GENIUS IN CHAPS

Genius in Chaps THE LIFE AND WORKS OF CHARLIE RUSSELL

In 1864, when Charles Marion Russell was born, St. Louis was the outpost of the Great West. For over half a century this city on the Missouri River had been headquarters of the fur trade and the outfitting point for the hardy pioneers who sought their fortunes in that great expanse known vaguely as the Great American Desert. The St. Louis river front was the scene of ceaseless activity, where wood-burning, shallow-draft boats were loaded and unloaded, where wagonwrights, gunsmiths, blacksmiths and horse-traders dealt in the basic requirements of the plains and mountain conquering hordes who flowed out over the trackless prairies to the Rocky Mountains and beyond to the horizon of the continent.Names such as Jean Trudeau, Pierre Chouteau, Manuel Lisa, Lewis Clark, Bent and Bridger were household words in the St. Louis of that period, for these trail blazers, trappers, traders and mountain-men made the

CENTER PANEL WAITING FOR A CHINOOK or LAST OF 5000

The winter of 1886-1887 will long be remembered as the worst in the recorded history of the West. During that awful winter bitter history was made when great herds perished to the last steer.

Charlie Russell was wintering at the OH ranch (Bar R Brand) in Montana when the storm broke. When its devastating effects were realized the foreman sat down to write the absentee owner a letter while the young cowpuncher sat at the kitchen table drawing a watercolor-postcard size. When he handed it to the foreman he said "Put that in your letter." The foreman looked at the little drawing and replied: "Hell, he don't need a letter; this will tell the story." The little sketch showed the last Bar R steer of the once vast herd that only a warm wind (Chinook) could have saved. It was so realistic that the owner, knowing he was broke, got drunk on the bad news.

We are proud to publish in the center spread of this issue, a watercolor painting by Russell of that memorable winter. It remains the classic of the cow range!

In the city their outfitting and recruiting base It was here they gathered to balance accounts at the end of their forays into the wilderness and to celebrate their successes or to drown their failures in the saloons and water-front palaces of this metropolis. The city lacked no element that would contribute to the picture of frontier America at the time of the Civil War.

Out in the great beyond the red man was still preeminent in his domain the white man's firewater and gunpowder had yet to bring him down. Sitting Bun, Red Cloud, Chief Joseph, Victorio, Cochise and Geronimo were to continue the fight to retain their lands from the voracious white man. The history of the West had yet to be besmirched by the records of Washita, Sand Creek, the Custer episode, Apache Pass and Wounded Knee.

Into kaleidoscopic St. Louis and into the turbulent America of 1864, seared with the bitter fire and hatred of the war between the States, came this child who was destined to grow into manhood, to lead a most eventful life, to be a firm friend to both red and white man alike, to move across his brief span of years and leave behind mute evidence of his genius for future generations to study to better understand American heritage and history. St. Louis was surely a good place for the beginning of this colorful life!

Charlie's great-uncles on his father's side had played prominent roles in the early exploration and development of the West-these were the Bent brothers. George had seen service with the American Fur Company in 1816.

Charles, perhaps the best known of all, had served as territorial governor of New Mexico, losing his life in the Taos Indian uprising in 1847. William Bent was a contemporary of the greatest of the explorers and mountainmen St. Vrain, Kit Carson, Jim Bridger and Bill Williams of Arizona fame. He had built Bent's Fort on the Arkansas River in 1828.

From such ancestry Charlie inherited his love of the West. From his mother, who possessed great natural artistic abilities, came his artistic aptitude, encouraged by her. The blending of these two dominant strains-his love of the frontier and his artistic genius gave America its great western artist. Had these two elements not been so deeply inbred in Charlie Russell, our frontier history could not have been so well preserved.

Before he was of school age, Charlie was given a pony, and with his dog and pony he loved to roam the woods near the family home in Oak Hill. His father's clay pits had a strong attraction for the boy. He liked to model little figures and bake them in the brick ovens operated by his father's firm the Parker Russell Company, manufacturers of fire brick. Sculpturing was thus his first love and mode of artistic expression.

Charlie's formal schooling was none too extensive. He preferred to draw in his school books or play hookey from the school room. His father tried private tutoring, which, though somewhat more to the lad's liking, brought little result. After repeated failures the unruly boy was sent to a military school where he spent much of the term in guard duty as penance for infraction of rules. When he was fifteen, art school seemed like a good idea, but after three days Charlie returned home laden with his newly acquired art materials and his declaration that he was through with that.

in guard duty as penance for infraction of rules. When he was fifteen, art school seemed like a good idea, but after three days Charlie returned home laden with his newly acquired art materials and his declaration that he was through with that.

Public schools were no more successful. Charlie just would not attend his classes. On several occasions he ran away from home one time remaining away for three months. Finally, despairing of educating the unmanageable lad, his father decided to let him go west, which had been his hue and cry for years.

Early in March, 1880, just before Charlie's sixteenth birthday, his father broke the big news to him-news enthusiastically received by the boy: "Since you are determined to go it is better you travel with a friend. A young man whose father is a friend of mine is leaving for Montana Territory tomorrow. You are to go with him. Now you'll be able to ride horses and shoot all the Indians you want."

The senior Russell felt that a few months of roughingit would cure the lad of his wanderlust. How wrong he was how little he really understood the resoluteness of his son! Except for brief trips home Charlie Russell, from that time on, called Montana his home.

It was rugged country into which young Russell traveled. From the end of the railroad at Red Rock it was a long stage coach trip to Helena. But he had reached the land of his dreams, and the Indians, freight outfits, mountain-men, trappers, miners and cowpunchers enthralled him. At Helena his mentor, Pike Miller, bought a wagon, horses and provisions for the two-hundred-mile trip to the Judith Basin Country where he operated a sheep ranch. Charlie bought a horse and saddle for himself and his great adventure began.

The city-bred lad did not take kindly to sheep herding and soon drifted away from his first job. Tired, weary and hungry, the lad was taken in tow by an old trapper and hunter, Jake Hoover. For nearly two years, important years in the young artist's life, he hunted and trapped with the old-timer, living in Hoover's mountain cabin on the south fork of the Judith River.

From this old prospector, hunter and trapper, Charlie learned much of life in the open, of the habits and anatomy of the animals of the mountain and plain-deer, elk, bear, mountain sheep, an occasional buffalo, and the smaller fur-bearing animals that roamed the country.

It was Indian country too, and his contacts with the Piegan, Crow, Blackfeet, and Flathead Indians were frequent. From them he learned their language, how to "talk sign," their customs, habits, legends and way of life. Being of an inquiring nature and possessing a retentive mind, Charlie stored up priceless knowledge that enabled him to paint the Indian as he was correct in the most minute detail. The red man was always first in his sympathies for he knew their tragic history, how the onrushing whites had pushed them from their ancestral homes and hunting grounds. In later years this Indian influence became more marked in the artist's character and in his thinking. He became stoic as an Indian. He developed a deep understanding and a reverent appreciation of the red man's philosophy. Even his facial characteristics became more and more Indian many who knew him in later years thought him part Indian. In truth he was an Indian at heart! He never once failed them as a friend.

"I've known some bad Injuns," he once said, "but for every bad one I kin match him with ten white men. Man for man, an Injun's as good as a white man. When he's your friend he's the best friend in the world. White man's whiskey caused all the Injun trouble in the West." In the settlements of central Montana Charlie met and studied the rugged characters who hewed a precarious living from the rough frontier-trappers, freighters, prospectors, bartenders, gamblers, ranchers, cowpunchers and a man of God, the loveable Brother Van Orsdel, who ministered to his vast territory on horseback. Charlie's friends were saint and sinner alike! After living nearly two years with Jake Hoover, Charlie got his first job night-herding horses on the roundup. He was known as Kid Russell the kid who dabbled in paint and clay for everywhere he went his pencil and Charlie was generous and open-handed, traditional habits of the cowboy, and he frequently painted for hot cakes and coffee and the bottle of bourbon whiskey he and his pals enjoyed. Life was free and easy, never to be taken seriously. During the years between his range riding days and his marriage in 1896 he turned out many fine paintings that were sold over the bar for a mere song or a few drinks. His critics were his cowboy and Indian friendsthey'd tell him bluntly if any detail on the canvas was wrong! Later in life he steadfastly refused to illustrate or draw impossible situations for hack-written books or stories it must be true to life as he had lived it or he refused the assignment. Will Rogers, in his inimitable way, once said of Russell: "He is the only painter of western pictures in the Into the roistering life of a cowboy the young man fitted naturally. For nearly ten years he led the life of a cowhand, drifting with the great herds, working on the annual roundups and "wintering" as best he could in the little cowtowns when jobs were scarce. During the years from 1882 to 1892 the open range of central Montana was fenced up, forcing the herds north to the Canadian border. When free grass was no more and cowboys had to learn to dig post-holes, Charlie quit the range and tried to eke out an existence as a painter. This he found was tough going though his bartender friends occasionally roped an unwary traveler or drummer into buying a picture.

world that the cowpunchers can't criticize. Every little piece of leather or rope is just where it should be. So, you see, in these times of scandal, it is a pleasure to point out to you someone who has gained fame and still remains pure." Another outstanding characteristic of his modeling and painting was the violent action he put into much of his work. Other artists rarely would attempt the turbulent scenes that Russell loved to portray. The man lived these bits of action and it came natural for him to preserve them in clay and on canvas. His marriage in 1896 changed everything for the young cowboy artist. The carefree days were over. From that date on he had two mouths to feed, and at the prices his work was bringing, he had to spend more time at his easel. There were lean years before he came to be recognized, before his work was eagerly sought and commissions for book and magazine illustrations came unsolicited.

Other violent changes came too. His boon companions were hard to stay away from. They loved Charlie and their many "touches" were not easy to refuse. This put a drain on his pocketbook and was a source of much worry to his young wife. Finally it was agreed that she would run the business end of the partnership-he'd paint and create and Nancy would be the salesman and banker. It worked wonders for his bankroll, but it was rough on the light-hearted generous artist.

But it said that regardless of the pinnacle of success which he reached in his later years, he never forsook his pals of the range. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to visit with his old cronies and cook a meal for them in his dutch ovens. In his little log cabin studio he frequently lived over the past when the grass was free and there were no women in all of Montana except in the redlight district! The old cabin rang with belly-laughs and the rafters floated in clouds of smoke from bacon and cigarettes.

Fame and fortune smiled on Charlie Russell as she has seldom favored other artists while they yet lived to enjoy it. Exhibits in New York, Canada and England made him known the world over fully ten years before he died. Yet he remained modest and humble.

When his wife sold his first picture to bring four figures Charlie told the boys at the Silver Dollar, "My wife has turned road-agent. She just charged a man fifteen hundred dollars for a painting." When an oil first brought ten thousand dollars, he studied the check and remarked "Hell, that's dead-man's prices."

He refused to take credit for his genius, saying, "I just paint things as I see them. No man should take credit for what he can't help. I'm an illustrator. There are lots better ones, but some worse. Any man that can make a living doing what he likes is lucky, and I'm that. Any time I cash in now, I win."

A few years before his death, while seated in a swank hotel where he had an exhibit, Russell's attention was attracted by a man standing before one of his paintings. In a voice plainly audible to the artist, the prospective purchaser asked the attendant: "What is the price of this painting?"

"Ten thousand dollars," was the reply.

"Why, it isn't worth that much money," the man announced emphatically.

Charlie, in his typical range-rider gait, walked over to the picture. He looked at it critically, and then, turn-

ing to the attendant, said:

Several facets of the great talents of Charlie Russell are too little known. Among these is his priceless writings in the cowboy lingo he used in his everyday speech. Two books of delightful and humorous stories appeared a few years before his death "Rawhide Rawlins Stories" and "More Rawhides." These cowboy stories, as told by Russell and profusely illustrated by the artist, are classics of their kind and will live always as the best examples of the story-teller's art.

He possessed great talent as a raconteur. He had no peer as a teller of stories, tall tales included. With a straight face he could keep a group of friends convulsed with laughter for hours, without faltering. He saw humor in many everyday situations and had the rare ability instantly to express it. Once, when a friend was showing him his modern mechanical chicken hatchery, Charlie noticed a hen picking on a helpless little chick. Kicking at the hen, Charlie shouted, "Get away, you unnatural hussy. Your mother was an electric lamp!"

When age made Russell gentle and poor health had overtaken him, his earthy philosophy became more and more apparent to his many friends. In his conversation and in his letters, bits of this true philosophy of an humble character were more in evidence. Writing to a friend in later years, he observed, "Today I know more dead men than live ones. Old Dad Time has made me a stranger in my own country." In writing his sister in St. Louis he told her, "Big cities are hard places for broke folks." Of modern inventions he said, "Invention has made it easy for mankind, but it has made him no better."

Charlie hated, in an impartial sort of way, big cities, automobiles, farmers who turned the grass upside down and ruined the cattle range, and prohibitionists. These dislikes were more a result of his own positive love of horses, the open spaces and freedom. He often expressed his opinions on these subjects. He once wrote "A machine will show folks the man made things, but if people want to see God's own country, they've got to get a hoss under them. In spite of gasoline the biggest part of the Rocky Mountains still belongs to God." Writing about the killing off of wild horses to be used as food, Charlie commented: "I guess if they killed off men as soon as they were useless Montana wouldn't be so crowded. We wouldn't have so many laws, no keys or locks and no bootleggers or prohibitionists."

The Old West with its rollicking cowboys, fighting Indians, army scouts, vast herds of cattle and roaming buffalo, is no more. The stagecoach has given way to the iron horse. But though these scenes are gone they live on because an untutored genius came West to record them for posterity. Russell is widely known as an artist and a sculptor, but he was more he was an historian in the first meaning of the word. For few men were ever so gifted and fewer still lived the life they depictedlived it and faithfully recorded it in minute detail. America will always be indebted to the Cowboy Artist. Without his work we could never quite recapture the flavor of the West that is gone. When Charles Marion Russell laid down his brushes and breathed his last on October 24, 1926, in Great Falls, Montana. he had fulfilled a great mission. His mourners were legion and his going was widely lamented. Some months previously, realizing he had not long to live, he had remarked, "I want to be carried to the grounds behind hosses."

Hence, faithful to his last wish, a horse-drawn hearse was located and though the mourners rode in motorized vehicles, Charlie rode behind the horses he loved so well. Following the hearse rode an old cowboy friend leading a riderless horse carrying the Cowboy Artist's own saddle and trappings including his gun, holster, coiled lariat, spurs and chaps. And so a great cowboy rode into the sunset of the range, to the happy hunting grounds of his red brothers, where the grass is forever green and the streams run cool and clear, where his beloved horses and old-time range-riding pals awaited him.

Of this genius in chaps, Irvin Cobb fittingly wrote. "We shall not soon see his likes again."

IN OLD ARIZONA

The Apaches held a flaming sword over the frontier that was Arizona for many years. In the '60's, '70's and '80's of last century, old Arizona was the scene of open warfare as a supine administration in Washington was forced to send armed protection for settlers and to guarantee for an impoverished government, finished with a costly Civil War, the reputed mineral wealth of the territory.

The Apache wars were long and costly. The nimble Apaches ran the Army ragged. They had shrewd leadership, they knew the country, and they traveled fast and furious through it. Their campaign was perfect from the viewpoint of military science and tactics. Without artillery support they never allowed themselves to be drawn into a full scale battle. They deployed their forces in small swift groups that constantly harassed larger andbetter organized foemen and could strike with terror and surprise at small and less vigilant detachments sent against them.

Two descriptions of the Apaches have come down to us from those days: they were noble warriors fighting to protect their happy hunting grounds against the tide of white man's civilization; they were cruel, blood-thirsty savages bent on despoiling the fair land. Much can be said for and against them.

Peace long ago came to the land. Conquered and the conqueror are quiet in their graves. Their epoch is a fading chapter in the history of the West. Lucky for us, there was a photographer in Tombstone by the name of Mr. Fly who had the good sense to realize the import of figures and events of the time. He probably did not realize he was recording history; but he was. . . . R.C.