Category: Uncategorized

December 1969

The railroads, four of them, came in ’81, and from their cars disgorged preachers and prostitutes, jurors and confidence men, along with an abrasive assortment of cowboys, gandy dancers, thugs, and just plain hell-raisers.

El Paso was jerked brusquely from its pleasant, sedentary role as way station for travelers between Chihuahua and the badlands of New Mexico and resting point for those westbound easterners who stopped to brace themselves before tackling the dangerous journey across the Apache-spiked desert route to Arizona and California.

Where it had once stocked only fresh fruit, trail grub, horses, and ammunition, the border village now offered babes, booze and blackjack, and the purveying of this new merchandise quickly swelled the El Paso census to 10,000 souls in varying states of grace.

Oldtimers recalling boomtown El Paso say that the city marshal was in the pay of the gambling element. As he and his only deputy drifted from one sporting house to another, levying for free drinks and a cut of the action, a perfectly good jailhouse gathered cobwebs while the gamblers, pimps, and pickpockets had a heyday. Irritated at the sight of a public edifice decaying from disuse, the city council canned its only two lawmen, and all hell broke loose.

To protect their investment in the deposed officers, the sports of the tenderloin comprised by Utah and El Paso Streets organized a shoot-up, reasoning that a show of bad temper would demonstrate to the city dads that the unfrocked lawmen were really needed.

The plan backfired. After a night which must have rivaled the Viet Cong’s 1968 Tet offensive in volume of small arms fire, the councilmen shook the spent pistol and rifle slugs out of their coattails and set up a wail  for a sixgun savior. The two-gun man who answered the call was one of the most efficient gunfighters, and one of the strangest characters, produced by that troubled era.

Then, as now, not many citizens were really expert with guns, especially handguns. Knowing that I will be challenged, I lump most famous lawmen and outlaws of the Old West into the “mediocre” category of sixgun expertise. The new marshal selected by the El Paso city council was a definite exception to this evaluation.

Dallas Stoudenmire was a man who knew his tools and kept them sharp. A native of Alabama, he was a Confederate veteran of the Civil War, having been wounded four times while serving with the 57th Cavalry and the 33rd Alabama Regiment. Moving to post-bellum Texas, he had sharpened his sixgun work in the pay of the Texas Rangers’ “B” Company.

Had he lived 50 years later, Stoudenmire’s square-jawed, handsome features, his broad-shouldered frame, and quiet, imposing presence would have made him a rival for John Wayne’s seat as a movie hero. A humorless, serious sort, he likely would have scorned such play acting and continued to live by his guns.

There is contradiction about the guns he used. Historians agree that he carried two in “leather-lined pockets”. One authority has the marshal packing a pair of “silver-plated .45 Colts”. Famous lawman Jim Gillett, a contemporary of Stoudenmire, presented two ivory-gripped 1851 Navy Colts, obviously too long-barreled to have been carried in any but the most cavernous of pockets, to Sul Ross University at Alpine, Texas. Gillett believed these revolvers to have been Stoudenmire’s and the integrity of Jim Gillett is above question.

Gordon Frost, a prominent El Paso gun collector and author, has obtained a .44 Colt for which he has convincing authentication as having belonged to Stoudenmire. One of the rare 1871-72 transition models that bridged the gap between the 1860 .44 Army percussion gun and the 1873 Peacemaker .45, the Stoudenmire revolver has been cut to 2 7/8″-inch barrel length, doing away with the front sight and ejector red.

Chambered for the .44 Centerfire cartridge, this seems a most likely gun to be carried in the pants pocket of a knowing gunman of the 1880s. Trimmer, with fewer projections to catch on clothing than 1873 Models, a pair of these big-bore belly guns would provide all the firepower needed for any but the most prolonged encounters. The Frost gun is said to have been removed from Stoudenmire’s pocket at the time of his death and is persuasive evidence that not all westerners chose the Peacemaker Colt.

Whatever sixguns he carried, Stoudenmire used them with deadly precision. Johnnie Hale, a ranch manager employed by the Manning brothers, leaders of the gaming crowd, was on trial for the murder of two Mexican youths. Not caring for the way the court interpreter was translating the Spanish testimony of the witnesses, he buttonholed the linguist on the street during a court recess. Words were exchanged, and the accused murderer vented his spleen by jerking a Colt and killing the interpreter with a bullet through the head. Stoudenmire, standing nearby, ran toward the gunman, drew from his pocket, and snapped a shot at Hale which missed and killed a curious onlooker. Steadying a bit, Stoudenmire fired again, dropping Hale dead at the side of his own victim.

George Campbell, a friend of Hale, drew his gun and began retreating from the scene, muttering, “This is not my fight”. Probably Campbell was just covering his departure and didn’t intend to fire. Pointing a weapon in even the general direction of the two-gun lawdog was decidedly an unhealthy and foolhardy move. Stoudenmire dropped him in his tracks, leaving four men dead in five seconds, three of them victims of three rounds from the marshal’s right-handed Colt.

Next, the ex-deputy marshal Bill Johnson, a fuzzy-minded lover of good bourbon, became convinced that it was his duty to rid the city of the dangerous Stoudenmire. Johnson, armed with a double-barreled shotgun, posted himself behind a pile of bricks in front of which Stoudenmire passed each night on his rounds. As the tough badgetoter passed, Johnson swayed to his feet and touched off both barrels, scoring the most costly two complete misses of his colorless career. Stoudenmire’s hands flashed to his pockets, and Johnson fell for the long count, riddled with bullets.

As the pressure increased, Stoudenmire himself began hitting the booze. His Brother-in-law, Doc Cummings, was killed by the Manning brothers, or one of their retinue. The marshal became surly and more dangerous under the burdens of grief and sourmash whiskey, and an alarmed city administration maneuvered him into resigning.

Drunk and resentful, Dallas Stoudenmire went to the Manning saloon on the morning of September 18, 1882. the brothers Manning – Jim, Frank, and “Doc” – confronted him. Tempers flared, and Doc Manning, a diminutive man with the fighting instincts of a terries, drew a double action .44 (probably a Smith & Wesson) and fired, the bullet being stopped by a book and a packet of letters in Stoudenmire’s breast pocket. Manning’s second shot pierced the ex-marshal’s left arm and chest near the shoulder. Stoudenmire recovered long enough to shoot the little doctor through the right arm, knocking his gun from his grasp.

Doc Manning, knowing he was dead if Stoudenmire let off another shot, embraced the wounded giant with both arms, pinning his gun hand to his side. As the two duelists struggled in this embrace, Jim Manning fired a frightened shot into a barber pole with his Colt .45 single action. His second shot was more controlled, killing Stoudenmire with a slug in the left temple and proving that it is not necessary to be an expert to best an expert when conditions are in your favor.

Hollywood scenario writers and pulp magazine hacks have been largely responsible for the current concept of the western gunfighter. In attributing impossible gun skill to such fumblers as Doc Holliday and Mafia-type murderers as Bill Bonney, they have succeeded in glamorizing some pretty unsavory characters. At the same time, they have completely ignored a great many gunfighters who were at least as proficient as the Doc and the Kid and just as deserving of notice.

Dodge City and Tombstone were mere flashes in the pan when examined against the 20-year reign of the sixshooter in El Paso. The Mexican border country was then, and is today, the bailiwick of more genuine hardcases than any other locale west of the Mississippi. Take Bass Outlaw. Know as the Little Wolf, this pint-sized Ranger sergeant was both loved and feared by his friends. Sober, he comported himself as befitted his gentle upbringing. On the sauce, as he frequently was, the little lawman was contentious as only a confident gunman trained to violence can be.

Fired from the Rangers for drinking on duty, Outlaw stayed on in Alpine as a deputy U.S. Marshal. A drinking spree led him on April 5, 1894, to Tille Howard’s illy reputed house in El Paso, where he began to give demonstrations of his own special brand of Hell. Joe McKidrict, a Texas Ranger, approached him in the Howard backyard, suggesting that the Little Wolf refrain from his exuberant target practice while in the downtown area. Outlaw interrupted the Ranger’s remonstrance by shooting him at point-blank range, once over the left ear, a second shot into the unfortunate McKidrict’s back as he was falling.

Constable John Selman, a lawman of questionable character, had spent the best part of the day trying to dampen Outlaw’s propensity toward violence. As McKidrict fell to the ground, Selman saw that his placatory approach wasn’t working. Sidling up behind a board fence, Selman drew to fire on Outlaw, who let go a blackpowder .45 round which sizzled by Selman’s ear, the burning powder cutting into his eyes. Blinded, Selman shot Outlaw through the chest, piercing his left lung and right shoulder. The mortally wounded killer fired two more shots into Selman’s right leg, severely crippling him.

Four hours later, Outlaw died in the bed of a lady of the night, calling out for friends who didn’t bother to respond.

John Selman was a killer and cattle thief who, having struggled through brushes with the law and personal enemies for most of his years, found himself in the September of his life in the El Paso of the 1890s. As constable of the wide-open border city, he found many chances for an extracurricular dollar and the occasional need to reaffirm his position as a tough character by resorting to a well-oiled sixgun.

Like most of his contemporaries, Selman would have laughed hilariously at the idea of today’s Hollywood confrontation of two protagonists walking toward each other down the middle of an open street, guns left holstered until the opposition commenced festivities by essaying a draw. It just wasn’t done that way, and on the night of August 19, 1895, “Uncle John” Selman gave a classic demonstration of the style that had kept him alive long past the age when most good gunslingers had passed to their reward.

Trouble had been brewing for quite a spell between the cane-carrying constable, still crippled by Outlaw’s bullets, and the most feared gunman ever to holster a Colt, John Wesley Hardin.

Hardin, after serving 15 years at Huntsville, had come to El Paso at the age of 40. He had read law while in “the joint” and hung out his shingle in the border Sodom. But his main occupation was gambling and cooperation with the many bartenders in looking upon the likker while it was red. He became involved with the blonde mistress of a fugitive horse thief, Martin M’Rose. M’Rose , a roughcut sort, languished in Juarez, El Paso’s twin city, and sent ample funds to provide for the needs of his paramour, as well as to pay a retainer to Hardin for preparing a legal defense that would permit his return to the States.

Hardin’s infatuation with M’Rose’s woman caused him to represent his client’s interest with something less than vigor. The lovesick M’Rose was finally lured to the Texas side of the river and, in a controversial arrest attempt, shot down by officers Jeff Milton, George Scarborough, and Ranger Frank McMahon, a brother-in-law of Scarborough. The killing smacked of ambush, but a jury later exonerated the three when they produced a warrant for the arrest of M’Rose.

In the interim, the M’Rose woman had been arrested for carrying a pistol by young John Selman, son of the old constable and a popular city policeman. Hardin’s threatening reaction to this arrest and possibly a more sinister discord over the fate of M’Rose himself led the elder Selman through the batwing doors of the Acme Saloon that summer night. Hardin stood at the bar, playing poker dice with a feather merchant named Brown.

“Four sixes to beat, ” he said, as Brown reached for his turn at the dice. Selman took careful aim and shot Hardin through the head, the .45 bullet making an exit through an eye. As Hardin’s body slipped to the floor, Selman shot again and again, missing completely, then hitting the dead man in the right arm and again in the chest.

In 1896, John Selman, Jr., was arrested in Juarez on a charge of abducting a young girl, with whom he had been found sharing the comforts of a hotel room. His father, Old John, solicited the aid of George Scarborough, one of the killers of M’Rose and a deputy U.S. Marshal, in freeing the lovesick boy. It was not forthcoming. What happened next is confused.

At 4:00 a.m. on April 5, 1896, Constable Selman, who in the vernacular of the day was “taken drunk,” ran into Scarborough in front of the Wigwam Saloon. They retired to a nearby alley for a conference. Four shots were heard, and witnesses later testified that they had found Scarborough standing over Selman, who had been shot at close range through the back of the neck, the right hip, the side, and the left knee. His gun was not present at the scene. He died on April 6, 1896.

When a young thug named Cole Belmont, alias Kid Clark, testified at Scarborough’s murder trial that he had stolen Selman’s gun, loaded and cocked, from the murder scene, Scarborough was set free.

Precisely four years later, on April, 1900, Scarborough, by then a detective for a cattle raiser’s association, found himself in pursuit of a band of train robbers in eastern Arizona. They were believed to have been the fleeing survivors of Butch Cassidy’s Hole-in-the Wall gang. A .30-.40 bullet ripped through his leg and killed his horse. Taken to Deming, New Mexico, he died after the amputation of his leg, writing a finish to the strange, interlocking chain of killings.

The devotee of firearms may draw some valid conclusions from El Paso’s bullet-spattered history. While the gunmen of that place were as good as the best of the time – all of them had survived many battles before arriving in the tough border town – nothing in their performances, with the possible exception of Dallas Stoudenmire, indicated that they were outstanding sixgun men. Their close-range encounters, often from ambush, suggested murder and assassination rather than an open contest of skill between men at arms. Examination of their widely diverse methods of carrying their pistols – Hardin’s shoulder holsters sewed to his vest, Stoudenmire’s pocket draw, the high-ride, pistol-in-the-front-of-the-belly style of Selman and Outlaw – all point to the fact that a fast draw was of small importance to these men. When disputes found them, their sixguns would already be clear of leather and, hopefully, pointed at an unwarlike portion of their opponent’s anatomy.

Today’s handgunners could skunk any of the oldtimers. Slick, accurate, double-action guns, scientifically designed belts and holsters, a plentitude of practice and ammunition – all these factors make the handgun man of the present easily the master of the best of the 19th-century gunfighters. But turn the Selmans, Hardins, Stoudenmires, and Outlaws loose in the same wild border town against any of today’s civilized sixgun experts, and I submit that there would soon be no experts. the reason is one that many of today’s antigun fanatics fail to grasp. A shooter and a killer are two different things.

Royal Welsh Fusilier at Gallipoli.

James Joseph Bulger, Jr was born September 3, 1929, to James Joseph and Jane Veronica “Jean” Bulger. He was their first of three children. His father hailed from Newfoundland. The senior Bulger’s parents had both been Irish. Jean was a first-generation Irish immigrant. The younger Bulger’s blood ran green.

James Senior worked as a longshoreman but lost his arm in an industrial accident. There were not quite so many lawyers back then as is the case today. Though the man survived, his family was left destitute. They moved into the Mary Ellen McCormack housing project in South Boston in 1938.

James had two younger brothers, both of whom did well in school. By contrast, James Bulger Jr seemed drawn to the streets at a young age. The kid was a born thug.

To his friends, James went by “Jim”, “Jimmy”, or “Boots.” The latter appellation stemmed from his tendency to wear cowboy boots in which he hid his switchblade knife. When he was young the kid’s hair was blonde to the point of being white. As a result, his chums took to calling him “Whitey.” Though the young man despised the nickname, it nonetheless stuck.

Whitey Bulger’s first arrest was at age 14 for larceny. He ran with a South Boston street gang called the Shamrocks. While with this crew Bulger was eventually arrested for assault, forgery, and armed robbery. He spent time in the juvenile reformatory, but everybody wants kids to succeed. Soon after his release in 1948, Whitey was allowed to join the US Air Force in hopes that a little time in uniform might straighten him out.

Airman Bulger did not thrive in the service. He spent time in a military prison for multiple assaults and also went AWOL. By 1952 Uncle Sam had given up on Whitey and sent him packing, albeit with an honorable discharge. Four years later Bulger was remanded to federal prison for armed robbery and hijacking. Apparently, the kid just couldn’t help it.

As we mentioned earlier, this was a different time with very different rules. While serving time in prison Bulger was used as a test subject for the CIA’s Project MK-ULTRA. This enterprise was pitched as an effort to cure schizophrenia. In reality, the CIA was trying to develop a mind control drug.

While Bulger and the eighteen other participants in the program had indeed volunteered in exchange for reduced sentences, they had no idea of the true nature of the program. They received heavy doses of LSD along with several other hallucinogens. Bulger later admitted that the experience was horrifying. He began hearing voices afterward as a result.

Bulger was later transferred from Atlanta to Alcatraz and then on to Leavenworth. In 1963 he was sent to Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. On his third try, Whitey Bulger was paroled in 1965. He had served a total of nine years. The career criminal would not see the inside of a prison again for another nearly half-century. However, that wasn’t for lack of trying.

As an ex-con, solid work was tough to find. Bulger toiled as a janitor and construction worker before returning to the only thing he had ever been good at. Under a mob boss named Donald Killeen, Whitey Bulger began working as a loan shark and bookmaker. The Killeen Gang had been a fixture in South Boston for more than two decades.

The Killeen Gang was led by three brothers—Donnie, Eddie, and Kenny. Kenny Killeen purportedly shot and injured Michael “Mickey” Dwyer, a player in the rival Mullen Gang, during a fight at the café the Killeens used as a headquarters.

There resulted a sprawling gang war that swept across Boston stacking up quite the body count. The Killeens soon found themselves outgunned by the younger, more agile Mullens mob. As part of this fight, Whitey was dispatched to liquidate a Mullens Gang member named Paul McGonagle. In a tragic case of mistaken identity, Whitey accidentally killed Paul’s fraternal twin brother Donald. This was Whitey Bulger’s first proper murder. It would not be his last.

One of the players named Kevin Weeks later said, “Although [McGonagle] never did anything, he kept on stirring everything up with his mouth. So (Whitey) decided to kill him…(Whitey) shot him right between the eyes. Only…it wasn’t Paulie. It was Donald…(Whitey) drove straight to his mentor Billy O’Sullivan’s house (who was cooking at the stove top at the time)…and told O’Sullivan…’I shot the wrong one. I shot Donald.’ Billy…said, ‘Don’t worry about it. He wasn’t healthy anyway. He smoked. He would have gotten lung cancer. How do you want your pork chops?”

Sensing that time was running out on the Killeens, Bulger supposedly approached Howie Winter, another mob boss who led the Winter Hill Gang, and offered to end the war. In May of 1972, the eldest Killeen was gunned down outside his home. While there remains some controversy, Bulger was rumored to have been the triggerman. The remnants of both the Killeen and Mullens gangs were subsequently absorbed into the Winter Hill mob.

Bulger was a cold-hearted murderer, but he was also smart. In this chaotic world, his steady leadership and ruthless demeanor brought him great success. Kevin Weeks also had this to say, “As a criminal, he made a point of only preying upon criminals…And when things couldn’t be worked out to his satisfaction with these people, after all the other options had been explored, he wouldn’t hesitate to use violence…Tommy King, in 1975, was one example…Tommy, who was a Mullens, made a fist…(Whitey) saw it…A week later, Tommy was dead. Tommy’s second and last mistake had been getting into the car with (Whitey), Stevie, and Johnny Martorano…Later that same night, (Whitey) killed Buddy Leonard and left him in Tommy’s car on Pilsudski Way in the Old Colony projects to confuse the authorities.”

Whitey’s allegiances shifted with the winds to his maximum advantage. Along the way, he worked as an informant for the FBI while continuing his overt criminal enterprise. In September of 2006, federal judge Reginald Lindsey ruled that the FBI’s botched management of Bulger as an informant had contributed materially to the 1984 death of a government snitch named John McIntyre. The judge awarded McIntyre’s family $3.1 million in damages as a result.

In 1982 Bulger and an associate approached a well-known local cocaine dealer with the street name of “Balloonhead” while he was traveling in a car with a friend. Bulger packed an M1 carbine, while his fellow hitter was armed with a full auto sound-suppressed MAC-10. The two men liberally sprayed the coke dealer’s vehicle at close range. Balloonhead and his buddy died on the spot.

Whitey thrived throughout by threatening and killing competitors and turned enormous profits through his sundry criminal enterprises. It was estimated that he made some $30 million solely by charging local drug dealers fees for operating on his turf. Bulger and his buddies also shipped, “91 rifles, 8 submachine guns, 13 shotguns, 51 handguns, 11 bullet-proof vests, 70,000 rounds of ammunition, plus an array of hand grenades and rocket heads,” along with substantial quantities of C4 plastic explosive to IRA terrorists in Northern Ireland.

With the Law Enforcement heat becoming unbearable, Bulger fled Boston in 1995. He traveled widely in the US and Europe before finally being arrested in Santa Monica, California, in 2011 at age 81. He had been on the run for sixteen years and had been on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list for twelve of those. The details of those years as a fugitive would require another couple of columns to fully explore. At the time of his arrest, Bulger had 30 firearms, several fake IDs, and $800,000 in cash in his apartment.

What spawned this project was a photograph of Bulger’s arsenal that was released after his capture. Bulger apparently had an affinity for 1911 pistols as there were several in attendance. He also had half a dozen fully automatic weapons. Dissecting his arsenal lends insight into the man and the brutal nature of his crimes.

Bulger’s handguns included a Walther P38, a Ruger .22 pistol, and a variety of revolvers. In addition to his weapons, police seized Law Enforcement badges and assorted carry gear along with fighting knives. However, it was the machine guns that were the most fascinating.

Bulger had a .45ACP MAC M-10 with an original WerBell-designed two-stage sound suppressor. There was also an M1 carbine with a civilian sliding “paratrooper” stock. His SP1-style AR15 included the original 20-inch rifle barrel and triangular handguards but had been fitted with a collapsible CAR-15 buttstock.

Whitey had a fascinating M3 Grease Gun that appeared to include an original GI OSS sound suppressor. These customized Grease Guns were some of the first operational sound-suppressed SMGs to see service alongside the Mk IIS suppressed Sten. We can only imagine where that particular weapon had been. The stash also included three well-worn 9mm German MP40 submachine guns.

Bulger was convicted in short order. He had been charged with a total of nineteen different murders. His first prison stop was the US Penitentiary in Tucson. Soon after his arrival a fellow prisoner nicknamed “Retro” stabbed the elderly criminal in the head and neck with a homemade knife, putting him in the prison infirmary for a month.

Bulger was subsequently moved to the US Penitentiary in Hazelton, West Virginia, on October 29, 2018. By this point, he was wheelchair-bound. The following day Whitey Bulger was beaten to death by multiple inmates armed with a padlock wrapped in a sock and a homemade blade. His eyes were all but gouged out and his tongue was nearly severed. In August of 2022 three inmates named Paul DeCologero, Sean McKinnon, and Fotios Geas were indicted for Bulger’s death. Their cases are winding through the legal system as I type these words.