All of us are familiar with the names Kit Carson, Wyatt Earp,
Buffalo Bill. Few of us know about Hoag Franklin. Born in 1830 in Illinois and
raised in Lone Tree, Nebraska, he not only witnessed the Wild West, but he played an integral role in it. By the time he died in 1912 in San Pedro, he'd seen
and done it all.
This introduction explains how I discovered Hoag Franklin.
The Discovery
I was shuffling around the squeaky-rickety-floor thrift
shop. The kind, you know, where you can find everything, but you’re still
surprised when you find anything. There were the familiar stacks of old Life and Look magazines, with
mostly covers of the Kennedy’s and long-dead movie stars or astronauts from the
1960s—all packaged nicely in supersized plastic lunch bags. Any of them would
make a lovely snack.
There were old vinyl records, and older vinyl records
plus a lot of records that shouldn’t have been allowed to become old. Pictures
hung everywhere and I could only wonder, had they ever hung anywhere else. I
didn’t think so. Just like some movies go straight to DVD, I don’t think it is
far-fetched to think some pictures go straight to thrift stores—especially
those frightening portraits of the men and woman staring at me from every wall
in the room.
I felt like a dog on a walk. Something would catch my eye
and before I could zero in on it, something else grabbed my attention, and then
something else, but nothing could hold my interest. I was bouncing from one
piece of forgotten...neglected...abandoned memory to another.
Then I saw the box lying on the floor in the corner. A
rag doll rested on top of it...I say rested and not dead but the dust covering
it and the box told me it hadn’t moved or been moved so much as an inch since
it was put there. Both the box and the doll reeked of that stale, musty
smell...though how I was aware of that I can’t explain. My nostrils had been
under siege of that mildewed stench in a losing battle since the moment I
walked through the door.
I tossed the doll to the side and instantly felt remorse.
It couldn’t have been the first time and I was sure it would not be the last.
Still.
I picked the box up and surveyed the outside. There were
no markings, no pictures, no writing to indicate what might be inside. It
appeared to be a box a shirt might have come in, or some small towels. Maybe.
It could and probably has held just about anything. I lifted the top to see
what it was holding now.
Well. Well, indeed. I may have just found something.
Wouldn’t that be a first? Inside the box lie a stack of papers, obviously from
an old typewriter...possibly like the one I’d seen ten minutes earlier and two
aisles over. A worn ribbon held what appeared to be a hundred, maybe more pages
together.
The print was faded but certainly readable. The title,
centered a third of the way down the first page read, THE LIFE, TIMES AND ADVENTURES OF
HOAG FRANKLIN—INDIAN SCOUT, BUFFALO HUNTER, LAWMAN, and VAUDEVILLE ENTERTAINER.
Was I holding a long-lost, forgotten manuscript? Of
course, I was holding a long-lost, probably forgotten manuscript. I sifted
through the pages to be sure, but there could be no doubt. This was a
story...someone’s story...Hoag Franklin’s story, obviously.
But, who the hell was Hoag Franklin? When were his life
and times? Obviously quite a while ago from the title. There was only one way
to find out.
I walked around a little more but I wasn’t really looking
for anything else. In fact, I was anxious to see more of what I had. Before
long, I walked out the door with the only copy in the world of THE LIFE, TIMES AND ADVENTURES OF HOAG
FRANKLIN—INDIAN SCOUT, BUFFALO HUNTER, LAWMAN, and VAUDEVILLE ENTERTAINER.
Oh, yes. I took the doll, too. They just looked like they
belonged together.
No sooner had I gotten in my car then I opened the box,
unwrapped the manuscript and started reading.
