and tribulations of life, rather than a morally and physically invincible white-hatted gunfighter rescuing the damsel in distress from the wicked, power-hungry villain in the black hat?  Isn’t a good book or story simply good no matter the setting?  Despite my attempts at creating literary quality Western short stories and novels, a friend of mine recently taught me a great lesson.  This native Texan friend is no professional writer, but he may have sired one of the greatest Western stories of all time.  At the very least, he says it all without saying too much – no minor feat at all.

His story has no title, has never been published, and certainly has received no critical acclaim.  Here you go, a “My Two Cents” exclusive – the greatest Western never told (hang your head in shame All the Pretty Horses and Lonesome Dove).

“The horse died.  My saddle rotted and my stirrups fell into the creek.  The Indians shot my partner through the hat.  The End.” – Wallace Johnston, Amarillo, TX

Can you get any more Western than that?  The entire horde of Western movies and scores of Louis L’Amour and Ernest Haycox stories absorbed over the span of my life flashed through my mind as I read Mr. Johnston’s tale, and I understood its meaning as if in a vision.  Ah, such simplicity masking the overall complexity of the metaphors and allegory.  He pokes fun at the genre, while at the same time paying homage to it.  His clever use of stereotypical cowboy plotting destroys my notions that pulp fiction and Saturday afternoon matinee cowboy horse opera can’t be art.  In so few words, the story says it all.  It may be the mold by which all further Westerns are measured against, or should be.  An outline, if you will, of perfect construction and writing – as sparse as an Arizona desert, but at the same time filled to the brim with cool, clear meaning.

In all seriousness, I find this little piece strangely effective and enjoyable.  Not only does it have lessons to teach about editing, and the impact of words, but it also reminded me not to strain so hard trying to create a masterpiece, but to simply write a good story the way I like to write them.  The author reminded me that despite all the clever characters I attempt to create and portray, and all the philosophical depth I strive for, a story is never more than just that… a story.

Hats off to you, my friend.  Thanks for reminding me not to take writing so seriously.

IN THE SPIRIT OF JOHNSTON’S MASTERPIECE, I’M GOING TO HOLD A WRITING CONTEST IN CONJUNCTION WITH HIGH HILL PRESS.  I dare those of you out there stranded upon the barren wastes of the web to top Johnston’s story.  Can you write a better Western using no more words than he did?  There are short stories, short-shorts, and flash fiction.  Perhaps we can create a new form – the Western Mini.  Go ahead, dare to be bold and leave your stories in the comments box.

THE RULES:

1. Use no more than four sentences (not counting “The End”).

2. Multiple entries are allowed.

3.  Western / Old West topics are a must.

4. The contest closes 9/23/12 at the last stroke of midnight (0oooh!  Dramatic, huh?).

5. No poetry, and please, no excerpts from novels where you make what should be ten sentences into four with creative punctuation.  Please adhere to the spirit and intent of the contest.  I know a lot of you want to show off your skills and work, but do so by writing something exceptional in the form we want.  We need four-sentence stories with the wording carefully chosen.  That is the fun and educational part of trying to write a western story in four sentences – sparsity of words and those words having an impact.

6. I, Brett Cogburn, get to be the sole, judge, jury, and executioner… I mean congratulator.  Although, fan comments will be taken into consideration, and death threats will assure entries of winning.

7. WINNERS WILL BE POSTED ON A NEW BLOG POST THE WEEK AFTER THE CONTEST CLOSES.  An email address will be given for the winners to send their hometown info and bios.

Grand Prize: [This is really cool.]

LATE BREAKING NEWS!  HIGH HILL PRESS HAS OFFERED TO PUBLISH THE BEST OF THE WESTERN MINIS IN THE CONTEST IN THEIR NEXT CACTUS COUNTRY ANTHOLOGY.  THE WINNING STORIES WILL BE PLACED IN THE BOOK WITH THE AUTHOR’S NAME, HOMETOWN, AND A TWO SENTENCE BIO.  BECOME A PUBLISHED AUTHOR IN ONLY FOUR SENTENCES!

I will pick one winner, and maybe multiple winners, to receive a free, signed copy of their choice of my books.  I will also post the winner’s story in it’s own blog post with an interview of the author, as well as putting it on my author FB page (every little bit of advertising helps for those of you who are aspiring authors). Some top notch successful western authors have agreed to post their western minis throughout the coming days.  Pay attention to what they do, and see if you can top them.

WINNERS WILL BE POSTED ON A NEW BLOG POST THE WEEK AFTER THE CONTEST CLOSES.

check out High Hill Press @  http://www.highhillpress.com/High%20Hill%20Bookstore/High%20Hill%20Press%20Bookstore.htm

Cactus Country’s Blog @  cactuscountrypublishing.blogspot.com

Brett Cogburn @ brettcogburn.com or http://www.facebook.com/authorbrettcogburn

Dusty Richards @ www.dustyrichards.com

John D. Nesbitt @ www.johndnesbitt.com

P.S… And in the spirit of enlightenment, I’ll close with one last bit of wisdom passed on to me years ago by another sage of the pen and pistol.  His name eludes me, but his words still ring true.  ”Shooting a pistol may be just like pointing your finger, but then again, you might be surprised what you actually hit if your finger were to go off.”

Adios,

BC

 

Don’t Get Crossways with the Rifleman

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Way back when, I thought Chuck Connors, aka the Rifleman, was a bad-ass, even if he couldn’t ride the coin operated horse in front of Wal-Mart.  The other day I ran across this cool YouTube video somebody put together of his gunfight highlights.  Whoever edited the video did an excellent job, and I thought it went pretty good with the post I wrote recently, “The Melodramatic Winchester.”

The Rifleman was hell on the bad guys, and could make his old Winchester sing.   He could load that bowring carbine up on Sunday and shoot it all week before he had to reload.   Just don’t pay too much attention to how his barrel wobbles around like a drunken sailor while he’s shooting.

Hope ya’ll enjoy,

BC

 

Children, Buffalo Chips and Grizzle Bears

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Many of us never develop the love of history until well into the span of our lifetimes.  Often, retirement is the only thing that allows some the time to learn a little of what went on before us, or the genealogy urge hits us long after those eyewitnesses to our family pasts have long since died.  It is often said that we should introduce our children to history.  While that may be true, I think it even more important not just to introduce them to history, but to do so at a young age while their tastes are still being formed – before video games, i-phones, Japanese robot cartoons, and monster trucks have time to make the world’s low technology past seem boring and tame to them.

I recall burning our pastures off one spring with my three year old son tagging along at my heels.  He spied a dried piece of horse manure smoking in the charred, sooty remains of a clump of grass.  Naturally curious and shocked by the fact that feces would burn, he was full of questions.  I explained to him that there was a time on the Western plains, a land often scarce of firewood, that the Indians, immigrants, mountain men, and explorers burned buffalo manure for their campfires.  Westerners gave the fuel the simple name of “chips.”  Buffalo chips were simply dried patties of manure, so disklike as to resemble little frisbees scattered across the terrain.  Women and children walking alongside an oxen drawn wagon train might gather chips during the day’s travels.  Accounts of travelers on the Oregon or California trails mention the women using their bunched skirts to hold such fuel.  Cowboys driving herds of longhorns north sometimes strung a tarp underneath the chuckwagon, or hooligan wagon if they had one, to store the chips the cook gathered during the day. Many a branding iron was heated on a cow chip fire.  Dried cow patties will burn just as good as the offerings of their bovine cousin, the buffalo or American Bison.  Both animals are herbirvors and grazers, and their excrement consists mostly of the undigested or partially digested grass.  Chips are nearly perfect fuel when dried, possessing a low ignition point, and making wonderfully hot coals.  Basically, they are just a ready made tinder bundle.

My son was a heap impressed (I find as he gets older it is much harder for Daddy to appear the all-knowing super being he once was).  I could see his little eyes envisioning pioneers roughing it on the trail and hunkering down over buffalo turd fires at night and staring into the darkness for signs of Indians on the warpath.  We can bore our children to death with facts, or recent theories as to what “actually” happened during famous historical events, or we can let them learn that stuff later and simply enjoy a little more romanticized past, even if not quite accurate.  Little tikes don’t care if Wyatt Earp was trully a good guy, or a gambler gunfighter who used his badge during a personal feud at the O.K. Corral.

Just recently, I gave in and purchased that same son (now 10) an X Box video game system.  I always felt that a child was better served playing outside or reading a good book rather than killing zombies on the TV, but I’ve found that even video games offer chances to talk about history with my children.  While my son was proudly showing me his ability to kill a man-eating grizzly on a Cabela’s game I took the opportunity to tell him how the mountain man, Hugh Glass, was once terribly mauled by such a bear and left for dead by his fellow trappers (Jim Bridger being one of them).  Glass, half-naked and looking like a piece of raw hamburger, crawled over a hundred miles to the nearest fort and survived.  Talk about tough.  I added how the Lewis and Clark Expedition immediately discovered on the Missouri River that their thirty something caliber rifles were far too light to be fighting a pissed-off grizzle bear.  Wouldn’t you know it?  A kid that loves video games soon had dropped his controller, forgotten all about the TV screen, and was asking me all sorts of questions.  For days his time outside was spent playing like he was tackling old Ursus arctos horriblis with the hickory stick that serves as his backyard gun.

On a recent family trail ride through the mountains he asked if he could carry his little single-shot .22 rifle in a scabbard on his saddle.  While there was no need for him to travel with artillery, I allowed him to over his mother’s protests.  He spent the day passing through the mountains imagining himself armed to the teeth and riding through woods infested with hordes of bandits, scalp hungry Indians in wild paint, and yes, even grizzle bears.  His ancient old sorrel gelding became transformed into the speediest steed Jesse James ever swung a leg over to flee a bank he’d just robbed.  Come nightime at our cabin, that little boy of mine asked me if we had some buffalo chips could we burn them in the cast iron stove.  I told him a little fat bear meat would cook well over such a fire, and he looked at me with big eyes and asked if a .22 was enough gun to tackle a grizzly.  And while the old stove ticked pleasantly and put off a toasty warmth I propped my feet up on the edge of my bunk and did a little dreaming of my own.  I remembered another boy many years before, sitting on the back of an old sorrel gelding wasting his Daddy’s cartridges pumping lead into a dead blackjack snag pretending like it was some rival gunfighter.  Once upon a time, we were all kids.

History isn’t just dusty old books, and it’s nothing without an imagination.  Take every chance to teach your children what you love.  The opportunity only comes once.

Shoot low.  They’re all ridin’ Shetlands,

BC

 

The Melodramatic Winchester

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Ah, that sweet sound.  There’s nothing like a Winchester, especially in Hollywood.

The various Winchester lever-action models made during the last half of the 19th Centrury have become an icon of the Old West.  Despite a wide variety of firearm companies and designs that saw wide use hunting grizz and shooting the bad guys in black hats, the Winchester, much like the Colt single-action pistol, has become a legend in American frontier mythology.  Western movies made prior to 1990 rarely showed any other long gun than a Winchester, despite the fact that Sharps, Remington, and numerous other companies’ offerings were found throughout the West.  There is something about the fast-shooting, sleek lines of the the ’66, ’73, ’76, ’86, ’92, and ’94, and ’95 model rifles and carbines that strikes a city-slicker director’s fancy.  The 1873 Winchester in it’s various pistol cartridge chamberings is the real darling of Hollywood.  I would venture that no long gun has participated in more Westerns than the ’73 (except when John Wayne erroneously packed an 1892 bow ring carbine in movies set in the 1870′s).  Granted, the various Winchester models were the Cadillac of firearms in an age where manufacturers advertised the high rate of fire of the repeating descendants of muzzle and breechloading weapons shooters had once relied upon.  When Roy Rogers and Gabby Hayes had to surround and capture thirty outlaws, plenty of shoot-em-up fodder stuffed in the magazine tube came in handy.  An old single-shot Ballard rifle would never look exciting for Chuck Connors to fire from the hip at at rate of six rounds per minute, as opposed to that many in a second.  It is understandable why Hollywood is so ga ga over the Winchester, but that love affair is not simply due to the looks or the magazine capacity of the gun.  It often seems that film makers love the sound of the rifle more than anything, and I don’t mean the boom of an exploding cartridge.

How many times have we watched the scene where the movie gunfighter needs to use his Winchester and dramatically works the lever and clacks a cartridge into the chamber?  In fact, sometimes the actor may do it more than once, ejecting an unspent cartridge onto the ground to replace it with another one from the magazine.  It seems that the sound of that Winchester action snapping open and closed is just too great not to use.  While the sight of one of my big screen heroes jacking a round into his Winchester is cool, those of us who have hunted or carried firearms for defense realize just how hokey the scene is.

A man riding in the land of enemies had better keep a round in the chamber, and a hunter on the American frontier would often miss the oportunity to bag some much needed food for the table if he didn’t have a round already shoved in the pipe.  While there may have been those extra cautious riders, who for safety’s sake, carried their Winchester in the saddle boot without a round chambered, the gun was designed to be carried in the opposite manner.

The term “half-cocked” owes its origins to externally hammered firearms such as the Winchester.  The gun handy-shooter will work the lever to chamber a round, and then lower the hammer to half-cock.  If he needs the gun quickly, all he has to do is pull back the hammer to full cock and shoot.  The half-cock position keeps the hammer away from the firing pin, and prevents it being struck by something, such as in a fall, and firing an unwanted shot.  Thus, the term, “don’t go off half-cocked” means that you can’t shoot without the hammer all the way back – tackling something unprepared.

As many or more of Old West gunfights were fought with rifles as they were with pistols, especially on the frontier.  A good marksman could keep disagreements at a distance with his old Winchester.  Pink Higgins, the Texas gunman of the famous Higgins-Horrell Feud, duirng his years of knocking off his enemies, preferred a lever gun, no matter the range.  In 1877, Pink found Merritt Horrell in the Matador Saloon at Lampasas, Texas.  Pink shot him four times so quickly with his ’73 44-40 that it would have done The Rifleman proud.  In 1908 while working for the Spur Ranch, he got crossways with a fellow stock detective, Bill Standifer.  Pink saw Standifer riding to challenge him, and rode out and stopped about a hundred yards away and dismounted with his ’94 30-30 resting over his saddle.  As soon as Standifer stopped and made to swing his leg off his horse Pink shot him dead.  There are some who say Pink killed 14 men, and all of them with a Winchester.  I seriously doubt that Pink ever forewarned his opponents by standing spraddle-legged before them and levering a round into his Winchester in the way of an ominous sound effect, no matter how great it would have looked with a John Ford sunset background.  Pink already had one in the chamber so that he could cock the hammer and whip up his Winchester and fire.  Slow folks got a bullet in the gizzard, and Pink wasn’t one to waste time when it came to a killing.

Cherokee Bill, the famous outlaw of the Indian Nations, preferred a Winchester himself, and he liked to shoot from the hip.  Bill was part white, part black, part French, part Cherokee, and all bad.  After he was locked away in the U.S. jail at Fort Smith he was given an empty Winchester to pose with for a picture.  Afterward, he worked the lever and pulled the trigger on the harmless weapon so fast as to amaze the observing lawmen around him.  He told his admirers that he wasn’t always accurate with his blazing speed, but he could lay down enough fire to keep his enemies too nervous to shoot back at him properly.  When Cherokee Bill made his famous escape attempt from the jail, it is said he gobbled like a turkey, the traditional Cherokee battle cry, while he shot at the guards.  Speed was everything to Bill, so pardon him if he just went to shooting without giving the camera man or the director a dramatic pause to work that wonderful sounding lever.

So the next time your busting the brush with your ’94 30-30 in search of that old thorny-headed whitetail buck, shooting targets with your replica ’73 at a Cowboy Action meet, or meeting an intruder in the dark of your home with Grandpa’s big bore ’86 in your grimy paws, resist the urge to pause to work that sweet lever action just to let the world know that you’re armed and deadly.  All the bad-asses of history knew that you shoot first and ask questions later – even if you’re packing a Winchester.

 

 

The Old West Stinks

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    Many colorful adjectives and adverbs have been attached to the Old West. It was bloody, romantic, exciting, epic, etc. However, amidst all the high drama, an oft overlooked fact of the era was that our pioneer forefathers (and mothers) were probably highly odiferous. To put it bluntly, the Old West simply stunk to the high heavens.

I’ve always believed in reading primary sources for research purposes, and I got quite a chuckle recently while perusing a home remedy journal dated from 1890.  Although the author emphasizes the correlation between cleanliness and good health and stresses the use of antiseptics for wounds, his concept of adequate hygiene is a little different from ours. The public is urged to take at least one bath a week (whether they needed it or not).  Also, a cleanly citizen is advised to thoroughly wash and comb their hair with soap and water at least every two weeks for healthy and luxurious locks.

Many U.S. cities were without running water, or municipal water systems, well past 1900.  Of course, pioneers on the frontier of the American West faced even harsher conditions.  Unlike today, there was no coming home from work to a quick hot shower and microwave cooked meal before flopping down on the bed or in front of the TV.  A bath could be an arduous task unless you were rich enough to have a well plumbed into your house.  Carrying water in buckets from a well, river, spring or other supply source was highly labor intensive, added to by the need to build a fire to warm the bath.  Once the old bathtub or galvanized wash tub was filled, an entire family might have to share the water. It’s understandable that old-time accounts state that many of the most cleanly and fastidious of families on the frontier often made a weekly bath a ritual. A wash pan to clean faces and hands was all you might get during the time in between your Sunday or Saturday scrubbing.

One of the styles of the Victorian Era was for men to wear wool suits, coat and vest.  Also, the long petticoats, skirts, bustles, and girdles women wore weren’t what could be termed as “warm climate friendly.” Summer temperatures in West Texas or the plains of Wyoming swelter past 100 degrees and humidity levels in the South are often in excess of 90%.  Given that there were no stick deodorants in the 19th Century, a world filled with once-a-week bathers was probably highly odiferous to say the least. A gathering of wool-coated men and stylish ladies might have smelled like a sheep pen. The author of the medical journal seemed to have that in mind when he provided the recipe for perfumes among his pages.

Many Western authors have orphaned the heroes of their stories with the historically accurate use of a cholera plague.  Cholera outbreaks killed thousands during the first hundred years of our great nation.  Those affected with the disease suffered severe, watery diarrhea. Cholera was often called the Blue Death, as many of the ill turned a pale blue due to dehydration. Many of the frontier settlements, and cities alike, lacked sewage systems and sanitary garbage disposal.   Floods and high waters during the rainy season often contaminated drinking water sources with smelly #2 containing the bacteria that caused cholera.

Despite the concept of the Noble Savage, Native Americans weren’t the immaculately clean people clad in spotless buckskins the movies would have us believe. Water is and was in short supply in many of the arid western lands, and frigid winter temperatures weren’t conducive to bathing.  Rather than a bath in a tepee, many tribes resorted to scouring themselves with sand. Grime, blood, and animal fat stained buckskins until a new pair was made.  Combs were used among Native Americans, but often fellow tribe members helped pick the nits and lice out of each others’ hair.  Western travelers of the 1800′s noted how many of the tribes coated their hair and sometimes their skin in bear grease. While somewhat smelly, the shine it produced was the epitome of a stylish, fashion-conscious Indian. Other historical accounts tell that one of the reasons the nomadic plains tribes move their camps so often wasn’t just because of the need to follow buffalo herds or to locate other food sources.  Breaking camp was often a means to get away from the reek of feces, carcass refuse, and so on.  One early day trailblazer said the stench of a recently vacated Comanche camp could be smelled a mile away.

I assume that the noses of those living in earlier times were adjusted to the smell of their fellow man, but if we were to take a time machine back to our beloved past we might immediately want to call in the Old Spice dude to doctor up long, tall Matt Dillon, or hand Miss Kitty a bar of soap.

BC