Immortalized in the classic novel and films, the real "Rooster" Cogburn was as bold, brash, and bigger-than-life as the American West itself. Now, in this page-turning account, Cogburn's great-great-grandson reveals the truth behind the fiction--and the man behind the myth. . .
He was born in 1866 in Fancy Hill, Arkansas, the descendant of pioneers and moonshiners. Six foot three, dark eyed, and a dead shot with a rifle, Franklin "Rooster" Cogburn was as hard as the rocky mountain ground his family settled. The only authority the Cogburn clan recognized was God and a gun. And though he never packed a badge, Rooster meted out his own brand of justice--taking on a posse of U.S. deputy marshals in a blazing showdown of gunfire and blood. Now a wanted man, with a $500 reward on his head, Rooster would ultimately have to defend himself before a hanging judge. Proud, stubborn, fearless, and ornery to the bitter end.
A fascinating portrait of a true American icon, Rooster shows us the making of a legend--fashioned by Arkansas newspaperman Charles Portis with bits and pieces of historical figures, including Deputy Reuben M. Fry, one-eyed Deputy Marshal Cal Whitson, Joseph Peppers (Lucky Ned), Joseph Spurling (Mattie Ross's grandfather) and bank robber Frank Chaney (scar-faced Tom Chaney.) Behind it all stood a man named "Rooster," with two good eyes and a tale all his own.
With never-before-seen photos
Some folks are just born to tell tall tales. Brett Cogburn was reared in Texas and the mountains of Southeastern Oklahoma. He was fortunate enough for many years to make his living from the back of a horse, where on cold mornings cowboys still straddled frisky broncs and dragged calves to the branding fire on the end of a rope from their saddlehorns. Growing up around ranches, livestock auctions, and backwoods hunting camps filled Brett's head with stories, and he never forgot a one. In his own words: "My grandfather taught me to ride a bucking horse, my mother gave me a love of reading, and my father taught me how to hunt my own meat and shoot straight. Cowboys are just as wild as they ever were, and I've been damn lucky to have known more than a few." The West is still teaching him how to write. His first novel, Panhandle, will be published in November 2012. Brett Cogburn lives in Oklahoma with his family.
|Sold by:||Barnes & Noble|
|File size:||430 KB|
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Black Springs wasn't much of a town as towns went, even in the backwoods of Arkansas. It might have been more aptly termed a "spot in the road," as some folks will say, more of a community than a town proper. There was only one building that bore a second look and that was the general store. Even that wasn't much in the way of opulence, its weathered timbers grayed and lacking a single coat of paint. The store commanded the settlement more by height than by any pretentious display of architecture and beauty, being the only two-story structure in sight. The first floor consisted of the meager offerings of merchandise the poor folks who graced its dark interior might want or afford, and the upstairs served duty as the local Masonic lodge. The large front porch overlooked the hardscrabble log and sawmill lumber buildings scattered along a stretch of dusty road that led west through the mountains into Indian Territory. The mangy old hound lying at the foot of the porch and scratching a flea off its bony ribs was in perfect keeping with the pace and prosperity of the tiny settlement.
The cold wind blowing and the gray clouds sliding over the pine treetops on the mountaintop above town reminded everyone that it was the dead of winter. Most folks were huddled around their fireplaces or standing over warmly ticking stoves, so not many saw the tall young man ride into town. He came up the trail from Fancy Hill on a pretty good horse for a hill boy. He left the animal out of the wind on the leeward side of the store and began to eke his way on foot from one building to the next.
Many in Black Springs would have known him, or at least recognized him for one of his clan. All of the men of his family were stamped much the same — high cheekbones, square chins, thick mustaches, and brown eyes that glittered like those of an Indian. The fact that he was bigger than most of his clan wasn't what gave pause to those who saw him on that morning. Every man in the mountains was a hunter in some form or fashion, and it was obvious that Franklin "Rooster" Cogburn was stalking somebody.
It wasn't unusual for a man to arrive in town with a rifle in his hands, as the roads could be dangerous to travel and leaving your shooter at home was a sure way to run short of meat in the cookpot. An armed man usually stored his gun to pick up later in whatever business or home he visited first if he came on foot, or he left it on his horse. Franklin didn't leave his Winchester anywhere. In fact, he carried it across his saddle when he arrived instead of having it in a scabbard, as if he were ready to jump shoot a deer or a turkey. And when he started down the street on foot, the gun was still in his hands.
Mountain folk can smell trouble just as easy as smoke on the wind, and the word rapidly spread throughout the settlement that Franklin was on the prowl. And word spread just as quickly who it was that he was hunting. Folks gave him room just like you did a mean old bull when you had to walk across your neighbor's pasture. Butting into somebody else's business was always chancy, much less antagonizing one of the Cogburns. There were too damned many of them to risk getting crossways with — not if a man valued his peace and wanted to stay out of a fight. It was best to let the Law handle the matter, and that was bound to happen, considering it was a Deputy U.S. Marshal that Franklin was looking for with blood in his eye.
Franklin made no attempt to hide the fact that he was looking for a fight with J. D. Trammell, and he quietly slandered the man's name to any who asked. He had heard Trammell was in town, and had ridden seven miles through the mountains to corner him. The rumor mill had it that Cogburns believed Trammell was working undercover either for the Revenue Service or for Judge Parker's court. Trammell had lived and worked for a while among the Cogburns in their stronghold at Fancy Hill, but had recently fled the community due to tension between him and some of the clan.
Lots of the citizens of Montgomery County made whiskey, and the Cogburns made more than anybody. The old Hanging Judge and his army of badge packers out of Fort Smith got a lot of press chasing train robbers and murderers in the Indian Territory, but people of the time knew that the marshals' main job was arresting whiskey peddlers and moonshiners. The Law was bound and determined to stem the distilling of illegal liquor, and especially to keep it out of the nearby Indian Territory. The mountain folks begrudgingly admired craftiness, and the "revenuers," as they often called the deputy marshals and other government men, could be especially sneaky in locating and busting up a man's stills. The kind of men brave enough or outlaw enough to break the law making whiskey often didn't look too kindly on anyone threatening their means of living, and a detective working undercover risked life and limb.
And there were other things that a Cogburn would tolerate even less than a revenuer. Many of the wives of the Cogburns and other families in the area claimed that Trammell was visiting their homes while their men were gone and using strong-arm tactics to force them to inform on who was making whiskey and where the stills were located. Always hotheaded and ready for a fight, Franklin had come to Black Springs to set things right. Nobody, and he meant nobody, was going to abuse the women of his family. A killing was in order.
J. D. Trammell was indeed a Deputy U.S. Marshal, but what Franklin didn't know was that Trammell wasn't in Black Springs. However, Montgomery County Sheriff G. W. Golden just happened to be in town on other business. The first thing he came across at a distance was Franklin armed, angry, and hunting a man whom Golden knew to be a fellow officer of the law. He immediately went to seek the help of the local constable, whose name has unfortunately been lost to history. Both lawmen were in agreement that Franklin should be disarmed, but neither of them was anxious to confront him.
Among the people of southern Montgomery County, the twenty-two-year-old Franklin was known as an honest fellow, quick to lend his help, and a fine hand with a team of horses. While he may have been a likable sort, he was also known to be a part of the large moonshining operation run by some of the rougher sort in his family. He had a quick temper and would fight at the drop of a hat, and it was the opinion of more than a few citizens that his wild streak would eventually come to no good end.
Sheriff Golden knew that most of the Cogburns could be a little hard to handle when they were on the prod, but what most concerned him was the Winchester Franklin was carrying. In a country chock full of squirrel shooters, Franklin had a reputation as one of the finest marksmen in the mountains. Many of the mountain men were fond of whiskey and apt to resist a lawman when in their cups. Franklin wasn't drinking, but he was a Cogburn. They were notoriously ornery, and taking the gun away from him could be a little touchy if he didn't want to give it up.
The two lawmen were taking no chances they didn't have to, and they waited for Franklin outside the door of the store. When Franklin emerged, Sheriff Golden confronted him politely while the constable stepped in behind him with a drawn pistol. Heated words were exchanged, but they had the drop on Franklin and he eventually turned his weapon over to the sheriff.
Franklin made no apologies for hunting Deputy Marshal Trammell and readily admitted that he had come to kill him. Sheriff Golden knew that there would have been a fight had Trammell been in town, and he needed something to hold his prisoner on. Franklin had no previous criminal record. He hadn't bothered any of the townspeople, nor had he caused any kind of a disturbance. However, men couldn't be allowed to threaten the lives of duly appointed officers of the law, and a crime was quickly attached to Franklin.
A wide array of cutting and shooting instruments could be found upon the persons of many of the hardy citizens of frontier Arkansas — a state where legislators had once dueled with Bowie knives on the capitol grounds. According to a book put out by an Arkansas county board in 1888, "the law of the state prohibits the wearing or carrying of concealed weapons ..." Said law barred the concealed carry upon one's person of "any knife, dirk, sword-cane, brass knuckles, slung-shot or pistol (except the size used in the army and navy)." The law appears to go as far back as statehood, as the Arkansas Supreme Court had upheld the ban on certain concealed weapons in 1842. Circuit court documents of the late 1880s list numerous defendants charged with "carrying weapons," which was the term for being found with a hideout gun or hidden blade.
Franklin's rifle was out in the open, but that didn't prevent the lawman from charging him with a violation of the weapons law. Perhaps the sheriff just ignored that fact, or perhaps Franklin had a knife or pocket pistol concealed in his clothing. One must remember that during those years in backwoods circuit courts, the actual state or federal laws could be a vague concept left to the notions of local lawmen or the judge and jury's decisions. Whatever the circumstances were, the sheriff wanted Franklin to face charges and placed him under arrest.
There wasn't a jail in Black Springs, so Sheriff Golden started toward the county seat at Mount Ida with his prisoner. Cogburn family lore has it that Franklin wasn't handcuffed on the nine-mile ride, either because the sheriff didn't have any restraints or because Sheriff Golden wasn't foolish enough to try to put that indignity on him.
The court records do not tell if Franklin was jailed when they arrived at Mount Ida or if he was chained to the iron band surrounding a giant shade tree on the courthouse lawn that sometimes served double duty as a tethering point for horses and a temporary place to constrain prisoners. What is known is that during the January/February term of court, a circuit judge dug around in his mental junk box of the Arkansas legal code and found him guilty of "carrying a firearm," a misdemeanor offense. Franklin was fined fifty dollars, the minimum punishment for such a conviction. Although the judge could have tapped him for the maximum $200 penalty, the indignity of his arrest and the infringement on his right to bear arms wasn't taken lightly. The Cogburns would later claim that the lawmen of the county were using Franklin as a whipping boy to try to assert their authority and that Judge Silas Vaught, a Confederate veteran, had a grudge against the former Union men of Montgomery County. While these claims may or may not have been true, the reason for Franklin's fine on such a trivial and questionable crime may have had more to do with the crackdown that had begun on the moonshiners of the county.
The minimum penalty or not, the fifty-dollar fine was truly a hefty one, considering it was two times what most poor mountain folk made in a month if they were lucky enough to have a job or make a good crop. A criminal found guilty of making whiskey might only expect a $100 sentence from Judge Parker's federal court on a first offense. However, if Franklin was as unapologetic with the circuit judge as he was with the sheriff, perhaps he brought the verdict and fine on himself. Judges tend to frown on those who want to shoot the officers of the court.
What is certain is that nobody who knew Rooster believed that the trouble was over. Everyone in the mountains understood a blood feud, and no lawman was going to stop a killing when Deputy John D. Trammell and Rooster Cogburn met again. What they didn't know was how the troubles to come would be the talk of western Arkansas and pit the Hanging Judge and the Fort Smith court against an entire family.CHAPTER 2
Hollywood, novels, and Depression-era comedians and radio personalities have embedded a laughable and sometimes despicable concept of the hillbilly into our collective American conscious. According to this line of thought, the mountains from West Virginia to Oklahoma are littered with "peculiar," backward people. However, many of the stereotypes — some even true — that were to make up the image of the hillbilly were not to come about until after the turn of the century. In truth, many of the original pioneers who came to Arkansas were nothing like the ignorant, incestuous offspring of Ma and Pa Kettle lounging barefoot around their whiskey stills that would one day come to represent what I like to call "mountain folk."
The Cogburns' story in America, like those of many other families, is a steady progression ever westward. The first of the family to arrive on the eastern shores of the Colonies were Lowland Scots who quickly accumulated holdings and social position as landowners and builders in the new nation being hacked out of the wilderness. Their name was Cockburn and their crest a fighting rooster.
The tax and land records of Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina give evidence of the Cockburns' early foothold in America. George Washington made note in his letters of his friend and neighbor Martin Cockburn. While there is no evidence that Martin was of the line of Cockburns who came to Arkansas, his existence is indicative of their early arrival in America. John Franklin Cogburn's forefathers are found in the muster rolls of the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812.
By the early 1800s the Cockburns, some of whom had already began to change the spelling of their name to "Cogburn," were already spreading into Tennessee. If the family had one strength it was an unusual preponderance of boy children, and those many sons needed breathing room and land of their own.
In the fall of 1859, two Cogburn brothers, Patrick and Henry, along with in-laws and friends, started west from Greene, Marion, and Sequatchie counties, Tennessee, in a wagon train. There have always been tales of those fiddle-footed pioneers who couldn't stand it when their area began to get crowded and just had to move on to see what was over the next mountain. There is little evidence to explain why the Cogburn brothers left east Tennessee. Maybe they just needed more room than most folks or were looking for a fresh start, or the letters another brother sent them from Arkansas made the Bear State's bounty irresistible to them. Whatever their reasons, they started the long journey west to Arkansas.
Patrick Cogburn and his best friend and brother-in-law, Washington Porter, led the wagon train over the muddy roads to Little Rock, Arkansas. Patrick brought his entire family with him, among them his two grown sons, Henry Page and John Wesley, Franklin Cogburn's father. Patrick's brother Henry also brought along his large family, including six sons (he would later sire more).
James Cogburn, Patrick and Henry's brother, had come from Georgia to settle along the Caddo River in west central Arkansas a decade earlier. It is possible that he was scouting out homestead sites for his extended family. From Little Rock, the Cogburn wagons creaked and groaned over the road to Mount Ida, crossing the Ouachita River and coming into the mountains proper. The route they took south from Mount Ida was more of a trail than a road, having been axed and shoveled through the forest years earlier.
Some months after their departure from Tennessee, the Cogburn wagon train arrived in a long, narrow valley along the Brushy Fork of the Caddo River. The hardwood and eastern pine timber of the Ouachita Mountains and the numerous clear streams and rivers looked like heaven to them, coming as they had from similar country in the mountains of east Tennessee. The soil on the mountainsides was thin and rocky, but the bottom lands along the little drainage valleys looked promising. Whitetail deer, turkeys, squirrels, ducks, and other wildlife were abundant, and the Cogburns and their in-laws and fellow immigrants stocked up on meat while they set in to build their homes before the worst of winter set in. Most of them located near the foot of a mountain overlooking the river, and the community of Fancy Hill came into being.
Less than an hour's ride to the east was a narrow gap in the mountains that the main channel of the Caddo River ran through. Hot springs bubbled up from the riverbed not far from "the Gap." Some historians have argued that the pass was the site of the Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto's battle with the Tula Indians in 1541. The country was still wild enough that the last of the Caddo Indians in Arkansas lived along the river and wandered the mountains overlooking it. A store, post office, and water-driven gristmill had sprung up in the gap known as Centerville, or Gap Mills. The post office was later moved a mile and half to the Bassinger Store, and Caddo Gap came into existence in 1878. Soon, it became known in mountain-speak simply as Caddy Gap.(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Rooster"
Copyright © 2012 Brett Cogburn.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
1 - Blood Feud,
2 - The Cogburns,
3 – Parker's Boys,
4 - Man of the Times,
5 - Vengeance and Lead,
6 - The Slow Wheels of Justice,
7 - The Tennessee Lady,
8 - Murderers Row,
9 - United States vs. Franklin Cogburn,
10 - Four Walls and Steel Bars,
11 - Going Straight,
12 - Over the Mountain,
13 - More Than a Little True Grit,
Notes and References,
Beyond True Grit,