Letters from the grave

Good Sunday Morning

Good Morning everyone, thanks for stopping by, I would like to invite you to my virtual book launch today. I will be discussing both books; What Happened to me, and my new western Fiction, Letters From The Grave.

We will be playing some trivia, Q&A, and some other fun giveaways. all are welcome, so grab your favorite drink, your latte, and favorite music list and join in on the fun, and the memories.

You can join us here on my Virtual Book Launch Party for What Happened To Me, or use the QR code. Looking forward to seeing you there.

Categories: Current Events, Firefighters, History, Letters from the grave, Western, Western Authors, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dear William Pinkerton, It’s Me Butch Cassidy (Letter from the grave)

The facts surrounding Butch Cassidy’s death are uncertain. On November 3, 1908, near San Vicente in southern Bolivia, a courier for the Aramayo Franke and Cia Silver Mine was conveying his company’s payroll, worth about 15,000 Bolivian pesos, by mule when he was attacked and robbed by two masked American bandits who were believed to be Cassidy and Longabaugh. The bandits then proceeded to the small mining town of San Vicente where they lodged in a small boarding house owned by a local resident miner named Bonifacio Casasola. When Casasola became suspicious of his two foreign lodgers, as well as a mule they had in their possession which was from the Aramayo Mine, identifiable from the mine company logo on the mule’s left flank, Casasola left his house and notified a nearby telegraph officer who notified a small Bolivian Army cavalry unit stationed nearby, which was the Abaroa Regiment. The unit dispatched three soldiers, under the command of Captain Justa Concha, to San Vicente where they notified the local authorities. On the evening of November 6, the lodging house was surrounded by three soldiers, the police chief, the local mayor and some of his officials, who intended to arrest the Aramayo robbers.

When the three soldiers approached the house the bandits opened fire, killing one of the soldiers and wounding another. A gunfight then ensued. At around 2 a.m., during a lull in the firing, the police and soldiers heard a man screaming from inside the house. Soon, a single shot was heard from inside the house, whereupon the screaming stopped. Minutes later, another shot was heard.

The standoff continued as locals kept the place surrounded until the next morning when, cautiously entering, they found two dead bodies, both with numerous bullet wounds to the arms and legs. One of the men had a bullet wound in the forehead and the other had a bullet hole in the temple. The local police report speculated that, judging from the positions of the bodies; one bandit had probably shot his fatally wounded partner-in-crime to put him out of his misery, just before killing himself with his final bullet. Or did they?

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Dear William A. Pinkerton

Hi William Pinkerton, It’s me Robert Leroy Parker, thought I’d drop a letter to you to see how you might be. First I want to say that, I do regret robbing all them trains, but not for your sake, but for my mommas. I know, and I always knew I broke her heart becoming an outlaw, and in some ways know it’s what made her perish as well. I wanted and tried so many times to go straight and seek amnesty, yet I never found it, nor was my pardon granted that I asked for, so many times. I heard tell, that Wyoming spoke of it, however never said anything about it. Well that’s OK, in my book. Wish I had the chance to tell you that I left my boot tracks in a little side canyon along my travels back from Bolivia, near the Hole-in-the-wall. I assume by now that you know I never did succumb to a bullet in San Vicente in 1908, neither did ole Sundance. Percy Seibert, played it good for us didn’t he, telling them Bolivians that was us, just so we could live on without someone chasing us anymore. Truth is them boys laid cold from crossfire; they were just some random boys in the wrong place at the right time. We fled later that night before they came in to verify us dead, little to their knowledge we were on a pair of fresh horses, running for Mexico. I spent some time back home with my family before I traveled to the Northwest, Oregon, and Washington mostly. Heard tell you never stopped looking for us, and was convinced me and Sundance were still in South America, guess our story will live on forever, truth is I never passed till 1938, where my family buried me in an unmarked grave where my father said I could finally Rest in Peace, I wonder would you have dug me up if you knew where I was, would anybody? No matter William. Butch Cassidy, The Sundance Kid, Elzy Lay, Tall Texan, News Carver, Camila Hanks, Laura Bullion, Flat-Nose Curry, Kid Curry, Bob Meeks and the rest of The Wild Bunch will forever remain the last outlaws of the Old West. You remember that William, and tell your Pinkerton’s too for me.

Sincerely Robert Leroy Parker, “Butch Cassidy”.

Regardless of whether Butch and Sundance lived or died, their legacy will forever live on in the old west.

Readers Interaction::

Do you think that Butch Cassidy Lived as his sister revealed in her biography Butch Cassidy, My Brother? Or did he die in San Vicente, Bolivia, alongside his best friend The Sundance Kid?

I think the Outlaw lived on to see his family, and live out his days as he wanted to all along. What are your thoughts as readers?

Categories: History, Letters from the grave, Western, Western Authors, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Dear Jesse James, it’s Me Bob Ford (A letter from the grave)

“With only a generalized wish for revenge on Bob Ford, Edward O’Kelly, walked into the tent saloon and blasted Bob Ford with a shotgun. There would be no eulogies for Bob, no photographs of his body would be sold in sundries stores, no people would crowd the streets in the rain to see his funeral cortege, no biographies would be written about him, no children named after him, no one would ever pay twenty-five cents to stand in the rooms he grew up in. The shotgun would ignite, and Ella Mae would scream, but Robert Ford would only lay on the floor and look at the ceiling, the light going out of his eyes before he could find the right words.” ~The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford

Robert Newton Ford Said to be holding the gun that killed Jesse James

Here are the right words from beyond the grave of Robert Newton Ford, a distant relative on my Mother’s side. I have written the letter Bob Ford always wanted to write.

Dear Jesse,

Looking back at killing you, I now know of how cowardice it truly was. Only in my own murder will I truly know how cowardice I was. While I lie here taking my last dying breath, and the cold running through my body and the light disappearing from my eyes, I want you to know, that I was always ashamed, and regretted killing you. Even when at times I felt proud, truthfully, I was as ruthless as I could be. Thinking back on it, I always knew you saw my reflection in the glass of that picture frame, when I raised my pistol, and I have always known you saw the fear in my eyes. I fear that no one will ever know of my reflection that of which you could see. I have always wondered why you did not move, or dive off the chair as you heard the clicking from the pistol chamber, and afraid, you may have killed me if you had. I have found that life has been nothing more than distasteful, and unbearable, and at times wish that I had the courage my brother Charles did and kill myself. I cannot help but wonder how Ed will feel years from now, if he will regret shooting me with that sawed-off-shotgun, or if he will be able to hold his composer as I did for murdering you. If I could only explain to you why I had to kill you, I would find no answer, nor offer an explanation either, what I did was more than betrayal, and will always be a cold-blooded coward’s unpleasant act of murder and nothing else.

I guess I am that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard, and lay Jesse in his grave.  I thought at the age of 20, that I was brave, but now at the age of 30 what I had done was no more than dirty.

These being my final thoughts, while lying in  my own blood, if it offers anything more to what I have done, I would like to apologize for killing you Jesse, and hope that you will forgive me.

Yours Truly
Robert Newton Ford

Readers Interaction::
Do you think that if Robert Ford had a few moments left of his life that, he may have said these words? Or would he have been too proud of his accomplishment to utter anything at all?

Categories: History, Letters from the grave, Western | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

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