Story by Michael D. King

On a tranquil Sunday afternoon in April 1935, the soft sunlight streamed through the kitchen window of Lola Adams' family farm, casting gentle shadows on the scattered papers she tirelessly graded. Suddenly, tranquility shattered as the world outside was consumed by an ominous darkness. A colossal wall of dust, ominously dubbed a "black blizzard," surged across the Kansas sky with a ruthless swiftness that seemed almost supernatural. By the time Lola hastily traversed the room to illuminate a lamp, the air had thickened into an impenetrable haze; she could not even discern the matchbox resting just inches from her face. This harrowing phenomenon signified Black Sunday, the most ferocious tempest of the Dust Bowl, and in that heart-stopping moment, Lola found herself unceremoniously thrust into the very eye of nature's wrath.

For many, this apocalyptic event would become the defining story of their lives. For Lola Mae Adams Crum, however, it was just one chapter in a remarkable 96-year journey that transformed her from the daughter of pioneers into a dedicated teacher, a survivor of a national catastrophe, and ultimately, the indispensable historian and memory-keeper of Dodge City, Kansas.

However, her teaching career in Kansas was cut short by a discriminatory policy known as the "marriage bar." She bluntly explained that in Kansas, "you couldn't teach school if you were married. You either had to be a widow or an old maid." In 1939, her marriage to Robert Carter meant the automatic loss of her teaching position. What was intended to be a barrier instead became a catalyst for change. Refusing to abandon her calling, Lola pursued a full bachelor's degree and moved west—first to Arizona and then to California—where, as she noted, "they didn't care if you were married, just so you had a degree." She would go on to teach in California for 19 years before retiring.

Lola's most harrowing experiences unfolded during her years of teaching in and around Dodge City in the 1930s, a time when the devastating effects of the Dust Bowl cast a shadow over everyday life. In her later years, she recounted her memories through oral histories, offering some of the most vivid and poignant firsthand accounts of this ecological catastrophe.

She vividly described her daily six-mile trek from the family farm to the schoolhouse, a perilous journey shrouded in swirling clouds of dust that transformed the landscape into an otherworldly scene. "Many days, I couldn't see more than one telephone post ahead of me," she recalled, her voice laden with the weight of nostalgia and hardship. "By the time I reached that post, I could barely discern the next one through the choking haze." Each step was a struggle against nature's fury, illustrating the resilience required to navigate a world consumed by the very dust that rose up to engulf it.

The dust storms were both an ecological and economic catastrophe. A combination of severe drought and farming practices that stripped the plains of their native grasses left the topsoil vulnerable to relentless winds. Lola witnessed financial ruin on her own family's farm when a promising barley crop was "parched" by hot winds, turning "white overnight" and becoming worthless except for animal feed.

Her vivid account of Black Sunday, April 14, 1935, serves as a haunting historical testament to a moment of nature's fury. She vividly recalled watching an ominous, swirling mass emerging on the horizon, resembling "the blackest cloud you ever saw." Panic surged through her as she and her father dashed into the safety of their home just as the storm unleashed its wrath. "That dirt came in so quickly and just engulfed you," she remembered, her voice tinged with the remnants of fear. "You couldn't see anything." Her recollections resonate eerily with official weather logs, which documented an eerie state of "almost total darkness" as a relentless wall of dust, traveling at an astonishing 60 miles per hour, descended upon Dodge City. This was no ordinary storm; it was a "terror" storm, unleashing millions of tons of topsoil that cascaded across the Great Plains like a suffocating shroud.

Story by Michael King

​Born in Engelholm, Sweden, in 1845, Andrew Johnson was swept up in the great tide of Scandinavian immigration destined for a new life in America. He arrived on these shores in 1869, at the age of 24, with dreams of opportunity. Settling in Sweetwine, Ohio, he crossed paths with Charles Rath, an ambitious merchant who recognized the immense potential of the uncharted frontier. In 1870, Rath persuaded Johnson to join him on a westward journey, sensing a burgeoning market ripe for cultivation.

As Rath's steadfast "right-hand man," Johnson followed the advancing tracks of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway, assisting in supplying the influx of hunters and settlers streaming onto the plains. Though he was not a hunter himself, his vital contributions to the booming buffalo hide trade were invaluable. He expertly managed the transportation of precious buffalo hides from remote hunting grounds to bustling markets, bringing him to the very location where Dodge City would soon flourish.

In the spring of 1874, Johnson's formidable skills as a builder were put to the ultimate test. Rath dispatched him to the Texas Panhandle to oversee the construction of a crucial trading post known as Adobe Walls. Employing locally sourced materials like sod and picket poles, Johnson erected not only the Rath and Company store but also a saloon owned by James Hanrahan.

However, chaos erupted on June 27, 1874, as approximately 700 warriors from the Comanche, Cheyenne, and Kiowa tribes, led by the renowned war chief Quanah Parker, launched a surprise assault on the settlement. Outnumbered and outgunned, Johnson found himself among only 28 defenders, including one woman, charged with protecting this remote stronghold. As the attackers attempted to breach the doors of the Rath store, Johnson's craftsmanship truly shone. The heavy cross planks he skillfully fitted into the doors resisted all efforts to break through, showcasing that his building skills were as pivotal to their defense as any rifle in fending off the attackers and preserving the lives of the besieged.

Following the battle, Johnson endured over a month amid the besieged post before returning to Dodge City. He arrived not empty-handed but with an astonishing collection of battlefield artifacts — war bonnets, shields, bows and arrows, spears, and even scalps taken from the deceased. This collection represented a tangible connection to one of the most consequential conflicts on the Southern Plains, each piece telling a fragment of a larger story.

Tragically, the weight of history proved fleeting. In late 1885, a series of calamitous fires swept through Dodge City's Front Street, obliterating nearly all of Johnson's irreplaceable collection. Although a few artifacts were later preserved in various museums, the fires consumed a vital piece of both his personal history and the broader saga of the frontier.

Once back in Dodge City, Johnson's influence was visible throughout the burgeoning town. In the spring of 1874, he and his brother John established the first blacksmith shop in Western Kansas, laying the groundwork for many local enterprises. While his brother chose to pursue a homestead, Andy adapted to the evolving economic landscape, becoming the "gentlemanly stock agent" for the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway — a prestigious role that positioned him at the heart of the booming cattle industry.

Perhaps Johnson's most lasting imprint on the city was his involvement in its infrastructure. As a public contractor, he was responsible for laying many of the town's sidewalks, pressing his initials into the concrete of each one as a signature. For decades, residents knew that any sidewalk marked "A. J." was a testament to the high quality of craft that Andy Johnson represented. As he aged, he embraced the life of a local businessman, owning both a restaurant and a liquor store, further establishing his presence in the community.

Johnson stood out for his unwavering integrity in a town notorious for its vices and lawlessness. This became particularly evident in 1892 when he was called to testify in a lawsuit filed by his former employer, Charles Rath, concerning lost hides from the Adobe Walls conflict. While many might have exaggerated details to benefit a friend, Johnson stood unwaveringly by the truth, steadfastly recounting his experiences without embellishment. His commitment to honesty was a rare virtue in an era rife with opportunism and deceit.

As the Old West faded into myth, Johnson emerged as a custodian of its authentic narrative. In his twilight years, he became well-regarded for his reliable and detailed firsthand accounts of the Battle of Adobe Walls. In 1922, alongside another veteran, he revisited the site of the battle, meticulously drawing a detailed map of the post from memory to aid historians in accurately recording events. Two years later, as one of the last surviving defenders, he was the honored speaker at the 50th anniversary celebration of the Battle of Adobe Walls.

Andrew "Andy the Swede" Johnson passed away in June 1925, and he now rests in Maple Grove Cemetery in Dodge City, a plot he had carefully purchased and marked with his own intention, ensuring that his lifelong contributions would not be forgotten. His story embodies the spirit of the American West, reminding us that behind the legends of the gunslingers were everyday heroes whose labor and integrity built the communities we cherish today.

By Michael King

​The name Dodge City evokes a vivid and lasting image in the American imagination: a crucible of the Wild West, where dusty streets echo with the footsteps of legendary lawmen and the sounds of gunfire. The town is defined in popular culture by figures like Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Doc Holliday, men whose often tumultuous and violent lives have been immortalized in dime novels and films. This version of Dodge City, dubbed the "Wickedest Little City in America," is characterized by saloons, gambling halls, and dramatic gunfights, such as the one that sparked the Dodge City War of 1883. 

However, beneath this sensationalized surface lies a deeper and more authentic story—the tale of the town's builders. These were not the gamblers and gunslingers who brought fame to the city but rather the laborers, freighters, merchants, and farmers who established its permanence. Among these foundational figures is John T. Riney, an Irish immigrant whose life story reflects the evolution of Dodge City itself. His journey from a rough frontier outpost to a settled agricultural community mirrors the town's transformation. Riney was neither a lawman nor an outlaw; he was a railroad worker who connected the town to the nation, a freighter who supported its growth, a tollkeeper who guarded its southern gateway, and a farmer who cultivated the prairie that would become its future.

His legacy is deeply intertwined with the city's identity, so much so that he is frequently associated with its most esteemed group of founders. The user's inquiry identifies him as one of the "Seven Old Timers of Dodge City," a title that presents an intriguing historical puzzle. Who, exactly, were these seven men, and what is John Riney's true standing among them? The answer sheds light on the nature of historical memory and the distinction between formal records and community recognition. This is the biography of a man whose contributions were not highlighted in headlines but were etched into the very land he helped to shape—a testament to the quiet, enduring strength of the true American pioneer.

In the early 1880s, Riney took on a new role as the first tollkeeper for the Arkansas River bridge, a critical piece of infrastructure hailed as the "Gateway to the Southwest." While Riney was the official keeper, his wife, Mary, managed the daily operations from the small toll house, collecting fees from passing wagons while raising their young sons. When the bridge was eventually dismantled, Riney moved the toll house to his farm, attaching the sturdy one-room structure to his home, where it served as a bedroom for his daughters, Maude and Blanche.
As the era of the great cattle drives ended in the mid-1880s, Riney once again adapted to the shifting landscape, mirroring Dodge City's transition to a more stable, agriculture-based economy. In 1885, he moved his family to a farm west of the city, securing his first tract of land through the Homestead Act. He became known as a "progressive and successful farmer" and stockman and established a dairy that served the local community.
John and Mary Riney raised ten children, establishing a large, respected family in Ford County. When he died on August 20, 1921, at the age of 79, he was mourned as one of the community's most "widely known citizens," described as a "good citizen, a true friend, and a loyal father."
Today, while tales of gunfights may capture the imagination, John T. Riney's legacy endures in the tangible fabric of the city he helped build. The modern Second Street bridge, named the John T. Riney Bridge in his honor, stands as a lasting tribute to the quiet, constructive work of a true pioneer who laid the groundwork for Dodge City's enduring prosperity.

By Michael D. King: Author of Cattle Drives

The term "saddle" has an intriguing history that reflects the development of the object itself. Its journey through language and its pivotal role in civilization showcases human ingenuity and our enduring relationship with horses.

    The word "saddle" derives from the Old English term "sadol," which has roots in older Germanic languages and traces back to the Proto-Indo-European language, a common ancestral language. Its original meaning relates to "sitting," which underscores the saddle's primary function: providing riders with a secure and comfortable place to sit while mounted. This concept is deeply entrenched in various European languages, highlighting the shared historical significance of the saddle.
    The design of saddles has evolved over time, leading to significant impacts on travel, warfare, and sports.
    In ancient times, before the development of modern saddles, riders utilized basic materials such as animal hides or soft cloth. Evidence suggests that the ancient Assyrians, around 700 B.C., were among the first to employ rudimentary padded cloths secured with straps. These early saddles offered some comfort but lacked stability.
    A significant advancement in saddle design was the introduction of the saddle tree, a sturdy frame typically crafted from wood or modern synthetic materials. The Scythians, warriors from the Eurasian steppes, are believed to have created an early version of this design around 500-400 B.C.         The saddle tree aids in distributing the rider's weight evenly across the horse's back, enhancing comfort for the horse and reducing strain. Additionally, it provides the rider with better stability and grip, improving balance.
    The evolution of saddles is closely linked to the invention of stirrups. While some early versions appeared in India, the modern stirrup was refined in China and became widely adopted by the early first millennium A.D. When combined with a sturdy saddle tree, stirrups revolutionized mounted combat, allowing soldiers to wield weapons effectively while remaining securely positioned on their horses. This advancement is often associated with the military triumphs of groups like the Mongols.
    The Romans employed a "four-horn" saddle to secure their cavalry, although this design lacked stirrups. In the Middle Ages, saddles further evolved to accommodate knights in heavy armor, incorporating features such as raised backs and fronts (known as cantles and pommels) to ensure stability during jousting and battles.
    Over time, saddles have been adapted for specific purposes, leading to the emergence of distinct styles. Two well-known types today are the English and Western saddles.
   Originating in Europe, this saddle is distinguished by its lighter weight and flatter seat, which facilitates closer contact between the rider and horse. It is favored for disciplines such as show jumping, dressage, and racing, where flexibility and communication with the horse are essential.
Developed in the American West, the Western saddle is designed to support the lengthy hours cowboys spend managing cattle. It is larger and heavier, featuring a deep, secure seat and high cantle, along with a distinctive horn used for securing ropes.
    The invention and continuous refinement of the saddle have had a profound impact on human history, enabling exploration, trade, and advancements in warfare. From its simple beginnings associated with the concept of "sitting," the saddle has evolved into a sophisticated tool that exemplifies the intersection of art and science in equestrian practices.

By Michael D. King: Author of Cattle Drives

    ​The term "spur" encompasses more than just its association with horses; it carries a historical significance that illustrates the evolution of language over time. Initially, a spur referred to a metal tool affixed to a rider's heel, designed to prompt a horse to move forward. Its origins trace back to ancient languages, emphasizing the concept of prodding, which aligns with its intention to motivate the horse.
    The history of spurs can be traced back to the Celts and Romans, who crafted basic pointed tools, known as prick spurs, to convey clear signals to their horses. By the Middle Ages, the design of spurs evolved to include the rowel—a revolving wheel with points—which enabled riders to communicate with greater precision rather than merely urging horses onward.
   During the era of knights, spurs acquired a symbolic significance representing status and honor. The type of spur worn by a knight was indicative of their rank, and the expression "to win one's spurs" originates from the concept of attaining knighthood through valor. Furthermore, the giving of golden spurs was a significant element of the knighting ceremony.
   Over time, spur designs diversified to reflect various styles and requirements, such as the elaborate spurs associated with Spanish conquistadors, which ultimately influenced the Western-style spurs we recognize today.
    By the late 14th century, the definition of "spur" began to broaden, representing not only the physical tool but also the notion of encouragement or motivation in diverse contexts. For instance, the phrase "spur to action" implies that a deadline can motivate individuals to complete their tasks.
This expanded meaning has led to idiomatic expressions such as "on the spur of the moment," which describes actions taken suddenly or without prior planning.
    In addition to its equestrian connections, "spur" is utilized in various fields; in geography, it refers to a ridge of land that extends from a mountain, and in transportation, a "spur line" denotes a short railway or road that branches off from the main route. Both these definitions maintain the imagery of something pointed or extending outward.
    In conclusion, the word "spur" exemplifies an intriguing evolution from a specific riding implement to a broader concept of motivation and encouragement. It reflects humanity's ongoing need for vocabulary that conveys the impetus to take action, a connection that has united riders and horses for centuries.

By Michael D. King

Before Hollywood immortalized icons like John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, and before the thrilling tales in dime novels captivated imaginations with daring lawmen and nefarious villains, there was a captivating figure named Stuart N. Lake. A former press aide, wrestling promoter, and World War I veteran, Lake emerged as an unlikely architect of the mythology surrounding the American West, crafting a legacy forged from a mix of embellished truths and masterful storytelling.
His most notable work, the groundbreaking 1931 bestseller "Wyatt Earp: Frontier Marshal", did more than simply recount Earp's life; it solidified the archetype of the Western hero in the American psyche. Yet, the story of Stuart N. Lake is as riveting and intricate as the legends he wove—an exploration of a man who understood the allure of a compelling narrative, even if it meant bending the truth just a little bit.

Born in 1889 in Rome, New York, Lake's early life gave little hint of his future as a chronicler of the frontier. His experience as a press aide to Theodore Roosevelt during the tumultuous Bull Moose presidential campaign of 1912 sharpened his skills in shaping public opinion. Later, he ventured into the flashy world of professional wrestling, where showmanship often reigned supreme—a fitting precursor for his storytelling career.
The turning point in Lake's journey occurred, surprisingly, not in a dusty Western town but in the vibrant streets of New York City. While working as a journalist, he crossed paths with the legendary lawman Bat Masterson, who sensed the public's growing hunger for tales of the Old West and nudged Lake toward the man who would become synonymous with frontier justice: Wyatt Earp.

By the late 1920s, Earp was an elderly man living in relative obscurity. Seizing an opportunity, Lake sought him out, conducting a series of interviews that would lay the groundwork for *Wyatt Earp: Frontier Marshal*. The book, published just two years after Earp's death, became an instant classic, portraying Earp not as a multifaceted figure with his share of controversies but as a valiant hero—a white knight gallantly roaming the plains.
While the book's success was undeniable, its historical precision raised eyebrows. Critics and historians have since unraveled Lake's narrative, revealing a complex web woven with threads of exaggeration, invention, and pure fiction. One of the standout myths Lake fostered was that of the "Buntline Special," a long-barreled Colt .45 reportedly gifted to Earp and his lawman colleagues. There's just one problem: no credible historical evidence supports that Earp ever owned such a weapon!

Lake's storytelling manipulated timelines, embellished incidents, and polished Earp's character to present him as a flawless icon for public admiration. The messy realities of Earp's life, filled with complicated relationships and dubious methods, conveniently fell by the wayside. Lake didn't just write a biography; he created a resounding legend.
The impact of "Wyatt Earp: Frontier Marshal" was nothing short of revolutionary. It resurrected Earp from the shadows of history and catapulted him into the national spotlight. The book's thrilling narrative served as a blueprint for a multitude of Western films and television shows, with Hollywood eagerly embracing Lake's romanticized vision of the Old West.

Stuart N. Lake passed away in 1964, leaving behind a complex legacy. Was he a historian or a huckster? A biographer or a mythmaker? Perhaps the most fitting answer lies in a line from John Ford's iconic Western, "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance": "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." Stuart N. Lake didn't just print the legend; he crafted it. In doing so, he indelibly shaped our collective memory of the American West, ensuring its tales would resonate for generations to come.

Below Stuart N. Lake Meets Merritt Beeson in Dodge City, Kansas

The Marshal's Maker: Stuart N. Lake and the Invention of an American Hero

​"Wyatt Earp: Frontier Marshal" is a book that embodies the power of storytelling through profound contradictions. While it falls short as a historical biography—marked by fabrications, deliberate omissions, and exaggerations—it shines brilliantly as a masterpiece of American myth-making. Stuart Lake didn't simply write about Wyatt Earp; he crafted the iconic version that the 20th and 21st centuries would come to admire. His work stands as a powerful reminder that a compelling narrative can resonate deeply, becoming more influential—and seemingly more "real" in the public consciousness—than the complex and often inconvenient truths of history.

The analysis reveals that Lake, with the enthusiastic support of an elderly Earp seeking a polished legacy and the careful oversight of his widow, Josephine, constructed a heroic ideal through an active process of creation and curation. Using a hagiographic writing style, Lake presented Earp as the "greatest gun-fighting marshal the Old West ever knew." He invented key events like the "Ellsworth Showdown" to provide his hero with a legacy of superiority while systematically omitting facts that might tarnish Earp's reputation, such as his early criminal charges, associations with prostitution, and even the existence of his first two wives, Urilla Sutherland and Mattie Blaylock. He transformed a complex local feud in Tombstone into a national epic, illustrating it as a battle between the forces of civilization and savagery.

The legacy of this carefully crafted myth has been profound and enduring. Lake's book set the standard for nearly every subsequent popular portrayal of Wyatt Earp. John Ford's classic 1946 film, "My Darling Clementine," drew on Lake's biography, embracing its heroic tone and romanticized narrative. The beloved 1950s television series, "The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp," starring Hugh O'Brian, brought Lake's version to millions of American households each week, solidifying Earp's legacy. Even films like "Tombstone" (1993) and "Wyatt Earp" (1994), which sought greater historical accuracy, remained within the mythic framework established by Lake. While they confronted the darker aspects of Earp's character, the essential image of Earp as the stoic protagonist in a grand frontier narrative endures, inherited directly from "Frontier Marshal".

The question arises: why has this crafted version of Wyatt Earp proved so influential? The answer lies in the archetype that Lake skillfully fashioned. The Wyatt Earp of "Frontier Marshal" symbolizes a fantasy of perfect American masculinity. He is level-headed and courageous, embodying decisive action over empty words. As an individualist, he upholds a personal code of honor, ensuring his actions benefit the community. He stands as a beacon of justice in a lawless land, the taming force of the wilderness, and a figure capable of restoring order through righteous action when established institutions falter. He embodies everything generations of Americans, from the Depression-era readers of 1931 to today's moviegoers, aspire their heroes to be. Stuart Lake recognized this deep cultural yearning. He understood that the real Wyatt Earp—a flawed, complex man who was a gambler, a pimp, a fugitive, and a vigilante, alongside his role as a lawman—was not the hero America sought. So, Lake created one. In doing so, he ensured that his version of "truth" would resonate powerfully and lastingly, allowing his Wyatt Earp to eternally inspire within the fabric of the American imagination.

Article by Michael D. King

Before the dust settled on the legendary streets of Dodge City—long before Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday became icons—a visionary entrepreneur was laying the foundations of the "Queen of the Cowtowns." George M. Hoover, a man of remarkable foresight and civic devotion, emerged as the principal architect of Dodge City's enduring legacy.

Born in Canada in 1847, Hoover arrived near Fort Dodge in 1872 with a keen eye for opportunity. He established the town's first business: a sod and plank saloon for soldiers and buffalo hunters. This humble beginning marked the genesis of Dodge City. However, Hoover's business acumen extended far beyond providing libations and quickly made him a cornerstone of the burgeoning community's commercial and civic life.

His entrepreneurial spirit was matched only by his commitment to public service. As Dodge City's second mayor—the first to be elected—Hoover held the office for four inspiring terms. His leadership extended beyond city limits, representing Ford County in the Kansas State Legislature and tirelessly advocating for his adopted home.