The Adventures of John Stevens, Jr., My Great-Grandfather
Note: This is mostly fiction, but it has close ties with an actual event. This wil someday be rewritten so that it aligns with the facts. Until then …
An Untold Story
I was blessed to have a great-grandfather who recorded countless notes, wrote numerous letters, and told fascinating stories. He also compiled myriad fictional tales (humorous and/or romantic), poems, and other writings. One of his most notable works was a history of early Arapahoe (named, coincidentally enough, “Early Arapahoe”), through which he described and defined, or redefined, the ambient culture and mini-biographies of the founders of the town and surrounding county in that era.
My great-grandfather, John Stevens Jr. (or Johnny, as he is referred to in my books), was a bit of a renaissance man. He was a farmer and he, with his brother George, managed a farm that yielded about forty acres of corn each summer. He and George also owned a small corral of horses, and Johnny became an expert horseman, even able to stand on two horses walking abreast, one of his legs on one horse and his other leg on the second horse.
Indeed, he was a showman who was confident and who enjoyed sharing his skills and “horse abilities” with the local community. A couple of times, he even performed at the annual state fair in Lincoln.
A remarkable marksman, Johnny almost single-handedly put Arapahoe at the top of the state’s marksmanship rankings. He could fire two pistols at once with the accuracy of the best one-pistol shooters.
Johnny became the assistant editor of a weekly newspaper, the Edison Echo (Edison was a community that extended out from the northeast corner of Arapahoe and eventually became its own township). Johnny would write the obituaries and op/ed articles on various issues, mostly political and often in a humorous vein. He opposed the policies coming out of Washington, and his writing was influential enough to make Furnas County the only county in the 1936 election to not support FDR.
Enjoying the legal aspects of government, Johnny began studying law, and he interned with a popular attorney in nearby Beaver City, a man by the name of Frank Morrisey. This internship was a valuable academic experience for Johnny, and it provided cheap labor for Morrisey. Morrisey developed a fondness for Johnny, and he handed Johnny all the legal exposure necessary to give him a solid foundation in law. After a couple of years, Mr. Morrisey told Johnny, “I think you’re ready for the bar”—that is, the Bar exam that one was required to pass to become a legal state attorney.
Johnny took a couple of courses in Nebraska’s Law School in Lincoln to polish his rough edges, and then he passed the Bar in his first attempt. He had become an attorney!
Almost coincidentally, Johnny’s next older brother Ott (nickname for Oscar) had become the sheriff—the
man wearing the star—of Arapahoe. The 1880s were nearly as wild as the 1870s had been, and law enforcement (sheriffs like the Masterson brothers (Bat and Ed) and deputy Wyatt Earp, in Dodge City,) and villains like Jesse James, Belle Starr, and Cole Younger, kept each other busy.
Even though the concept of trial by jury had been in use for hundreds of years and was laid out in the U.S.
Constitution, this structure of righteous judgment was sometimes avoided for expediency’s sake and was replaced with “Frontier justice,” which could include lynch-mob hangings, burnings at the stake, and other forms of execution based solely on mob rule and (perhaps) the evidence at hand. Johnny and his brother Ott were both intent on restoring the order and provision of trial by jury in western Nebraska.
Concerned about the long-term safety of his brother in such a risky profession, Johnny built a three-story
house in Arapahoe, living on the top floor and renting out the floors below. This allowed him to temporarily move back to Arapahoe from Beaver City for as long as he deemed necessary. The house was four houses down the street from the sheriff ’s office and jail on the opposite corner.
Now, what am I doing? I’ve been tellin’ the story, but I ain’t been SHOWIN’ the story. What’s the mantra—something like, “Show, don’t tell.” Here we go.
“Stevens,” snarled Fitz Cook, bursting through the saloon doors, “you ain’t got a bone in your body that
ain’t a’feared of me. You’re scared of me jumpin’ out from behind that big cottonwood over by your place; you’re scared ‘cause you know ‘twas wrong to steal my girl; and very, very soon you’ll be scared of my gun, ‘cause you know it’s aimin’ right at you.”
Ott Stevens, Johnny’s brother, remained silent, sitting at the bar with his back to the doors that were still
swingin’. He didn’t respond, nor did he turn around. He didn’t have to answer to swine like Fitz Cook.
“Sheriff Stevens!” shouted Cook. “Ya didn’t hear what I said? Listen to me. You’re a spineless piece of trash. When vultures pluck out the eyes of your dead body, it’ll be better than you deserve.”
“Cook!” shouted Marvin Wyrick, owner and proprietor of Wyrick’s Saloon as he stepped out from behind
the bar. “Get out of here. We ain’t got no room for fightin’ in my ’stablishment.”
“Wyrick,” argued Cook, “this sheriff ain’t worth the dirt on his boots. I’m gonna get you, Stevens, and I’m
tellin’ you, it’s gonna happen sooner rather’n later. Watch your six.”
As he turned toward the door to leave, two of his henchmen stood up to accompany him. Cook glared at the four or five other men who were sittin’ there. “Any of you get in my way,” he warned, “and you’re next.”
Days passed and weeks rolled by. The girl that Ott had stolen from Fitz Cook had then been stolen from Ott by someone else, the twain of whom had skipped town and were somewhere in Missouri, south of Davenport.
Late afternoon on a particularly hot day in late August, Ott Stevens was unlocking the front door to the
sheriff ’s office, having just returned from dinner at Wyrick’s, when he heard a familiar voice cry out from across the street, “Stevens! Your time has come.”
Ott, watching almost in disbelief as Fitz Cook and two of his buddies rushed toward him, pulled his gun just as the mob descended upon him. Two other passersby saw that the sheriff was in trouble and they jumped in to help, brave souls that they were. A fight ensued, arms and fists flying everywhere. Ott was knocked down twice but managed to get upright.
BANG! A loud, crisp shot pierced the evening sky, cracking the—well, I was gonna say “‘cracking the silence,” but, even though the fight really wasn’t quiet, the numerous “WHAMs” and “BAMs” and “POWs” and “OOMPHs” were rather muffled and weren’t nearly as sharp-sounding as the gunshot.
The gathering crowd quickly backed away as did the those involved in the brawl—everybody but Sheriff Ott and nemesis Fitz Cook. Ott was standing maybe eight or nine feet from the corner street lamp. Cook was on his knees in front of the street lamp. They were staring at each other.
Ott, his right arm extending out to his side, was pointing a smoking gun upward.
“Sheriff … Sheriff,” gasped Cook, and then he fell forward, dead, bullet hole in his back.
Every sort of rumor quickly circulated through the town, creating a heap of questions that would have to be answered in a court of law. As proceedings were set up for the case “State of Nebraska versus Ott Stevens,” the defense attorney was none other than John (Johnny) Stevens, the defendant’s brother.
Many, many people from the crowd that had watched the fight were questioned on the witness stand. Ten people gave ten different accounts of what they said had happened. “The sheriff shot him … No, the shot came from another direction and hit Cook in the back … there were two shots … No, it was one shot with an echo … No, it was two shots and an echo.”
Ott had remained silent throughout most of the trial. I think he just figured no one would believe him under the circumstances. Most of the testimony of the witnesses was shown to be in conflict, one way or t’other, with reality and thus could be discarded.
Fortunately for Ott, one lone trustworthy individual, Dominicus (“Min”) Hasty, said the sequence of events
progressed as such:
- 1) Ott put his gun back in his holster the moment the fight began.
- 2) As more people were pulled into the fight, Ott drew his gun, raised it and aimed straight upward, and he fired the gun.
- 3) However, a slight, almost indiscernible moment before Ott fired his gun, another shot rang out from some distance away. The witness was pretty confident that Ott’s shot coincided with the echo of a first shot.
- 4) Mr. Hasty saw Cook get struck in the back; Cook did not change his position after getting shot. He merely fell forward moments later and died. Ott, standing in front of Cook, could not have shot him in the back.
- 5) Further, Mr. Hasty pointed out that the bullet removed from Cook’s body was from a Colt 45 revolver, not a 38 caliber that was the smoking gun Ott had fired. Ott was also carrying a 45, but he chose the 38. If he had intended to kill Cook, he likely would have used the more powerful 45.
Defending his brother before judge and jury, Johnny asked three questions of the defendant.
“Ott, why did you fire your pistol.”
“I noticed that more and more people were being pulled into the fight. I wanted to get everyone’s attention—immediately—so that I could tell people enough was enough and we needed to quit this foolish exercise.:
Ott, Mr. Hasty said that when you were being approached by Mr. Cook and his henchmen, you pulled out
your gun first but then, almost immediately, you actually put your gun back in the holster. Why did you do that?”
“Well, I was worried that I would get angry and shoot the gun without thinking things through. I couldn’t
just toss the gun aside, but I could put it away. When I shoot a gun, I want it to be for justice, not from anger.”
“You put the gun away so that the people in the fight would be safe.”
“Yes sir,” replied Ott humbly.
“And you shot the gun into the sky so that the people in the fight might stop fighting, thus keeping them
safe?”
“Yes sir,” said Ott. “That was my intent.”
After a brief pause, Johnny looked at the jury and said, “Now, pay close attention to this.” The alert jury focused
every eye on Johnny.
“In the coroner’s report it specifies that the bullet’s position relative to the entrance wound was of a severely downward attitude. Specifically, the bullet was fired from somewhere much higher off the ground. To make that shot, you would have had to hold the gun way above your head, maybe even on your tip toes, and then fire downward at a sharp angle.”
“Yes sir, I believe that’s right.”
“You always were the shortest of us Stevenses.”
“Yes, sir.”
Johnny smiled. “Ott, thank you, and thank you, jury, and thank you, Your Honor. The Defense rests.”
Minutes later, jury returned with the verdict: Not Guilty; the judge concurred. Ott was free.
Johnny shook Ott’s hand, and Ott said, in a halting voice, “Thank you, dear brother.”
“A free man deserves to be free,” replied Johnny. “Let’s go.” The two men left the court without fanfare.
That evening, Johnny returned to his third floor apartment, exhausted from the day’s proceedings. He was
pleased with the result.
Johnny, out of habit, always paid attention to detail—every detail, maybe even obsessively so. That’s why he was an attorney and a newspaper editor and a farmer. During the trial, one thought kept recurring almost to the point of interrupting his cognitive abilities. When he entered his apartment that night, the thought came to him again: Have I cleaned the gun?
He opened his gun safe and there it was, clean and pristine. Breathing a sigh of relief but not being one who took chances, Johnny unfolded his gun cloth, added a drop of gun oil, wiped down the pistol’s barrel and chamber, and then ran a clean cloth through the barrel. Johnny planned to return a clean Colt 45 to the man from whom he had borrowed it “just to try it out.” That man was Min Hasty.
The End
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