The Monsoon

The war was almost over but we didn’t know it yet. I was still in bed. It was dark, but there was already a thin ribbon of yellow forming on the horizon, I knew. I could hear our cow lowing. I should’ve been in the barn fifteen minutes earlier, milk pinging against the dented metal bucket. My father was already out in the fields. Suddenly there was a flash and my room lit up like lightning had come right through the window. I felt the ground tremble beneath my bed. Then it all faded away and the world was still. What birds had started to sing went quiet. Even the air seemed to have frozen.

I got up and went to the kitchen. My mother was looking out the window to the south, toward Carthage, where we all knew the government was working on some new weapon to use against the Japanese now that Germany had surrendered. My father came in, already sweating a little. “There’s a big cloud in the sky,” he said. “Whatever they were doing—all those explosives—they must’ve accidentally blown them up. Good God almighty, it must be bad down there.”



After that, we didn’t hear a thing from anyone. No Army men came to offer an explanation and our neighbors—those few that hadn’t been bought out by the government—didn’t know anything either. We speculated about the “accident” for a couple weeks. Then it suddenly became clear that what had happened that morning a few dozen miles south of our farm was no accident at all.

That was just before the monsoons came. I was 19 years old. Now I wonder if there was something about the bomb that made it rain like that. Out here we’re used to getting good, hard rains day after day in the late-summer. Every living thing in the desert needs the monsoon and welcomes it. Back then, those years when it didn’t come could be read in the clenched jaws and sunken eyes of the men at the Texaco Station looking for work or a ride out farther West. But that year the rain seemed angry, like it was throwing itself at the earth. Every afternoon the acequias would spill over and cars would slip off muddy roads and into flooded ditches. More than one person was swept away and drowned while crossing through the canyons and arroyos. Our fields lay under an inch of water and my father would sit at the kitchen table smoking cigarettes and listening to the radio, idled. Generations of experience had taught everyone to get their crops in before late-July, so at least our livelihood wasn’t wiped-out.



Then August was nearly over. People were euphoric now that the war was won and the men were coming home. The monsoon tapered off and the sky brightened. The air was crisper with fall approaching. Billy and Janie were my best friends. We’d all grown up together. First as kids in grade school, then teenagers, and now as young adults trying to grow into a strange new world. I guess it’s common to get crushes for the girls you grow up with, but I was probably 16 when I realized that I might really be in love with Janie. I was 17 when I figured out that Billy probably was, too. I’d lie in bed at night, sometimes for hours, rehearsing how I was going to tell her what I felt. I was certain she felt the same and believed that her every word and look contained some hidden message meant only for me. But there was Billy to consider. And I was young. And I was scared.

Eventually I started to notice that something was changing between Billy and Janie. She’d grab his arm and look at him in a way that was new to me. He’d hand her his cigarette and she’d inhale deeply, then giggle and give it back to him. He’d grin madly and then glance over at me and that grin would fall off his face. I started feeling a jealousy that went beyond what I’d known on the ball fields and playgrounds. Once I asked him if he was going steady with her and he looked at me strangely and said, “Naw, naw. We’re just good friends. Like you and her, too.” But I guess I knew. I stopped rehearsing my romantic soliloquies.



Now that the monsoons were lessening, we decided to spend the night up at the old cabin Janie’s father had built when she was a baby. It had been cut-off while the arroyos were flooded and we could use going up there to check on things as an excuse for getting away. It was nice in the forest, surrounded by pinyon and juniper, the hills rolling on every side, the air fresh and clean like you don't feel it anymore.

We went up in Billy’s 1938 Ford sedan. He’d bought it used from a neighbor with money he’d saved for years working on farms and doing odd jobs. He was proud of it, mainly because it wasn’t a pick-up truck, I think. More than any of us, Billy wanted to get out of the country and into the city. Not just Albuquerque, but Chicago, New York, Los Angeles. “That’s where things are really happening,” he’d say.



The only way to Janie’s cabin was by following the sandy arroyo beds, sometimes deep below their steeply cut banks. The arroyos were dry now and the Ford bumped along as we laughed and joked. Billy had brought some whiskey and I was surprised to see him pass it to Janie. But she took a swig and coughed, then laughed happily as she handed it back to me. It burned as it went down, but in the last year I’d grown to like that feeling. I passed it back to Billy as the warmth spread through my stomach.

When we neared the cabin we saw flashes on the horizon. A faint throb of thunder echoed through the canyons. We all looked at the sky and even over the taller hills we could see the thunderheads. “I hope no one has any plans for the evening,” Billy said. Janie giggled and I laughed, too. I liked the idea of spending a night in front of the fire with my friends as the rain beat against the cabin's tin roof.



The cabin had weathered the monsoon just fine and we loaded in some food and extra blankets. It was starting to get colder now, especially in the early morning hours. There was still plenty of firewood stacked along the side of the cabin and as the first big droplets of rain began to fall we brought some of the wood inside and started a fire.

The rain grew steadily harder as the sun started to set. We ate some dinner and talked about what we hoped to achieve for ourselves during the fall. But, slowly, the conversation died as the rain kept coming. I looked out the front window and saw the arroyo starting to run. I suddenly felt unsettled. Janie was sitting close to Billy and while they weren’t talking now or even looking at each other, I became angry.

I opened the door and walked outside to stand under the awning and watch the rain. In a few minutes, Billy came out. “Janie wanted me to ask you what’s wrong,” he said. I looked at him and then looked back at the steadily filling arroyo. “I’m fine.” A bolt of lightning flashed and thunder rolled. “You aren’t afraid?” he laughed. I looked at him again but didn’t say anything. Billy glanced up at the darkening sky and then back at the arroyo. “I hope that’s down by tomorrow,” he said. “My dad will kill me if I’m not back in time to go with him to the lumber yard.” I lit a cigarette but didn’t say a word. Finally, Billy said, “She makes her own decisions, you know.” I held the smoke in my lungs and it started to burn. “I never told her how to feel.” Then he went inside and I exhaled quickly, feeling sick to my stomach.



As it got dark the rain began to taper off but the arroyo ran deeper and faster with run-off from the hills. Things felt tense in the cabin and I was uncomfortable. I wondered what they’d said about me, if Janie knew I loved her, and, if so, how long had she known. Did they take it seriously? Did they laugh at me when I wasn’t around? I couldn’t say. But no one was laughing as we quietly watched the fire burn to embers.

“Janie, why don’t you go get some more wood for the fire?” Billy finally asked. Janie looked at him like he was crazy. “I’m not getting any wood. It’s cold and wet and muddy out there. You’re the men, you guys get it.” Billy hesitated a moment and then said, “Us men need a minute or two to talk something over.” I couldn’t put words to what I saw flash in Janie’s eyes, but she stood up, put on her jacket and walked out the door.

When the door closed, Billy ran a hand through his greased-back hair. “Listen, I think you should know what Janie…” Suddenly we heard Janie scream and we both jumped up and were out the door in an instant. We got to the side of the house in time to see the biggest diamondback rattlesnake I’d ever seen slither across the wet sand and away into the clumps of grama grass. It was almost dark now, but there was light from the cabin windows and open door. Janie was lying on the ground holding her wrist, crying and moaning. Billy and I bent down to look. He pulled Janie’s hand away and we could see the two punctures, the flesh already turning reddish-purple around the bite. “The snake was in the woodpile…” I said, but Billy was running inside to get the car keys.



We helped Janie into the car. Already she couldn’t move her legs very well and her face had turned white. Her breathing was shallow. She’d stopped crying, but that didn’t seem to be a good thing. I could see that the arroyo was almost over its banks. “Billy,” I said, “How are we getting out? The arroyo is flooded.” “I’ll have to drive along the bank. She won’t make it very long.” I nodded and began to get in the car but Billy stopped me. “You stay here,” he said. “We’ll get you tomorrow.” I felt as if the entire world was suddenly falling away. “You’re not leaving without me!” I yelled, making a step back toward the car. But before I knew it, Billy had drawn his fist back. I felt it connect, but that was all.

I came to on the ground and although it must’ve been cold and muddy and wet, I felt warm. I couldn’t seem to wake up, like when you’re in a comfortable bed on a cold winter’s day and your eyes just won’t stay open. I struggled and slowly the intense burn that ran from my jaw to my temple brought me around. I sat up and saw the red and white tail lights of the Ford bumping slowly along the bank of the arroyo, Billy trying to navigate around the larger trees and bushes. Suddenly the tail lights tilted and the sodden bank started to crumble. Then one red arrow was on top of the other and then they changed positions and disappeared as the car flipped and went under the water.



I got up and ran as fast as I could, slipping in the mud. It took only a couple minutes to get to the car. The wheels were still turning and steam was rising from the exhaust. Billy’s door was pinned up tight against the opposite bank. Nothing seemed to be moving inside. I jumped onto the underside of the car, just inches above the rushing torrent, and leaned over, trying to find the latch on Janie’s door. The water was frigid and the current strong. I couldn’t reach the handle so I lowered myself over the side. It was so cold it took my breath away. I could feel my heart beat in my throat and I struggled to keep from passing out. My feet touched the sandy bottom and, holding onto the undercarriage with one hand to keep from being swept away, I found the door handle and pulled with all my strength. It wouldn’t open. I pulled and pulled. Maybe the top of the door was stuck in the sand. Janie was probably unconscious by then. I didn’t know what had happened to Billy. There was no sound at all from inside the car. I kept pulling but soon I couldn’t feel my hands or feet.

I don’t know how long I was in the water, but when I hauled myself out I was crying. I began to shiver uncontrollably. At that point I knew that, surely, both Billy and Janie were drowned. I stumbled back to the cabin, knowing I’d go hypothermic if I didn’t get warm quickly. I had to get more wood from the woodpile. Then, shivering uncontrollably, my skin blue, I lit a fire and took off my clothes. I wrapped myself in a blanket and waited for the life to come back into me. I’m not sure it ever did.

When I was warm enough I started walking, still wrapped in the blanket, past the car, the wheels stopped and the engine cold now, following the churning muddy arroyo carrying twigs and debris toward the highway. It took almost two hours and when I got to the road it was still dark and there wasn’t much traffic. I waited on the shoulder as the sun broke over the horizon. Finally, a farm truck approached and I waved the man down. I have no idea what I said to him, but before long groups of men were running along the muddy bank of the arroyo, a beat-up tow truck following behind as others cleared a path.



I was taken to the hospital and soon my family was there, saying, “Poor, sweet Janie.” “This was no one’s fault,” my father said in a thick, stern voice. My mother, crying while she looked down at me in the bed, her tears falling on my own face, said that Billy was very brave. No one ever asked me why I wasn’t in the car with them.

Things went about as you’d expect after that, although they never did haul Billy’s car out of the woods. After a few days men started to come and take what they could. Wheels, axles, the transmission. I didn’t blame them. I never moved away, although I guess I should have. This land is in my blood, for better or worse. I did get married. I had two kids, a boy and a girl. They’re grown and moved away with their own families now. My wife, Maggie, has been dead three years. It’s been mostly a good life, but I don’t know that I ever loved my wife as I should’ve. I don’t necessarily believe that Janie and I would be together today. Maybe Billy would’ve married her. I know he understood that if he let Janie die he wouldn’t have wanted to go on living. But I don’t understand why he didn’t see that I would feel the same way. In the end, I lost both of them and something else, too.

I guess that’s why I’m up in this arroyo again. No one could count the hours I’ve spent here. The old cabin fell into disrepair years ago. The roof caved in sometime in the ‘70’s. Billy’s mangled Ford is still nearby, too. It eventually slid back down the sandy embankment and with every monsoon season it gets shoved a bit farther downstream. Some seasons I lose it for a while, but I always find it eventually. I admit that I’ve occasionally had the notion that it leads me back to itself. Right now it’s on a sandbar, hidden behind a clump of juniper, rusted and beaten past recognition. I know I shouldn’t be here, but there are things that happen in your life and sometimes you can’t really get beyond them. Not ever.



For once I don't owe Phil Varney a thing. All information for this post came from me and the wilds of the great state of New Mexico.

Troubled Times: Steins, New Mexico

Steins (pronounced STEENS), New Mexico is a ghost town whose recent history is as violent and troubled as its distant past. Philip Varney starts the tale in 1873 with Captain Steens, a member of the US Cavalry, who fought a battle against Apaches in Doubtful Canyon, not far from what's now the NM/AZ border. The canyon’s sobriquet reflected the view of most settlers on their odds of traveling through the place without getting killed. The story goes that Captain Steens couldn’t do it either and the site of his supposed death was later known as Steins (sic) Peak. However, Linda Harris says that MAJOR Enoch Steens merely camped in the area in 1856, rumors of his death being greatly exaggerated as he lived until 1880. I think Ms. Harris has it right.

(Incidentally, Steens is referred to as Samuel Chamberlain's captain--Company E, First U.S. Dragoons--in Chamberlain's somewhat exaggerated autobiography, "My Confession: The Recollections of a Rogue," the main source material for Cormac McCarthy's "Blood Meridian." This would be 1846, a decade before Steens would've camped near Doubtful Canyon.)



In 1880, the Southern Pacific Railroad came through this gap in the Peloncillo Mountains named Steins Pass, misspelled thanks to the Butterfield Overland Mail Route, which had christened their Doubtful Canyon stagecoach stop, about eight miles northwest, Steins Peak Station in 1858. In 1888, a post office was established and, in 1905, about the time the Southern Pacific’s rock crushing operation began, the "Pass" was dropped and the place became simply "Steins," yet still pronounced like the Major’s name.

Varney states that the post office was established at Doubtful Canyon and moved to Steins but, although it was on the mail route, there was never a PO at Doubtful Canyon/Steins Peak Station. Robert Julyan's "The Place Names of New Mexico" does a nice job of clearing up the confusion surrounding Doubtful Canyon/Steins Peak Station, Steins Peak, and Steins Pass/Steins (and Steins Mountain, less than two miles northwest of Steins and thus not where you'd find Steins Peak!).



The town’s population hit 100 and all modern conveniences were available, except water, which came only from Doubtful Canyon or, even more rarely, the sky. There was a dance hall, a two-story hotel, a saloon, and a two-room brothel. That’s one demimondaine for every 50 residents. I honestly don’t know if that’s a better or worse ratio than would be expected.

The Southern Pacific was crushing gravel for 300 miles of rail bed but the Chinese who did the work weren’t allowed to live in Steins; they had to stay out by the quarry itself. The ground of the cemetery, now to the south of Interstate 10, was reportedly so hard that graves had to be blasted out of the earth. Yeah, maybe things were kind of tough. Even now, if you go to Steins in the summer, it can feel like the sun is trying to incinerate you.



The quarry was shuttered in the 1920’s and that would be Steins peak, population 200. (Again, not to be confused with Steins Peak, elevation 5715’.) From there it was downhill, although the railroad station operated until 1950, when it was moved to Cottonwood City, just to the south. The post office had left six years earlier. Then Steins languished for years, many of its buildings burning down in a 1962 fire. Philip Varney’s photo from the 1970’s makes it look like by then hardly anything remained besides some crumbling adobes. For awhile, a mysterious fellow lived there alone, his family having bought the town site for him.

In 1988, Steins was purchased by Larry and Linda Link, who cleaned up the “10-acre junkyard,” restored some buildings, and gathered artifacts out of the piles of debris and from the surrounding community. They then opened Steins as a tourist attraction. At one point the town attracted 90,000 visitors a year. But vandalism and theft had gotten so bad by 2008 that the Links were forced to turn Steins into a bona fide ghost town for the second time.



The following year, when I first saw Steins, the little ghost town was entirely closed-off. Very un-Western semi-trailers were parked around the perimeter, “FUMIGATION” painted in big, red letters on their sides. Signs warning of methyl bromide fumigation hung on the fences. This was interesting as the use of methyl bromide, an ozone-depleting pesticide, was phased out in 2005. It was unclear what was going on, but it seemed that I wouldn’t be seeing Steins up close.

Then, on June 7, 2011, the story took a more tragic turn. Steins is only a few yards from I-10 and very early that morning someone probably exited off the interstate for reasons still unknown. It’s likely that Larry Link, suffering from insomnia, went to have a look. He was shot five times. Presumably the shooter then drove away, leaving an untraceable gun behind. Early reports portrayed Link as a rancher and his assailant as an illegal immigrant coming up from the Mexican border, less than 40 miles away. Such inaccuracy and politicized speculation angered the Link family.



In spring 2013, Linda Link and her granddaughter re-opened Steins, but before I could get down to have a look this December, it was closed again. However, as of summer 2016, the Steins Facebook page would seem to indicate that tours of the town may again be occurring on a semi-regular schedule.

So, what about those fumigation trucks? It seems that at one time the Link family applied pesticide to produce coming through on I-10. Whether they were still using methyl bromide or just got a deal on outdated signs, I can’t say. As for Larry Link’s killer, that mystery has been harder to solve. So far, police have confirmed just a single lead on the case. There have been no arrests.



I dug up various facts and figures on Steins from wherever I could find them. Varney, Harris, and Julyan, of course, but there is also a touching post from Larry and Linda Link's granddaughter at ghosttowns.com. The most comprehensive piece on Larry Link's murder seems to have been "Haunted by a Ghost Town Murder," published at NM Capitol Report in March 2013. However, that page has since been taken down.

We’re only three miles down the tracks from Arizona right now. Might as well go have a look next time.

Willis Earl Beal - A Place That Doesn’t Exist

I first met Willis Earl Beal at the Wendy’s on Central and University in Albuquerque. He was applying for a job at that esteemed establishment and we talked about Dylan as he filled out his application. He gave me CD-R’s of some of his songs and a packet of stories and drawings. I don’t know quite what I expected, but before I’d even heard all of one song I knew this was music that deserved attention. As for Willis, he got the gig at Wendy’s.

But it wasn’t long into his burger-flipping career that Willis had to leave Wendy’s. He’d eaten one of his own creations, among other infractions. Soon after that, he would have to leave Albuquerque entirely. But none of that matters now.



In 2011, Willis caught the attention of Hot Charity Records, an imprint of the celebrated XL Recordings. His first release, Acousmatic Sorcery, was comprised of songs I’d heard on those CD-R’s. In fact, they were the same recordings that he’d made in his small apartment near downtown Albuquerque. The record attracted a lot of attention. Willis found it all a little embarrassing. Last fall he released a proper studio recording, Nobody Knows. He’s proud of the record and when I told him I could still hear Albuquerque in his songs, he quickly agreed. It turns out that most of those tracks were written while he was still living here.





Now there’s another set of songs, A Place That Doesn’t Exist. This recording was handed out by Willis as he roamed the streets of Park City, Utah last week for the Sundance Film Festival, just like he used to do in Albuquerque, when anyone at a bus stop or laundromat might get a CD-R. He was promoting a film called Memphis and, from what I hear, the role allowed him to…draw pretty strongly on his own recent experiences, shall we say? Only 100 copies were made and, as of this writing, it’s unclear what kind of wider release it might see, if any. So, Willis asked if I’d make this music available right away and, of course, I said I’d be happy to oblige.

In fall 2010, I posted some of Willis’s songs on City of Dust when they weren’t available elsewhere. So, despite all the gigs, road miles, and publicity, maybe not much has really changed. And the songs still sound like Albuquerque to me (and it’s not just because he mentions tumbleweeds). In fact, Bright Copper Noon goes back to the original CD-R’s.





The accompanying photos were all taken along Central Ave. Before Wendy’s, Willis worked security at the La Quinta on San Mateo Blvd. Riding his bike back and forth across town, he would’ve passed these long-gone hotels and sun-blasted parking lots every day. Central through Albuquerque is old Route 66, once the Mother Road that would lead people from their small towns and dreary lives to the golden glow of California. But Route 66 is now chopped-up and cut-off where it’s not totally gone. Like the dream of easy prosperity and happiness that once beckoned in the West, it’s a place that no longer exists.



I’ve yet to see Willis perform on stage. But when we talk he sounds just like the same dude I met in Wendy’s. He’s still working hard on his songs, he still wants people to hear them, and he still wonders if they deserve attention. He’s still got his sense of humor, too. I was only a few seconds into Times of Gold, the first track on this record, when I once again felt that this was music that did indeed deserve attention. So, yeah, not much has changed.



Right-click the link below and "save as" to take a trip to “A Place That Doesn’t Exist.”

A Place That Doesn’t Exist

My understanding is that Willis recorded the basic tracks at home and then sent them off to Matt Dewine for production assistance. Enjoy.



Next post we’ll go to another place that doesn’t exist. I’ve got a piece on the ghost town of Steins, New Mexico, down near the Mexican border, all ready to go.

Spindrift Visits the Ghost Towns of Eastern NM

In fall 2012, western rock band SPINDRIFT played ghost towns of the Wild West, the best tour idea I'd ever heard. I was honored to have my photo of the First Presbyterian Church of Taiban grace the cover of their subsequent album, Spindrift - Ghost of the West. After their ABQ show last fall, the band felt the call of that little church on the windswept plains. So we headed east on a pilgrimage, visiting other ghostly places on US 60. This is the record. Click photos to enlarge.

Vaughn, NM was a crossroads town, where two major railroads met. There should have been a Spindrift gig at Spurs Saloon that night.

Billy the Kid was killed not far from Yeso, NM. The Hotel Mesa was probably the first stop for folks getting off the train. Not anymore.

In its last days the Hotel Mesa became a musem (sic) that had it all.

The First Presbyterian Church of Taiban was finished in December 1908. It cost $250 to construct and even that needed to be borrowed.

Reportedly the first sermon was poorly attended due to bad weather.

The last sermon was in 1936. Taiban's Pink Pony Saloon lasted a few years longer. The sun sets as we wait for the ghosts of the West.

Spindrift leave their record at the altar. The little church attracts such things. Many pilgrims have written their prayers on the walls.

The documentary of Spindrift's 2012 Ghost Town Tour will be finished in March. This is not to be missed by ghost town aficionados and those that enjoy Hawkwind, Marty Robbins, and all that lies between.

The band screens a short of the film this Friday (1/17/14) at Slamdance Film Fest in Park City, Utah and plays live. Then they're off to explore the ghost towns of northern Nevada. More festival and local screenings will follow later in 2014, so keep your eyes open.

Wanna hear Spindrift? Here's a link to The Matador and the Fuzz.

As a rule, I don't photograph people. So, I thank Spindrift for looking good, being patient, and getting me back out to a part of NM I love.

SPINDRIFT is:
James Acton – Drums, Autoharp
Henry Evans – Bass, Baritone Guitar
Kirpatrick Thomas – Guitar, Vocals
Michelle Vidal – Vocals, Mellosonic, Keys, Percussion

On the fall tour Rob Turner played bass and got his picture taken.

Let Me Die at Home: Melvin Mills Mansion, Springer, New Mexico

Let’s start 2014 way out on the cold, windswept plains of northeastern New Mexico. There we’ll find Melvin Whitson Mills former home, a three-story adobe territorial mansion with 20 rooms, carved walnut features, and a massive cistern out back.

Melvin Mills (or, “Colonel,” as he was known to friends) was born in 1845 in Ontario, Canada, his Quaker parents moving to Michigan shortly thereafter. He graduated from Ann Arbor Law School in 1869 and then came out to Elizabethtown, NM, where a gold rush was in full swing. But Elizabethtown eventually began to founder and Mills played a key role in getting the Colfax County Seat moved to a new town he was helping establish, this one named after Territorial attorney Frank Springer.



In 1877, Mills, both a District Attorney and New Mexico Territorial Legislator, platted Springer with William Thornton and took up residence, building the magnificent mansion that still stands. It’s considered the most unique architecture on the old Santa Fe Trail; the Cimarron Route could be seen from the south balcony while the Mountain Route was visible from the west. Travelers on the dangerous trek would frequently stop at Mills’ home and try to recover. This photo shows the mansion’s staircase, the tallest in New Mexico, bathed in devilish light from the 100+-year-old “ruby” window set in the transom over the front door, visible in the photo above.

Mills had already been a member of the infamous Santa Fe Ring and thus a major player in the vicious Colfax County War. He made many enemies in northern NM in the 1870’s as he worked to evict settlers, some of whom had lived on “their” land for decades. This was at the behest of the English and later Dutch companies that purchased the 1,714,765-acre (?!) and by then wildly-contested Maxwell Land Grant. Practicing this type of law in the Wild West wasn’t an easy business and the Colonel was occasionally associated with violence. He was implicated in the murder of Methodist preacher and Ring opponent Franklin J. Tolby and, while the charge was quickly retracted, Mills accuser, Manuel Cardenas, was himself shot on his way from court by an unknown assailant. Mills stated that he’d been in Colorado on business when Cardenas was killed and was taken into protective custody with another Ring member. A third Ring affiliate had earlier lit out for Santa Fe with the hot-headed Clay Allison’s posse at his heels. Reportedly in the interest of fairness, Mills trial was moved to Taos where a grand jury dropped all charges.



Dark political intrigue and bloodshed aside, Mills had a way with fruits and nuts and his Orchard Ranch, sprawled within a lush canyon of the Canadian River, became renowned, at one point containing 14,000 trees. In addition, he raised cattle and grew vegetables. A stage line stopped at the front door of his Mills Canyon Hotel. Mills’ beef and produce was shipped all over the U.S. and it’s no coincidence that Springer was already a bustling railroad town on the Santa Fe’s line. Pictured above and below is the shell of the Springer House, once the place where everyone went to raise a glass as soon as they stepped off the train. Now even the tracks themselves are gone.



In 1904, heavy rains came and the swollen Canadian washed away Mills’ agricultural empire entirely, leaving him a ruined man. He abandoned the area, but is supposed to have returned at the end of his life to ask his former Santa Fe Ring partner, Thomas B. Catron, if he might be allowed to die on a cot in the beautiful house that Catron is said to have now owned. However, Catron had died over four year earlier, in the spring of 1921, raising questions as to how Catron gave his consent. In fact, there's no evidence Catron ever actually did own the mansion, although he bought some of the original Maxwell Land Grant from Mills. More likely is that the president of the bank in Springer, who did own the home and was a friend, granted the request. But I wonder if even this is true; the August 21, 1925 edition of the The Springer Times makes no mention of any of it when announcing Mill’s death, only saying he “passed away at his home in Springer.” What is surely true is that Mills died on August 19, 1925, age 79. The next day he’d been scheduled to give a talk at the New Mexico Historical Society. While virtually nothing remains of his once vast-holdings, a small community to the southeast still bears his name.

Might Melvin Whitson Mills still reside in his mansion? There are many sources that say he does. But when I asked the current owner, all I received was a smile and the cryptic reply: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Cactus Café (below) in downtown Springer looked about the same last fall as it did in 2005 when I first encountered it. Some things in the desert don’t change (fast).



Information for this post came from all over the place and the conflicting “facts” of Mills’ involvement in the Colfax County War are voluminous. I tried my best. Mills’ Wikipedia entry is bizarre and disjointed, but does seem to contain a few true facts. The New Mexico Historical Review, Volume 1, contains some of the best background on the man. Frank Springer and New Mexico: From the Colfax County War to the Emergence of Modern Santa Fe and Translating Property: The Maxwell Land Grant and the Conflict Over Land in the American West, 1840-1900 seem to do the most thorough work on the shadowy war, which once saw the town of Cimarron essentially blockaded. Arthur and David Pike's "Detour New Mexico" is one of the only published sources to debunk the myth of Catron allowing Mills to die in the mansion. Did you know you can hike in the beautiful and now even more remote canyon where Mills’ great orchard once stood? You can actually hear the mansion here. Finally, this website, by T.T. Hagaman, provides contact information for the mansion itself. I thank him for allowing me inside and permitting me to photograph the lovely staircase.



Next time we’ll travel almost the entire length of the state to have a look at Steins, out near the Arizona border, where a tragic murder in 2011 has cast a pall over the little ghost town.

When Your Rope's Too Long: Clayton, NM

Clayton, New Mexico is a little bit out of the way. You’re probably not going to just suddenly stumble into it. Unless you’re going to visit the barren place where New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Texas all meet, in which case, sure, maybe you will happen across it.

Despite its location, Clayton is famous for several things. There are lots of dinosaur footprints nearby. And a volcano, too. The lovely Eklund Hotel is there, established in 1892 and once the finest railroad hotel between Fort Worth and Denver. There are even two bullet holes still visible in the tin ceiling of the old saloon. That’s maybe not as impressive once you know that the shots were fired by excited supporters of President Warren G. Harding upon his election in 1920. Hey, no injuries were reported. But Clayton was also the site of what is widely agreed upon to be the most botched hanging in the West, that of Thomas Edward “Black Jack” Ketchum. I looked into it all on the frozen, windswept weekend before Thanksgiving while based at the Eklund.



(Above are the old headboards off the beds in the Eklund re-used as seat backs in the dining room.)

Black Jack was born in Texas and began leaving a trail of alleged crime in 1890, at age 27, right around the time he came to New Mexico. Possibly a soured love affair drove him off the rails. If so, crime must have already been in his genes because his older brother, Sam, left his wife and family to become an outlaw, as well. I say Black Jack’s crimes were “alleged,” because, while he was connected to many robberies and dark occurrences over the years, including the famous disappearance of politician Albert Jennings Fountain and his young son, Henry, near Las Cruces, he was never convicted of anything until being sentenced to death for attempting to rob a train. This was also unusual as no one else in American history was ever executed for train robbery alone.

Eventually Black Jack and his brother joined the dapper and charming Hole in the Wall Gang in the north-central part of the state, sometimes making a living ranching and, at other times, jockeying for position with Butch Cassidy’s other crew, the Wild Bunch.

On September 3, 1897, the Hole in the Wall Gang robbed a train between Folsom and Des Moines, NM. They did so again on July 11, 1899, but Black Jack did not participate in the second effort. After the second robbery, a gunfight ensued near Cimarron and Sam was badly wounded. A second shoot out occurred a few days later and a sheriff and deputy were killed. Sam was finally caught but died a short time later of his injuries in the Santa Fe Territorial Prison.



On August 16, 1899, Black Jack attempted to single-handedly rob the same train, unaware that his brother was recently dead from a similar idea. Black Jack boarded the engine, but mistakenly forced it to stop on a sharp turn where the cars with the loot could not be uncoupled. Meanwhile, the conductor, Frank Harrington, was getting sick of being robbed. He crept through the cars and shot at Black Jack, who returned fire. Black Jack missed; Harrington nearly severed Black Jack’s arm at the elbow. Black Jack fell off the train but was unable to get back on his horse.

The train quickly got moving again, leaving Black Jack to lie out all night until “help” arrived in the form of another train. He raised his gun as the conductor and brakeman approached him. They offered to shoot him right then if he wanted a fight, but he replied, "No boys, I am all done. Take me in." His arm was amputated in Trinidad, Colorado and then, restored to relative health, he was sent back to Clayton for trial. Convicted of “felonious assault upon a railway train,” Black Jack became the only person sentenced to death under the law, which was later overturned by the Supreme Court as carrying too severe a sentence.



Now, Clayton had never seen a hanging before and they weren’t quite sure what to do, besides sell tickets and tiny Black Jack dolls hanging from miniature gallows. The execution was delayed several times, but rumors of a plan to break Black Jack out of jail got a date finalized.

On April 26, 1901, after a further delay of several hours for continued fine-tuning of the gallows, Black Jack stood on the scaffold and these words are often said to have been his last: “I'll be in hell before you start breakfast, boys! Let her rip!” However, they’re probably apocryphal; he was executed around 1 p.m., closer to lunchtime anyway. The San Francisco Chronicle reported that Black Jack was somewhat more subdued, his legs trembling, saying only: "Good-by. Please dig my grave very deep. All right; hurry up." Still other accounts have simply, “Hurry up boys, get this over with.”



Whatever he said, Black Jack clearly wanted it all over with fast. The sheriff needed two swings of the hatchet to cut the rope, but the trap finally fell open and Black Jack dropped. However, the rope was too long and, possibly due to over-testing with a 200-pound sandbag, no longer had any elasticity. Thus, Black Jack was instantly decapitated, one of only three such occurrences over a few hundred years of recorded judicial hangings in the U.S. and Europe.

Photos exist of the gruesome aftermath, the separated head still contained in the black hood and lying in front of the one-armed corpse. The Chronicle noted that the heart clearly continued beating for awhile. Then, in another strange twist, Black Jack’s head was sewn back on his body before burial at 2:30 p.m. that day in Clayton’s Boothill. One wonders how much effort they put into the job. No one was ever executed in all of Union County again.

Black Jack's grave was moved from the original Boothill to the current Clayton Cemetery in the 1930's. In the end, he got Shakespeare for an epitaph and still gets flowers over 100 years after his death. We should all be so lucky.

“And How His Audit Stands, Who Knows Save Heaven.”



The story or Thomas "Black Jack" Ketchum is widespread on the internet, although inaccuracies abound. Legends of America does a nice job and Allflictor.com reprints the San Francisco Chronicle article. Wikipedia isn’t bad either. Perhaps the oddest piece is at badhombres.com, where Black Jack’s great, great nephew provides history and insight found nowhere else. Whether it’s all true is anyone’s guess.

FEBRUARY 2014 UPDATE: Here at City of Dust we're always trying to get the story straight. Any research into Black Jack Ketchum's hanging will turn up a variety of quotations from his final moments and I went to some pains trying to sort out what he actually said. I believe his intended last words really were, "Goodbye, please dig my grave very deep. All right, hurry up." However, truth is always stranger than fiction and, in fact, Black Jack Ketchum seems to have said almost everything attributed to him and then some, just not all of it from the gallows.

The most famous and widely-quoted statement is, "I’ll be in hell before you start breakfast, boys! Let her rip!" That's almost correct. But it was not said immediately before he dropped and it was mostly not intended for just any "boys." The first part of the quotation appears in the Santa Fe New Mexican, dated April 26, 1901, the day of the hanging, and it is directed toward Frank Harrington, the conductor who shot Black Jack's arm off. When Ketchum's lawyer was leaving his cell for presumably the last time, Black Jack told him, "Say, tell Harrington I'll meet him in hell for breakfast." This was after he'd requested to "be buried face down so Harrington can kiss my ass." The next morning, according to the New Mexican, he told Sheriff Garcia to "hurry up the hanging so he could get to hell in time for dinner."

The other part of the quotation comes from what truly were Black Jack's last words. Sheriff Garcia, apparently drunk, was having a hard time cutting the rope to open the gallows doors. The New Mexican records that Ketchum, nervous and impatient, said, "Let 'er go, boys. Let 'er go." It is said that Garcia's friend, Dick Franz, finally cut the rope and became a minor celebrity for it afterward.

Apparently Ketchum's headless body landed on its feet and even remained upright for a moment, spurting blood. Sheriff John McCandlass, visiting from Dalhart, Texas, held the corpse to the ground to stop the convulsions that followed. Five minutes is reportedly how long Black Jack's heart continued beating.



You probably didn't need to know all that. But you might be interested to know that Black Jack wrote a letter to President McKinley saying that innocent men were imprisoned for a robbery that Ketchum and his gang had committed at Steins Pass. He wouldn't say a word as to where his compatriots were at that time but maintained that he had never killed anyone and was a victim of mistaken identity, having been confused with another outlaw, Black Jack Christian, killed four years earlier. His last requests were music and female companionship. The former he received via violin and guitar. The latter was denied due to a lack of public funds with which to pay the companion. It was said that he did at least eat a hearty final dinner.

Oh, and his request to be buried face down? When Black Jack was exhumed in 1933 to be moved to the new Clayton cemetery his coffin was opened and it was found that this, too, had been denied. Then, as a final addendum, Teddy Roosevelt was presented with his Winchester 30-30 for some reason that I can't quite figure out.

Where did I find all this information? From what's probably the most complete and accurate description of Black Jack Ketchum's final days, Death on the Gallows: The Story of Legal Hangings in New Mexico, 1847-1923. There is also an informative unofficial brochure on Thomas Edward Ketchum written by Jerry Phillips that you can find around Clayton. I guess some stuff still hasn't quite made it to the internet.

The photos of B H Feed & Supply were taken one night in late 2005. The shop is now the home of Crossroads Coffee Mill, a wonderful place for coffee and whatever else you might need of a morning. Be sure and stop by next time you're in Clayton. Tell them City of Dust sent you.