On September 25, 1867, Oliver Loving, one of the great pioneer Texas cattlemen, died at the age of 55.  Incidentally, the story of his death may have a familiar ring.

Oliver Loving was born in Kentucky, and moved to Texas at the age of 33 where he engaged in farming and freighting.  And finally, at the age of 44, when most men are choosing a quiet life, Loving got involved with cattle, and driving them to places where they had never been.

In 1858 he took Texas longhorns to Chicago along what was to be later known as the Shawnee Trail.  About a year later he took cattle up to Denver to supply the needs of the gold miners.

Following the Civil War, Oliver Loving teamed up with Charles Goodnight and in 1866 they established the Goodnight-Loving Trail that went from Texas to Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

The second year they took the trail they encountered a number of Indians, causing delays in the drive.  To assure the buyers that the cattle were on the way, Loving and Billy Wilson went in advance of the cattle to Fort Sumner.  Along the way they encountered some Indians. And in a skirmish Loving was shot in the wrist and side.
Thinking he was going to die, Loving persuaded Wilson to leave him.  But Loving didn’t die.  For seven days he crawled, without food, until he encountered some men who took him to Fort Sumner.  Gangrene had set in his arm, but an inexperienced doctor chose not to amputate.

When partner Charles Goodnight arrived in Fort Sumner, he was excited to discover Loving had survived.  But the news was not good.  The gangrene had gotten so bad that even after amputation, Loving died three weeks later.

If the story of Loving’s death sounds a bit familiar, it’s probable because you’ve watched the movie Lonesome Dove, and remember the character, Gus McCall, said to have been patterned after Loving.

Today Chicago, Illinois is considered the meat packing capital of the United States.  But that title was supposed to have gone to another town.

In the late 1860’s Texas cattlemen were having a problem with a disease called Texas fever.  It didn’t affect the Texas Longhorns.  But northern cattle, exposed to ticks from the Longhorns, were adversely affected.  Because of this, cattle drives were not allowed to travel through Colorado, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and Kentucky which basically cut them off from Northern markets.

A young man named Joseph McCoy got the idea to transport the Texas Longhorns through the quarantine states on trains.  He selected the remote town of Abilene, Kansas as the starting point.

Then he chose St. Louis, Missouri as the destination point.  This was the headquarters of the Missouri-Pacific Railroad.  So, at the age of 19, he presented his idea to the President of the railroad.

The railroad President said, “It occurs to me that you haven’t any cattle to ship and never did have any, and I, sir, have no evidence that you ever will have.  Therefore you get out of this office, and let me not be troubled with any more of your style.”

McCoy found a warmer reception from the St. Jo. Railroad that ended in Chicago.  Starting on September 5, 1867, almost 1,000 carloads of cattle were shipped from Abilene to Chicago.  The next year 75,000 cattle were shipped.
Realizing his mistake the Missouri-Pacific President, who had rejected McCoy’s proposal, tried to solicit his business.  Joseph McCoy told him, “It occurs to me that I have no cattle for your railroad, never have had and there is no evidence that I ever will have.”

In the predawn darkness of August 28, 1885, nine men were lynched.  The local newspaper didn’t report it.  Residents didn’t talk about it.  And, even today little is said about it.  But, we’re going to talk about it.

The year was 1885. With the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, passing through the town, Flagstaff, Arizona was booming.  As well as families, soiled doves, gamblers and hard cases arrived.  A section of town called Whiskey Row had saloons that were open round the clock.  And, there were as many as a dozen robberies each night.  The nearest law was in Prescott, Arizona, some 87 miles away.

When the local paper wrote articles condemning the bad element, they threatened to burn down the town.  Six local businessmen met in secret to discuss a solution to the problem.  In order to discover the troublemakers, one of the men volunteered to cruse Whiskey Row with a pocket of gold coins.  After four nights, the men had accumulated quite a list.

In the middle of August an ultimatum was tacked on the door of every saloon.  It read: “Notice – Tinhorns have 24 hours left.”  A few left town.  But many stayed.

The names of the remaining tinhorns were put in a hat, and the morning of August 28, 1885 ten names were drawn out.  Quietly, nine of the ten were found; hands tied; and all nine men were hanged.  That morning citizens were whispering about men hanging from a tree outside town.

After about 24 hours the men were cut down and buried.  No one spoke of it openly.  Nothing was ever written about it in the newspaper.  The sheriff arrived from Prescott, and returned empty handed, because no one knew anything about a lynching.  Life went on as if nothing had happened.  Except for one thing, that is.  All the tinhorns decided Flagstaff, Arizona wasn’t that exciting a place to live.

Clay Allison was a hard-drinking, prankster of the type who becomes a legend in his own time. During his lifetime, Allison only killed four people.  But the stories about him that didn’t involve killing are as entertaining as those that did.

There’s the story of Clay Allison looking up gunman Mace Bowman with the object of killing him.  But, Bowman was a congenial person, and the two men ended up getting drunk together.  Still curious about who was the fastest, they decided to test each other’s speed with some fast draws. Allison found that Bowman was faster than he was.  So, Allison suggested they strip to underwear, and shoot at each other’s bare feet to see who could move faster.  They were either poor shots or fleet of feet, because a short time later the two men, out of breath, bellied up to the bar for another drink.

Then, there was the time on August 15, 1874, when Allison arrived in Cheyenne, Wyoming with a raging toothache.  Now, Cheyenne had two dentists.  So, Allison chose the closest one and climbed in his chair.  Unfortunately the dentist drilled the wrong tooth.  When the dentist announced his mistake, Allison angrily jumped out of the chair, and went over to the other dentist’s office.  The other dentist took care of the problem.

With his pain gone, Allison returned to the first dentist, and pinned the dentist in his chair.  Grabbing the dentist’s forceps, and proceeded to pull, according to different stories, one, three or all of the dentist’s teeth.  I can assure you that dentist never drilled on the wrong tooth again.