By Marshall Trimble, Official Arizona State Historian
Photos courtesy Jean Beach King

Arizona is home today to a number of “superstars,” but the first was a rodeo cowboy and Wild West performer named “Arizona Charlie” Meadows.

Arizona Charlie’s given name was Abraham Henson Meadows, but that would soon change. He was born on a snowy day on a ranch near Visalia, California, in 1860, just before the outbreak of the Civil War. His father, John, was a Confederate sympathizer who, with the election of Mr. Lincoln, changed the lad’s name to Charles. In 1877, the family settled on a ranch at Diamond Valley, north of Payson, where the community of Whispering Pines is today.

In July 1882, Charlie left the Meadows ranch and rode to Pine Creek to guide an army detachment through the pass at the head of the East Verde River onto the Mogollon Rim. While he was there, a war party of Apache swept through the Rim Country and attacked the Meadows ranch. His father, John, was killed, and two of his brothers were wounded in the ambush. John Meadows would be the first person to be buried in the Payson Pioneer Cemetery. A short time later, his brother Harry William Meadows died from his wounds.

Charlie was left in charge to care for the family ranch. In 1884, he organized America’s first rodeo, along with John C. Chilson. On a horse named Snowstorm, Charlie won nearly every event, beating the famous Tom Horn in the roping contest. He went on the rodeo circuit with Snowstorm and set new records in steer tying at Prescott. He won again in Phoenix. Show business was in his blood, and Charlie made up his mind to become a performer in a Wild West show. By 1892, he was riding in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.

Two years earlier, on August 16, 1890, Charlie married off his young sister, Maggie, along with her friend, by staging a cow gathering and a double wedding at what was called the August Doins. The two couples were welcome to all the cattle on the Meadows ranch they could rope and brand by sundown. Unbridled from the responsibilities of running the ranch, Charlie left Payson to pursue his dream.

Arizona Charlie had an illustrious career performing all over the world with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show before going off to form a show of his own. During the Alaska Gold Rush of 1898, he headed for the Klondike, where he struck it rich, but then lost his gold mine in a poker game. He opened the Palace Grand Theater in Dawson, in Yukon Territory, Canada, which is still in operation. In 1988, a relative, Ernest Becker, opened an $18 million resort and casino in Las Vegas called Arizona Charlie’s. The famous photo of him in his Wild West outfit graces the front of the building.

When his show biz days ended, Charlie retired to the town of Yuma, where his long, dark hair turned to silver. He wasn’t ready to go on to his reward yet, and he believed the dry, healthy climate in Yuma would extend his life.

Back before the Californians started calling us “Zonies,” old-time Arizonans referred to themselves Hassayampers, after the storied Hassayampa River. Legend claimed that once you drink its water, you can never tell the truth again. “It’ll be a snowy day in Yuma,” Charlie would say, “when they bury this old Hassayamper.”

Arizona Charlie died on December 19, 1932, and on that day it snowed an inch and a half in downtown Yuma. He was born and died in places where it seldom if ever snows.

Today, Arizona Charlie Meadows is Payson’s most famous and colorful citizen. He bears the title of Father of the Payson Rodeo for having organized and competed in America’s first one, organized in 1884.

By Marshall Trimble, official Arizona State Historian

Arizona’s “Depression Governor” was a crusty country doctor from Tempe named Ben Moeur. Moeur was born in Tennessee and raised in San Antonio, Texas. He liked to say, “I punched cows from the time I was 6 years old until I was 20.” After graduating from medical school in 1896, he got married and moved to Tombstone. Later, he settled in Tempe. Despite his pedigree as a medical doctor, Doc Moeur maintained the cowboys’ proclivity towards a descriptive, vivid, and profane vocabulary. Once, at a society gathering, he greeted a lady by saying, “You sure look good.” She responded by saying, “I wish I could say the same for you.” He replied, “You could if you were as big a liar as me.”

Despite his coarse, gruff manner, Doc Moeur had a heart of gold and was a great humanitarian who never refused to help those in need. During construction of Roosevelt Dam, he had himself transported across Salt River Canyon in a cement bucket attached to a cable to aid an injured worker. While he was governor, Moeur spent his lunch hour in the rotunda of the capitol building, doctoring indigent folks for free. At Christmas, when he knew clients were too poor to pay their doctor bills, he’d send a Christmas card with these words inscribed: Paid in full.

Governor Moeur obtained a lasting legacy in Arizona history in 1934 when engaged in a naval war with California. It all began when the state’s water-guzzling neighbor to the west pulled its considerable political strings to take water from the Colorado River. California, the only one of the lower basin states that contributed no water to the river, was about to take the lion’s share.

Moeur was determined to stop a Los Angeles utilities company from building a diversion dam at Parker. He wanted to keep California from getting any more water until Arizona was guaranteed 2.8 million acre-feet a year.

In March, he sent a squad of national guardsmen to patrol the dam site. One evening, they borrowed a couple of antique steamboats that were owned by a local ferryboat operator named Nellie Bush to reconnoiter the other side. In honor of the occasion, Nellie was commissioned Admiral of the Arizona Navy.

Unfortunately, the reconnaissance mission turned into a disaster when the two boats got hung up in some cables. Their worst nightmare came true—the “desert sailors” had to be rescued by “enemy” Californians. Local and national newspapers had a heyday, poking fun at the Arizona Navy and its “battleships.”

All was quiet on the western front until November, when construction crews began building a trestle bridge from the California side of the river. On November 10, Governor Moeur declared martial law and sent a force of 40 infantry and 20 machine gunners to Parker. The construction crews went into an immediate retreat and the secretary of the interior, Harold Ickes, halted all construction on the dam site. The matter was handed over the U.S. Supreme Court, which issued an injunction, ordering Arizona not to interfere with the construction of Parker Dam. Parker Dam was completed in 1938.

The crusty old governor who was reputed to have the most vivid swearing vocabulary ever heard in Arizona was easily re-elected to a second term in 1934. He ran again two years later but was defeated. “Doc” Moeur retired to his home in Tempe and died a few weeks after leaving office.

By Marshall Trimble, Official Arizona State Historian

Early Arizona was graced with a number of colorful characters with picturesquely whimsical names like Long-Necked Charlie Leisure, Shoot-’Em-Up Dick, Long-Hair Sprague, Red-Jacket Almer, Lafayette Grime, Rattlesnake Bill, Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce, Three-finger Jack, Bravo Juan, and Jawbone Clark. Along with those pioneering luminaries are a few less known, such as Coal-Oil Georgie, Senator Few Clothes, Geronimo Miranda, and Harelip Charley Smith.

Charming specimens of Eve’s flesh included Nellie the Pig, the Waddling Duck, the Dancing Heifer, the Galloping Cow, the Roaring Gimlet, Little Lost Chicken, Grasshopper, Madame Featherlegs, Peg-Leg Annie, Dutch Jake, Nervous Jessie, Snake Hips Lulu, and Lizette the Flying Nymph.

Joining these pariahs of society was Buckskin Frank Leslie.

Frank’s early years were spent as an Indian scout for the Army. He arrived in Tombstone around 1880 and slid easily into the raucous social life of Arizona’s largest boomtown. He was also good with a gun and is best known for killing the self-anointed “Billy the Kid” Claiborne in Tombstone after a confrontation in the Oriental Saloon on November 14, 1882.

Handsome, dashing Buckskin Frank was also quite a ladies’ man, and that would have been a, shall we say, lesser man’s undoing. During the summer of 1880, a week after shooting her jealous husband, Mike Killeen, Frank married Killeen’s widow, Mae. They split the blanket in 1887, allegedly after she tired of him making her stand against a wall while he traced her silhouette with bullets from his six-shooter.

Next, he took up with a prostitute named Mollie Williams (or Sawyer, or Bradshaw, or just plain Blonde Mollie). He may have killed her “benefactor,” a man named Bradshaw. What Frank and Mollie had most in common was their love of whisky, and it led to many an argument. He killed her over a drunken fit of jealousy over a man known as “Six-Shooter” Jim. Frank thought he’d also killed Jim, but he lived to testify against Frank for the murder of Blonde Mollie. The law finally caught up with Frank, and he was sentenced to twenty-five years in the Yuma Territorial Prison.

Frank was pardoned and released in November, 1896, thanks in part to a wealthy widow named Belle Stowell. She’d fallen in love with the famous gunfighter while he was behind bars and began corresponding with him. They became husband and wife less than a month later. Somewhere along the way, they parted company, and he married Elnora Cast. History doesn’t record whether he ever bothered with divorcing any of her predecessors.

He seems to have disappeared around 1922, and his death is still disputed. One source says he committed suicide in 1925, while another says he struck it rich in the Klondike and died that way in the San Joaquin Valley.

The best information indicates that his last years, which he passed drunk and penniless, were spent working as a swamper—someone who sweeps and mops the floors in a saloon or restaurant—in a San Francisco pool hall, dying in 1930 at the age of about 80.

The circumstances concerning Buckskin Frank’s death remain shrouded in mystery.

By Marshall Trimble, Official Arizona State Historian

Dime novels of the nineteenth century romanticized outlaws of the Old West as noble, free-spirited rogues who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. Common sense tells us the reason they didn’t steal from the poor was that there was nothing to steal, and they didn’t share their ill-gotten wealth with them, either.

Dime novels were read voraciously not only by easterners but by foreigners as well. These books even inspired a few wannabes to go west and become outlaws. For some, it was a bad business decision. For example, one of Arizona’s most exotic outlaw wannabes was William Tattenbaum, a young Russian officer in the czar’s army. He eagerly devoured these lurid tales from afar and became so enamored of the outlaws of the Old West that he deserted the army and came to America to become an outlaw.

He arrived in Tombstone, Arizona, in 1881, all decked out in new cowboy clothes. He’d even carved four notches on the handle of his six-shooter to show he’d killed men in battle. When they asked his name, the young man answered in his best tight-lipped cowboy dime-novel drawl, “They call me Russian Bill.”

Russian Bill was quite a novelty in Tombstone. Although he tried to act like an outlaw, he was much too refined to be taken seriously. The tall, handsome, curly-headed blond spoke several languages fluently and was quite intelligent. Quoting Greek and Latin, he charmed the shady ladies of Tombstone and Galeyville. Curly Bill and the other outlaws were amused and even let the Russian join their gang.

Still, Russian Bill felt like a phony. He was hanging out with some of the most notorious outlaws in the West, yet he’d never committed a crime.

So, to certify his claim, he rustled a few cows. It was the work of an amateur, and Bill was quickly captured and thrown into the pokey at Shakespeare, New Mexico. There he was reunited with a cohort from Tombstone named Sandy King.

The locals apparently hadn’t read the glorified accounts in dime novels of outlaws who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. A vigilance committee convened and sentenced the two to hang, calling one an outlaw and the other a “damned nuisance.”

Bill and Sandy were placed on their horses and hanged from the rafters of the dining hall at the Grant Hotel. The next morning when the stage arrived, the passengers disembarked and went in for breakfast, the two were still dangling from the beams.

An enduring legend along the Mexican border says that when Bill’s mother, the Countess Telfrin in Moscow, inquired as to the circumstances surrounding her son’s death, she was told he died of a shortage of breathing—while at a high altitude.

By Marshall Trimble, Official Arizona State Historian

Arizona’s political history is filled with characters every bit as colorful as the gunfighters, cowboys, and gold prospectors who shaped its territorial history. A good example is George W. P. Hunt, who ended up being elected chief executive seven times.

Hunt was born in Missouri in 1859. He ran away from home in the late 1870s, and after drifting to the mining towns of Colorado, a bad case of gold fever in 1881 brought him to Arizona, riding a donkey.

Arriving in Globe, he worked several odd jobs, including dishwasher, waiter, miner, and cowboy, before going into business and eventually becoming president of a bank. In 1893, he was elected as a Democrat to the territorial legislature, becoming president of the senate in 1909.

It was poetic coincidence that the man destined to lead the Democratic Party in Arizona for decades would arrive on the hurricane deck of a donkey.

In 1910, Hunt was elected president of the constitutional convention and was one of the architects of the constitution that would prepare Arizona for statehood. A year later, he was elected first governor of the new state.

Hunt was a consummate politician. He could say absolutely nothing in paragraphs, but never has one man so dominated state government. He would go on to be the state’s first, second, third, sixth, seventh, eighth, and tenth governor, prompting humorist Will Rogers to refer to him as “Arizona’s hereditary governor.” His detractors—and there were many—called him King George VII.

A Progressive Democrat, Hunt was both loved and hated. Hunt faced his biggest battles during the 1920s, when Arizona began a decades-long water war with California over the Colorado River allotment. During a heated political race, he would always use that as a campaign issue. His opponents responded by saying, “Jesus walked on water, but Hunt ran on the Colorado.”

Hunt has been called “an original character in American public life.” His large, bald head, drooping mustache, and obesity-challenged body lent itself to caricature by political cartoonists. He was a walking contradiction; a visionary, yet stubbornly tied to the past; he hated war, but for a handicap might have sought a career in the military; a generous man, yet with an ego so large he believed that so long as he lived, the governor’s chair was his private domain.

The year 1916 saw one of the state’s wackiest elections. That year, Hunt was challenged by Republican Tom Campbell. Campbell won the general election by 30 votes. Hunt protested and, on January 1, 1917, both men claimed the office. Hunt refused to vacate his office at the capitol, so Campbell functioned from the kitchen of his home. That spring, the superior court ruled Campbell the winner, but Hunt appealed to state Supreme Court. Finally, in December, the high court ruled in his favor on a technicality. The court threw out the ballots of voters who marked an X for a straight Democratic ticket and then voted for the Republican Campbell. It was clear that they intended to vote for all Democrats except Hunt.

Campbell graciously moved out of his office at the capitol after serving a year as governor without pay, and our hereditary governor returned to his old haunts.

By Marshall Trimble, Arizona State Historian

Western mining towns were popular with traveling acting troupes because, despite the uncultured nature of the patrons, money flowed freely and the citizens were desperate for entertainment of any kind. The towns took a great deal of civic pride in being able to attract well-known actors to their community. Shakespearean plays were always popular, even though most weren’t sophisticated enough to understand the dialogue.

Tombstone’s fabulous Bird Cage Theater opened on December 23, 1881 to a raucous crowd of territorial Arizonans. Dusty cowboys, day-labor miners, drifters, droolers, reprobates, and local nabobs filled the smoky room of Arizona’s newest boomtown. The stage was filled with winking showgirls showing lots of leg. Gas-fired jets bathed the stage in light.

One night during the play Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a drunken cowboy got caught up in the drama when Simon Legree’s dogs were pursuing Eliza across the river. He stood up, drew his pistol, and shot one of the dogs. The angry crowd pounced on him and held him down until the marshal could cart him off to jail. The next day the sober, repentant cowboy apologized for his bad behavior and offered his horse as recompense for the dog. Lucky for him it was a real dog and not an actor in a dog costume.

Another popular act was Mrs. DeGranville, the Lady with the Iron Jaw. She could pick up money thrown up on the stage and stuff it in her stockings without missing a step.

An act known as the Human Fly was performed with daredevil women defying gravity by walking upside down on the ceiling. The act played the Bird Cage in 1889, ending suddenly when the clamps on one woman’s shoes slipped from holes that had been bored into the ceiling to suspend her above the stage and she fell to her death.

Pat Holland, town coroner, was standing in the wings one evening as a sharpshooter prepared to shoot an apple off the head of his beautiful assistant. Pat thought the shooter was taking too much time, so he grabbed what he thought was a shotgun loaded with paper wadding. He didn’t know that a stagehand had taken the gun out rabbit hunting that afternoon and had not removed the shell. Pat aimed and shot the apple all to pieces, along with a wad of hair as big as your fist, sending the hair and apple splattering against the opposite wall of the then-tiny stage. It’s not surprising that acting troupes viewed their performances in towns like Tombstone with trepidation.

A visiting stock company was stranded in Tombstone when it ran out of money. While the group was on stage one night, the sheriff legally attached the performers’ trunks for their unpaid board bill. The unfortunate girls had to go about the town for several days with nothing but their tights to cover them before sympathetic locals took pity and provided them with a change of clothes.

In 1886, Joe Bignon and his wife, Maulda Branscomb, took over the theater. He billed her as Big Minnie—she stood over six-feet-tall and weighed 230 pounds. Big Minnie boasted she was loveliness in pink tights. She was no mere dainty either, as she was also the bouncer for the theater. One night, a rowdy pulled his pistol and fired a shot into the ceiling. Big Minnie wrapped her muscular arms around him and lifted him overhead, walked out to the sidewalk, and threw him halfway across Allen Street.

An enduring story tells of an evening when a female performer in a melodrama became ill and a popular local prostitute was asked to fill in. All she had to do was walk onstage, be shot by her lover, and collapse on the floor. She performed it well and, as her lover stood over her in deep remorse, he said, “Oh what have I done? What have I done?”

“I’ll tell you what you done,” said a voice from the audience. “You done killed the best whore in Tombstone.”

By Marshall Trimble, Arizona’s Official State Historian

When the first horseless carriage sputtered and jerked into Arizona soon after the dawning of the twentieth century, there came a public demand for better roads. In order to promote highway construction, road races called Cactus Derbies were staged between Los Angeles and Phoenix. These races, which carried on from 1908–1914, combined all the elements of a Keystone Kops movie, a melodrama, and a political convention. Legendary racecar drivers like Cliff Durant, Olin Davis, Louis Chevrolet and Barney Oldfield competed on roads that were no more than wagon trails. There were no gas stations or garages, so the drivers had to pack their essentials in the car.

The most exciting Derby occurred in 1914. This race would take a northerly route, traveling from Los Angeles to Needles, then over notorious Oatman Pass to Ash Fork before turning south to Prescott. Then it was across the rugged mountains to Phoenix—a total distance of some 700 miles.

Each night, the racecars were locked inside horse corrals, which were guarded to keep competitors from tampering with one another’s machines.

The three-day race began in Los Angeles in a driving rainstorm. Spectators, promoters, and boosters traveling by the Santa Fe Railroad’s “Howdy Special” rode along to enjoy the spectacle. Each night, boosters wearing colorful costumes of red and black along with a cap with Howdy emblazoned across the front took over the town, partying until the wee hours, then reboarding to the next overnight stop.

East of Needles, the drivers used the Santa Fe Railroad Bridge to cross the Colorado River. Planks had been spread across the ties, and any driver who slipped off was guaranteed a rough ride, not to mention bent rims and flat tires. Cliff Durant, whose brother W.C. would found General Motors, attempted to cross the bridge going full speed in his Chevrolet #2. He missed the planks and drove a hundred yards on the ties, tearing up his tires.

His racing partner, Louis Chevrolet, didn’t fare any better. His Chevrolet #1 was done in by a helpful sheepherder when he stopped to fill his gas tank. Drivers used the same type cans for gasoline as they did for water, and the sheepherder unwittingly poured the contents of a water can into the gas tank. Chevrolet and Durant combined parts of both cars and went on to complete the race. (Ironically, Chevrolet is believed to be a French corruption of “goat’s milk.”)

Near Kingman, Bill Carlson’s Maxwell broke down, forcing him to walk into town for spare parts. When he returned, thieves had stripped his auto. This might have been America’s first case of auto-parts theft.

Olin Davis left the race when his car executed a perfect swan dive off a mountain road in Copper Basin, south of Prescott.

Racing’s bad boy, Barney Oldfield, a colorful, cigar-chomping free spirit driving a white Stutz-Bearcat, was the favorite. Sportswriters had said the “grand old man of racing” was washed up. He’d been banished for an unauthorized race against heavyweight boxing champion Jack Johnson in 1910. But Oldfield navigated the rain-slick roads with the skill of a muleskinner. It wasn’t without some drama, however. In the gold-mining town of Oatman, he needed to recruit some miners to push him up treacherous Oatman Hill. Then he blew a tire near Kingman and had to drive several miles on the rim. While crossing New River, he nearly sank in quicksand and had to be pulled out by a mule team. His mud-splattered Stutz Bearcat raced into the fairgrounds at Phoenix to take first place. Two years later, he would become the first to lap the Indianapolis Speedway at 100 miles per hour.

Oldfield’s victory was overshadowed, however, by Bill Bramlett, who finished fifth. Bramlett’s Cadillac wobbled across the finish line after a harrowing series of mishaps. Earlier, he’d slid off a mountain road near Wickenburg and done a perfect barrel roll down the hill, landing right side up. A few miles later, he bogged down in quicksand and had to be hauled out. Outside of Phoenix, he slid into a fence, breaking his steering mechanism. He resourcefully pulled up a couple of fence posts and spliced them together to replace the broken parts. He crossed the finish line at the fairgrounds amidst the roar of appreciative spectators.

That night, a celebration was held in the Adams Hotel in downtown Phoenix. Barney Oldfield was awarded the diamond-studded medal proclaiming him Master Driver of the World, and visionaries proclaimed that one day the automobile would pass from the hands of professional drivers and the novelty of the upper classes to become an essential fixture in the lives of the common folk.

SIDE BAR

Louis Chevrolet is better remembered today by the name of the car he designed and first produced in 1911. The Swiss-French-born automotive genius, one of the world’s greatest drivers, sold his interest in Chevrolet Motor Company in 1914 to his partner W.C. Durant. Chevrolet was angered when Durant decided to make the high-priced Chevrolet a cheaper car so he could compete with Ford. Had Chevrolet not made the rash move, he would have been a multimillionaire. Instead, he died nearly penniless.

By Marshall Trimble, Arizona State Historian

The Great Depression was in full bloom, and hard times had fallen on the rural communities of Tempe and Mesa that Christmas of 1932. It was the height of the Christmas shopping season, and local merchants were feeling the pinch. Not only was business slack but it also looked as if the annual Christmas parade was going to be a bust.

John McPhee, colorful editor of the Mesa Tribune , looked at the dismal faces and determined to inject some spirit into Christmas. McPhee loved promotional schemes, but he outdid himself on this one. “Why not,” he asked, “hire a parachutist to dress up in a Santa suit and jump from an airplane? He could then lead the parade through town. People will come from everywhere to see it, and while they’re here, they’ll go Christmas shopping.”

Parachuting was considered a dangerous stunt. For that matter, aviation was still a novelty. Lindbergh had flown the Atlantic only five years before. And never had Santa dropped from the sky dangling beneath a billowing canopy.

“Splendid idea,” the merchants agreed. Their eyes sparkled with gleeful anticipation. They could almost hear the cash registers ringing like Christmas bells.

McPhee managed to find an itinerant stunt pilot who was willing to make the jump, and a deal was struck. But on the morning of the event, the stunt man failed to appear. McPhee was finally able to locate his man at a local saloon, screwing up his courage on a barstool. By the time McPhee got there, the man was so screwed up that he couldn’t get off the barstool.

“What now?” the worried merchants wanted to know.

“Fear not,” said irrepressible editor. “I’ll borrow a department store dummy, dress him in the Santa suit, and have the pilot toss him out of the airplane. I will then appear in another Santa suit and lead the parade through town. No one will know the difference.”

An ingenious idea, the merchants agreed.

The news had traveled fast, and hundreds of spectators had gathered to witness the event. All eyes gazed anxiously skyward as the drone of the airplane’s engine could be heard off in the distance. Then they saw it—the plane circling overhead. The doorway opened, and a figure in a red suit appeared in the doorway. The crowd began to cheer.

Then it happened. Santa seemed to leap out of the plane into the wild blue yonder. At first, Santa appeared to be in free fall, and the crowd’s cheery mood quickly changed to horror. Santa began to tumble end over end, down, down, down like a lead balloon. Splat. Santa landed face down in the field. Mothers covered their horrified children’s eyes. Fathers stared in disbelief.

Through it all, McPhee remained undaunted. He jumped out of his hiding place as if nothing had happened and proceeded to lead the parade through town. But the public wasn’t buying—literally and figuratively. Would-be shoppers loaded their kids up and went back to the farms. Merchants muttered unpleasantries as they stood in the doorways of their empty stores. McPhee was about as welcome around town as a coyote in a hen house.

The editor left town for a few days, hoping that the event would be forgotten. It wasn’t. Upon his death some 36 years later, the front page of the newspaper noted his passing with this banner: “John McPhee, the Man Who Killed Santa Claus, Dies.”

By Marshall Trimble, Arizona’s Official State Historian

The Old West was quickly fading from reality into the realm of myth by the mid-1920s. Most of the old-time gunfighters had gone on to their great reward, and Hollywood took up the chore of reinventing them. So, Tom Mix ended up making $17,000 a week performing superhuman feats from atop his famous horse, Tony. During the Roaring Twenties, the heroes of the silver screen packed two six guns, which never needed reloading, wore cowboy boots with their trouser legs tucked in them, were quick on the draw, and never lost their hats in a fistfight.

Soon, the public, especially children, began to believe these shooting stars represented the real gunfighters.

In the late 1920s, there was still one old gunfighter left. His name was Jim Roberts. He was nearly 70 by this time and walked with a stoop. He was still wearing a badge and was the law in the mining town of Clarkdale.

Old timers remembered Jim as the top gun in the notorious Pleasant Valley War between the Grahams and the Tewksburys. After that war ended, he became a lawman and was one of Arizona’s greatest peace officers.

Kids would hear about Uncle Jim’s days as a fearless gunfighter and lawman, but his appearance was disappointing. He didn’t dress like Tom Mix. They’d ask him to demonstrate his quick draw, and he’d slowly pull his nickel-plated Colt revolver out of his hip pocket and, holding it with both hands, would take deliberate aim.

Why, they asked, didn’t he fan his pistol like Tom Mix? And why did he pack his pistol in his hip pocket instead of using a silver-studded holster? Uncle Jim didn’t even wear a cowboy hat! They began to look at the old timer with doubt.

Uncle Jim just grinned and went about his duties, and in time, the children began to believe the stories their parents told were just tall tales.

All those doubts about Uncle Jim Roberts were laid to rest one day in 1928 when two bank robbers held up the Bank of Arizona in downtown Clarkdale. They walked out the door and jumped into their car with $40,000. It was the largest robbery in Arizona history at the time.

The desperadoes turned the corner just as Uncle Jim was making his rounds. Spotting the old lawman, one fired a shot that ricocheted off the sidewalk in front of him. As the car sped by, Uncle Jim drew his pistol from his hip pocket, took aim with both hands, and shot the driver through the head. The car careened off the road and the other robber meekly surrendered.

Those youngsters in Clarkdale knew they’d seen the real McCoy in action that day. As far as they were concerned, Uncle Jim could outshoot, outthink, and outfight those silver-screen cowboys any day of the week.

Uncle Jim died of a heart attack on January 8, 1934 while making his rounds. It seems fitting that one of the Old West’s greatest lawmen and the last gunfighter of the Pleasant Valley War should die with his boots on. But wait a minute—one thing I forgot to mention was that Uncle Jim didn’t wear cowboy boots.

By Marshall Trimble, Arizona State Historian

Readin’, writin’, and ’rithmetic, like many other cultural conveniences, were late arriving on the Arizona frontier in the mid-1800s. The lifestyle for young people residing in the territory was not conducive to learning the 3 Rs. Some communities were so rowdy that the citizens could assume no responsibility for any pranks their offspring might choose to inflict upon the teachers. One teacher in Tombstone came home from school one day to find his house had been painted with polka dots. Another took a pistol away from a youthful cherub and angrily tossed it into the pot-bellied stove. However, she forgot to remove the cartridges and the resounding gunfire inside the stove loudly punctuated her oversight.

Funds were not always available for schools, and the teachers had to make use of whatever materials and structures at hand. Josephine Brawley Hughes opened the first public school for girls in Tucson in an old brewery, while Mary Elizabeth Post taught pupils at Yuma in a three-room adobe building that had formerly served as the city jail. Graffiti scratched on the walls gave mute testimony to the characters and interests of the previous occupants, along with serving to broaden the educational horizons of the pupils.

One of the most articulate of the early educators was a former soldier named John Spring. He arrived with the Army in 1866 and decided to stay when his enlistment was up. His teaching career began in an adobe structure with a dirt floor that frequently had to be sprinkled with water to hold down the dust. The parents, in anticipation of future need, brought him a supply of ash flogging sticks. School opened with 138 students in one class, ranging in age from 6 to 21. Only a small few spoke English.

A teacher usually wouldn’t be hired if they couldn’t pass the qualification exam. That wasn’t always the case, though. In Florence, an applicant was hired anyway as the board member confessed he couldn’t pass it either.

In his last message to the ninth legislature in 1877, Governor Safford, today known as the Father of the Arizona Public Schools, was pleased to report much progress in educating the territory’s youth. He said that about half of the nearly 3,000 children of school age in Arizona had learned to read and write.

He has been called a cowboy singer, a humorist, and a storyteller, and is Arizona’s official state historian, but Marshall Trimble’s most treasured title is teacher. He hopes people will realize the importance and fun involved in Arizona history and culture. If you have a question about Arizona’s history, e-mail marshall@northvalleymagazine.com and you may find your answer in the next issue!