Does your Alias have a story?

[Whitey James]

Just curious if anyone has created a back story based on their alias. I am working on one for myself that links me to the James Gang. Jesse James lived in Nashville for a time under the Alias of "J.D. Howard" and his son (Jesse James Jr.) was born here as well so I am working on the backstory based on that.

[Sgt. C.J. Sabre, SASS #46770]

I have, and I think it's quite a read. 

      Back just before the War, I was just a green kid from Ohio, all of 15 years old. My dad ran a small newspaper there, and I was helping him while going to school. Dad always wanted me to get an education. He thought I should be a lawyer because I like to argue so much. 
      My sister was a couple years older, in college to be a teacher. She was smart, but naïve. 
      She met up with a drummer from down Florida who said all the right things, and made her feel special. She wound up pregnant and he left town. 
     I borrowed a pistol, an 1836 Colt Paterson, from the man that taught me how to shoot, an old Railroad man named Oscar Cordell, The Big O people called him,  and chased after him. When I caught up to him, he took a shot at me, hitting me in the left arm. It left me with a nasty looking scar on the inside of my elbow.
     I fired back, killing him. When I brought his body in, I was arrested for the killing. When he heard my story, a local Judge , threw the case out sighting self defense on my part.
     But it didn’t end there. The drummer’s family sent a couple more of their kin to finish it with me.
I mentioned that The Big O was a Railroad man, what I didn't say was that he was a Railroad Detective, and A good one. He taught me a lot, and when the drummer's kin came after me they didn’t fare any better than he had. 
    The Judge got tired of seeing me in his courtroom, and advised that maybe I should make myself scarce in those parts. The War was just starting, so I enlisted in The Marines under an assumed name to make it harder to find me. I used a couple of names from cousins of mine, Cristian and Joshua. I kept my original last name of Rogers. I got myself stationed on the Naval Blockade off the South Carolina coast. I figured that that was far enough from Ohio that nobody would be hunting me there. 
     Since I'm called Sgt. Sabre, you might think that I could handle one, but the opposite is true. Any time I got a Sabre in my hand, I wound up the one bleeding. My fellow Marines, in typical Marine Corps fashion started calling me Sgt. Sabre because of it and I kept the monicker. That's how I became known as Sgt. C.J. Sabre. 
     On the other hand, I AM better than fair with my war souvenir, an 1861 Colt Navy. I took it from a Confederate Captain that I'd gotten into a scrape with, and when we were done, he didn't need it anymore. He didn't need his belt and holster either.
     Towards the end of the War, I was sent to Fort Huachuca in southern Arizona to help the Army train The Buffalo soldiers how to shoot Marine Corps style. 
     While I was on the way to Arizona, I spotted a gun shop with something interesing In the front window. It was an 1860 Colt, but it had been converted to fire cartridge ammunition like a rifle. I had always wished that I could reload a pistol that way, so I went in to ask about it. 
      The gunsmith told me that it was something called a "Richards Conversion".  He told me that, if I wanted it done, he would cut off the back of the cylinder to allow a cartridge to be inserted. He would replace the rammer with an ejector rod, mount a breech plate on the frame with a frame mounted firing pin, rear sight, and loading gate on it, and cut the hammer to fit. He had parts to do it in stock, and it could be ready by the next day. I thought that such a thing was the greatest idea he'd heard in a while. "What's next," I wondered aloud, "Sliced bread?"
     "Actually, maybe something better." The gunsmith told me. With that, the 'smith brought out a newer Colt. It had everything the 'smith was going to add to my pistol and more. It had a topstrap on the frame, making it much stronger than the older open top pistols I was used to seeing. 
     "This", the 'smith said, "is a pre-production model of the next Colt Revolving Pistol, called the 1873 Peacemaker. Colt's making most of them in a new .45 caliber, but this one is the same .38 caliber that your 1861 will be in. Just think of it, two pistols, that use the same ammunition." 
      Now, by  nature, I wasn't one to spend money on frivolous things, but this was too good to pass up. After test firing the new pistol out back of the gun shop, I decided I had to have it. But I needed something to carry it in. I'd still need my old holster for my '61. 
     "No problem", the 'smith told me. "The saddle maker next door can fix you up with a new holster, and a belt with cartridge loops for the ammunition like the Mills belts the Army soldiers wear."
     I thanked him, and with the new pistol stuck in my belt, went next door the see the saddle maker. The saddle maker must have been in cahoots with the gunsmith, because he had a few holsters already made up for the new pistols like I had just bought. But since I was using the new .38 ammunition, he didn't have a belt with cartridge loops ready made. 
     "I have plain belts that I can add the loops to, and can have one made up in a hour or so," the saddle maker told me. 
     While I thought that that would be fine, I did have a request. The belt I was currently wearing was the one I'd taken, along with the pistol, off that Confederate Captain that no longer needed it. The belt was kind of worn and stretched out, but I liked the Officer's buckle that was on it. I asked that the buckle, be used on the new belt. 
      "Sure, I can do that," the saddle maker said. "Leave it with me and I'll see to it."
       Next day, I went to the gun shop to see about my pistol. 
      “Got it right here,” the gunsmith offered. “Turned out nice, too." 
      The pistol was changed dramatically! The ’smith had done not only what he said he would do, but more. The most obvious was the new front sight on it. The old one was little more than a brass bump on the barrel. The new one was dovetailed into the barrel, and could be drifted as needed to adjust for windage. Further, the ’smith had re-blued the barrel so that it’s finish matched the new parts he’d installed.  
      At the 'smith’s instance, and after checking that the pistol was indeed not loaded, I cocked the hammer. The feel was MUCH smoother than it had been. Pulling the trigger was much the same. A short, light pull was all it took to fire the gun now. 
      Paying the 'Smith, I headed next door to the saddle maker’s shop for my new gunbelt and holster. 
      The saddle maker was as much an artist as was the gunsmith. He had done as he had been asked, mounting my old buckle on the new belt. The new holster was what the saddle maker called a “Half breed” holster. Where the back of the holster folded over to form the belt loop, it followed the contour of the body, dropping the pistol down a few inches from waist level, and was fastened to the holster's body with a separate loop. Since my old holster had been a cross draw, this one rode on my right hip.
      Both belt and holster were stained a deep black, set off with a couple of nickled conchos on each end. The bullet loops, thirty of them, were centered on the belt.  My old holster had been dyed to match, too. Altogether it was a handsome rig.
      “Here’s something else I came up with for you,” the saddle maker said. 
      “What’s this for?”, I asked. 
      What I had been handed looked like a miniature of the gunbelt. Less than a foot long, and only as wide as the bullets it held were long, it was a strip of leather holding ten additional rounds of ammunition. 
      “Since the ammunition comes in boxes of fifty, I thought that this might come in handy to carry what was left over after loading both pistols and your belt. I call it a 'loading strip'."
      When the War was over, the Marine Corps didn't need me as much as it had, so I mustered out. I stayed in Arizona and took to driving freight wagons. I occasionally worked for the Law, rode in a few possies, and eventually joined the Arizona Rangers.

[Rye Miles #13621]

My alias was an Arizona Ranger. Sgt J.T. “Rye” Miles. He was born in Texas, was a cowboy, became a Az Ranger, later Sheriff of Tucson and prison guard in his later years. 

[DocWard]

I decided on my alias because I served for years as a medic in the field artillery. Combat arms types have a tendency to call their medics "Doc" if they like and trust them, so I picked up the nickname Doc Ward. Thus, when I started shooting, I knew I would answer to it. 

As for a back story, it has been fleshed out over a few of the group stories we've done around here in times past. I decided to try to duplicate to the extent possible, my real life if I had been born 180 or so years earlier.

 

Born in Eastern Kentucky, Benjamin Ward's father was a Methodist circuit rider, who, against his better judgment, managed to get him into a Methodist college in Delaware, Ohio. [I graduated from Ohio Wesleyan University] There, instead of leaning toward seminary, he started reading law and working with a local attorney. [I'm a lawyer by training and licensure]. He also met a girl that attended the Ohio Wesleyan Women's College in Delaware and spent some time courting her. [My wife also graduated from OWU]

 

Not long after graduation, the Civil War broke out, and Ben went down to Camp Chase, in Columbus and mustered into the 1st Regiment of the Ohio Light Artillery, Ohio Volunteer Militia. [I spent most of my career in the 1/134th Field Artillery which traces its lineage back to that unit]. After a number of battles, Ben became a Hospital Steward when one of the surgeons learned of his education. [Hence, a medic]. 

 

Staying in the Army, Doc was sent out West with the 11th Ohio Cavalry to work under a curmudgeonly Scottish surgeon. Meeting his family, Ben was surprised to find out his daughter was the same redheaded girl he had met in college. It seemed like fate and the two were married, with her father and mother's approval. [My wife is indeed a redhead, and her father was a doctor of Scottish ancestry, who prided himself on being a curmudgeon].

 

After leaving the Army, Doc and his wife went East only briefly. His mother had passed away, worrying about her son, and his father passed shortly after his return. He and his wife had grown fond of the West, so decided to return there. After an incident, people saw him tending to and patching up some injured, he gained the nickname "Doc" because they thought he might be one. Doc practiced law briefly, before deciding it wasn't for him.

From there one can go with Doc becoming a rancher, or running a livery, depending on the story. Or perhaps rancher then livery, if one so chooses. @Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103 and a few others can double check me on the accuracy of my backstory per the group stories that have been written, but that's it as I recall it.

Edited June 30 by DocWard

[Yul Lose]

I started out as Hoss Hungright but Mrs. Hungright quickly tired of being referred to as Mrs. Hungright. She gave me an earful every time she’d hear me call myself Hoss Hungright or refer to her like that so I started looking for another alias. Decided on Happy Hunter for awhile until I was watching a TV show one night and a yellow Corvette drove off and the license plate read YEWL LUZ or something to that effect. I thought that would make a pretty cool alias so I got on the alias lookup page on the SASS Wire when they still had it and found Yul Lose was available and sent in my $15.00 and the rest is history. For some reason the wife doesn’t mind being referred to as Mrs. Lose.

[Wyatt Earp SASS#1628L]

My back story could fill a few books and even inspire a few movies

[Forty Rod SASS 3935]

Nope.  A rod (aka "pole", "perch", or "lug") is a surveyor's measure of 5 1/2 yards, 16 1/2 feet, 1/320 of a mile, 1/4 of a "chain" or 25 "links".

 

40 rods equal 220 yards, 660 feet, 1/8 of a mile or 1 furlong.  That distance is / was about as far I could hit  a target the size of a dinner plate with any (not many but a few) of my cowboy or mountain man guns.  

 

There was also a legendary pair of measurements for mountain mule, white lightnin',  or other home made whiskeys known as 20 rod or 40 rod whiskey.  It was based on how far you could walk after such a drink of a cup of the stuff before you could lose the ability to still fire a gun.

 

It also rated the shooter who could still be dangerous at the end of such a walk.

 

Someone had called me the Forty Rod Kid clear back in my college days ( I don't remember why) and it just popped into my head when I needed an alias for SASS.

[Choctaw Jack]

No entertaining or imaginative backstory to behind my alias, just a nod to an ancestor. 

My maternal grandfather ,Henry Stone,

was a fullblooded Choctaw , living in the Indian Territory (soon to become the great state of Oklahoma).

Henry was an industrious sort, owning both land and cattle, but he had the audacity ( insert sarcasm here ) to marry a pretty , blonde, young lady with an un-approving family. It seems her father and brothers (both younger and older than she), made no secret of their disapproval of the marriage.

After several years of marriage, Henry and two of his younger brothers-in-law were hunting squirrels when Henry as "accidentally" shot twice in the back.

The boys failed to mention this to anyone, and no one thought to look for him until late the next day.

Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly, Henry did not survive, leaving behind his wife and my Grandfather who was 5 years old at the time.

The young widow wasted no time marrying the hired hand, ( the story here is unclear as to how long it took them  to wed , but it was reportedly a matter of a few weeks )and produced several half siblings to my Grandfather. 

My Grandfather didn't relate to me how he was treated by his step-family, but other family members have told me that he wasn't treated well because of his Choctaw ancestry.

So, as a small way to honor my ancestry I chose the alias

Choctaw Jack

 

[Gracos Kid]

As a young boy the only thing I ever wanted, and always got for Christmas was a new pair of cowboy boots and a new double holster set of cap guns.  I got them every year up until I was eleven, when my Father died on December 16th.   When I started playing with real cowboy guns in SASS, I chose to use the letters GRA (my Father's name Grady) and COS (my Father's middle name Columbus) and subsequently became the GRACOS KID......as I have always been my Father's little boy that never outgrew cowboy boots and guns......

[Whitey James]

*UPDATE*

The outlaw, later to be known as Whitey James, was born in a small cabin near Mill Creek on the south side of Nashville,TN in 1861. His father, Paul White, worked as an Engineer on the L&N Railroad.

 

Whitey’s earned his nickname due to his fair skin, blonde hair, and last name.

 

In 1876 when Whitey was 15, he got a job making cedar barrels in Nashville. It was here he met a fella by the name of J.D. Howard who said he was from Missouri but had kin folk up in Kentucky.

 

They worked together for a time and Whitey would ask him to rell some of the stories of riding with Quantrill’s Raiders in Kansas and the like. Whitey loved those stories and dreamed of living a life that seemed so exciting. Whitey looked up to J.D. Howard as if he were the brother he never had.

 

After a spell, J.D. Howard and another fella by the name of B.J. Woodson (Who also lived in Nashville at that time) was revealed to be none other than Frank and Jesse James! Someone close to them had let it slip of who they really were so they had to skin out of Tennessee before the law caught up with them. 

 

A few years later in 1882, the Tennessean newspaper reported that Jesse was murdered by a man named Bob Ford over in Missouri. Whitey, who was 21 at the time, decided that life was just too dang short and that trusting folks can end your life in an instant. Unable to find decent work at a fair wage, Whitey took off for the west to seek his fame and fortune, but what he found is that it is hard to get ahead unless you bend some laws. This, along with the whiskey, led him down the path of an outlaw. He took the alias of “Whitey James” in honor of the man he saw as a brother.

Edited July 1 by Whitey James

[Cheyenne Ranger, 48747L]

Cheyenne Ranger SASS #48747L

(the True Story)

 

          Alias:  I was born a long time ago but since I was very small at the time I don’t remember much of it.  I misspent my youth developing a love of slow horses and fast women.  This led to me leaving quite a few towns in a great hurry, many times, at night, on the back of someone’s “borrowed” horse. 

I gravitated to the area around Cheyenne, Wyo.  At that time respectable work was hard to find which was fine with me.  The best and easiest work was riding with a group of cowpokes that would search out “lost” cattle and the fellers that kinda helped them get lost. 

We were a semi-legal group that acquired the collective name of Rangers.  Nowhere near the quality or style of our Texas brethren but we did provide some service to the ranchers in the area.  We drank hard and rode easy—it was a good life and one that didn’t require much effort from me, other than not falling off the back of my mount after an especially hard night of drinking. 

Alas, all good things must come to and end.  Several less-reputable members of our band decided that there was more money in helping the cattle get “lost” than finding them—it made perfect sense to me at the time. Once again, I found myself on the back of a fast moving horse with the lights of Cheyenne disappearing in the distance.  Figured about then, that since too make people knew my real name, I might want to be known by a different moniker—hence Cheyenne Ranger now rode the ranges of the West.    

          Time passed and I ended up in No-Name City.  Helped Ben Rumsfeld and Partner with their project to gather the spilled gold dust from under all the bars and stores.  When the town literally disappeared into the ground, Lee asked me if he could model the character Kid Shelleen after me—I was flattered and agreed, though the most fun I had was singing with Nat King Cole and Stubby Kaye throughout Cat Ballou.  Always hated that my part ended up on the cutting room floor.

Next I traveled south and stopped for a time in New Mexico; Lordsburg seemed like a nice place.  It had been a long and lonely trip and I was in need of female companionship. 

Word on the street was that a woman had come in from Kansas City, KS to bury her husband.  I met Violet Peacock, SASS #56964, soon after his funeral.  He had been on the stagecoach from Tonto to Lordsburg.  He was wounded by an arrow and later died from the infection. 

Here was a woman that a man could settle down with!  Violet and I were married and began a quiet, simple life.  Both she and I became teachers working for the local school district and live peaceably even to this day. 

Interest in CAS:  It was here in the school system where I met Lady Wolf.  She and her husband Lone Wolf would be the ones to invite me to attend my first Texas Regulators match.  They were generous with guns, gear and ammo and before the match was over I knew this was for me, especially since I live 10 miles from the range—this was meant to be!

Selecting an alias was simply returning to my nickname from the Wyoming Ranger days—Cheyenne Ranger.

Gathering the guns, leather, clothing and ammo has been an ongoing process.  By now we have more hardware than some of the smaller third-world countries, abet all of it single or lever action.  Reloading has always been a part of my life and now I got to add more calibers and even resume reloading for the scattergun—an old rotator cuff surgery requires loads even lighter than the Winchester Featherlites, plus Violet is a genteel lady of fine up-bringing.  

Now that I am well into my second year of CAS, I am looking forward to being more of an asset to the club.  I hope to attend RO-I school and increase my support for the Texas Regulators.  I got to write one set of Stage Descriptions and want to do some more.  The urge to shoot with other clubs is increasing and Slash and I will be doing that soon.

There even is some talk of actually beginning to aim at the targets though I find that to be a highly overrated skill.

Other Hobbies:  I cast bullets and reload.  I probably have paid for Mike Dillon’s trips to Paris once or twice (that’s Paris, France, not Texas.) 

Other than those activities I devote myself full-time to seeing to Violet’s every need and wish.  She is a lady of great elegance and grace though she did marry me (something that never ceases to amaze me.)   

Most Memorable Moment was when my brother, Slashwood Whittler, joined up and has become my shooter partner. 

I hope to involve my wife, Violet Peacock, in CAS shooting in the coming months.  She is getting encouragement from Tracker’s better half Kit O’Leary—a perfect reason for more guns, gear and get-ups.

 

Deep Dark Secret: Taught to me by an old cowhand, “If you count all the legs and divide by 4 you’ll know how many cows are in the herd.” 

 

 

Cheyenne Ranger and Violet Peacock are Walter and Debbie Laich who have been “molders of young minds” (teachers) in Spring I.S.D.  Debbie has taught for 30 years in elementary and middle schools and Walter for 35, all at Ponderosa Elementary.  They have seen FM 1960 as a two-lane road and remember deer crossing at 1960 and Kuykendahl—however he doesn’t remember breakfast. 

[John Kloehr]

I took a hint from the Hollywood angle of SASS. This lead for a search to find a real person from the old west who had a movie-worthy story.

 

So John Kloehr... Would make a good movie. He owned and operated the stable in Coffeyville. His money was in one of the town banks. The Daltons rode into town and started robbing. Hold on a moment, I have posted this info somewhere... Found it:

 

"

One of the unique aspects of SASS approved Cowboy Action Shooting™ is the requirement placed on costuming. Each participant is required to adopt a shooting alias appropriate to a character or profession of the late 19th century, a Hollywood western star, or an appropriate character from fiction. Their costume is then developed accordingly. More comprehensive information is available at http://www.sassnet.com/About-What-is-SASS-001A.php.

"

 

This was a key driver of me choosing John Kloehr. Hollywood could certainly have made him a character in a movie, a Kansas City newspaper article credited him with taking out the entire Dalton Gang single-handedly. He himself afterwards wrote that the newspaper article was fiction, did not relay what he actually did do (he took out one member, may have injured another). The article as published was a shock to him as he did not relay the content in his interview. In my research, I have found the rifle in the Kansas City newspaper article is not the rifle he used in the actual shooting (article says it was that rifle).

 

But Hollywood could have gone with the newspaper article! And cast any actor, and costumed any desired way without regard to how the actual John Kloehr dressed or the true historical facts.

 

So I feel I am within what is a character from the late 19th century and a character from fiction as Hollywood could have portrayed him with an actor (me, since I am doing the casting).

 

...

"

 

See also:

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/24342/24342-8.txt (search in page for "kloehr", the article is near the bottom)

 

https://truewestmagazine.com/article/john-j-kloehr-downs-a-dalton/

 

https://www.newspapers.com/article/the-coffeyville-daily-journal-coffeyvill/1551834/

 

http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/daltons.htm

[Cemetery]

Watching this spaghetti western called 'They Call Him Cemetery'.

 

Two Bounty Killers sitting at the bar, talking about old times .... Bounty Killer #1 says to Bounty Killer #2 'You're giving the Undertaker so much business, he's starting to call you Cemetery!'.

 

Bingo!  There it was, my alias.

[Doc Shapiro]

Nope.  Not a thing. 

[Dapper Dave]

Dapper Dave's the name, always up for an honest game!

Originally I was going to go with Twice Dead Dave, considering I had been reported dead twice to various folks, and as Mark Twain famously commented, "Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated." Except that wasn't the real quote.

Why Dapper? Probably because when I finally wanted to get a real cowboy hat made in Texas, when my wife and I were on vacation in Henderson, for some reason while the fitting was going on, I blurted out I wanted a bowler hat. Everyone was a little surprised, but there ya go.  Cost me $400 for this "real" cowboy hat, (they were quite popular in the Old West before the Boss of the Plains appeared, Bat Masterson was one famous wearer), and I figured, well, I started with this journey or where the heck am I going...lets follow the cowboy rabbit hole, and here I am.

 

The backstory behind this individual?
"I have no real recollection of where I was whelped, my mother moved a lot, comin' down from Minnesota, finally wanderin' into the deserts of the Arizona Territory when I was a wee sprat. We never got along powerful well, as she was a God fearin' church goin' woman, and I, well, I wasn't. When I was able, I skedaddled out the door, and looked for adventure. I even signed up with the Army at Camp Lowell, ('scuse, FORT Lowell now, since they moved the place), and did some cookin' for the soldiers there...but takin' everyone's money with late night card games didn't endear me none to the officers, and it wasn't long afore they showed me the other side of the gate.
 I learned bartending in Dodge City, kept low and out of trouble for a while - Ma woulda been so proud. That's when someone called me Dapper Dave due to my bowler hat, and the fact I was tryin' to look like I knew what I was doing behind the bar. But I was workin' on my skill sets in this new fangled world. I learned two great things - cooking and card playin', though I confess, I hate Faro. However, I do love beans. I cooked here and there, bartended there and here, and kinds just eased back westward.
I'm here in this brand new town of Casa Grande here in the Arizona Territory, ( they think very high and mighty for such a new little town, just stared in 1879!), because I had a little trouble about three cow towns east of here. Seems some cowboy decided I was a-cheatin', and since the number of him and his compadres exceeded the number of cartridges in my pistols, I decided the best course of action was to leave. Immediately.
So, here I am. Who knows what will happen next?"

 

[Injun Ryder, SASS #36201L]

Because I do!

[Horace Patootie, SASS #35798]

Yes, butt it's all behind me.

Horace

[Cold Lake Kid, SASS # 51474]

The Cold Lake Kid is a Metis.

His Mother is Algonquin and Father is an Irish trapper, buffalo hunter and sometime employee of the Hudson Bay Company, around the Cold Lake, Grande Centre, Medley area.

His Father made Poteen in the old country and still made the occasional batch from a still he cobbled together.

Watching and fetching for his Father, the Kid learned the skill and decided making whiskey was a lot easier than trapping or skinning buffalo.

That's how the Kid got into trouble: selling whiskey to relations and other band members in that part pf Rupert's Land. (Later called Alberta)

He made a pretty good product, but he was cutting into the sales of the whiskey traders at Fort Whoop-Up (Later known as Calgary) and had to abandon his still and make a run for it following an unfortunate disagreement with representatives of the businessmen at Fort Whoop-Up.

It turned out The Kid, while slow, was pretty accurate and accuracy counted more than speed in the ensuing discussions.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of "representatives and distributors"  at Fort Whoop-Up, who took exception to the Kid's accuracy.

Thinking they would never look south of the Medicine Line, The Kid rode South East, finally ending up in Savannah, Georgia, in early 1863, after skirting some unpleasant, noisy activity along the way.

Meeting a beautiful, smooth talking red head, named Melissa, and becoming convinced she only had eyes for men in uniform, the Kid marked his X on attestation papers., got sworn in by Major Hartridge, issued a nice uniform and was assigned to Company C, 27th Battalion, Georgia Infantry, as a Private.

Unfortunately, Melissa's head was turned and her heart given to a dashing young officer and the Kid was left broken hearted. 

And in the Army.

He discovered noisy battlefields were not the kind of place he liked to be, but an ornery Sergeant, always seemed to be close by, so taking French Leave was impossible. 

After the War of Northern Aggression ended, The Kid drifted back North, eventually reaching Upper Canada, just in time to learn it was no longer a colony, and had become a country, July 1, 1867

Sticking around for the festivities fire works and cannon fire, not directed at him, seemed a relaxing way to unwind after his recent adventures and feeling safely away from the Medicine Line and the residents of Fort Whoop-Up, the Kid let his guard down and got a little..........OK drunk at a Tavern, in the By Ward Market, whereupon he again fell afoul of the soulful looks of a comely barmaid, who convinced him his military experience could gain him a corporal or even a Sergeant's stipes in the newly formed 43rd Battalion of Infantry, The Carleton Blazers. (Later becoming The Cameron Highlanders.)

It didn't, but he stuck around, because his spiffy new red tunic did attract the girls and found work in the local distillery, until the second wave of Fenian Raids began in May 1870. (He missed the first ones in 1866)

Finding the prospect of someone else shooting at him and not caring for guard duty, the Kid stole borrowed a horse and headed back west.

Edited July 1 by Cold Lake Kid, SASS # 51474

[watab kid]

yes , it does , it was not my choice - it was a committee descension around a campfire in my backyard  one summer night at the origins of our local club , a fair sized group of us were sitting in lawn chairs on the banks of the watab river - we had a good fire going and we all through things out , our local beaver made an appearance , disturbed a couple of the crowd and it stuck , the "KID" part was a jab at me as i was the eldest of our bunch [i was qualified as a 49er then tho] ive thought to change it or alter it but in the end it was a good time to be alive and i think ill keep 

 

some of those people still shoot with me - a lot dont , life has its demands , maybe before i have to quit the whole gang will get together again , 

[Yazoo City Gal]

Absolutely! 

 

I started a thread on The Ocoee Rangers website in August 2008 with this topic.  There are MANY great stories archived there written by some of the greatest cowboys!  Below is mine-

Edited July 1 by Yazoo City Gal

[Yazoo City Gal]

I was born in 1860 to a baptist preacher and his wife in Yazoo City, Mississippi.  Times were tough back then and preaching did not bring in much money for the family.  Daddy was so gifted with his speaking he would frequently travel spreading the gospel.


In 1876, daddy asked me to join him on a crusade to Missouri.    I was 16 at the time and dying to see the real world.  We had been in town for about a week and the money we had was about gone.  Daddy decided he would go to the bank in town and see about a loan.  He asked that I go with him.  I put on my Sunday's best and we went to the bank. 

Daddy was talking to the manager in the office and I was visiting with a town local in the bank lobby.  There were a few town folk coming in and out doing their banking business.  I heard gun fire from the outside of the bank and a rush of footsteps coming my way.  Before I knew it, three  men were in the bank shooting their guns and making demands.   I could tell that they meant business, but they were well organized and pretty good looking. After they got the cash, one of the men grabbed me from behind, took me outside and demanded that I get on  his horse.

He jumped on the horse, took me by the hand and pulled me behind him.  I grabbed him around his waist and off we went.  I held on as tight as I could and we rode hard and fast to get out of town.  Strange thing though, I was not scared AND thought this was very exciting!

After we rode for what seemed like an hour, we stopped.  The bandit jumped from the horse then took me by the hand to help me down.  He offered me water and assured me that I would not be hurt.  I asked him his name and he replied "Jessie James", but YOU can call me "JJ".  He asked me where I was from and I told him Yazoo City.  I told him about my father, preaching, and our trip to Missouri.  JJ told me that we had alot in common as he was the son of a baptist preacher.  He also said I was the best "hugger" he had ever ridden with! 

JJ took me back to the outskirts of town the next morning.  He said that he would like for me to stay with him and his gang for a while but that I probably did not have any shooting skills and would slow them down. He handed me his scarf..said I might need it to remember him by.  It was balled up and knotted.  As I unrolled the scarf, I saw lot's of cash and a small piece of paper...the note said "from one preachers kid to another".  As he rode away he waived his hat in the air and shouted "Take care, Yazoo City Gal".

Daddy and I went home to Mississippi and I was able to help the family somewhat with the money JJ had given me.  I decided to purchase a gun with some of the money so I could learn how to shoot.  I kept this a secret...what would people say? 

Times got pretty rough again for the family, and after seeing JJ and his gang handle that bank I decided that a woman could do a much better job at that bank robbery stuff.  I left home and headed toward Georgia.

I happened upon the small town of Marietta, GA.  The Wells Fargo Bank sat prominently in the town square.  I rode up to the bank, dismounted from my horse, and walked inside.  There were no customers and only one teller in the window.  I thought to myself "This is it", "Now or never".  I pulled my gun and made my demands.  As I backed away to the door I felt a pistol in my back.  The town deputy had me!

I was taken to the town jail.  The deputy told me I was to meet with "The Judge" the next morning.  I was told the judge had a reputation for hangings, and he probably would not give me any breaks.

I went before the judge the next morning.  He was a large man, but had a friendly smile and a way about him that I can't explain.  He asked me  ALOT of questions (he has the gift of gab).  He wanted to know why a preachers daughter would do this type of thing.  Then, the strangest thing happened.....he called me back to his chambers.

Judge gave me two choices-  First, was to hang for my crime.  Second, marry him.

Sooooo............. .hello, which would you choose?

The Judge and I settled down on a lovely hacienda on the outskirts of town.  We had a son, Jeremiah, who died tragically after a riding accident with one of his close friends.  The loss of our son brought us closer together over the years.  We traveled the country making lot's of new aquaintances.

 In reflecting back on my life, I realized that something was missing.  I was lacking the thrill, the "rush" of excitement I experienced during my first bank job.  I decided it was time to practice shooting again.  I kept this from The Judge, as I knew he would not understand.  As we traveled the country, I made it a point to visit the local bank (without The Judge) and make my presence known.  The teller always looked SHOCKED, as I made my demands in a friendly manner, but they knew I meant business!

YCG-
 

[Dawg Hair, SASS #29557]

I had a house full of Cocker Spaniels.

[Linn Keller, SASS 27332, BOLD 103]

Oh my good heavens, these are good!
Doc Ward, I was told long ago that "You write best what you know best," and you definitely have the solid foundation in your personal background to portray your character most authentically!

It's a good thing my imagination is not bolted firmly to my septuagenaric carcass, as reading the several accounts preceding, Imagination was jumping up and down like an enthusiastic child, screaming "WOO HOO!" and firing chrome plated cap pistols in the air with both hands.

The rest of me sat solemnly, nodding a little, with a quiet smile.

There is genuinely an amazing amount of accumulated research and knowledge here!

[Chickasaw Bill SASS #70001]

a renegade that jumped the Res 

[Rip Snorter]

A descriptive term of the day, I was surprised it was still available.  I had considered Major Rip Snorter, but thought that might be a difficult standard to meet.  It also let me have a gun cart with a tombstone shaped back piece, RIP cut into it.

[The Original Lumpy Gritz]

My orginal alias was "Lumpy Grits"

At a breakfast with friends get'n ready to join SASS, we were discussing my alias choices. 

Couldn't find one I liked. When my breakfast was served, it included a small bowl of lumpy grits. Everyone dared me.....

[bgavin]

Yes

Ancestor

[Rye Miles #13621]

4 hours ago, The Original Lumpy Gritz said:

My orginal alias was "Lumpy Grits"

At a breakfast with friends get'n ready to join SASS, we were discussing my alias choices. 

Couldn't find one I liked. When my breakfast was served, it included a small bowl of lumpy grits. Everyone dared me.....

So why “Original “ ?

[The Original Lumpy Gritz]

1 hour ago, Rye Miles #13621 said:

So why “Original “ ?

After I let my SASS m'ship lapse, someone came along and took it..... 

Allie Mo came up with the 'orginal' addition. 

[Stump Water]

"Stump Water" typically refers to stagnant water collected in the hollow of a rotting tree stump.   In some folklore and traditional medicine, particularly in Appalachia, it's associated with magical or healing properties, imbued with the energy of the tree and the heavens.

 

It can also be a colloquial term for inferior beer or a similar beverage... AKA: Rot Gut.   This is how I heard the term used as a yonker in Southern Appalachia.

 

 

[Eyesa Horg]

Horg is a nickname that just flew out of my mouth over 50 years ago when I was hailing my wife. I used to make up all sorts of weird words out of the blue! As in "hey Horg", she responded and somehow it became our nickname for each other. Over the years even our friends called us Horg/ Horgs! Even the plate on our bike is "2 HORGS".

So when trying to find an alias she suggested something with Horg as I always respond to it.

So I said  " I's a Horg, she's a Horg", then spelled it like an idiot as "Eyesa", that new folks pronounce incorrectly as Asa! In an effort back then to called Horg, I'd introduce myself as "Horg, Eyesa Horg". For obvious I guess reason, some folks didn't like Horg and would even change it to Hoag!! So now it's pretty much just Eyesa!

When my wife started shooting, she didn't want to be " Sheeza Horg". So being an avid elephant collector, she chose "Ellie Phant" which constantly gets mispronounced as "Font"  

There ya basically have it for us!

[PowderRiverCowboy]

Not much just spent many summers Cowboying in Powder River/ Kaycee area , Guess i could have used my GG Uncle Marshal Burdick(AKA the Man the hung Jack McCall)

[watab kid]

this has been fun , back when i hoped my grandkids would join me in this [me paying of course ] i had thought id pass the "kid" down and alter mine to reflect my age a bit more like just adding my name after .....but those dreams didnt come true , 

they have found their own way to other things in spite of my efforts to get them involved , thankfully all wholesome and mostly lifelong sports that they can enjoy without turning to shuffle board , 

 

just wish one would come here and say they want to shoot something ...ive got a lot of reloading stuff as well as gubs my wife one day will have to dispose of otherwise 

[Rye Miles #13621]

On 6/30/2025 at 4:14 PM, Rye Miles #13621 said:

My alias was an Arizona Ranger. Sgt J.T. “Rye” Miles. He was born in Texas, was a cowboy, became a Az Ranger, later Sheriff of Tucson and prison guard in his later years. 

Weird twist to this story. A few years ago I joined the Arizona Rangers Facebook page. I noticed a guy on there whose name was Robert Miles and said his dad was J.T. Rye Miles! Wow, I commented to him that I was using his dad’s name as an alias for SASS. He knew nothing about our group and said he wasn’t happy that I was using his dad’s name for a shooting group! I was actually going to change it but i didn’t. I’ve had this alias for almost 20 years. I meant to honor his dad not make fun of him. He was 95 at the time and that was about 10 years ago. 🙄

[July Smith]

I joined SASS and shot my first match in the month of July.  I recalled that July was also a character in Lonesome Dove, but there were already a number of variants of July Johnson in the SASS records.  My real last name is pretty complicated and always gets misspelled and mispronounced, so I opted to keep it simple.