He Stayed With 'Em While He Lasted

BY: Ralph Keithley

HE STAYED WITH їм WHILE HE LASTED THE SAGA OF BUCKEY O'NEILL

Part One

HAVE YOU ever paused in front of a statue in the square of some strange town, glared back at the man of bronze who so disdainfully glared at you, and wondered, "Who in hell is that?"

In the Plaza in Prescott, Arizona, is a man of bronze, who, except for the stuff of which he is made, resembles none of his brothers. He is not disdainful, nor does he stand, as most of his brothers do, with one hand beneath his coat and one behind his back, where neither can see what the other does. In soft slouch hat, six-gun and saber at his side, he sits a rearing mount and gazes almost wistfully across pinegreen mountains, ever ready, it seems, to plunge forward into life and charge against the foe.

One turns to leave, then looks again. Neither horse nor rider has sprung to life, but it seems they surely must! There is something about that dashing horseman that makes a man look twice.

But I hadn't found that out as I stood idly in the Plaza while my wife erased the sheen from her nose before crossing the street for lunch.

"Who is that?" I thought, and read the square, bronze plaque. Erected by Arizona in Honor of the 1st U. S. Volunteer Cavalry, Known to History as Roosevelt's Rough Riders, and to the Memory of CAPTAIN WILLIAM O. O'NEILL And his Comrades Who Died While Serving Their Country In the War With Spain "Just another Rough Rider," I figured, and turned away. The nose was decent, and ready for lunch.

Later, I was back. There was something about that fellow"Who was this Captain O'Neill?" I asked a man nearby.

"Him? Buckey O'Neill? He's a famous guy around these parts. I don't know what all he done, but you could ask around." I asked around. Fascinated, and a trifle breathless, I was still at it a year and six months later. Who would ever suspect that a horseman in bronze would come to life? But he did, and led me a chase-from Tucson, Arizona, to Salt Lake City, Utah; from Phoenix to Hollywood, and a thousand points between. Over desert trails and mountains. Through aged and yellowed newspapers. Forgotten manuscripts. Books, and family albums. Even, the rascal, through private diaries.

Throughout Arizona his incredible exploits are legend, yet only by following the trails he rode, people he knew, and papers he wrote, was it possible to piece together the whole, unbroken story of his life.

Along the western frontier, the roaring eighties and the gayer nineties punctuated the close of the century like twin revolver shots. The westward thrust of empire forced outlaw and pioneer alike onward to Arizona. The young but sturdy Territory was still in its swaddling clothes, but it quickly became the toughest baby you'd ever hope to see. Men like Wyatt Earp and Commodore Owens, Burton Mossman and Billy Breakenridge dealt justice from well loaded decks, with 45 caliber sixes always the pair to beat. Tombstone! Tucson! Phoenix! Here in lusty splendor, the wild and woolly West made its last, defiant stand. A dusty fringe of lawlessness clung to Arizona like cobwebs, but the great new boom of civilization was soon to come brushing through. Its proverbial sweep was neither thorough nor clean, but as it whisked Arizona, it stirred up plenty of dust.

Into this swirl of violent living rode a man by the name of O'Neill.

Take a good look at the name. William Owen O'Neill. Irish as a brick-bat, and just as full of fight. He rode into Arizona on a burro. Twenty years later, he rode out again and left behind him a tame and conquered land. Without a qualm, he gave his life for his country, but of this much you can be sure: he certainly went down fighting.

In Arizona today, no one knows whom you mean by William Owen O'Neill. Few ever did. But mention Buckey O'Neill-Eyes grow brighter and hearts turn mellow as old-timers settle back in their chairs. Ah, now! There was a man!

And that's how it is. You might as well call him "Buckey" right from the start. Everyone does. From the moment he chugged into Phoenix aboard his dusty burro, Arizona claim ed him as her own and favorite son. And even today, over forty years later, he keeps on being just that.

Typesetter, printer, lawyer, judge. Stock man, miner, school superintendent. Gambler -and who in Arizona wasn't? Mayor of Prescott, Sheriff and soldier supreme.

Pyrotechnic politics were Arizona's meat. Buckey dished them up-deluxe. Court reporter, news reporter, author and editor. Promoter, builder, developer; Buckey was all of these. With a couple of enemies and thousands of friends, he was more than a son of Arizona. He was Arizona for nearly twenty years. And whatever faults his enemies find, they quickly agree on this: Buckey O'Neill was a damn fine fellow.

IT WAS 1879, hot and dry as only Phoenix can Ibe. Charley McClintock let his generous bro gans slip from the spindly table that served as "the desk" of his Phoenix Herald. They plopped to the floor. Before him lay an issue of his semi-weekly paper, hot off the press. Charley glared at it. He was "hot off the press" himself, and literally, too. He had just finished setting and printing, as well as editing his pioneer four-page sheet. Whew! What a job! He mopped his perspiring features, and offered a short but poignant prayer for one of those scarcities of the frontier a half way decent typesetter. Any sort of typesetter. He needed one, needed him badly. The air in his cramped adobe office seemed to grow stuffy as he thought about it. It was hotter outside, but a breeze was stirring, and the air at least was fresh. He ambled out, fervently cursing a bleak, upstart spot three hundred miles to the south. Tombstone and her mines-bah. News papers would still be grinding out long after that upshoot camp and its glittering silver had melted back into the desolate hills from which they sprang. Typesetters would be back from the mines with aching backs and empty hands, begging for work at the presses! But nowNow was a different story. Typesetters came and went with discouraging regularity, pausing only to work up a sufficient stake to see them through to Tombstone. Every able bodied man in Arizona was heading south as fast as he could travel. Disconsolately, Charley leaned against the trunk of the cottonwood tree that shaded the door of his office. In the distance, a man came toward him along Washington street, chugging through the dust on a burro. Charley watched until the stranger drew near. Then he turned. There was work to be done. But he halted and took another look. There was something about the fellow that made you look twice. He was barely nineteen, Charley guess ed, or thereabouts. But that wasn't it. Nine teen was a man's age in this country. The cocky tilt of the hat, perhaps; or the easy, cocksure way that he sat his dubious mount. Or was it the cigarette? It seemed such a part of the stranger's face that he might have been born with it there. Charley couldn't tell. The man wasn't overly big, but as he slid from his mount it was plain that his trail battered clothes covered plenty of muscle.

Then, beneath the defiant tilt of the hat, Charley met the newcomer's eyes. They were self-reliant as cactus, but friendly, too, and blended with an infectious grin that melted Charley McClintock right down. Countless Arizonans were to soften beneath the warmth of that irresistible grin, but Charley was the first. "Howdy!" he said, smiling before he knew it. The stranger glanced at the sun-checked sign that identified the Herald. "Need a good man?" he asked. "Depends on what you can do," Charley answered. "You've hired an editor," the fellow came back, and plunked himself down at the desk inside.

Charley blinked with surprise. "The hell you say! I'm editor here," he exploded. "Can you set type?"

"Watch me."

Charley watched, and his eyes grew round. His heart thumped with delight. "You're on!" he cried, and thereby distinguished him self in history by giving Buckey O'Neill his first job in the Territory of Arizona. Charley quickly discovered he had the best typesetter the Territory had ever seen. It was like finding a gold mine to him, but just like a gold mine, it was too good to last, for Buckey's turbulent soul was possessed with desire to excel in whatever he did. During the years that he skyrocketed across Arizona's horizon, he undertook a great many things, and re mained without a peer in a single one of his projects. Patience was not one of his virtues. There were places to see, and thing to be done. Buckey intended to both see and do them. But Phoenix was roaring, and he was temporarily satisfied.

The Southern Pacific railroad had driven through to Casa Grande, sixty miles south, and ceased construction. Graders, track lay ers and camp followers flocked into Phoenix, a village of fifteen hundred roistering men,half of them Mexicans. It was the jump-off spot and supply point for the rich and feverish mines of the north-central territory. Miners, prospectors, bull-whackers and sawmillers swarmed its streets, rubbing elbows with a riff-raff crew gamblers, murderers and con fidence men, who defied both the law and any sort of description. Supply trains of great high-wheelers drawn by jerk-line strings of half wild horses rumbled out over the road to Bumble Bee, Bluebell and Mayer. Gilmer, Salisbury & Company stages made the run to the railroad's end. They were robbed with regularity, on the average of twice a week. Bad men cluttered the Phoenix streets at con siderable discount from a dime a dozen, and murder ceased to be news. Unless the victim were exceptionally prominent, the Herald could spare no more than one-half column per killing.

murder ceased to be news. Unless the victim were exceptionally prominent, the Herald could spare no more than one-half column per killing.

Poker, roulette, chuck-a-luck and faro ran wide open twenty-four hour a day. The stand ard chips were dougle-eagles, with the limit confined to whatever amount a man was able To muster. Buckey moved through the noise and turmoil with a keen sense of delight. He loved it. Faro was his game, and he played for all he was worth. His system was simply, "Shoot the works!" and he laid out his last double-eagle with the same carefree grin as with which he had shot the first. Arizona's hard-bitten men looked him over with care. They liked a gent who could win or lose, and the devil take the hindmost. So they quietly watched as the likeable young Irishman with the cigar ette in his mouth sidled up to a layout and gayly "bucked the tiger." Their eyes widened and their cheeks puffed out. Wow! How that man could buck!

That captivating blend of shamrock and shilalah was plenty good for them. They forgot all about the "William Owen," and forthwith dubbed him "Buckey." There was a name that seemed to fit! It suited their style, and his. Buckey always wore it with pride, but nonchalantly, nevertheless, like a favorite old hat cocked over one ear. There were lots of "Bucks" and numerous "Buckos," but from that moment on, throughout the frontier, there was never another "Buckey."

However, the tough boys in Phoenix had yet to be shown. This soft-spoken, bashful looking gent might be a whiz at the tables, but they were quicker to judge by what he