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PIONEER PROFILE

In courthouse square in Prescott stands Solon Borglum's monumental equestrian bronze memorializing the three companies of Rough Riders from Arizona that fought in the 1898 Spanish-American War. In the saddle overlooking the mile-high city is a nameless rider in uniform, representing all the young men who served in the Rough Riders almost a hundred years ago. He sits forward in the saddle holding tight reins, his boots scuffed, saber against his left spur.

Over the years, Prescottonians have given a life of sorts to the heroic bronze, calling the young man by the name of one of their own: William Owen (Buckey) O'Neill. For personal reasons, I like to think the statue is Buckey, too. For if ever a fellow deserved such stature, Buckey surely did.

Were he alive today, I suspect that Theodore Roosevelt would still agree with his assessment of the man he remembered as "a wild, reckless fellow, soft spoken, of dauntless courage, and boundless ambition ..."

And so he was. His numerous adventures were above and beyond dime-novel stuff. In Faro games, he was known to bet his last dollar, hoping for that illusive lucky break. Western frontiersmen called it "bucking the tiger," and that's how the Irish-born O'Neill won his sobriquet.

While living in Phoenix, Buckey made his living working as a typesetter at the Phoenix Herald. Later he would found a magazine, which is still in publication, write Western fiction, and enter public service. Arizona's frontier political press was seldom lacking for an exciting story, thanks to Buckey, an outspoken fellow who always seemed to be in the right spot at the worst time.

Once, while serving as a court stenographer in Prescott, his ill luck almost cost him his life.

Reporting to C.G.W. French's court on a Saturday morning in 1883, Buckey prepared to record the third day of an emotional trial over water rights, a life-anddeath issue in those times.

A Mrs. Kelsey was suing her Kirkland Valley neighbor, one Patrick McAteer, over equal shares of the water in Kirkland Creek, which ran through their properties. McAteer, the defendant, came into the

The Audacious Buckey O'Neill IN ALL HIS PURSUITS - SHERIFF, GAMBLER, PUBLISHER, POLITICIAN, WAR HERO - HE WAS THE MAN WHO BUCKED THE TIGER

court that morning with a knife he'd concealed in his clothes, while Charles W. Beach, the plaintiff's son-in-law, sat in the front spectator's row with a loaded pistol. McAteer and Beach were openly hostile to each other, so much so Beach believed without a weapon his life was in danger.

The morning's first witness was Moses Langley, who testified for Mrs. Kelsey. While Langley was cross-examined, the plaintiffs attorney objected to the defense questioning. Then the two attorneys started screaming at one another, ignoring Judge French's call for order.

When one called the other a liar, the defense attorney picked up an inkstand and threw it at his fellow counselor, then leapt over the table separating them, and went for the jugular.

McAteer jumped from his chair, drew his knife, turned to the horrified spectators in the courtroom, and twice stabbed a man who was guilty of nothing more than spending a Saturday morning listening to an interesting court case.

Then McAteer, now fully aroused, sprang toward Charles Beach.

Beach, in attempting to avoid a thrust, was nicked on the neck and fell over the railing dividing the spectators from the court.

Buckey, in the meantime, was trying to assist the plaintiff's attorney. Now McAteer turned the knife on Buckey, who leapt backward, the knife catching him between the fingers of his left hand. By then Beach had drawn his gun and, as the court watched in horror, shot McAteer in the back. McAteer fell wounded, and Buckey removed the bloody knife from his hand.

How did it all turn out? Well, a grand jury failed to indict Beach, who, ironically, later purchased McAteer's ranch. And Judge French fined each attorney $500 for contempt of court.

Buckey's next rendezvous with the unusual was an event in which he partic-ipated only peripherally. But it is interesting in that it shows another side of the man's character, one of which few might have been aware or believe if they had been.

In December of 1885, Dennis Dilda, a Texan who had settled near Prescott, was accused of stealing calves. Yavapai County Sheriff William Mulvernon sent Deputy Johnny Murphy to investigate the complaint, then heard nothing more. The deputy had disappeared.

Because the Dilda residence was the last place Murphy had been known to be, Mulvernon went there to check on his deputy. While inside Dilda's tiny shack, the sheriff noticed a crooked board in the floor. He pried the board loose and found Murphy's body beneath it.

Dilda's wife was quick to admit her husband killed the man and fled on his horse.

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PIONEER PROFILE

the murderer was led up the stairs of the scaffold, blindfolded, and the noose placed around his neck.

At this point, Buckey drew his sword and shouted the order to present arms. Then, as he watched the trap being sprung and Dilda dropping to his death, the wild, reckless fellow of dauntless courage quietly fainted dead away.

Was it the hanging that upset him? No, said Buckey's wife, Pauline, in defense of her husband. She explained he'd fainted because he caught a glimpse of Dilda's wife and his two children "who were so small and innocent, that their future lot seemed an awful one."

During his years in Prescott, Buckey continued to be active in the community. As noted earlier, he founded and edited a magazine titled Hoof and Horn for and about cattle growers; he became part owner of a copper mine near the South Rim of the Grand Canyon; and he promoted a railroad connecting the Santa Fe main line at Williams to the Grand Canyon which, after a long hiatus, is operating once again (see Arizona Highways, May '90).

Politically active as well, Buckey was elected probate judge of Yavapai County and twice ran and twice failed to be elected a representative to Congress. The reason may have been that he had disassociated himself from Arizona's two major parties he felt neither served the public interest and joined the Populist Party instead, a group with such radical ideas as establishing a national 40-hour workweek. Buckey also served a stint as sheriff (see Arizona Highways, Feb. '92) and in 1897 garnered sufficient votes to win the job of mayor.

The following year, however, he'd buck the tiger one more time and lose.

On February 15, 1898, the American battleship Maine was sunk in Havana Harbor, taking 263 men to their deaths. Buckey was enraged. The day following receipt of the news, he attended a rally at the courthouse where he declared he was ready and willing to shed his heart's last drop for his flag and his country.

While the smell of war was thick in the air, a concept was dreamed up to create voluntary companies of cowboy cavalry. They would be composed of frontiersmen who knew Spanish, horsemanship, marksmanship, and outdoor camping plus they would have combat experience gained from fighting in the late Apache wars. In April, Congress authorized the raising of 3,000 volunteers from the West. Several days later, April 25, war was declared on Spain.

'They look exactly as a body of cowboy cavalry should look.'

Recruitment for Arizona volunteers was divided into two broad geographic areas: Buckey would gather men from northern sections of the territory and his good friend Jim McClintock, later a state historian, would recruit in the south.

By April 30, the men from Arizona were enrolled formally, Buckey serving as captain of Company "A" and McClintock, Company "B." A third company, "C," would be led by Joseph Alexander. All would be under the command of Lt. Col. Theodore Roosevelt. He'd call his men the Rough Riders.

Describing the regiment, Roosevelt said, "Their uniform... [consists of] slouch hats, blue flannel shirts, brown trousers, leggings, and boots, with handkerchiefs knotted loosely around their necks. They look," he added, "exactly as a body of cowboy cavalry should look."

After initial training, Tampa, Florida, was to be the port of debarkation to Cuba. From this time until the men hit the beach, the situation grew worse daily. Food spoiled, and so many men arrived in steady streams awaiting transport that not enough ships could be found to get them where they were supposed to be going. On top of that, there were horses and mules to contend with as well as gear and forage. The war would be over, many of the soldiers thought, before they got into battle.

The 1st U.S. Volunteer Cavalry arrived in Cuba the morning of June 22, near the village of Daiquiri, about 16 miles east of the mouth of Santiago Harbor. Now a new problem had to be faced. Ship captains refused to anchor close to shore, so small boats had to be used to disembark. The men would have to try to reach a pier tossing in high surf. The result: chaos.

Buckey led his troop among the first to make the shore safely jumped into the water after them in an unsuccessful rescue attempt. Weighted down with blanket rolls and cartridge belts, their bodies were not found until much later.

Getting the horses and pack animals ashore proved to be a rather simple operation: they were dropped overboard. Among the many animals lost was one of the prized horses belonging to Roosevelt. While the animal was being hoisted for lowering into the sea, the bellyband broke, plunging the horse into the rough water. Stunned from the fall, it quickly drowned. Roosevelt's other mount was lowered safely and swam ashore.

On the last day of June, 1898, the Americans began an assault on a series of ridges called San Juan Heights. Buckey's cavalry company was stationed, without their horses, northeast of San Juan Hill, near what was called Kettle Hill. The landmark was fortified heavily by the enemy, and, by midmorning, Spanish fire inflicted heavy casualties on the troops.

Buckey, who held nothing but contempt for the Spanish soldiers, felt that, as a commander, it was his duty to be an example to his men. So he proudly stood upright visible to his company while they were being struck by heavy small-arm and rifle fire.

Roosevelt later recalled that "O'Neill moved to and fro, his men begging him to lie down. And one of the sergeants said, 'Captain, a bullet is sure to hit you." But instead of taking cover, O'Neill "took a cigarette out of his mouth, and blowing out a cloud of smoke, laughed" and replied, "'Sergeant, the Spanish bullet isn't made that will kill me.' As he turned on his heel, a bullet struck him in the mouth and came out at the back of his head."

Buckey O'Neill's body now lies in the topmost section of Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. He'd died a hero at the age of 38 years. But his spirit for me and his fellow Prescottonians exists for all time on the courthouse square in Prescott, Arizona, tacitly observing his proud community.